[ A silver lining. Astarion might laugh, if not for the sudden urge to vomit. Of course Gale would take a suicide mission from his erstwhile goddess without question, and of course it's simpler to not have to find arcane items to throw at a void that grew hungrier by the day. They were on a precipice either way, but still - Astarion had imagined there could be another way. He'd held to the promise of Waterdeep despite knowing it could never come to pass, between the two of them.
Weakness, comes Cazador's voice again. You were always weak and he has made you weaker still. If Astarion felt nothing for him, he might see this as an opportunity. An asset. Instead, it makes him want to throw himself to the earth and howl. ]
Not here. [ Though there are few places they can safely go, the curse pressing relentlessly in on them. Astarion feels like a caged animal again, pacing a territory even smaller than Baldur's Gate. The vast beauty of the mountains feels centuries away.
He stalks past Gale to the back door of the inn, sparing a glance for the lanceboard left by Mol and Raphael. Another conversation he needs to have, spiraling towards recklessness around it the further he feels himself drift from Gale. What's a deal with a devil, compared to self-immolation for a god?
Fresh air doesn't exist here, the stale taste of death prevalent even beneath Isobel's dome of light. Still, Astarion heads to the water, feeling Gale follow behind. He can't quite turn to face him, only glancing over his shoulder. ] Go on, then.
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Weakness, comes Cazador's voice again. You were always weak and he has made you weaker still. If Astarion felt nothing for him, he might see this as an opportunity. An asset. Instead, it makes him want to throw himself to the earth and howl. ]
Not here. [ Though there are few places they can safely go, the curse pressing relentlessly in on them. Astarion feels like a caged animal again, pacing a territory even smaller than Baldur's Gate. The vast beauty of the mountains feels centuries away.
He stalks past Gale to the back door of the inn, sparing a glance for the lanceboard left by Mol and Raphael. Another conversation he needs to have, spiraling towards recklessness around it the further he feels himself drift from Gale. What's a deal with a devil, compared to self-immolation for a god?
Fresh air doesn't exist here, the stale taste of death prevalent even beneath Isobel's dome of light. Still, Astarion heads to the water, feeling Gale follow behind. He can't quite turn to face him, only glancing over his shoulder. ] Go on, then.