β when hope has been whittled down to the very marrow of despair β thatβs when youβll come knocking on my door. β
" You can continue dreaming such fancy little thoughts but I've had enough of greeting strangers at their doorstep when nothing is in it for me but more trouble. " Are the words in which Astarion chooses so boldly and out of mockery, arms crossed as crimson hues study each little detail of this charming little devil and that little face of his. There's nothing to hide as much anymore. Every little detail already thrown out and known... like a cockroach weaving itself and its unholy, disgusting children into the life of every little being that dared to interact with the man they call Raphael. Warned was he, the pale elf who stood with a hunch. A slouch that Cazador hated, straightens without a yell, without thought. White brows furrowing deeper, his own voice sharp, " What makes you think that I'll be at your door? Knocking... eager to greet you with a proposition you'd most likely love to hear. What do you know of my hope and what's left? "
