[Astarion can barely parse the conversation around him for how loud Cazador's voice rings in his head. He feels like he's falling. Like he's been shoved over the edge of a chasm with no end in sight. A chill runs over his already cold skin like the sharp cut of a flaying knife, like silver needles driven under his fingernails.
Morena's voice speaking his name seems to come from a thousand miles away, a distant echo into the cavernous shadows of his skull. He grabs to it like a lifeline, desperately hauling himself back, so he can feel the warmth of Gale's hand in his, smell the fragrance of Morena's wine, of the fine meal before them, not rot, not blood, but spices and rendered fat.
He's forgotten to breathe, he thinks. He looks to Morena bowing her head to him in a stupor. Has she noticed? He swallows down air, remembering that he needs it to speak, to be heard. Surely she'll notice the lapse in his reply, surely Gale will, but he can only hope it goes unnoticed.]
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Morena's voice speaking his name seems to come from a thousand miles away, a distant echo into the cavernous shadows of his skull. He grabs to it like a lifeline, desperately hauling himself back, so he can feel the warmth of Gale's hand in his, smell the fragrance of Morena's wine, of the fine meal before them, not rot, not blood, but spices and rendered fat.
He's forgotten to breathe, he thinks. He looks to Morena bowing her head to him in a stupor. Has she noticed? He swallows down air, remembering that he needs it to speak, to be heard. Surely she'll notice the lapse in his reply, surely Gale will, but he can only hope it goes unnoticed.]
I—could hardly hold such a thing against you.