illithidnapped | INBOX II

Not surprised, no. Though I would argue money guarantees more than sex ever can.

[But perhaps that's a personal observation. God knows there's been more than a few social climbers who have lived their entire lives in comfort thanks to their willingness to spread their legs; it's just that such things don't last when the mob comes to your door.

Then again, she'd been long dead by the time the Vox took over Columbia. Perhaps gold wouldn't have saved her, and her scalp would have numbers among all the other elites killed and put on display. Something to think about.]

So? What have they gotten you so far? I doubt you've been idle, and reputation takes time to cultivate.

So very very little, alas.

Perhaps it's my very nature as a creature from another world- or my ears, though I'd argue they're quite fetching- or my red eyes and jagged fangs, despite their exotic charms.

Either way, few seem inclined to let me hold their hand, let alone their heart.

But you've been here longer, haven't you? Know this lot better overall. What appeals to them.

What doesn't.

[It's a good question. She stares at the wall and smiles without a drop of amusement, quietly ruing the fact this conversation reminds her of another she'd had long ago.]

It depends on what you mean.

For you? I would suspect the tactic to take would be that of exotic appeal. An elf, but a charming one; a Rifter, but a relatable one. They will never accept you as anything more than that, but you must know that already. But if you can appeal to them while dancing that fine line . . .

[Hmm.]

Amuse them. Endear them to you. Thrill them, if you can, but do not scare them, and don't ever remind them that you're smarter, or braver, or more able to kill them. The wealthy elite are much like any wealthy elite: they crave amusement, and want to feel good about themselves. If you can swallow your dignity and become a pet, all the better, but even putting on a good show for a night or three might help.

Either that, or find a way to use your talents in such a way as to make yourself invulnerable. Vastly more difficult, I admit, but more satisfying to one's dignity. It's your choice.

As for this world in particular . . . I suppose the only thing I can tell you is to be elvish enough to intrigue, and human enough to safely relate. Strike any elvish from your speech, but offer to teach them exotic rituals or fun little party games.

But perhaps I'm telling you things you already know. I've been here longer, yes, but you seem keenly adept at survival. Are these lessons you haven't already learned? I would be shocked if the answer was yes.

What were you, before this?

[She is, as it so happens (and every word of it weighs something in him down, pitching heavy in his skin like stone), but it doesn't bother in the slightest; how could it, after all? She doesn't know the origin of nimble fingers.

The depths to which they've delved.]

Perceptive.

[Or resourceful....?]

But I'm not certain I should tell you: it's not the sort of thing spoken of in distinguished company, after all.

And I wouldn't want to offend the very creature I've already grown quite fond of.

You won't.

[Wait—]

You're fond of me?

[Hm.]

Don't take this the wrong way, but that seems ill-advised.

You? Ill-advised?

Oh sweetheart, I adore the sense of humor but you're penning nonsense. Besides, everything I do is already ill-advised anyway: whatever could you do to make things worse?

Edited 2025-04-24 03:26 (UTC)

Don't call me that.

And "ill-advised" in the sense that I am not a nice person. I'm selfish and uninterested in friendship, or bandying pleasantries, or anything that doesn't strike my interest and intrigue me. You will not find me a good confidant.

I could, and have, made things worse by being rather unpleasant company.

Don't mistake this for self-flagellation. I have no issue with being these things. I simply tire of people being shocked when I don't wish to hear about their week-ends, or what they had for dinner last night, or whatever other idiotic chatter they wish to fill their vapid lives with.

Force of habit. Cross my own unpleasant little heart.

But you know, I don't need a good confidant. Nor do I need a shoulder to cry on, or a friend ready to weep in commiseration over the first little slight thrown my way.

In fact, I'd argue that might just be why I find myself fond of you already.

So. With newfound revelations on the table.

I was a whore back home, if one were to be technical about it. Albeit an eternally enslaved one, so there might be a discussion to be had about those pesky little definitions regarding sex and money, but it's the closest thing to accuracy, so it'll have to do.

[. . . hm. She hadn't expected that, and Astarion earns the rare honor of taking her by surprise. There's a little pause, and then:]

You're a particularly well-spoken one, then.

[It's not an insult. It's even sort of a compliment, if you squint, but mostly it's an observation.]

What made the enslavement eternal?

[If only Ros' glowing assessment could've made its way into the right ears nearly two centuries ago. The pains it would've saved.]

Magic.

A curse, more specifically I suppose. Inescapable if not for the little mishap that brought me here.

But that's a thing of the past, isn't it? We're all here now, you and I and the rest of us unleashed oddities. All that's left is- like you said- to make the most of it.

Right?

[Idly, almost without her realizing it, her mind wanders. Magic is just another word for science, after all, and it's not that she would ever keep slaves, it's just . . . oh, she can't help but think of hypotheticals. How would one keep a slave eternally bound, as much a thought exercise as what do I substitute for ledeburite in this backward world or how would I more effectively redesign this organization. It occupies her thoughts for a few seconds, but oh: Astarion truly is much more interesting.]

For now, yes. I have no intention of lingering in this world any longer than I need to— but nor would I go back, were I you. And so long as we're stuck here . . .

There are worse things to be than a whore. Or a slave, if it comes to that. But the boon of a new world is that you're allowed to remake yourself, if that's what you wish. You can be who you always wanted to be, but couldn't, for one reason or another.

It may not end well, mind you. I have seen that, too: vainglorious men desperate to abandon their past and in doing so, lost their grip on reality and morality both. But I have seen it end well, too— or at least satisfying to the person in question.

So: who do you wish to become?

I'd need morality to lose it, and all that's left of sanity for me is gain, so thankfully there's not much farther I could fall under desperation's heel- provided I remain breathing.

And in an ideal world I'd regain every drop of lost glory and respect, but considering my options, I'd gladly trade who I want to be for what: left alone, beholden to no one, capable of pursuing all that thrills me, and freely charming any soul I meet.

[A pause.]

This equipment I'm liberating for you. Is it how you hope to return home?

Eventually.

I aim to use that equipment to attempt to make what I need, but there are so many parts this world is not equipped to even begin to give me— and I'm a scientist, not a blacksmith.

[And why hasn't Robert come? Why hasn't he stepped in to save her? It's a question that torments her night and day, her mind spinning into the worst scenarios when it's late and she can't sleep. He would never abandon her (but he almost did once before); he would never leave her (and what if he can't find her here?).

It's up to her to get herself out of this. She'll find her beloved, just as she always has, and they'll go off together.]

But sooner or later: yes. I will find workarounds, and I will make myself a door and leave this place.

Why? Do you wish to come?

[Not that she would bring him with her to Robert, of course, but . . . still. It's worth asking.]

I suppose there is a touch of temptation there....

[If her world is made of less revulsion for his kind— or at the very least, more opportunity— then oh indeed, it'd be worth the risk just to flourish in the light in ways he finds impossible here (knows to be impossible here, for the higher he climbs the more ire he'll inevitably draw to the surface along with him)— and that's if the war doesn't go to utter shit. If Corypheus doesn't win, if the dread the Chantry's most devoted spout doesn't spark, if the only place that houses people like them doesn't go to utter pieces.

I won't let that happen.

(There's a snapshot scent within his nostrils. Remembered, nothing more than a memory alone, and yet the visual it sparks is clear as daylight. Ozone. Silver-azure glow. Green eyes and a thrumming voice, all swearing to safeguard him against the gruesome grain of all his scars, and he realizes then that's all he has for hesitation: the illogical, stubborn refusal to let go of a promise he has no right to trust in.

No reason to sacrifice an exit for.)

She doesn't need to know that if the day ever comes where she succeeds, he'll wind up saying no.]

What is it like?

A surprisingly difficult question to answer.

The city I spent most of my adult life within is called Columbia, and it was meant to be a crown jewel. Independent of any other country, it floated in the sky, acting as a beacon for morality and religious fervor. To live in Columbia was supposedly akin to living in heaven, or the next best thing. There were no elves— nothing but humans, in fact— but if you could hide your ears, I suspect you would do well there.

The reality, as always, disappointed. It was a city full of religious fervor, keen on oppressing those unfortunates beneath their heel. The city's leader was a madman who was convinced he was a prophet, and he, through the use of technology, could fake it well enough that he had everyone fooled for a time. One of the city's leaders brought in ex-convicts and other "undesirables" to work as brute labor, which might have worked, were we not all trapped within a single, enclosed location.

After three decades, it all fell apart. Revolution, bloody and swift, came for those elite citizens of Columbia, with drastic results. Scalping was not uncommon; rape and murder were par for the course.

[But that's only half the answer. Rosalind smiles faintly to herself, waiting deliberately, and then continues:]

But I was long dead by the time that occurred. The Prophet was a madman, as I said, and rarely do those paranoid, powerful men suffer any kind of weakness. He assassinated me, and it was the kindest thing he could have done for me— for I did not die, but became something different.

And evolved as I was, I could go anywhere— anywhen, if you will— that I so pleased.

We were in an elven realm before I was stolen here. Pretty, admittedly, if not a touch too artistic for my tastes.

But let me not get ahead of myself. What questions do you have?

[God, she's so insufferably smug sometimes, especially when she knows she can explain something to someone.]

[Smug doesn't begin to register— perhaps it would in person, wholly dependent on tone or the little movements of her features, her posture— but either way it requires an awareness that Astarion lacks at present, replaced entirely by something that oscillates (or merely exists between) disgust and fascination.

Because a madman with a violent vision of his glory? Oh, familiarity becomes the tale, no matter how its verses split— as does assassination, though unlike him, she never seemed quite dead to his keen eyes.

Perhaps he missed something.

Perhaps he didn't.]

An elven realm?

[Oh he'll ask about the rest in due time, of course, but— priorities first.]

The Feywilds?

Arvandor?

Evereska?

Lórien, the locals called it. It was beautiful. Strange, and utterly unlike the forests of England I grew up near. The leaves were eternally golden, and there was always singing in the air.

But Arvandor . . . that sounds familiar.

[Memories scattered across a hundred thousand universes, a hundred thousand timelines . . . they've blurred since she arrived here, and it's only gotten worse the longer she remains. Soon enough they'll disappear entirely, her mortal mind unable to cope with the dissonance, and then—

Mmph. She frowns as a fat drop of blood soaks into the page and draws back, tugging a handkerchief out of her sleeve.]

I think we may have visited there once . . . I'm almost certain, in fact.

Edited 2025-04-26 06:10 (UTC)

[Hells' teeth, he'd think she was fucking with him if he didn't already know her well enough to guess she's hardly swayed towards cruel-cut mischief (oh, not like him, in other words).

The drop of red draws his focus to a needle's point. He very nearly feels an old, vestigial pull towards its recreated hues.]

Careful, dear Lutece. Whatever it is you're doing whilst you entertain me isn't worth something as precious as your blood.

A bloody nose, nothing more. They happen here, from time to time. Not unexpected, but irritating.

[Irritatingly painful, too, and not for the reasons one might think. She usually has more discipline over her heart, but oh, how can she keep from thinking of Robert when the scent of iron is thick in the air? Blood on her fingertips, blood on her tongue, and she swears if she looks to her left she'll see him laid out on the couch, pale and sweaty and perfect.]

The Feywilds, Arvandor, Evereska . . . which do you hail from?

Air too dry here for your evolved body's liking?

[He'll have to remember that.]

Technically, none of them.

My ancestors held claim to something of the Feywilds, most likely, but that was ages and ages prior to even the birth of my parents, nevermind me. Still, it's nice to know you actually have seen something of the other Realms: most people in Thedas seem blind to their existence entirely.

[Something like that, she might have answered if they were speaking in person. Or maybe not. Maybe she'd tell him the truth: of what it is to have such dissonance in your mind that your brain goes mad trying to reconcile it . . . and what it was like, all those years ago, to watch Robert go through that. She likes Astarion already, you see, and she's so lonely . . . but ah, that's a feeling she's used to.

For now, there's this.]

Most people are idiots, both in Thedas and outside of it.

[Written crisply and directly, and she would know.]

Where did you hail from, then? Perhaps I've visited there too. It isn't outside the realm of possibility.

[Though it might not be the worst idea for her to stop trying to recall . . .]

[. . . and trust that that is the reason she writes what she does next, and absolutely not out of a slightly petulant desire for recognition:]

Does the concept of evolution after death truly not grip you?

[Like, obviously she's above needing praise and accolades, but also: no she fucking isn't.]

Grip me?

[She can't see it where she sits, but the laugh he fights is so pitch in its own nature that it's practically charcoal black.

It's funny. Make no mistake, it really is— and he's just mad enough to delight in all that present irony.]

Oh there was a time when it did, I can assure you. But considering that for the last two hundred years I couldn't escape its grip, these days I find I'm much more interested in the notion of simply living.

But if you were ever in the vicinity of Baldur's Gate do tell me: slim as the odds are, well

it might not be terrible to know where I stand when it comes to the likelihood of someone from my world potentially making their way here.

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