an owl delivered @expiredmorality;
❛ why are you still here ? ❜ for Astarion nothing but vulnerable: accepting!
Why was he?
When no one had stayed for him. When the call hadn’t been responded to; the nights he’d prayed, hoped for any semblance of grace to listen to him– of course that never came. Not two hundred years ago, and certainly not after. Convinced there was nothing but the homeliness of one's own hold, grasp on their own person; the ability to compensate for their own lack of ability, whichever it may be. The detest that grew under that had only been a symptom of the cause, branching out and coiling to grow with every shadow of the elf.
So – why was he still there?
The answer seemed simple at face value, one that he’d play just to earn the better half of a reputation with someone; care or whatever effigy he’d attempt to concoct under its essence. A ruby conscription idly scored his counterpart, the source of the question– the distaste he swore he could feel within the inquiry, as if his presence had been a sore. It’d serve him right to attempt to truly lend an ear to someone– what good did it really serve him?
“To just let you know that you’re not alone with whatever it is you’re dealing with. We need you– sharp, that is. We’ve all got some personal Hell that we carry alongside the adorable little roommates nestled within our skulls.” Sardonic vocals drawled themselves with an imperfect consolation, though it’d been the one that was candidly settled on.
