illithidnapped | INBOX II

“Nice to know your predictive mind’s still sharp as ever.” Astarion teases, gloved fingertips set against the door at his back as he snaps its heavy lock into place. One of the few benefits to the Gallows’ high towers— and likely one of the most vital conditions ensuring his continued visitation. Because as much as he’d promised Yseult he’d be keeping watch over the Ascian, the full depth of that promise being either audible or visible to the rest of Riftwatch at large is...

Well no, that actually is sort of thrilling in a dangerous, knife’s edge espionage sort of way.

But the point is there’d be complications. Not good ones, either. Not anything Astarion wants to welcome with open arms. Or Emet-Selch for that matter, either.

So.

Click goes the lock, off come his gloves, and—

“....are we...celebrating something?” Asked with a cocked head and an arched brow, a few pale fingers still curved around the dark leather of a disentangled glove.

Did the Ascian finally earn his freedom?

"Not quite. Not yet, at the least," he says, with a roll of his eyes. Honestly, by his estimation, if what he's done isn't enough then he doesn't know what else they will insist on asking from him... but regardless, he's still stuck here for now.

Emet-Selch shifts to set his feet on the floor, pushing himself off the bed to move over to the desk. The previously-opened bottle is the one he plucks up first, offering it out to Astarion in an easy, casual sort of gesture.

"But I was of the mind to experiment with something, and expected you may be interested in the results."

Which-- all right, yes, he did this specifically for Astarion, but he doesn't think the man needs it spelled out for him.

Astarion meets that offering without much in the way of ceremony: outstretched fingers tucking themselves just around the base of the bottle, turning it over within his grasp as he tries to get a decent look at the label.

Something rare, perhaps? Magically infused?

"You were of the mind to experiment, and thought I'd make a fitting subject." He corrects coolly, though despite all present wryness, it's not actually offense; if he didn't trust the Ascian to exercise at least some amount of restraint rather than leaping to risking his closest (only, Astarion suspects) true ally, then he might be calculating just how many steps rest between his own back and the aforementioned doorway.

"Just tell me it's not going to do anything...weird to me. Hilarious I can stand, but still. I'd like to think you can figure out what sits squarely out of playful bounds."

The label is fairly normal, actually; Astarion will likely recognize it as a pretty decent vintage, certainly not among the most expensive, but higher quality than just acceptable wine.

"Well, I may have engaged in said experimentation with the subject in mind from the start," he allows, with a wave of his hand. "That one is yours-- the other is unaltered. But I do not believe this should have any sort of unintended effect, unless there proves to be something you've yet to tell me."

A pause to consider, before he picks up one of the empty glasses and says, "If it's been done correctly, I believe you will understand from the scent alone." The glass is held out, then, a silent invitation.

“Hm. Thrilling.” Astarion teases, tipping the bottle to pour it into that offered glass and—

Oh.

Oh, he notices it right away once that aroma’s let free from the neck of the bottle: the hint of magic he’d detected before, only let loose and unmasked, its true nature laid bare— crimson eyes dilating until they become deep, lightless pools. His subsequent inhale deep.

Reactive.

And then Astarion sets the bottle down, drawing his glass to his lips, unable to wait before he takes the deepest possible sip.

It's overwhelmingly bright. Robust. Subtle richness overridden by a metallic slick of familiarity, ringing as well-aged heat snakes its way down the back of his own throat. The dryness of the alcohol and all its faceted notes; the snapping bite of the arcane, dark as unspooled shadow.

"...Hells." He exhales in the wake of it, studying his own awestruck expression in thin-wrought glass.

Emet-Selch is studying that expression, in turn, now seated at the desk chair with one leg folded over the other. He's yet to bother pouring his own glass from the second bottle, attention thoroughly focused on Astarion... and, when it seems all has gone well, he cannot quite keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

"Successful enough, I take it?" The corners of his mouth quirk in a slight grin, as he uncorks the other bottle and pours it.

"I knew it could be infused with other flavors easily enough, but whether blood would take... well. There was certainly a risk this would turn out entirely unappetizing, if not."

"This blood is yours, I take it."

Not a question— barely even an assumption; he remembers vividly the unsubtle heat of Hades' blood, pooling bright against the flat of his tongue, oh-so-sweetly stinging the corners of his lips with a headier boldness, like cardamom. Or cinnamon. Or—

Something else entirely. Something far too impossible to describe by any measure of mundane taste.

Still, he sets the glass he's clutching down atop the desk (albeit somewhat reluctantly), and reaches to take up its not-so-tampered twin, giving it a decent swirl to let it stand some sort of fighting chance— presuming it's lacking the additional secret ingredient.

"Did you not say you would be able to tell?"

Faintly amused, there-- and still thoroughly pleased that it seems to have worked out well. Well worth the effort spent in bleeding himself for it.

The second glass is perfectly normal wine, and while he'll wait to let Astarion compare, he does add: "I'll have that one after, if you do not mind. I did not expect you would wish to share the first." Nor does he have much interest in it, himself; he'll stick with the normal wine, thank you.

The low, throaty, near-cough of a sound Astarion lets off in the wake of his sip says everything for him: bitterness burning in his throat with its own entirely flat bouquet, the former vampire almost winces with distaste as he holds the glass back out towards Hades himself, clearly expecting the Ascian to take it.

Eugh.

“Apparently I was right.” Weighty consolation that it is.

“You know, if all your experiments are like this, I could get used to this Research Division thing— ” but he cuts himself off there, the lip of his designated wine glass fit just against his lower lip.

Wait.

“...you’re not going to actually report this to anyone, are you.”

"Well, of course not."

He rolls his eyes as he takes that glass back, sipping from it. Good enough by his standards. A few moments of silence follow as he debates his words, before he finally just sighs and waves his free hand.

"It is not a work experiment, nor is there any particular reasoning behind it-- but neither could I call something like this a gift without knowing it would work."

Just imagine if he had, and it had turned out absolutely horribly. He won't have it.

“Shockingly sensible.”

Or maybe not so shocking, given Hades’ penchant for carefully balancing out his own curiosity— amongst other things, to say the least.

“But good, I’d hate to let anyone in on our...private arrangement.” Spoken as he sips again from that initial glass, already slipping down to sit opposite to his far more severe companion, chilled light catching in narrow strips across the stony flooring at their feet.

The final, minuscule addition to that thought added just a beat later, ever so casually:

“Aside from Wysteria, that is.”

"It shall remain private enough, so long as you insist," he answers with a shrug, a wave of his free hand. It hardly bothers him, keeping it quiet; frankly, it's no one else's business.

He takes a moment for a sip or two of his glass before he asks, one brow arched:

"Why her, in particular?"

Astarion’s chuckle is thin, albeit both smooth and amused besides.

“She was the second to catch on to my— shall we say, affliction.” The word, despite his tirelessly elegant tone, is laced with an unmistakable current of contempt. “The first being Fenris, though he never found himself compelled to ask about the details.”

Wysteria, on the other hand, asks about everything.

Always.

"You are hardly obligated to inform her of all your arrangements as a result, you realize," he says dryly, over the rim of his glass. Just because she knows doesn't mean she must know everything. "Unless you simply desire to?"

"Oh, gods no." He scoffs sharply, almost recoiling from the notion and nearly spilling his glass in the process— only just recovering it at the very last second.

"But much as I hate to admit it, the irritating creature does remarkably decent research, and the truth is...."

He stops there, frowning across the lip of his glass, letting the sentiment fester for a beat. "I don't really know what I am anymore since stepping through the Fade: its alterations might have more consequences than the ones I've already discovered— and much as I love surprises, I don't love the ones that could easily get me killed, or sickened— or worse."

Val Chevin had been proof enough in its own way, of precisely how dangerous the unexpected could be.

Edited 2022-02-15 10:04 (UTC)

"I see. A matter of convenience, then, which outweighs the annoyance involved?"

He's hardly unfamiliar with that sort of arrangement, after all, idly swirling the wine in his glass as he considers.

"And I do suppose she has proved sharp enough not to be disregarded. In that sense, you certainly could do worse."

“A matter of necessity. The woman knows this world like very few others do— natives included.”

A happy confession that is not, but the wine, warm in his throat and sweet with the bitter richness of magic-laced iron, takes the edge off his present train of thought.

He slips closer to Hades, resting his hip against the desk instead of maintaining that nominal distance.

“….have you done much work with her before? Being part of the same department, that is.”

He allows Astarion to close the distance easily enough- not reaching out to him, leaving that a rarer thing as he is often wont to do, but not withdrawing either. It's grown more comfortable, over time, just letting him do as he pleases.

"Not much more than what you are already aware of," he answers with a slight shrug. "Answered her initial survey with a few corrections, and I have paid mind to what she broadcasts, but I would not say I have often worked with her directly."

INBOX II

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