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The most recent bout of bloodshed? Yes. It hasn't touched me. Were you involved?
Can I come by later?
In the morning? I know this is highly unusual but I need to sleep.
Jacob paid a visit earlier, so he can confirm everything is still attached.
I'm glad you're all right, damia.
It's going to be a bit balmy.
[He doesn't text her back until the following morning. Has Jacob tattled about him having a minor existential crisis at him? Unsure.]
Good morning. I'm not pretty but I'm awake.
Astarion looks down at himself, then shrugs.
"Lead on, darling."
The distant blue-white sun is smaller than Earth's sun is in the sky, but noticeably brighter; the sky is a rich almost-violet blue, except where it's slashed by vivid daytime auroras of green and gold. A few minutes is enough to catch a silver-white meteor streak blaze for a few seconds. The gravity is lighter, too, only around three quarters Earth gravity. The whole place isn't really a planet, but a heavy water moon of a hot gas giant around a blue-white giant star. The gas giant's magnetic field flings constant ionized particles off toward its moons, and this one has a magnetic field of its own to convert them into auroras, while the constant debris of the loose ring system and ejecta from the other major moons supply the shooting stars.
A few hundred feat away, a geyser shoots up from one of the volcanic outcroppings, the plume of steam painting temporary rainbows onto the scene before dissolving and drifting away. Around them, the churning water and occasional obsidian formations reflect the bright light in every direction.
The life is aggressively amphibious, jewel-bright crustaceans, sleek scampering otters, chattering shorebirds diving just as frequently, strange plants half-draped over the intermittent fingers of stone, half curling wavy tendrils out into the water. There's a boat tied to a spur of stone at the bottom of the stairs, with plenty of space for both of them to sit uncrowded, and one pole to navigate with.
"Well, this is - quite something."
It's a lot to take in. If there's any place like it in Faerun, he wouldn't be able to name it. Astarion meanders slowly down towards the boat, much more focused on taking in the scenery.
"Somewhere from your plane, I assume?"
But there was some old footage he saw in a documentary, one time. And it seemed like a good choice.
I'm bringing breakfast. Be there in five.
I'll unlock the door. Just knock before you come in.
"Well, it's...unpleasantly humid, but certainly nice to look at," Astarion murmurs. "Thank you for bringing me here."
She does knock, gives it a moment, and then steps in already using one boot as a block in case the cat makes a run for it.
"Astarion?" she calls ahead of her, shutting and locking the door behind.
"Hello, darling."
He's sitting crosslegged in the armchair in one corner, Aylin curled up in his lap. He's pulled over the chair from his work desk for Rosita to take if she so wishes.
She folds her hands between her knees as she looks him over, dark eyes soft.
"Did you get some sleep?"
"I did, thank you. Dreaming always feels rather...unnatural," he admits, "but I don't remember much of it from last night. Just a blur. I think I was late for something."
She nods at the tray.
"Have you eaten?"
"No - thank you," he says, and reaches for a plate. He hasn't availed himself of any blood since the end of the breach, either but the general discomfort of the death toll has made his hunger feel less pressing.
"Is that a common dream? Appearing somewhere undressed?"
"Especially in the teenage years, when everything is changing, and embarrassing."
"Ah, well, adolescents are terrible creatures, I'm not surprised that they notice that about themselves," he drawls.
Having warm food to eat is - comforting, in a way he didn't expect. Maybe it's just the fact of having it brought to him? Though he does have to fend off Aylin when she notices the bacon.
"Well, to be fair, their brains aren't done forming." But all of this is buffer, something she's content to allow and participate in until she sees whether or not he'll willingly eat.
And once he does: "Jacob told me you aren't doing well."
"Wretched gossips, the pair of you," he murmurs, but without rancour. "The breach was...well. It illustrated a possible future that I can't say appeals to me."
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