backscar | open post

I'm perfectly aware. Your masks must be impressive, to some.

[ the implication is clear, without emphasizing it with uncomfortable words — they don't have quite the same effect on her. call it a lifetime spent grappling in the shadows, trained to see shapes and silhouettes oft hidden in the dark — or just call it like calls to like, able to see the parts of herself in the others around her.

they all have their armor to wear. a discomforting fact she undercuts with the dry airiness of, ]

Because she would snap you underfoot like a delicate twig?

Most, actually. One might almost call them painfully believable.

[ Ah, the bitterness of honesty.

Perhaps they are similar enough to understand one another, but not so similar that they can stand in one another's shoes. It'll do, truly. ]

I would be dust in moments.

[ better bitter honesty than a sweeter lie, even if it tastes like vinegar on the tongue. lady shar's favor might be lost, now, but — those principles, and all of the foundations of her training they've been built upon, have yet to erode.

perhaps it's simply habit to want to lay bare the ugliness of hidden truths, from all those dutiful years of listening to those skewed teachings. or perhaps it's misguided curiosity, something akin to looking into a cracked mirror. whatever the case, she doesn't find herself flinching from the harshness of how astarion chooses to wield his honesty. ]

Most find illusions easier to stomach. Sometimes ...

[ she trails off. it revolts her to admit — sometimes, she wonders if it would be simpler if she were still steeped in misplaced faith. perhaps she might've still held onto the illusion of knowing herself, instead of feeling so — helplessly adrift.

it's not a sentiment she's keen to share. it feels like leading astarion's dagger to her softer parts and showing him where to strike. and so, ]

Never you mind. I only mean to say we've all clung to our personal illusions, haven't we? Painfully believable as they were.

Sometimes, yes. I'm familiar.

[ Astarion had been on the other side of that often enough; crafting an illusion, the mirage of seduction, to do what was necessary for his Master. Growing away from that is a difficult process, shrugging off two centuries of shackles to try and become a person again rather than whatever he had been before.

All of them are being forced to come face to face with demons they'd rather ignore, and it has been difficult for each one. There is no denying it.

He doesn't want to talk in circles, to fall into the trap of it all, so instead - ]

And now we are growing.

[ growing, she thinks with a little gust of breath, is one word for it. trying to, at any rate, through the growing pains; like flowers left to try to survive under a desert sun. more's the point — ]

Would you look at that. A touch of optimism from you, and you didn't combust into unholy flame.

It appears you're capable of it, after all.

[ checkmate. it's the saddest checkmate ever, derived from the most tragic circumstances possible, but — a proven point is a proven point. small victories. ]

[ It's not as if their situations could get worse, surely? Tadpoles, the ever present threat of danger, the fear of never being able to overcome anything... Well, he can imagine fewer worse things. ]

Not this time, but if I try it again I'm sure it'll be the end of me.

Shall I prepare an appropriately mournful eulogy, or would you prefer to do the honors?

[ a recovering goth girl and vampire spawn walk into a camp of weirdos. the humor is predictably morbid. ]

Go ahead. I'm sure I'll be thrilled to see what you come up with.

Thrilled? Hardly. In fact, you'll be quite dead.

[ a message doesn't need to be audible to imagine the bone-dry sarcasm behind it, as it turns out. ]