illithidnapped | INBOX II

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.

[A sliver of ice works its way into her heart as the words appear, jarring and terrifying both. Eternal enslavement, he'd told her, magic, but to realize he'd been dead— that he, perhaps, was something a little like her, even marginally, and yet found himself trapped (just as she is now, just as they all are)—

It's nothing. She is not him, and their stories are not the same. Robert will come for her (Robert will always come for her), and until then, this is a distraction, nothing more. But it frightens her, and she hates that.]

How could you be dead and not all at once?

[But then, perhaps as preliminary offering:]

The likelihood is so small as to be infinitesimal. It took me years to build my machine, and there is almost no one in all the multiverses who is as smart as I am when it comes to quantum physics.

Those who are, I have taken note of.

There is always a possibility. Our own presence here attests to that, and the Rifts are an anomaly I have yet to fully understand. But given how few people hail from the same place, I would put the odds at a disadvantage. There were millions of people in my world, and yet only I am here; there are, presumably, just as many in yours, and yet only you have arrived.

It's possible. But probable? No.

The odds of being bitten by a vampire and enslaved to his ambitions were razor thin. [Is how, bidding farewell to the last vestiges of pretense held between them.] The odds of the fabric between worlds toppling like cards were thinner than that, but it happened just the same. Your immortality. A fucking aspirant god returning from the pages of Thedosian history just to wreak havoc on the entire bloody world.

Possible, not probable.

I won't stop checking over my shoulder anytime soon, but you're right I suppose: with even a little dumb luck, our stories might avoid adding any more blots to their pages.

[Vampire, and it's satisfying to feel that puzzle piece click into place. It explains the magic, too, and the enslavement, for vampires are always such power-hungry things, aren't they? So terribly obsessed with elevation and keeping themselves safe from a world that would do them harm, yes, she had identified so well with them.]

What powers did he possess, your maker?

I assume that's who your slaver was.

Why?

Assuming in turn that your own mishap wasn't related to a set of scheming fangs, and that you therefore aren't possessed of a desire to employ any similar sets of exhaustive powers over others against their broken will, you'll understand why I need to make absolutely certain that it's only curiosity that drives you.

You fear I may be an agent of your maker, and thus wish me to prove my innocence? But that is a difficult task even for the most pious, never mind me. What proof can I offer you beyond my word— and I doubt very much my word means anything to you.

But for what it's worth: I ask because I know a great deal about how to travel between worlds. More than almost anyone in any world. And I would know what powers he possess, to see if he could even begin to come close to doing so.

Tell me, or don't. I won't pretend to be offended if you decide the risk is too great.

I fear the allure of power, and becoming someone else's means to an end. Whether or not that coincidentally includes my master doesn't lessen any risk on my part, but if it's any consolation, you never struck me as the sort.

One of his own, that is.

[As for the rest, it's a touch too early to tell. But he likes the forthrightness that tucks itself into her words, and the way she never flatters. Rare is the day Astarion doesn't regret his own choices; thus far, he's on a winning tear.

Here's hoping that it lasts.]

Those he bit were bound to him eternally, as I'm sure you've already surmised. We had no free will of our own to exercise, although he allowed the illusion of it for sport or entertainment's sake, and it wasn't just dominion over our minds, either: he could act through us or command us, seize control of our bodies directly or through a single spoken word. As for his other abilities, all the usual treats applied: shapeshifting, bewitchment, eternal life and beauty, commanding lesser beasts and possessing the sort of strength most mortals never know. Only sunlight or a stake would do him in, of course, and you'd be hard pressed to find either in his overdecorated palace amongst the capital elite.

[Terrifying. Truly, it is, and she cannot imagine being caught in such a trap. She'd had her own leash and collar, of course, but Comstock's power was always kept in check by her own brilliance (up until he'd outmaneuvered her, anyway, but look where that got them both).]

Such a power hungry thing, and yet he never gathered slaves from other worlds . . . something to keep in mind, perhaps. If he had the ability to follow you and find other slaves, I assume he would have already done so.

[A faint bit of comfort, perhaps, but comfort nonetheless.]

Still: I'll take that compliment as intended. I will not deny the allure of power, but only for safety's sake. I have little desire to rule over others— merely not to be at the end of a leash again.

I was no whore. And I doubt very much the blood on my hands compares to what you went through for two centuries. But I know what it is to be on a leash, tethered to a man who craves power, and I have never sought to be the one on the other end.

Have you?

Sought to be? No.

Would, had I the chance? Oh yes, darling, I'm not a fool. [Bypasses the ruddy guilt that never worked loose despite despair's endless, endless keening; shucks that blatant show of hypocrisy like a second skin in favor of glib playfulness— and the blunter promise that he's not here to lead her by the nose in favor of her favor.

In another time, another place, he might have. Just not here.]

But when holding a leash prevents finding oneself at the dangling end of it, I'd wager you'd also choose heads over tails.

[The quill nib hovers before it closes in on parchment:]

What was he like, your madman?

[Oh, he makes her smile for that, though she won't say so. Heads or tails indeed, and it's so hard when every word reminds her of Robert— but then again, what doesn't?

But ah, Comstock . . .]

Zachary Hale Comstock was a grifter, or so I believed when I was younger. A clever fool using religion to achieve his goal of establishing a city where he would be beholden to no one. He was very good at it, admittedly. He styled himself first as a preacher, then as a prophet: a man guided by visions from God, working to make a holy city that floated in the sky. A heavenly paradise above the sinful earth, redeeming all those who were worthy enough— and wealthy enough— to enter.

And he was very good at it. He was a charismatic thing, handsome in his younger days and filled with a surety and affability that made most want to give him what he asked for. [For Rosalind, sixteen and perpetually unable to summon anything more than icy disdain to those she felt beneath her, it was stunning. A science all unto itself, and one she couldn't emulate no matter how much she wished to.] Clever, too: clever enough to make his vision a reality, quoting passages and hymns to inspire those gullible enough to believe it— and utilizing money, bribery, and other such base methods for those who didn't.

It wasn't until we were all trapped in his city that we realized he believed every word. That he was no grifter, but truly believed that he was Chosen.

[Hm.]

A story, to better illustrate my point. We have a ritual in my world called baptism. Perhaps you're familiar. Undergo it, so they say, and all your sins of before will be wiped away, and you can start anew. ~~As if a dip in the water can~~[Anyway.] Comstock, former a solider who killed innocents for no other reason than sadism and spite, underwent such a ritual— but he rose from it believing that all his sins had been approved of. That God, in all his infinite wisdom, had said to him that he could do no wrong.

So: he could do no wrong. As he hired a man whose greed was only outstripped by his lack of audacity; as he contracted prisoners and worked them as slaves, using them until their bodies collapsed and they could be discreetly disposed of. He could do no wrong as he stole a baby to act as his heir and imprisoned her for her entire life, attempting to mold her into his perfect progeny; he could do no wrong as he murdered anyone who understood that his prophecies— so terribly, stunningly accurate— were the result of his peering into alternate universes, not through God.

I was sixteen when he hired me. Twenty-two when Columbia, his golden city, took flight and never returned. And I was thirty-eight when he killed us.

[There is a sense she's never gotten to say all this before— because, of course, she hasn't. Robert was there, and while they commiserated for so many years over the growing madness in their patron, well, the walls always had ears. Bad enough they had to keep their attraction a secret; complaining about Comstock was the surest way to a swift death. And afterwards, well . . . there was no time (and yet all the time in the world).

It's a relief to write this out. Excessive, though, and she wrinkles her nose as she peers it over. A smear of ash, hastily wiped away, appears on the page; a cigarette is the least of her vices, and she deserves one for recalling all this.]

It all backfired on him in the end. So there's that, at least. The benefit of evolving beyond humanity's limits: we ensured he was not just killed, but erased from all timelines, all universes, all worlds. Excessive punishment for my murder, but I admit, it was satisfying.

[Oh, that makes it sound so very different than what really happened. Not a lie, not at all, but a different perspective. As if she had acted out of vengeance and noble intent; as if she hadn't had to be blackmailed into doing the right thing, her arm twisted for no other reason than latent guilt. As if it was all her doing, and not the girl rightfully taking control of her fate for the first time in her life.

She's fond of Elizabeth. She really is. And she admires her so much for what she did. But this is a personal story, and she's allowed to twist the narrative to suit her.]

[For all of it, Astarion won't judge— least of all for the kiss of ash across the page: too few can ever truly lay claim to the words 'when I was killed', and of those meager measures even fewer still retain enough sanity or self to manage uttering remembrance. Even his siblings fawned (in time) over the favors of their beloved maker. In contrast: Astarion bided his time, scraped his senses off the floor beside slick viscera, and if he couldn't bare his teeth for retribution then at least he could still doggedly persist.

Rosalind did too, it seems.

A golden city, a grand messiah—

And beautiful, bloody death.]

All of them?

You're certain of it?

Oh, yes.

There is a world in which the circumstances of your undeath played out differently. Perhaps your slaver chose another victim, or decided that he would elevate you rather than enslave you. But that's but one circumstance: there are other worlds in which events played out just as you remember them, and you are no better off for knowing there is another version of you who got off easy.

But if you— every version of you, from every world he ever touched— could go back further, to the moment of his creation, and ensure that he was killed before he could ever become a vampire at all . . .

You'd save yourself. From that fate, anyway.

We killed every version of the man who would evolve into Zachary Comstock. And in that way, we saved ourselves.

[He wishes it wasn't parchment. Wasn't ink. Her voice he could look away from, feign disinterest till the matter dropped alongside his memory of it.

As things are, it sucks him in.

There is a world in which the circumstances of your undeath played out differently. Perhaps your slaver chose another victim, or decided that he would elevate you rather than enslave you-

There isn't.

There can't be.

Because if there was—

You'd save yourself.

—why wasn't it him?]

....what did you trade for it.

[Is a grim scrawl, jagged at its edges.]

Everything.

Edited 2025-05-12 04:33 (UTC)

My morals. My life. My death. My dreams and hopes and follies and weaknesses. My humanity.My [and there's the barest pause] twin. There was the most infinitesimal chance that such a transformation would happen, and there are a hundred thousand versions of me that died and never came back.

[And yet they're all her, too. A thousand thousand Rosalind Luteces, all compressed and contracted into one consciousness.]

Would you do as we did, then? Kill the man before he became a vampire?

The you as you are now would never have existed. You would be something utterly different.

[It's a neutral statement, curious and devoid of judgement.]

I'd have to think it possible for that hypothetical to have any merit.

[And so it goes without saying, perhaps,]

I don't.

[But that isn't a criticism, nor a harsh-heavy breed of skepticism either. What he believes only lives until it meets the borders of his circumstance: beyond that, possibility is rife with prospect, and as far fetched as it seems he has no choice but to believe her, no matter how impossible it sounds.

A thing like that....

It'd have to have cost everything.]

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