He sends a message, first. An invitation, as usual, seeing as he can't be the one to go anywhere too easily-- and a promise that he has something new to offer, though he refuses to say just what sort of gift it is that he's acquired this time, only that he thinks Astarion may find it interesting.
When he arrives, he'll find Emet-Selch's room more or less the same as usual, save for a couple of additions: a pair of wineglasses sit on his desk, but instead of a single bottle of wine, there are two. One unopened, and one clearly opened already, albeit still full.
"Well, there you are," he says by way of greeting, nudging Sol aside-- the cat meows in complaint, but hops down off the bed. "I would tell you to make yourself comfortable, but I've no doubt you need little encouragement."
“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.
"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."
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.
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.”
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.
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:
"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:
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.
Anyway, um. Fenris wants to meet with me. He's got some questions. I want to not make this weird as hell, even if that's kind of a given? Because I know he's going to ask about you and him.
Maybe refrain from mentioning that I wept on your shoulder the night I realized he was gone. [It's said— perhaps unsurprisingly— in the very same way Astarion talks about his own past: dismissive wryness, the muted deflection of subtle humor let out through sharp teeth.]
Anyway, just tell him the truth; it won't hurt him to know he and I were— [Were what. Friends feels wrong, somehow, both far too trite and overly familiar all at once; companions makes it seem they were more work-aligned than anything else, which couldn't be farther from the truth. So he stops there, just for a beat, and hums out a puzzled little noise through his nose.
It sounds a bit like 'err'.] allies, I suppose.
Still, given the magnitude of what he's lost, it might be best to stick to the broader strokes— by which I mean try not to make him feel like he's the odd man out in our little club of memories.
[Though, for the first time, Ellie does realize that it's likely this is how he treats all things in hindsight. He spoke the same way about Cadazor. Mentally, she files that bit of information away, stokes her hatred of the monster.]
Okay. I can try. It's fuckin' weird no matter what I say.
But... on the bright side. He really didn't leave on purpose.
Not to worry, it’s far weirder for him than it is for us.
Probably.
[He’s the one missing half a year of his life, after all. Speaking of which, though— ]
I...
Mm. There is that.
On the other hand, it also means someone might’ve been out to control him. Take him back, tamper with his lyrium— I don’t know. [Concerned over the possibility as Astarion is, he’s not about to start hovering along at Fenris’ back like a pestering nuisance.
He’s enough of one already.]
Just...try to make sure no one’s watching you when you go. Snooping around. Following too closely, that sort of thing.
[But Astarion hits on the other thing she's worried about, which draws out a rough sigh from her side.]
Yeah. My bet is that Fenris is on the lookout for somebody suspicious already, but. No idea if anybody did this to him. Or if they're not still doing this to him.
[Which would be extra fucked up, and she hates that she's thinking it, but it wouldn't be outside of the scope of things she's seen.]
[ It's a decent assumption, with how she's making her way into Lowtown already, regardless of what his current state was. She has some other business in the area at least; but none quite so fun. ]
I'll tell you when I get there. Where is it exactly that you live?
Well. [Color him intrigued; the sound of his voice akin to the way someone sits up in their own seat, thank you very much.]
Cut through Lowtown towards the docks— stop just short of them, just off the righthand side of the main market: first door on the high wall that overlooks port.
[A narrow place. A miserable place, but it's his, and it's far better than what most city elves will ever have etched beneath their figurative names.]
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