When Astarion buckles, it’s a tangible thing. Fear lancing straight through him at the sight of those teeth, the sensation of it hot as coals. Hot as embers. He blinks to be certain they’re truly there. Jagged and familiar, the shape of mocking jeers let out from between overlong fangs. It’s been so long since he last laid eyes on anything like them.
Cazador always thrived on hope.
It was his favorite sport. His persistent vice. Slackening the leash enough to let his quarry hang itself before it realized what was happening.
For the first time since arriving in Thedas, nausea boils in Astarion’s throat. What if this was all just a game? What if none of it is real? All Cazador needed to do was whisper in his ear— tell him to dream up a world rife with freedom and companionship— and he’d do it without realizing. Obediently encapsulate himself in an illusion as if it were reality. Never knowing the truth until he’s told to wake up.
And just like that his bravado is gone. Not an ebbing process, but quick— like ripping a hangnail loose. His tongue is to the roof of his mouth, his shoulders hunched low, neck tipped forward like a beaten dog. He clings to the man at his side still, and he eyes the figures before them, and he—
“Who are they.” He whispers. Wanting a name. A story. Something.
Tell him, Byerly. Tell him they’re your memories. That they’re not one of the countless hundreds of unsuspecting souls that Astarion had seduced and fed to his master over the years. Nameless and faceless and utterly forgotten.
no subject
Cazador always thrived on hope.
It was his favorite sport. His persistent vice. Slackening the leash enough to let his quarry hang itself before it realized what was happening.
For the first time since arriving in Thedas, nausea boils in Astarion’s throat. What if this was all just a game? What if none of it is real? All Cazador needed to do was whisper in his ear— tell him to dream up a world rife with freedom and companionship— and he’d do it without realizing. Obediently encapsulate himself in an illusion as if it were reality. Never knowing the truth until he’s told to wake up.
And just like that his bravado is gone. Not an ebbing process, but quick— like ripping a hangnail loose. His tongue is to the roof of his mouth, his shoulders hunched low, neck tipped forward like a beaten dog. He clings to the man at his side still, and he eyes the figures before them, and he—
“Who are they.” He whispers. Wanting a name. A story. Something.
Tell him, Byerly. Tell him they’re your memories. That they’re not one of the countless hundreds of unsuspecting souls that Astarion had seduced and fed to his master over the years. Nameless and faceless and utterly forgotten.