[ He shrugs, as if to say "suit yourself" and then once again that prodding connection reaches out to Astarion's mind. Once he's allowed access, what flows through the connection is more like a series of feelings and images and events. The guttering light of a dying star, the bright and explosive births of myriad galaxies, eons of knowledge — knowledge, knowing, the desire for more, ever craving, ever giving — and the cold, vast expanse of what lies beyond the clouds.
And yet somehow, conveyed in the midst of all of that, there is also an absolute fucking mash of letters: Khaluxszhutrithrh’thod.
Told you it was a lot! Now please imagine having all of this shoved into your head in the middle of a dark temple, while you lay bleeding on the floor. No wonder he doesn't care to give voice to it. "My patron" is fine, and truly, his patron doesn't seem to mind it either. ]
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And yet somehow, conveyed in the midst of all of that, there is also an absolute fucking mash of letters: Khaluxszhutrithrh’thod.
Told you it was a lot! Now please imagine having all of this shoved into your head in the middle of a dark temple, while you lay bleeding on the floor. No wonder he doesn't care to give voice to it. "My patron" is fine, and truly, his patron doesn't seem to mind it either. ]