[ Everything is fragile. This world, its balance, the things living inside it. It stands to reason that affection can be just as fragile, but Iorveth can't help but claw and bite and fight to keep the things that he wants to preserve. Even if they're doomed. Especially if they're doomed.
"Thorny", Astarion says, and Iorveth thinks that he doesn't know the half of it. But he closes his eye anyway, acquiescing to the dryad's request, waiting for the swell and flow of old, old magic－
－until he hears the clamoring of the circus materializing around them again, the music and the footsteps and the laughter, the djinni's booming voice echoing over the din. There they are, either back where they started or settled back into their bodies, he has no idea. He feels more present now, more alert, as if the last of the alcohol buzzing in his system has been flushed out thanks to the spiritual (corporeal?) displacement; he flexes his free hand instinctively, making sure that he still has control over it.
Once he finishes readjusting, he glances over to the glowing dryad and her knowing scrutiny. She smiles at him, and, as if sensing his suspicions, offers a soft addendum. "You're convinced of so much," she warns. "But you still know so little."
Iorveth doesn't like that. He frowns, slightly disconcerted. ]
Interesting, [ has an edge to it. ] ...If that's all, then.
[ His turn to tug Astarion this time, away from those calm eyes and the growing shadow of the tree. ]
no subject
"Thorny", Astarion says, and Iorveth thinks that he doesn't know the half of it. But he closes his eye anyway, acquiescing to the dryad's request, waiting for the swell and flow of old, old magic－
－until he hears the clamoring of the circus materializing around them again, the music and the footsteps and the laughter, the djinni's booming voice echoing over the din. There they are, either back where they started or settled back into their bodies, he has no idea. He feels more present now, more alert, as if the last of the alcohol buzzing in his system has been flushed out thanks to the spiritual (corporeal?) displacement; he flexes his free hand instinctively, making sure that he still has control over it.
Once he finishes readjusting, he glances over to the glowing dryad and her knowing scrutiny. She smiles at him, and, as if sensing his suspicions, offers a soft addendum. "You're convinced of so much," she warns. "But you still know so little."
Iorveth doesn't like that. He frowns, slightly disconcerted. ]
Interesting, [ has an edge to it. ] ...If that's all, then.
[ His turn to tug Astarion this time, away from those calm eyes and the growing shadow of the tree. ]