illithidnapped | INBOX II

[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.]

You tumbled through a Rift into another world, and still you limit yourself. Who's to say a Rift might not lead you back in time?

[Everything that can be, might be. That's what all those parallel universes are about, and of course, not all of them survive. So many lead to dead-ends, or relapse back into their main timeline with no one the wiser. But it's no more impossible for Astarion to go back and kill Cazador than it was for her to kill Comstock. Improbable, yes. Wildly, fantastically improbable, oh, yes.

But not impossible.

But people tend to not like it when she says things like that. Chalk it up to a lack of imagination, perhaps (or her own fixations and lack of tact).

In any case:]

It murdered his daughter.

Killing Comstock, I mean. She was the one who proposed it happen, and she, tormented and tortured by him, her gifts— her magic, they would call it here— siphoned out and used to further his agenda, had more of a right to demand it than anyone. But it killed nearly every version of her.

Such choices are not so easy as they seem.

They're only hard for anyone possessed of a figurative heart.

Or sanity, I suppose.

People like the man you've collectively now ended wouldn't find themselves hesitating at the helm, after all. At least not in my experience.

No, they wouldn't. Not for a single moment. And I suspect your experience is more familiar with someone's true nature than most.

[Most people, after all, aren't faced with the brutality that desperation or power can bring. Most people don't see the worst of the world, never mind meet their end at the hands of it.]

You have a very unusual point of view, you know. I imagine that's garnered you no small amount of trouble in our heroically inclined little organization.

Edited 2025-05-13 02:17 (UTC)

Hah! Not as much yet, doubtlessly attributed to subterfuge being a much less discerning employer overall, but I did very nearly wind up in diplomacy at first, and I'm now quite certain that would've veered towards disaster soon enough.

Then again, you've got me curious. I can't say I've ever found abundant evidence of morality amongst those given to either science or the arcane pursuits: how's your department treating you?

It depends on how you look at it, I suspect.

On the one hand: there's far less rampant sexism within the department, which is a relief. Most people are clever enough, or at the very least not stupid, which is also a boon. There's a unification that comes of having a set few goals, and learning of other worlds from an individualistic point of view has been fascinating.

On the other hand . . .

[She pauses for a moment, frowning.]

I have no interest in the affairs of this world. Stopping Corypheus means nothing to me. And so I find myself at odds with those more entrenched within the politics of this world, for their goals are about stopping a god, and mine are simply leaving. And I find the endless moralizing tiring.

What of yours?

[Oh but hold on now— ]

Are you not concerned about said god finding you before you've finished facilitating your escape?

Not particularly.

[Should she be? Perhaps. But it's very hard to attach herself to the world. Harder still to remember that she's temporarily mortal once more, and subject to all the whims and wills that comes with such a status.]

I have served under evil men before. I do not particularly relish doing it again— and yet I will, if that's what it takes.

Don't mistake me: I don't relish the thought. It would be better if he were killed, I have no doubt, and his forces scattered and disposed of. But I'm not going to throw myself into a conflict I have no stake in, not when I'm a mere visitor.

Do you not feel the same?

[He's lying to himself by way of pressing Fenris' deep-throated tenor to the back of his mind for just a fleeting moment, obscuring the obvious (first) thought that comes to mind when he imagines either flight or freedom; it's there, bearing down along his spine with all the weight of an undeniable truth, but there's a great deal Astarion finds himself capable of ignoring when he sets his mind to it.

It isn't a denial. He's not so stubborn as to shun the only good thing he's ever known for the sake of saving face, although it's taken time to make peace with the idea of letting someone into his long shadow. But if he's to mask what could be used against him— against them— or seen by higher hands as liability, well, the logic that he leans on needs to function like his first.]

Unless you've unearthed a loophole that I've yet to find: no, my dear, I do not.

Kirkwall is our weakness, after all. All Corypheus need do is take the city in a southbound show of force, and wait: it won't take longer than a month for us to either be caught funneling in or out like rats to alleviate the burning of our anchor shards, and he'll have all the Rifters he pleases for those rumored experiments of his.

Ergo until something changes or we find a much more viable way out, call me our most devoted soldier.

[He's not wrong. Rosalind glances at her hand, grimacing as green light glints back up at her. Easy to think that she would rise to the top, and perhaps she would. Brilliance has a way of surviving, and she is no stranger to manipulation, but . . . it isn't a guarantee. There are so many stupid people out there, after all, and rarely do they listen to their captives. How long would she spend rotting in prison cell, or screaming at the hands of some sadist with a blade and red lyrium? And all for nothing.]

I suppose we shall see. Though your efforts seem to be paying off so far.

[Her fingers close, sealing away that light. It's as close to you're right and I have avoided thinking about the realities of this world as she'll get without further prompting.]

Would you care so much if you had a way out?

[Or would you leave as I plan to? It's a real question, for she's as foreign to morality as she is this world, and it helps to hear what others think.]

Only for you, I mean. If you had a doorway into another world . . . would you stay and fight, or flee?

[There's something about the mansion that makes it feel emptier when only Astarion is present. There's more weight to the dagger at his hip, and he feels more avidly the softer calfskin of dark gloves against his fingers, as though even his own consciousness is determinedly swearing that the wind whistling against stone isn't the same curdling hiss of air through mausoleum walls.

Permanence is a hard concept for his mind, apparently.

But it makes it easier to consider what she means— what she really means— when she asks those questions.]

Well now that depends on what's on the other side, wouldn't it?

[Has all the conveyed tone of a quill twirling idly between fingers, crowishly unfettered.]

'Better or worse than Corypheus' seems an easy enough metric of measurement until you start factoring in whether it not one can come back once they've broached that crossing—

[His pen traits off abruptly; curiosity fills the void.]

Do you actually remember all the other worlds you went through?

[It isn't no, I could never abandon the others to this fate, and that's something. She isn't certain what it means, exactly, but it's . . . mm. Comforting, perhaps, in a strange sort of way. Pleasing to have confirmation she isn't the only one who thinks first and foremost of herself.]

No.

Not all of them. Some better than others, but to remember all of them would be to go insane. Some linger, for better or for worse, and all were fascinating. But we visited countless ones, all of them unique.

Why?

Curiosity.

I've tumbled out the other side of only one rift and happened on a world where elves are societally tread upon and magic is— in some cases quite literally— a blight. It begs the question of odds in flight. Whether it's worth attempting to even leave in the first place.

It begs the question of just how nasty our universe can get.

The answer is, of course, both.

[And what a helpful answer that is.]

There are thousands of worlds in which elves rule over all other sentient species, or live peacefully among them. Others where they alone are the sole species in the world, and their lands stretch out as far as the eye can see. Even more where they don't exist at all, save in myth and legend.

It's a gamble, as unsatisfying an answer as that is. Whatever you can imagine has a world and a counterpart.

But there are times when anything is better than where you are.

We aren't there yet with Thedas— though I can respect that my position is easier than yours here. But it may be worth the gamble if Corypheus does indeed attain his victory.

[. . .]

But for what it's worth: in my living memory, Thedas is the only world I have encountered where elves are treated as chattel, not revered. So the odds may well be in your favor.

[Or not! That's quantum for you. Fucking quantum.]

If you wish to hear more of what I recall, I will tell you. But not like this, for it would take pages upon pages. Bring over a bottle of wine some evening, perhaps, and we will speak.

[Heads or tails: his odds have never been good, or kind, or merciful, or even mildly disdainful.

But at least he trusts she isn't lying when she pens those words. She doesn't seem the sort for pity or pandering.

She does, and doesn't, seem like him.]

A bottle of wine?

Nonsense my clever little mind. I tell you what, I'll supply the goods you're after— hand delivered— to whatever port or promenade you call your own, and there you'll teach me everything you know.

Well.

Everything you please, anyway. I suspect everything you know would take the rest of my eternity and we both have our schedules, after all.

Deal?

[So it's on me to supply the wine, then, she drawls to no one, an old habit that's hard to break. And though nothing and no one will ever come close to Robert . . .

Well. This fellow is agreeable enough, and seems to have that rare quality of charm, intellect, and common sense that's such a rare trio among the population. And there are worse things than having an audience to hear her pontificate.

And maybe he'll be a useful set of hands once she goes about building all of what he delivers.]

I'll hold you to that, if you truly wish to learn.

Bring them here.[An address written in neat script: a Hightown townhouse, though not one of the prettier ones.] Tell me whenever you plan to go, for I do not take well to surprise guests.

[That is to say:]

Deal.

INBOX II

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

1/3

no subject

3/3

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

wow whether or not, not whether it not, gj sick me

*PERFECT job sick you :3

no subject

no subject