illithidnapped

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.]

'Tis hardly an unknown problem, in that world.

[Vague enough, with a shrug to match, but the fact that it isn't a direct denial likely says something.]

Here I am, baring my soul for a handful of stars and an evasive answer.

[His chin upturns despite the fact that he's laying down. He sounds— put out, for lack of a better term. Disappointed.

Or maybe disapproving.]

What a tepid end to an already dissatisfying evening.

Well, if you find them an unacceptable exchange, I suppose it would be easier not to maintain them...

[...but he doesn't move to dismiss the illusion. Not yet. He's still enjoying it, after all, and hardly sounds bothered.]

Here I simply thought you were capable of taking my meaning for what it was. But, if you insist on directness-- then yes. I am familiar.

And?

[He asks, rolling onto his side with the most direct look imaginable angled across that narrow little room.] What's next, am I going to have to start pulling teeth?

Familiar how, darling. You know my ruin— time to pay up in yours.

[It's both easier and harder, he thinks, when the situation is like this. No one is from his world, and so far removed, especially after his own death-- it both means there's less attachment to it for anyone else, and also that if he simply never said anything, no one would know. Just like it was back then. It would be so easy to just keep it all to himself and leave them all none the wiser.

No one would know, here, besides him-- and that's part of the problem, too. Back there, he knew someone would remember his people's history (and his own) after his death, but that is something he no longer has in Thedas.

...fitting enough, he supposes, to allow it of the person who initially kept him from dying completely unknown in this world. The trust isn't entirely there, not yet, but who else would he ever bother to tell? Someone who doesn't at least have a similar sort of understanding?

So, finally:]

It isn't an uncommon story, is it, to bring ruin upon oneself?

We created the first of those gods. The eldest and most powerful of them, summoned from willing sacrifice and desperation. From fervent prayer to a deity none of us had ever seen or known, that had never existed until we thought to make it so. He was to be our greatest work, meant to imbue the world itself with the will and power to save it-- and so he did. He did exactly what we had, in our time of greatest need, brought him forth to do.

[A moment's pause, there, as he exhales a sigh.]

...but, as you know, we later learned the full measure of what we had done. Our souls were claimed the moment we gave him life, and the souls of our brethren claimed in the sacrifices made to create him and sustain his power.

Desperation? Desperation over what.

[There's something there, like glass gleaming in a sea of sand. The smallest of hints to something larger which— Astarion knows by now, won’t come to the surface without him digging.

So dig he does.]

They way you talked, I imagine the worst you ever-dutiful little addicts had to face was what you would create for yourselves after lunch.

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