illithidnapped

No, no. No demons here— [Quick enough to be more than a little deflective, but likely sincere all the same, given the near-stuttering quality to that initial verbal jump, chased by another narrow laugh of sorts.] No insatiable hunger, either. I doubt I could keep something like that under wraps.

After all, I’ve known perpetual starvation. It’s not the kind of thing you can easily cover up.

You don’t have anything to worry about, darling. And I like to think I’ve proved that point by now.

Oh, you have. I am not worried. Only curious—and awfully rude, I think, to make you speak of it.

I don't discuss anything I don't want to, darling. No one can make me.

Well— no one in this world anyway. My point is, you're fine. And as long as you're not threatening to go running to the nearest guard or monster slayer or whatever it is that might not think twice about making trouble for a perfectly well behaved gentleman like myself, I don't much care what you ask.

[Still:]

Are you that bored, where you are?

[ In lieu of protesting that he isn't bored at all, Astarion is fascinating and Bastien would still be asking these questions even if two giants were fighting right outside his window: ]

Yes.

[ A wooden thunk in the room behind his voice. ]

Bored enough to be rude and ask you very personal questions through a rock. Otherwise I would have the strength of will to wait until I saw you again.

That strength of will would be a mistake. I have a terrible habit of deflecting by putting my hands directly on the overly curious.

[Is he joking? Maybe. Then again, maybe not.]

But you know, happy as I am to answer all your wide-eyed questions, I think it's only fair you give me something in return.

A little tit for tat.

Fffair?

[ His tone is that distinct form of overacted confusion that comes with pretending not to know the meaning of a word. ]

This must be something from your world.

Must be. [Soft and featherlight, he doesn't sound suspicious or bothered in the slightest. This is a fun game, after all— no point in spoiling it.] And I do relish the opportunity for cultural exchange.

So. Starting easy.

How old are you, my darling?

[ His quiet laughter at cultural exchange tapers off quickly enough, but it stays in his voice when he answers. ]

Thirty-seven, I think. Around there. And very sensitive about it— [ no he's not ] —so be kind.

Oh nonsense. You're practically a child.

[His tongue clicks against the back of his teeth, dismissive.]

You've still got, what. Another century? Two?

[All right, maybe he is teasing. Just a little.]

Two! What would anyone do with two centuries?

The same thing one does with one century, darling. Albeit better the second time around.

Or at least, that’s the way it’s supposed to go.

And besides, there are a few amongst our flock that’ve lived eons. Take Emet-Selch, for example: the poor old bastard can’t even remember how old he is, practically dust and bones after thirteen— fourteen thousand years. I’m shocked he still recalls how to dress himself every morning.

I imagine one day soon, he won't.

So please, my love, don’t tell me that you’re thirty seven and you haven’t got any idea how you’d spend eternity.

Because if so, you’d make a terrible vampire.

Oh, sans doute. I would be the worst. Restless and whiny.

[ His understanding of what being a vampire means, to Astarion, is still a sketchy outline at best. But he's also fairly sure that's an accurate assessment. As he's demonstrated in this very conversation, boredom weakens his willpower. ]

Fourteen thousand—that is older than the Chantry. [ A whew sound. ] And how old are you?

Nothing nearly so remarkable, I’m afraid. [And this time, he means it.] Given the fact that you’re not exactly versed in all the details of vampirism, I’ll explain using only the smallest of words.

For someone to become a vampire, they have to first be bitten by one. Before then, they’re just a living, breathing— whatever.

I myself was a High Elf. Nobility, in fact, as I'd mentioned once before. But that’s all I can remember. How many years I’d been alive, what I used to look like, all that nonsense, gone.

[Almost all of it, anyway. Aside from a few slivers here and there. Splinters of a life lived and lost.]

But my people can live for quite a long time compared to the creatures in this world. Lovely things like yourself.

I could have been a hundred. Or five hundred. I don’t know. What I do know is that I spent two hundred years as a vampire spawn, so there’s that for some sort of definitive timeline.

[ Thoughts that do not come anywhere close to escaping Bastien's mouth:

• Oh, fuck off. (at the smallest of words)
• High elf—Athessa would like that.
• From some perspectives you're actually about five months old, mon oison.

They're all fleeting. Except that last one. He might actually say that last one eventually.

But under them, he does feel a genuine mix of awe, that someone might have memories spanning ages, and compassion. A single lost year would be terrible. Five hundred is unfathomable. ]

I'm sorry.

[ His pause is very short. He doesn't think Astarion is someone who would enjoy sitting quietly with sympathy. ]

What does it mean—spawn? Is being a vampire spawn different from being a vampire?

[That’s too much. Too close. There are people Astarion trusts to take in the truth, and there are people he fears that might use it against him, and Bastien—

Well, Astarion doesn’t know, yet. What defines him in those dark eyes. What he looks like to their every glance.]

You’ve already asked yours.

[He counters, voice sounding deeper in his throat. All feigned sweetness lost.]

Why did you join Riftwatch?

[ Perhaps no charming stories of feckless vampiric youth, then. ]

Ah. [ Knowingly, proud to be able to apply this newly-learned word in context: ] Fair.

[ And for fairness’ sake, he’ll be fairly thorough. ]

Pourquoi… Well, I didn’t join Riftwatch. I joined the Inquisition. That was a much more respectable choice. I came after Tevinter invaded Orlais because—it is home. And it seemed like more important people would not be handling Corypheus after all.

[ He was also horrifically bored. But he’s hammered that particular nail enough for one conversation. ]

Then this part of the Inquisition became Riftwatch around me, and lucky for me that I had given up on pretending to be respectable. Otherwise I couldn’t have stayed, and look at what I would have missed.

Edited (icon) 2021-09-04 17:14 (UTC)

Awfully noble of you, taking up arms for the cause. Not many people would.

[Not many people have, in fact, given the state of things.]

And here you didn’t strike me as the type.

[ Cheerfully, ]

For nobility or for arms?

[Equally as cheerfully, in fact:]

Both, actually. Though I suppose the latter still isn’t exactly your forte.

Neither is.

[ He considers remaining cagey. Old habits, and all of that. But it isn't so very secret anymore. ]

But I am better with arms than with duty. In Orlais, you see, we have bards, and then we have bards—am I telling you something you already know?

As a matter of fact. You are. [He's no slouch study, despite still working to fill in the gaps in his understanding of this world: in some ways, he's almost pleased to hear it— the comfort of like meeting like, and so on.]

But I suppose I owe you that answer, now.

[The pause is tepid. There's no intake of breath, just the hang that lives before one step off a steep wall, or a singular leap into the dark.]

I was a slave.

Not an unfamiliar concept to you, I assume, given the nature of your world.

[ A flash of disappointment between you are and but I suppose I owe you that answer now—the resignation of feeling not particularly interesting in the company of someone who absolutely is—but it’s only a flash. It vanishes entirely as soon as Astarion says slave. ]

No. Not unfamiliar.

[ Bastien can’t frown intently at Astarion. He has to do it at the crystal. ]

That is what you mean by spawn? So you were a nobleman for—however long—and then a slave for two hundred years?

[The benefit of Astarion's own weathervane mood is that all conversation is circuitous: nothing's ever truly forgotten, only briefly interwoven. If Bastien is momentarily injured by the pass, his time will likely come again.

For now, however, Astarion only hums a single sound of assent.]

Got it in one, clever lad.

As I said, a vampire needs to bite you for the conversion to take place. To complete it, you'll then need to bite them in turn, otherwise you become nothing more than a vampire spawn: their devoted slave. An unwitting puppet in your own skin, able only to act as you're commanded.

And vampires, my dear, are eternal creatures. They don't age. They don't die.

[His addition is a lower confession. Quiet as a single exhale.]

Your world was a mercy, you know.

[ An assenting noise. Bastien rather likes the world, apocalyptic wars and his own hard knocks and all. There'd be no attempt from his corner to argue that Thedas is a terrible place even if they weren't comparing it to something as awful as this. ]

You were aware the whole time? Or...

[ He's not sure which would be worse—losing two hundred years to a mindless fog, or spending them awake and watching your body move against your will. ]

Always.

[It’s clear enough when he’s done with it, that particular subject. His voice is conversationally light; like an animal protecting itself, he doesn’t let pain shine through for a second beyond the gaps between words. The weight of the topic itself.]

So. My beautiful bard.

[Interwoven. Reprised. Part of their game, now.]

Are your fingertips retired from their Orlesian crafts, or do you still play, so to speak.

[He suspects he might know the answer, but he wants to hear it all.]

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oh my god I never got this notif, sorry fam

pff I wouldn't have even known

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