illithidnapped | INBOX II

fortunately, you have your head on correctly. you flatter any form you change into, but a hollyphant is an abomination, one not even your good looks could course correct

a pity about the cat, though. it would suit you. thought i do enjoy you as a bat; you're particularly adorable when you're tired and try to burrow into my chest.

(and it's aggravating in a different way. the same way salt and sweet are both flavors but distinct; it's less about shrillness and more about endless repetition).

And yet you'd come running right back once I was restored. Don't you dare try to outfox a

erm

flying fox.

Although puppish talk aside, you're making me long for that magic to actually wear. The temptation of huddling in close under your blouse, awash in the steady beat beat beating of your heart.

Then again, I bet your fur makes for a cozy den indeed.

we can tonight. i would like that, in fact. you speak sweetly when you're drowsy and unguarded, and i like getting to read to you that way. besides: i cannot imagine this magic will last for much longer.

but you can find out soon enough if my doggish [hey, that's the name of his journal!] form is a suitable substitute. i . . . suspect i am nearing where you lay.

[Maybe. Possibly. Baldur's Gate is large and sprawling and confusing even as an elf, never mind as a dog. It's hard to read posted signs when your eyesight is suddenly monochrome, and anyway, scent is easier to navigate by; it's just a matter of associating one with the other . . .

Which is why Leto is currently furiously investigating a pile of offal outside a butcher a few blocks away from one of the nearby piers, his nose telling him only that it smells delectable— and that it's near seawater. That must mean he's very close. Almost certainly it does. Add to the fact a small mammal was recently nearby . . . yes, he must be close.

(It's his first time as a dog, no one can blame his tracking skills).]

where ARE you?

[They wrote the thing!!]

Can you see the temple yet?

[It's part of this, he swears.]

i am, at best, three feet tall right now

everything looks the same from down here

but i . . .

[Oh, there is a long, long pause.]

yes. maybe. i see a temple, i think. it smells of the sea.

Ah! Well spotted my little bloodhound. Now, see the cliffs propping up the whole of Umberlee's Baldurian domain?

I'm under them.

[It still takes far longer than it should, he ends up padding in the wrong direction for a time— but sooner or later, a dog trots up towards the temple. He's a medium-sized thing, slender but strong, his fur black with the occasional white markings. There's a rather jaunty scarf tied haphazardly to his neck, the fabric just a little too large to really suit him, and maybe that's why he attracts the odd startled exclamation or delighted laugh.]

where under there?

[He sticks close to the wall outside the temple, trying to be as subtle as he can while still furiously sniffing the air. It's so briney, not to mention all the people and animals and everything that clammers at him for olfactory attention.]

i don't see you.

[Down comes the ~~claw~~ bat from ~~on high~~ beneath the temple cliffs, shaken loose out of the shadow of a shoreline cavern's mouth to flutter towards Leto in a blur of exceptionally fluffy white fur (and sporting the usual pair of wide garnet eyes), landing on his back at first, and then—

Oh.

Eugh. No. Wet. That's a wet dog, thanks to shoreline humidity.

—revised plan: he darts back over to a nearby rock to shake off and chitter his mild displeasure.]

Tell me that's you in there. [Comes with a pair of winged swipes over his foxlike nose, grooming.]

[The first thing that happens, the very first thing, is that his tail starts wagging. From the moment those tiny claws land atop him he's already wagging, slow to start but building with intensity each moment that passes— until by the time Astarion rests on that rock, his whole back half is shaking with effort, his excitement such that he has to tap from one paw to the other in momentary displacement. Oh, it's you, his heart sings, and he does not know why he's so overjoyed, save that this puppish body has instincts of its own. It's you, it's you, I missed you so, his green eyes bright and eager as he stares at his fussy mate.

The second thing that happens— and that lends credence to the theory that there is, in fact, a set of bodily instincts he cannot ignore— is that Leto feels that dampness settling in his fur. Wet dog indeed, and there's only one thing to do when you're wet, his instincts tell him—

So the second thing Leto does is give himself one brisk shake, ocean droplets spraying everywhere as he grumbles in satisfaction. Then he looks back at his mate, panting gently as he views him.]

Yes, it's me.

[And isn't he pleased with himself? With an audible grin Leto trots forward, absolutely unashamed about how he snuffles and noses at his mate— hello, hello, memorizing his scent and relishing the feel of familiar chilled fluff against his snout, hello you, hello, equal parts adoring and mercilessly teasing.]

[He's a precious thing. All teeth and a lolling tongue, wriggling hindquarters leading the charge after forepaws plod eagerly back and forth— alertness bathed in recognition like a banner, unmistakable at its height— and it only grows once close. Snuffling and snorting and happy, hot puffs of breath filling the whole of Astarion's vision.

His damp, fussy, squinted vision. Assailed by a snout the size of his head, hissing on matching reflex— albeit just the mouthy, affectionate protests all pack creatures have, regardless of species: a cub will squall at its mother, a kitten will wail, bats—
Well, bats have their own way.]

Yes yes hello— that's— [With slight effort, his wing-claws push up against the wet tip of leto's nose, signaling that his transformed mate's had enough of a smell. Honestly he'd normally be shrieking by now if either of the pups were the ones butting eagerly into his space, but as things are, he's tugging and reaching with his little talons trying to get a better look at him with half-blind vision.

His book still laid out flat on the nearby rocky shelf he'd been using as a perch beforehand, though it needn't have been so fastidiously obscured: there's no one else beneath the temple anyway. Only the lapping of the risen tide and whatever noises they both make.]

Selûne's tits, it truly is you, isn't it? What an adorable thing you are— the spitting image of your id.

....And the twins'.

[Oh, those precious little chirps. Those protesting little squeaks, not wholly new but all the more endearing with a new set of ears. Leto settles back on his hindquarters, his tail still wagging furiously and excitement thrumming through restrained muscles. Look at how good he's being. Look at how smart he is. Isn't he such a good boy? Such a good boy, if anyone wants to notice and/or comment on it.

Though some of that excitement dissipates as Astarion speaks; with a little bark of laughter Leto submits himself to that fussy attention.]

There is an unfortunate coloring resemblance, I will admit. And you are one to talk about adorable, squeaking as you are. You smell even better to this nose, do you know that? You smell good ordinarily, [he adds swiftly, just to cut off any protesting squawks.] But you're particularly distinct in this form.

[Drawing back a little further, he tips his head back, showing off the scarf clumsily (but securely) tied around his neck.]

Do you approve of your accommodations? I will admit, it was no easy task to tie this with a third hand, never mind check to ensure it was thick enough that no sunlight could penetrate.

Edited 2024-09-27 18:54 (UTC)

[Down here, no light can penetrate. What the temple doesn't cover, every rocky, cliffside formation— convex and concave alike— lies far, far below the past-noon sun's sprawling reach. And without its threatening glare in present play, it's easy for him to waddle up along his perch to get a better look at offered transport, craning his neck from left to right. Swiveling again (to check the thickness for himself) and again (to gauge its security. The thoroughness of it all.

It's a snort that says he's satisfied. A flick of his ears forwards, and then:]

I do wonder if anything doesn't smell good to that newfound nose you've plucked up from the Weave. Oh but my my my, what a grand conveyance— I expected no less of you.

[And yet his beady eyes sink lower, marking the sight of trembling haunches. Muscles vibrating with energy underneath layers of fur and skin.

Ah.

An addendum:]

Good boy.

[The noise he makes to that praise— and it is unintentional, a noise that bursts out of him immediately without a moment of hesitation or thought— is not, hm, something he's proud of. It's excited and overwhelmed and muscle-meltingly thrilled; it's not unlike the noise he makes when Astarion plays with his ears just so, threading the needle between tapering pressure and caressing touch.

It might be written out as hrhggggh.

And then it's out there and there's absolutely no taking it back. And of course dogs can't get embarrassed, not really, but still: there's a little bit of the look Fortunato gets when she knows she's done something she oughtn't beneath the bed. One paw pushes fitfully over his snout, his tail still whapping fiercely against the sand despite himself.

(He is a good boy).]

You're welcome.

[Let's just all move on from that, shall we? And just so they can hurry things along . . . one ghostly hand suddenly materializes, hovering helpfully near Astarion.]

Show me this treasure, that I might drape it around you so we can go.

[Instinct rules them both right now. His fur puffs up sharp around his ears when that hand materializes, flensing and flexing his teeth beneath a curled-back snout before— oh. Oh no, it's fine. Just Leto's summoned cohort for their own benefit. That, he can live with, he asserts, licking the tip of his nose as he smooths down in trusting comfort, shrugging off his own example of unexpected synapse.]

Around me? Oh no no no darling, [Comes as a coy little chirrup of amusement akin to a battish chuckle, taking flight to drift alongside hand and pup alike towards the rear of the cavernous space, where Umberlee's follower's keep their bedrolls. Waxen stalactites and stalagmites giving way to what looks like daylight at first: dangerous cast searing as they come around the bend— little sunspots scattered here and there across the floor.

Little drops of gold.

Literal gold. Coins the size of Astarion's chiropteric head beside heaps and heaps of jewelry, silk, fur and incense. Crowns that smell of saltwater and precious metals and freshwater pearl. A sprawling, unmapped hoard that Astarion alights to, folding his wings quite proudly where he lands. A little maned dictator atop his find.] Around us both.

[There is so much of it after all, that even were they to saddle bat and hound and hand with as much as they could bodily carry, none would be the wiser.]

I wouldn't risk another curse for nothing, you know.

[If he could whistle in awe, he would.

He's seen his fair share of loot before, gold heaped in little piles or jewels carefully laid out on pillows, but nothing like this. Nothing so vast, so utterly in excess that it would be impossible to begin to calculate its worth. So much so that it's a wonder to Leto's mind that no one has made off with any of it before— but perhaps no one is foolish enough to risk Umberlee's wrath.

Or perhaps they have, and it hasn't made much of a difference at all.

Astarion's right. There's no way they're leaving with anything less than what they can bodily carry, for this will set them up for . . . oh, gods, who even knows? At least a year or two, but likely so much further. They could get a better apartment, start to splurge on things— gods, Astarion can get the shopping trip in the Upper City he's always wanted. Leto can picture it now: his mate preening as he spends an obscene amount of gold on tailored silks and fine dyed linens for no other reason than he can . . . and you know, it's that thought above all that motivates him. Leto's eyes flick up, lingering fondly on the little dictator himself, his fur smoothed down and his ruby eyes gleaming in the dark.

He deserves this. And so long as they have no plans to travel by sea anytime soon, it's well worth the risk.]

You certainly didn't . . . gods, Astarion, this is incredible.

[There's such awe in his voice as, eyes wide and nose raised high, he snuffles his way in deeper. For a time there's nothing but the sharp iron scent of metal overloading his system, but soon he learns to distinguish between gold and silver, incense and fabric and jewels. The hand drifts behind him, slow and dutiful— though it does take a moment to playfully tweak one of those battish ears.

Adorable.

Then it's off to begin its duty: gently lifting a delicate silver bracelet inlaid with sapphires and drifting over to Astarion.]

I will not argue over carrying my fair share, not when it comes to this. But if Baldur's Mouth runs a story soon on a naked warrior dressed in naught but gold necklaces and a single bat suddenly appearing midway through the city, you are taking the blame.

Hold still, now— hold still, this is not easy—

[It's like trying to work while staring in a mirror, and do all that to a bat besides. He wants to try and drape it around his head like a miniature necklace, but whether or not he can get it past his ears is, hm, debatable, and not helped by the jerky motions of the hand.]

[He's not heard that tone on Fenris'— on Leto's lips in so long (long enough to have been Fenris at the time, awash in another life in Thedas, when it was gleeful exuberance— not just awe— that struck him), even if it's his canine muzzle that's parted in a grin and his tail still—

Aw. Still thumping. Gods that's cute.

So if his own facade breaks a little in favor of softening like palmed butter, well, fucking sue him for it he's having a moment here. A small one. Small and crammed into his stature alongside him, chittering a few more notes of pleasure without realizing it; the pressure of that warmth has nowhere else to go.

Interrupted when he bites those tweaking fingers— how dare you— and accepts his fair share of their score with scolded grace thereafter: going straight once told to hold still so that silver might slip about his pointed ears and drop down into a regal hang.]

Oh nonsense, kadan.

They'll— well they'll run the story, of course, but they'll think you an eccentric wizard or somesuch. Just one more magus amongst scores that imbibed too much of his own experimental brew, unexpectedly teleported into the middle of the city, and somehow managed to turn all his linen robes to strung-up pearls and diamonds. [There's a distinctive flop as one long ear gives way to yet another bracelet, springing straight once over.] Penned akin to a quirky, giggleworthy footnote. Probably censor your erm....jewels with a little hand drawn picture of a very cute bat.

Hm.

[Thoughtful. With the batty version of a smile.]

I'd save that paper clipping.

For a time, anyway, up until I found it and burned it.

[A cheerful retort, for none of the thrill has faded just yet. Already his mind is buzzing, leaping ahead to indulgences and responsibilities both (will they actually have enough to open a vault in the Counting House? There's all sorts of tricky things the rich do to make their money grow, Leto remembers from Danarius— and he's certain Astarion knows a few things too, legal magistrate that he once was. It's not that they'll be so rich they'll never have to work again, but at the same time—

Maker, has he ever had this amount of money? Have either of them? The more he thinks on it, the giddier he becomes, thoughts of spoiling his vampiric mate and indulging in his own desires twisting round in his mind.]

Though I might be persuaded to spare it for the particularly cute bat alone . . .

[And there's an odd little moment where, midway through draping another set of bracelets over Astarion's head, the hand hesitates, stilling with a lurch as Leto's form shivers. It's a restrained motion, an impulse jerking that's there and gone; in the next moment the hand resumes its task, and Leto laps at his own nose, trying to ignore that.

(A mystery, though one that's swiftly solved if Astarion has ever watched Fortunato struggling to restrain herself: it's hard not to want to barrel over and nuzzle at his mate whenever he feels a surge of adoration, nipping and licking and snuggling in the fiercest surge of love, but he knows better than that).]

Ask me, though, if what I mind most is being caught naked or being identified as a wizard, and I still will not have an answer for you.

[Another bracelet, and another, and another— they're up to about ten now, slender things that they are, when Leto adds:]

Astarion . . .

[A pause as he gathers his thoughts, and then:]

When all this is done, and we have resold all the treasure and put the money in our account, kadan . . . I want to take you out. To indulge, and shop, and let you try on whatever you desire— and then attend a party in the Upper City and dance with you until they shoo us home.

You have spent months keeping us safe and treating me as a consort, indulged and spoiled in whatever I asked for, and I will not deny I have enjoyed it. But now I want to do the same for you. I can plan it, if you wish to be surprised. Or I can defer to your judgement, as you know this city so much better than I. But let me indulge you the way you deserve.

[It's a bloody good thing that he's a scarf-forged transport waiting for him; the bracelets are thin and light (and glittering when they shine around the borders of his vision, casting everything in paler hues), and yet his tiny shoulders sag under the weight of his regality: a tired little ruler all too ready for his journey home, slinking lower in the crawl down towards the base of a nearby chest so that he can begin prying up necklaces and chokers strung together from pearl, ruby, sapphire and opal— and holding them out with miniscule claws to begin Leto's coronation.

Come here, sweet catulus. Come get your share while he's nearing the end of what his bedecked form can carry.

And a little, swiftly applied headbutt to the bridge of that snout. A lick to seal it once he's close. He might be overwhelmed. Might be deeply overwhelmed, as it so happens, for he can't seem to stop squeaking now— almost inhaling between animistic syllables.]

You— [His nose is wriggling. Crinkling. Scrunching hard. Energy so dreadfully kinetic and inspired that it's hard to know if he intends to fawn forever or bite down on canine skin, his little jerks and pulls suggesting both.

A pup, too, in his own way.] —tease.

[Apparently is what he settles on without control over the end result, still gripping pearl between his talons.]

You thoroughly despise each and every one of those things you've listed— [He's touched. He's touched and he believes in Leto's promise, and therefore all the more can't stop careening in his search for something less beautiful as an excuse. Something less blinding. More equalizing. More— ]

Are you ill? Did one of the pups eat my expensive blouses? Did Ataashi?

Did you?

[Oh, oh, those little squeaks. That overexcited, overeager wriggling and writhing and squeaking that can't stop, won't stop, that Leto never, ever wants to stop— they're precious. So sweet and earnest and excitable, and his tail wags all the faster in response, his puppish heart thundering giddily as he endures every bite and lick that his overstimulated darling needs to offer.]

Shh, shh— all your things are as you left them, and I am not ill. Nothing is wrong.

[There's an irrepressible grin woven into his voice, his rough tongue darting out to steal a quick, fond little lick.]

I despise all of those things, it's true. Just as you despise dive bars and fighting rings and pups that drool all over you in their sleep and refuse to share me when they've a mind to snuggle. And yet you give me those things anyway . . . it is far past time I indulged you in the same manner.

Besides, [he adds, lowering his head just far enough that Astarion might drape those pearls over his head whenever he sees fit, emerald eyes still locked on his chirping mate,] it makes me happy to make you happy. Not just in a day-to-day sense, but giving you the things you desire. Watching your face light up or listening to you chirp in your excitement— it is a gift unto itself to watch you melt. Darling thing, you are not the only one who likes making your mate happy.

You deserve this. My only mistake was not proposing this months ago.

It wasn't a mistake.

[Correction quicker than a flood when it wells up. When it stays.]

None of this was.

[Touched, and he's bristling again, pushing necklaces over Leto's listless ears and climbing up his snout to manage. Restlessness becoming his, but it's warm beneath the surface, fussing closer to the chest than anything outwardly arranged.

Someone's toddering old nan with fur.]

Hold still. You're shaking far too much and I don't intend to watch you choke yourself just because you've gotten all wound up. Stay seated. [This isn't your world, is what his mind is thinking truly in those margins. Accommodations made for an elf who can't go home solely because he followed a sinner into the dark— intrusively swearing that's the story of his life since Cazador: drawing brightness out an open tavern door until it's lost to kin and kith forever— put away, because at least now he's years enough removed from that old life to see it clearly: like the promises they'd made in the bustling heart of Evereska, they look after one another.

Calling it balanced might not be fair, but it is equal.

Astarion reminds himself each day that he can live with that. Each night even moreso.]

And— [He wraps his little wings around the corner of a crown on his next trip back, fighting to tug it loose from piled coin with next to no success, cutting short whatever his intended reply might've been. Replacing it with a chorus of snarls and grunts, and the endless jingling of bracelets.]

[He goes still, or at least as still as he can manage beyond the endless thump-thump of his tail. He bows his head and flattens his ears as best he can, patient to the last— for the mood Astarion is in, he needs room to fuss. To bristle. To squeak (adorably) and flap and huff and worry over Leto, so overwhelmed that he has to let it out somehow. Leto knows. He's seen it before, and now, after years together, he knows just how to smoothly counterbalance it.

But Astarion gets stuck on the next trip, and there's a difference between being calm and being passive. Leto pads over carefully, catching the crown between his teeth and tugging as gently as he can. It comes loose with a pretty jingle, coins cascading everywhere as a triumphant rumble sounds in the base of his throat.]

And what?

[Soft, as he sets the crown down. Let Astarion drape it over his head, for he's gone back to sitting still. His head cocks, his eyes locked on that small, fluffy shape, trying to read a body he's unfamiliar with. The mood is familiar, yes, but this particular version of it . . . perhaps it's still too much, even now. Perhaps he ought to have tempered it, softened it, made it more palatable— and yet even as he thinks it, Leto disagrees.

Better to suffer the preliminary sting of hot water before getting the reward of sinking into a hot bath than to endure a tepid one. Perhaps this is overwhelming, but what he promises is nothing less than Astarion deserves, and Leto aims to give it to him.]

Take a moment. We are in no rush . . . and I sprung this on you.

I would know what you're thinking.

Mmph. We will be if the priestesses return to find us helping ourselves. [Sees the crown fastened in place around Leto's now inordinately regal throat. Necklaces and chokers glittering beneath it in wild absurdity for contrast, compared to the ocean-slicked pup they lovingly adorn.] Existence as a dog and bat won't save us— I don't know if you're familiar with the Bitch Queen's devotees, but they'll off even their own kin for stepping out of line.

Hells, they celebrate just drowning— not even for a purpose, just the whole debacle itself like it's their mad-as-a-mepmhit's-tit of a goddess calling them home.

[He tucks rings around his ankles like anklets, and adds a few bangles onto Leto's own furry heels whilst muttering something along the lines of 'if anything severs in unpredictable transformation on our way home, we'll just pick up whatever pops off on our way to the nearest healer. Nothing to worry about.'

Before he's fighting to clamber into that cloth kerchief. wriggling and squirming to get in, and once unseen, answers:]

—and....I....was going to say I'd like it. To be a part of it, that is.

Your offer.

Seeing the places in this city that i can't remember, and can't scarcely forget in my own dreams.

[To see if I'm right.]

[Astarion's such a comforting weight nestled against his chest, Leto thinks as he begins the (jingling) trek up the coastal path. He sways gently with every step, bouncing so rhythmically that it's not unlike a heartbeat, and that's comforting right now. He cannot take Astarion into his arms as he wants to, nuzzling against his throat and soothing him with slow touches, but until he can, this is a decent substitute.]

Then we will plan it together. Start and finish wherever you please, for however long you please.

[His voice is low and warm. And though there's a hint of distraction woven within (how to get them home when he has minimal navigational prowess in this winding city), there's nothing more important right now than this conversation.]

We can even start now, if you wish.

[A little leap and his paws hit sun-warmed cobblestones, the scents and sounds of a city neatly drowning out their murmured conversation.]

Where would you like to go?

[He has a spot in mind, but he will not suggest it unless Astarion does. There's a headstone. A grave, and he has not forgotten in all the weeks since they spoke of it last, but it isn't his place to bring it up. This is meant to be a day to spoil Astarion, and while the gravesite is important, Leto will not judge him for not wanting to include that during a night on the town.]

[Though every step jostles and jingles, there's something to be said for snugness: every word huffed out in transit rumbles through him, and what confidence doesn't calm, the beat beat beat of Leto's hounding heart manages with little effort.

It's dark, and soft, and warm, and those three facets fit together spell out safe when all is said and done. Act as a steady balm for a shiftless, otherwise brittle soul.]

There are rumblings of an exclusive dining club in Manorborn, open to only the creme de la creme of this city's most notable patrons. A cabaret run by devilkin, a drinking club for those with magic in their veins— shopping near high hall and taking in the views of the city on high long before dawn steals its glittering splendor....

[Oh, he could go on for hours, he realizes; a catalog of long-held snippets of soirees and sorties amongst the higher echelons— no longer wholly out of reach.]

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looking back on all my anemia caused typos and errors while screaming

i noticed NOTHING

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