illithidnapped

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.

[He scoffs, his tone crawling back into bitterly conversational:]

Why would anyone want to give up that sort of power?

The ability to turn someone else into your own willing puppet? The promise that they'll serve you, rather than becoming competition? Because that's what it really means, to make another vampire: they don't just ascend into strength of their own— no, they become your equal.

Cazador never would've allowed that. Those privileges he kept only for himself, and his own family.

With, I assume, little to no chance of one's spawn being able to to turn against their master.

[Astarion doesn't strike him as the type who wouldn't take the chance to do so, after all, if it existed.

He spares a sidelong glance to the ceiling, waving a hand to set the stars in motion.]

Like I said, darling, puppet. Emphasis on the strings.

[This is a joke. He still sounds mired in vitriol regardless.]

All a vampire lord needs to do is speak, and its spawn obey. No amount of wanting or weeping changes that wicked little detail: the figurative spell doesn't break unless you're dead, they're dead— or you're fully transformed.

[His lips purse. His jaw grits.]

Anyway, the point is, I didn't have a life before coming here. Not one worth mentioning, at least. So if you'd like to pick a better subject to satisfy your curiosity, by all means, feel free.

I see.

[Exhaled on a low hum, after which he falls silent for several moments, just... watching the slow rotation of lights above them both; he settles in more comfortably, then, arms folded behind his head.]

...the gods of my home have a similar sort of ability, you know.

[He says this almost conversationally. Almost. There's just a touch more seriousness to it than there would be if it truly were, though.]

It happens regardless of whether they will it to, but the results aren't terribly different. Those who are exposed to their incarnations, whether they were originally followers or not-- they are converted in more than merely a spiritual sense. Tempered by that god's will, bent to their desires, belonging to them in both body and soul. The tempered will work for the good of their deity of their own will, doing absolutely anything for them, and the weaker-willed ones will lose themselves in this entirely.

So your gods are vampires. [Astarion teases, betraying the exactness of those shared circumstances. Confirmation through black, bleak humor.

And to that extent, he laughs despite it all.]

Who knew.

Something of the sort.

[Even in the way they're sustained, fueling themselves through offered lives, draining the essence given to them. A larger-scale sort of thing, but...

It might not be wrong to call them that, no. Not if one were to generalize.]

And equally difficult to break away from.

You know it almost sounds like you're speaking from personal experience.

[And by almost, given the way he says it, he means it sounds exactly like Emet-Selch is speaking from personal experience.

Astarion, after all, would know.]

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