She paints a good picture, Hermione Granger. She certainly plays pretend very well, adopting the drive of a consumate academic, the fustiness of a wizardry scholar. The gifts that let her cast Vicious Mockery and Silvery Barbs at will, they have been around inside her far longer than she's been able to string a passable tune on a lute. She presents herself as such a bossy little know-it-all, always has; taking charge of a group of stragglers, each with their own trauma and hurt, and keeps it all together with sheer force of will. Infinite patience.
And so, Astarion declares that, and as the joke falls flat, her temper snaps. "Someone was determined to show me what they thought my place was," she says, none of the pensive tone to her voice anymore. "And now I carry the memory of that with me, and hide it from everyone who hasn't known me from before, because I do not want to be seen as some victim, some weak - "
She bites her tongue for a moment, just enough for a sharp burst of pain that refocuses her. Her grip on the goblet is white-knuckled; if not for the cup being made of silve, she'd have shattered it.
"Sorry, I'm just-" She exhales through her teeth and admits it, like ripping off a bandage for the scar below to show: "So angry - all the time. The very reason I was in Baldur's Gate when that illithid ship passed over it was because I left the school, because they were so forgiving of all those fucking monsters as long as their palms got greased."
A pause, long enough to realise her pulse is fast and she's panting, like someone on the verge of a panic attack, which - of all the things to break her, to snap her. Ironic.
"I didn't even used to swear before I started running around with you lot," she grumbles. Downs her glass in two long and greedy gulps, then waves it around, "Or drink. Or fight!"
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And so, Astarion declares that, and as the joke falls flat, her temper snaps. "Someone was determined to show me what they thought my place was," she says, none of the pensive tone to her voice anymore. "And now I carry the memory of that with me, and hide it from everyone who hasn't known me from before, because I do not want to be seen as some victim, some weak - "
She bites her tongue for a moment, just enough for a sharp burst of pain that refocuses her. Her grip on the goblet is white-knuckled; if not for the cup being made of silve, she'd have shattered it.
"Sorry, I'm just-" She exhales through her teeth and admits it, like ripping off a bandage for the scar below to show: "So angry - all the time. The very reason I was in Baldur's Gate when that illithid ship passed over it was because I left the school, because they were so forgiving of all those fucking monsters as long as their palms got greased."
A pause, long enough to realise her pulse is fast and she's panting, like someone on the verge of a panic attack, which - of all the things to break her, to snap her. Ironic.
"I didn't even used to swear before I started running around with you lot," she grumbles. Downs her glass in two long and greedy gulps, then waves it around, "Or drink. Or fight!"