illithidnapped

You are so strange.

[Not just because of this, though Astarion's brows are still pinched slightly when he goes through the process of rewrapping the blades within the confines of their packaging. But all the selflessness, all the stubborn adherence to his own self-assured way of doing things— it's nothing Astarion has ever had it in himself to comprehend, really. Their worlds are too different, or...the way they see things is.

And yet what normally would be a deterrent for Astarion, isn't in this case. He's still here. Still talking.

Still keeping the damn gift.]

I expect many would think so-- not to mention that I doubt this is the last time I will hear it from you, either.

[He's accustomed to it, to being separate from nearly everyone else he might encounter, to having that gap between himself and most others. It's shrugged off, as many things are.]

I do not necessarily consider it a negative. You're quite the strange person at times, yourself.

Untrue. [Astarion counters coolly, chin lifting proudly for the sake of emphasizing his point.]

I have it on good authority I’m quite charming.

By what authority, your own?

[Certainly not the 'good authority' of anyone who found him charming enough to sleep with, given his commentary on his luck.]

You need not object, regardless; I never claimed that detracted from any charm you may in fact possess.

By yours now, too, thank you.

[:)

Drawing himself back into his seat, he pulls his bundled gift with him, folding it (and his own hands) across his chest just beneath the endpoint of his ribs.]

How are the others treating you, by the way? Just out of curiosity.

[Always good to know how the group at large might view a perceived enemy.]

Well, I've no knives in my back yet, so I suppose it could certainly be worse.

[He exhales a little huff, at that, shaking his head and folding his arms.]

Tolerated, at the least.

Good.

Unless it's my own knives— particularly this lovely little set, [he says, tapping lightly at those well-buried pommels with the edges of his gloved fingertips] I'd rather not see you sporting any new, painfully protruding accessories.

That said, if anything starts to feel...[mm] off around here, you know how to reach me.

I assure you, I would prefer the same.

[Dryly, just passing over the implied threat there as he waves a hand. Ungloved, this time; that's been more frequent around Astarion lately.]

It has already felt off since his initial message, by my own estimation, but I will reach you if it becomes anything to be truly concerned about.

[-and that's primarily because he was thrown off track by it, somewhat, and yet to fully settle back in. Still re-evaluating, still observing.]

Fairly certain the only one you’ll really need to worry about is the Judge himself.

He’s not exactly charismatic. Probably means he isn’t in possession of very many friends that might overeagerly take to action. And I’d be shocked if Riftwatch wasn’t also preparing itself for that possibility, anyway, between you and me.

Those escorts might be for your protection as much as anyone else’s.

[He pauses before adding coyly:]

Not that you’re not fearsome in your own right, I’m sure.

Mm. I doubt it, personally; I may have... tested him, slightly, when we met, and he regretfully managed without incident. Chose to withdraw and issue that warning of his, instead-- which I am sure has still ensured eyes on him, but I do not believe he will act unless he believes I have given him a reason. If the man wanted me dead, I should think he would have tried it when he had the chance.

[A sigh's exhaled on the tail end of that.]

Best to watch, regardless. Others may well be more opportunistic, faced with a perceived threat, even if the Judge Magister himself was not.

Tested— regretfully?? [Astarion scoffs sharply, sitting up slightly in his seat.]

By the Hells. Do you have a death wish, darling? Is that it?

He would have been easier to handle, had it gone otherwise.

[Sometimes you just have to engage in a little provocation? Surely Astarion of all people understands that.]

...though, yes, I suppose you do have a point. It is still easy enough, at times, to forget this body may not be disposable.

You mean it would’ve been easier to drag him down with you which, yes, fine, fair— but all I’m saying is a little caution wouldn’t hurt. Even if he’d lashed out, you might’ve died before getting the satisfaction of seeing him locked away for being an overreaching prick.

[self preservation please, Emet.]

Did you really not have to worry about that before now?

I did not, no. If I died, I would simply find a new vessel-- I've maintained a supply of them, before, when there was a need for it. My grandson was at times quicker to shoot than to argue.

[-he says, as if that's just a minor inconvenience on the level of losing a button on one's coat.]

Another adjustment I am in the process of making, before you start trying to scold me further about self-preservation.

Huh. [Thoughtful. Curious.

Possibly entertaining the idea of some scenario in his head involving multiple copies of the man resting idly in front of him, but that’s not really important right now.]

Can’t imagine what that must have been like.

—children, I mean. Not dying.

I’ve done that one already, after all.

An empire does need heirs, after all.

[Casual, idle-- but he doesn't say much beyond that. He just adds:]

But I think people like ourselves are better suited without.

People like us?

[Asked through the lopsided edge of an inquisitive grin, head cocking just to one side, angling the set of his stare.]

[He shrugs one shoulder, as he clarifies:]

Those with longer lives.

[People who would outlive them.]

[The way he's phrased it...] Did your children not also have immortality?

Seems a little stingy of you, if they missed out.

[A brief moment of silence follows, before he answers.]

The bodies I make use of are mortal, themselves. I cannot pass on the nature of my soul.

[Somewhere in his head, Astarion's doing the rough-cut math: fourteen thousand years versus the nominal span of a typical mortal life? It's beyond night and day. Quicker than the blink of an eye. The vampire's eyes narrow slightly as he studies closely the set of Emet-Selch's otherwise passive expression, searching for a glimpse of something lurking just beneath the surface.]

So they didn't inherit your gifts.

[He sits upright in his seat, elbows across his knees, bundle still tucked in the crook of his arm.]

Did it bother you, that disparity? Watching them trudge on without you?

Of course it did. After all, everyone was nigh-eternal, once.

[There's a little more softness to his tone, less of an edge in his expression.]

They should never have become so short-lived. Susceptible to such fragility, vulnerable to illness. 'Twas best never to become attached to such a fleeting presence, when it was I who went on without them.

[Silent for a few beats more, Astarion pauses before he sets his intended gift aside— rising to his feet and crossing the distance, making the matter of meeting that mattress and straddling Emet-Selch with shapeless, shifting ease all the more nominal. Simple as breathing.

His gloved palms rest flat against Emet-Selch's chest, thumbs sinking into fabric.]

But you did grow attached.

[It gets him to glance up, watching Astarion-- evaluating, mostly, just what this is. Whether just a distraction from the topic, despite not changing the subject, or whether he simply has something else in mind beyond talking.

Emet-Selch doesn't reach up in turn, not at the moment, leaving his hands resting on the bed.]

...a momentary lapse, with the first of them. I did not repeat the same mistake with my other offspring, nor their own children.

[Astarion hadn’t expected a stirring response to his touch, truth be told: predatory as he is by default, the scent of figurative blood in the water will always draw his interest— and he can’t claim innocuity in this moment, knowing exactly what he himself was made for.

Well. Remade for.

And some learned habits don’t die easily.]

You know, [He starts, focused only on toying with the embroidered front of Emet-Selch’s coat.] your life could be normal here. You could have a family, if you wanted. One that’ll outlive you instead— though you’d need to find a native that wouldn’t shiver at the idea of that shard in your palm. Or the fact that eventually it’ll poison you.

But still. Small road bumps in the way of a little normalcy.

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