[ She smells it, tastes it. It sticks to her tongue and her teeth and the reek of it fills her head but it doesn't quite seem real. Surely it can't be if she's still here and still talking. Or so she'd like to tell herself. ]
I–I don't...
[ The squeeze of her hand turns into a clenched fist, fabric squelching grotesquely between her fingers. Her body feels like some strange, foreign organism she's operating from a distance and it takes her a moment longer than it otherwise might have to catalogue everything – the absence of pain, the lack of that gouging wound on her stomach.
It had been there. She's swallowing the proof of it. But now– ]
It's gone. [ She says it to herself almost as much if not more than Astarion. ] I–it has to have been there but... it isn't anymore.
no subject
I–I don't...
[ The squeeze of her hand turns into a clenched fist, fabric squelching grotesquely between her fingers. Her body feels like some strange, foreign organism she's operating from a distance and it takes her a moment longer than it otherwise might have to catalogue everything – the absence of pain, the lack of that gouging wound on her stomach.
It had been there. She's swallowing the proof of it. But now– ]
It's gone. [ She says it to herself almost as much if not more than Astarion. ] I–it has to have been there but... it isn't anymore.