porcelain
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Third row, on the right, between a now awake grandfather and a nodding teary-eyed mother and bored children and still untouched scriptures. The red of the man’s irises narrow, and he flashes a smile at him, wicked in a flash of dagger-like teeth. He doesn’t look away, even when Gale does.
He manages to not stutter as he continues, “Let us end today with Matthew 6:9-13 — Our Mother, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done; on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil.”
Amen, amen, amen.
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Astarion paused then, raking his gaze down his plump form. His fingers traced the wooly, brown trail of hair that curled around Gale’s portly stomach; then he returned his attention back to his chest, watching as the Netherese maw swallowed what was left of the dagger. Gale choked back a moan as he felt the fullness of the item expanding and sinking into his chest. Sated, for a second, but… not enough.
His Orb glowed brighter and brighter as it demanded: eat. feed. take.
Or: Gale manipulates Astarion into bringing him magical items in exchange for keeping his vampiric nature a secret from the rest of the group. And, naturally, it backfires.
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They turn around to face him now, red eyes flitting between his own. He holds a hand against a shoulder, dagger pointed towards their chin (a command: stay still, don’t talk), as fingers migrate down their bare chest, over the protruding ribs, raking over an exposed hipbone. Astarion is not ignorant to his own physique; that he can take in without the help of a mirror, but there’s something about seeing his emaciated body as if he is looking upon another person entirely. It’s pity, he tries not to acknowledge— pity that has him touching the double as if they are something precious.
Or: Astarion finds a mirror of duplication, and finally gets a good, long overdue look at himself.
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Oh. Okay. A laugh escapes from Astarion in a wild scoff. He’s talking to a fucking door — he’s going insane, that’s what this is. And you know what, that’s to be expected. This is probably around the time that any sane person in solitary confinement would start to go mad, he reasons, so it really is okay if he just plays along with the delusion.
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“Where,” Astarion gasps like he’s dying, “did you learn to do this?”
“Wizard academy,” Gale answers, like it’s terribly obvious.