The warlock says those words, as easy as anything, and Astarion finds himself briefly thrown by them — by how readily they came from his mouth like the sentiment almost needn’t be said, only expected.
It surprises him, too.]
Oh. [He forces his smile to twitch into a familiar slant, but it lacks the rakishness of its usual angle.] Wouldn’t that be something. To make that a reality like it were so easy, so simple — charge back into Baldur’s Gate, you at my side, straight into Cazador’s chambers, eyes raging with anger while we tear him a new one. A hundred times over.
[What a thought, indeed. One that delights him in one moment, and then turns around and offers him a harsher reality in the next: it’s more likely that he will be hunted down than the alternative. More likely that he would be the one torn apart should that happen, and that’s if he’s lucky.
If he was unlucky, he would revert to being a slave, no more free will of his own, just a tool to be used and abused and recycled, again and again. Trapped in ceaseless torture for more centuries to come.
Where’s that wine bottle, now? Ah, yes, still in his hand — he takes a long pull from it, in tandem with a slightly deflating demeanor.]
no subject
The warlock says those words, as easy as anything, and Astarion finds himself briefly thrown by them — by how readily they came from his mouth like the sentiment almost needn’t be said, only expected.
It surprises him, too.]
Oh. [He forces his smile to twitch into a familiar slant, but it lacks the rakishness of its usual angle.] Wouldn’t that be something. To make that a reality like it were so easy, so simple — charge back into Baldur’s Gate, you at my side, straight into Cazador’s chambers, eyes raging with anger while we tear him a new one. A hundred times over.
[What a thought, indeed. One that delights him in one moment, and then turns around and offers him a harsher reality in the next: it’s more likely that he will be hunted down than the alternative. More likely that he would be the one torn apart should that happen, and that’s if he’s lucky.
If he was unlucky, he would revert to being a slave, no more free will of his own, just a tool to be used and abused and recycled, again and again. Trapped in ceaseless torture for more centuries to come.
Where’s that wine bottle, now? Ah, yes, still in his hand — he takes a long pull from it, in tandem with a slightly deflating demeanor.]
We can dream, can’t we?