illithidnapped

Surprising as it might be to hear, I'd be more concerned if you were self-assured. [He takes up his glass, only beginning the tentative process of nursing it along.] Confidence, pretty as it is, has a habit of leading its practitioners right off the nearest cliff.

But you might be equally surprised to know I don't expect you to keep me safe. I don't expect anyone else here to, for that matter.

So you can put that nagging little worry to bed, at least in part.

[ Byerly gives a little shrug, like he's reluctantly agreeing to Astarion's assertions about self-assurance. Like his own "confession" wasn't calculated, as best he can calculate, to make the fellow calm down a little further. ]

You don't expect it. That doesn't mean you wouldn't like it, though, right?

As much as I’d like your Maker to come waltzing down from on high and bestow me with sovereignty and wealth, yes. Absolutely.

[Bitterness isn't bite, in this instance; his hackles are raised even as he drinks (and appreciates, for that matter, a sufficiently smooth vintage), only it isn't Byerly he's snapping at. The man's simply party to it, rather than its intended target.]

But I make it a rule not to dabble in fantasy. Never does anyone any good.

Which, as you no doubt already grasp, is why I’m not keen on all this hypothetical-yet-not-so-hypothetical nonsense about Circles and mages and Rifters: I doubt I need to confess my own aversion to the possibility.

[He taps the edge of a fingertip against his glass, lip curling.] You've heard so much of it already.

I'm not fond of it, either. My concerns have generally focused on what's immediately before me. How to survive.

[ His smile is wry, his shrug light. ]

So perhaps my sight is short, and I should be worrying more about the future. But the fact is that we have dragons to fight at the mountain's peak before we worry about the bears in the valley below. And we don't even know if the dragons are going to eat the bears before we get to fighting.

[Astarion's quiet for a moment, glass to his lips, one fang gnawing faintly at its edge.

He's thinking.]

...how old are you, darling?

[ That's - unexpected. ]

Thirty-seven.

[ He says that with a weariness that makes it clear that he expects this to be perceived as almost embarrassingly old. ]

[Nonsense, that tone. How long do humans live anyway? One hundred and fifty years? Two hundred?]

So let's say I've kept you shut away in the darkest, deepest pit of a lightless catacomb for all those years. Just for fun.

Then imagine you've been freed for the first time. Just a taste of it, mind you, before some self-serving ass decides to waltz in and claim someone else wants to throw you in a different damned box.

Now multiply those years of yours by four and then some, and you'll know exactly what it is I fear.

[And why the bears and dragons could eat themselves alive, and he'd still have no peace. No trust.]

It doesn't matter if the option could vanish by then. That it exists at all is what'll keep me from sleep if I don't think of a way to avoid it entirely.

Were those your circumstances, then?

[ Byerly's voice is quiet as he plays with his wineglass. ]

Kept prisoner?

...a slave. [There is a difference, after all.]

And my master was exceptionally cruel.

Corypheus would weep.

[His teeth click as his jaw sets. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

He smiles, and there’s nothing happy about it.]

Though in so many ways, I imagine they might be the best of friends were fate so overwhelmingly stupid as to bring them together.

[ Rifters are just dreams, of course. But that means that somewhere - somewhere, it's likely that there's some clever elf with a mordant wit in those circumstances, dreaming of freedom. And that yanks painfully at Byerly's heart. ]

One could go mad, thinking about how fucking miserable life is, to ensure that there are such evil men in every world.

[ His smile is bitter as well. ]

[Mad indeed. Given how far his own sanity has probably slipped over the years, Astarion's inclined to agree.]

The gods play games while we live and die like trapped rats. Your Maker— if he isn’t long dead already, bones littering a blackened city— isn’t any different.

Better to rely on yourself than fate. Or life. Or anything else at all.

Oh, I don't know. A fellow can't have a family tree as full of lunatics as mine and fully trust himself.

[ - Not really a properly manipulative comment, nor one to push Astarion towards calm. Ah, well. Sometimes a fellow's desire to be a proper puppeteer is overwhelmed by his need to pity himself. ]

You know why Averesch said all that, don't you?

Edited 2021-09-08 19:57 (UTC)

Should I care?

[Some people say you only see yourself in someone else. The optimist will leap to hope, the liar will think it's deception, the pessimist spots defeat, and the survivor, the manipulator— ]

The man was protecting himself. His cause just as much as his own magic-wielding crowd.

Just so.

[ Peas in a pod, these two. ]

He was a rebel mage, before this war. Most of our Riftwatch mages were. They want to see the Circles destroyed - and so they benefit from Rifters sharing their cause.

The more you let him crow, the closer he is to succeeding in that.

Not that it matters: I won't be lending my hand to it regardless, whatever this all comes down to. [Even if it means gnawing off his own hand with his teeth by the end of things, or slipping fully into Darktown, or— anything else, for that matter. There's a certainty stuck in it, even from a snake like Astarion.

The fight against Corypheus is as selfless as it gets, and precisely where he draws the line.]

Still. It does beg the question, what's your opinion on this little arrangement?

[Asked while he lifts his palm as punctuation, green catching in dim light.]

Which?

[ He tilts his head slightly to the side. ]

Tying your fate to the mages'? Having Rifters here at all?

Both, I suppose. [All conversational gravity spent, he returns to wine, nursing it along as he talks.]

Call me hypothetically curious, while we're indulging in chattering away about speculative nonsense.

Well -

[ A shrug. ]

For the first: I think it's foolishness. Circles were established as a way to ensure that mages do not become abominations. We haven't had a single Rifter be possessed.

Finally, a man with common sense. [Astarion scoffs, easing back into his seat.]

Rifters. Dangerous. Utter rubbish.

Well.

[ A little gesture of his hand. ]

The thought that being a Rifter inherently makes you dangerous. There are still dangerous Rifters. Like Thranduil could break me over his knee if he fancied, I suspect.

[His lips twist in a faded little smile. Moving to refill his own glass rather than asking after it just comes naturally.

There’s no need to put on a show of good behavior here, after all.]

Yes well. That at least would be amusing to watch.

Abominations, not so much.

Agreed. Being shoved around by that fellow would be positively erotic.

[ A wry smile. ]

Abominations, not so much. No - I fear demons, but I don't fear you.

[He makes a noise that’s— perhaps— a little too telling. Halfway between a hum and a laugh, like a joke lives somewhere in the air between them, entirely unsaid out of decency alone.]

Mmhm.

[And that’s all he has to say about that particular subject— until the next statement follows.]

Flattery is your strong suit, I’ll give you that.

But thank you.

[Something about his voice in that final addition...it’s very nearly muted. Sober, compared to all usual pomp.]

[ A cocked eyebrow in response to that suggestive hum, but he doesn't pursue it. Instead: ]

For what?

This.

The wine, the— mm. Conversation, I suppose. I realize we’re all just protecting our own ass....sets [ha] but I won’t lie and say it wasn’t a welcome change of pace.

You could’ve easily made yourself a thorn in my paw, or a stubborn warden, of sorts.

[There at least, his mouth twists into something far more wry.]

Though I suppose there’s always time for that later.

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