illithidnapped

Hardly. I have taken on that role since, yes, but we were not intended to rule.

[It's a quick correction; the dynamic simply wasn't like that.]

[One silver eyebrow arches dramatically. His lips purse.]

You’ve lost me.

[Guiding stars? An assembly that doesn’t rule? What else would they be meant to do, then?]

I expect it may be difficult for those who have not lived it to understand fully, but- there was no need for anyone to be a ruler. The Convocation had a degree of authority, yes, and was expected to handle problems when required, but not of the sort most would assume; none in our society would act merely on their own interest. There was no need for the sort of laws known to worlds such as this one, no need to punish anyone for harming others, because it did not happen. One of our members would, on occasion, be reprimanded for their rash decisions in carrying out their duties, but they would simply have been replaced if necessary.

[It was a more ideal society. A utopia, of sorts. Boring to someone like Astarion, likely, but perfect to him.]

I....what?

That sounds awful. [And judging by the look on his face, he means it.] How long did you live like that for?

What need is there for the immortal to count the years?

[An idle shrug, at that, and if the response offends him-- he doesn't show it.]

I could not tell you how long. Long enough for me to establish a reputation as a powerful enough sorceror to qualify for my position, certainly, but we were less focused on time than on our work, on the creation and engendering of new concepts and creatures to introduce to the world.

And here I thought I was the one that suffered more.

[They reach his narrow hovel of a Lowtown flat a few seconds later. Door unlocked, iron creaking as it swings slowly open, heavy as anything. The whole city aside from Hightown is so prison worthy that it's a wonder more people aren't perpetually depressed.]

Tell me you at least made something interesting in all that time. An animal with a thousand legs. Or a spider with enough mouths to match its eyes— that sort of thing.

If those are your tastes, then I expect you would have liked the work of Mitron or Halmarut. The humanoid sharks weren't exactly my favorites, but I do suppose the walking plants were interesting enough creations...

[The decor of this city could use an awful lot of work, especially compared to the one he's thinking about now-- but Emet-Selch follows easily enough, and once they're inside, he certainly isn't above just making himself comfortable in someone else's home. Excuse him while he finds somewhere to sit.]

Well. I wouldn't say it's to my taste, but at least it's fascinating on some level.

[Astarion, after all, values beauty above all else. Sharks don't exactly fit the bill. Nor walking plants.

He snaps the door shut. Finds his way over to the slanted bed where it's jammed up against the wall, opposite to a pair of rickety, barely functional chairs.] Fine, then, what did you make?

[When you lead with the spider example, this is what you get, Astarion.]

I tended to consult, more than anything, particularly in my position as Architect... but I have always favored things which improved upon the city, and things which highlighted the beauty of the world. An indoor illusion of the night sky, complete with the stars moving as they should. A more elegant building structure for a new facility. Creatures which caught the eye, but not through being unseemly or grotesque. I have always had a keen eye for the flow of magic within the world, as well, and a fondness for anything which could come close to its brilliance.

[He focuses on the important things:]

Can you make the night sky here?

[He hums, thoughtful. There's one way to find out if he can, with his reduced magic capacity, and after a moment of silence... he extends a hand up toward the ceiling, eyes closed in focus.

One point of light appears above, then another. Several more. Emet-Selch lets them slowly blink into existence for a few moments more, before he snaps his fingers-- and the sky appears in full, translucent above them, stars sparkling in unfamiliar constellations, woven through with what almost seems to be a river of tiny dancing lights.]

[Astarion makes a noise in his throat, low and subdued, gazing up in wide-eyed wonderment at that blooming blanket of constellations, scattered like dust overhead. And for a moment, the tension bleeds out of him. Expression soft as anything, red eyes wide beneath the relaxed hang of dark lashes.

He exhales, quiet, and it sounds like the man he might've been before— the one that takes to staring up at the open sky far too often, when he thinks no one is looking.]

It's beautiful.

[It is, in fact, beautiful.]

How long will it last?

[That, he thinks, is something that he can appreciate about Astarion-- anyone who could look at a sight like this and not react this way would be written off.]

I do not know. I have yet to make a persistent illusion here, but-- we may enjoy it while it lasts.

[There's that somewhat softer tone again, eyes fixed upward on the stars. This is a sight he misses-- the sky truly never has been the same.]

Hm.

[Softer still, that. All idle fascination. If his mind were more active, more its usual rushing self, he'd note the change in Emet-Selch as well— even from a distance. Instead, he's selfishly lost to the rest of the world.

Small wonders make it easy. Overwrite all the stinging, clinging thorns. Barbed memories and recent circumstances alike.]

[Emet-Selch, on the other hand, is not given to lose himself too entirely in this, not when he's still idly taking in Astarion's reaction to go along with it. He makes himself comfortable, lounging where he's seated, and for several moments he remains quiet, not wont to ruin the mood while they both sit in quiet contemplation.

Eventually, though, he speaks up.]

You have seen a part of my home, then, and asked after more of it. I would hear of yours in turn... if you've a mind to return the favor.

['If', he says, but if Astarion doesn't share now, then Emet-Selch is just going to be sure not to answer any of his future questions until he has something more in turn.]

Spoiling a good mood with piss poor rubbish. [A sigh. Wry and tepid all at once. Just as tangled as the rest of him, apparently. He hooks one leg up across the other, ankle to his knee, arms behind his head, as if he were outside in tall grass. ]

But fine.

What do you want to know?

Oh, surely you expect that by now.

[It's light, just an offhanded comment with no offense to it.]

More of yourself. What you are, what you've come from. You've said little of your own situation so far, nor much of the particulars of your own home.

[General faff, then. Easily maneuvered.

There are times when all he wants to do is lie. Particularly when it comes to the natives of this world, given that they have more weight. More pull. Their fears are more dangerous, their favor is more valuable— what he chooses to give, or withhold, could very well serve to shape his future, in essence.

But Emet-Selch isn’t a creature of Thedas, and strange as he is (different, too), Astarion doesn’t feel particularly inclined to go weaving up a tale just for the sake of misleading him without any sort of gain from it.

Still, normally people want specifics. A lead in. That makes it easier, after all. Defining oneself.

Instead, he has to figure out where to start.]

How much do you know about vampires, other than our perpetual— perpetuity, of course.

Edited 2021-09-22 22:29 (UTC)

[It's easily maneuvered, yes, but that's a part of what he wants to know: just what the answer will be, given something more open-ended. What he's willing to offer. More specific questions can always come later, but he's curious about more than simply details.]

Of your kind? Likely not much. We have similar beings which we might call vampires, but they are demonic at their core. A more humanoid form of what we call voidsent, born of a world fallen entirely to shadow; though it is not impossible for someone living to become one, either, under the correct circumstances.

Edited 2021-09-22 23:23 (UTC)

Mm. No, then. Nothing like that.

[He thinks briefly about the stories Bastien had mentioned. Hunger demons.

Apparently the concept of insatiability is the common theme throughout Realms— though the only thing insatiable about Astarion is Astarion himself.] In order for someone to become a vampire, they have to be bitten by one. The details are a touch more complex, naturally, but to make an otherwise long story short: a living creature dies from having its blood drained, then returns to relative unlife as a freshly transformed vampire, like myself. Fangs, red eyes, etcetera, etcetera.

For me, that was two hundred years ago— give or take.

You have been one for some time, then.

[More a thoughtful murmur than anything, as he takes all of that in. Two hundred isn't all that much, to him, but it's a substantial enough amount to be worth something.]

And how exactly has living this unlife of yours differed from your more vital days?

I...

[He starts. Stops. His exhale is sharp and thin, drawn out as his mind works. And works.

And works.]

Before I was, shall we say, changed, I was nobility. Unsurprising I’m sure, given my own bearing and exemplary taste.

But when I was afforded the...opportunity to transform, I was already knocking on death’s door. It was vampirism or oblivion, and I thought—

[Well.]

I thought it was salvation.

[He snorts, there. Low and acidic.]

It wasn’t, of course. There’s no such thing.

...not in the ways we would like it to be, no.

[Just a brief, quiet agreement to that last statement. It's easy, after all, to reach for what one thinks to be salvation in a desperate time, and after that-- well.

It's too late.]

Continued existence is not, in itself, always a blessing. But what did it turn out to be, instead?

Better than the alternative. Always. [Astarion snaps back, vividly sharp.

Even now, death is—

His expression pinches, tightening with so much reflexive disdain that he clearly has to pull it back a few beats later in order to add:]

...albeit not by much.

[He sighs. Taps his fingers against his own chest, digging.] You see, if you fail to drink the blood of the vampire that sires you in turn, you never really become a vampire. Instead, you're doomed to exist as nothing more than a vampire spawn: a creature utterly beholden to the whims of its master. Eternally enslaved, for lack of a better term.

Better than the alternative.

[A quieter echo, lacking in the same vehemence. There are plenty of reasons, after all, that he never gave it up himself.

After that continuation, though, his gaze flicks back over to Astarion.]

...and I take it, then, that this sire of yours preferred it that way.

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