['Unless either of you have aspirations to heal instead of either defend or act, no,' Zevlor replies. Somehow he manages to convey a general sense of rolling his eyes without actually doing it; it's quite impressive, Dalyria thinks, and takes note of it to try and imitate later.
For now, she tips her chin back and stares at the two elven boys, their expressions equal parts bafflement and curiosity.
'A drow?' the dark-haired boy says bluntly, which earns him a chiding click from Zevlor. 'You find yourself far from home— is that not true?' he adds defensively to his father, who doesn't look any less unimpressed.]
Menzoberranzan has a limited amount of use for a healer. And the best ones to apprentice under tend to flock to Paris or Baldur's Gate.
[Not that she's apprenticing somewhere prestigious. Not that she's managed to get one of those coveted internships over at the Parisian Institute, but never mind that. Bodies are bodies, and working at a bawdy house will give her plenty of hands-on experience. The fact that the proprietor is a tiefling is a bonus; he hadn't blinked at the sight of a drow showing up in his office, never mind one looking to fill the position of healer.
And he pays her. That's important too.
'Fenris is training to become a bodyguard, Zevlor continues, 'and Astarion is on his way to becoming a courtesan. They also both happen to be my sons.'
If she's surprised by that, she doesn't let herself show it. Zevlor's eyes skim over both boys, warm pride and fond exasperation both flickering over his face. For a moment he hesitates in thought, then: 'Astarion will show you around,' he states. 'Fenris, go find Laira. She'll need your help unpacking stock— and when you're done, we'll have a lesson.'
The latter addition turns his irritable scowl into excitement; with one last lingering look towards the poster, he untangles himself from Astarion and heads for the door. Zevlor nods faintly, then turns towards Astarion. 'Introduce her to the others,' he orders. 'She'll be working with Talindra and Maude, but it would be good for her to know the insides and out. Her rooms are adjacent to theirs— you know what to do.'
He squeezes Astarion's shoulder in friendly dismissal, offers Dalyria a respectful nod, and strides out the door, already calling for someone to help him deal with the lighting.
Which just leaves her with this boy. This strange, vain little boy (who can't be more than a year younger than her, if that). She carefully tucks one silver strand of hair behind her ear, then asks:]
Is he really your brother, or is that another gimmick here?
[No judgement! No, really: drow are a lot more flexible about these kinds of things, or at least the nobility are, up to a certain point. But it's nice to know what the dynamics are early-on.]
A gimmick? [Finds itself possessed of a k like a kick: not aggressive outright, but there's enough consonant present to outweigh the rest of the entire word. Couple that with Astarion's still-folded arms and the brow he's left cocked high, and all that can be said is that he's more protective than defensive, at least, and attempting to project that through the basics of his tone.
The showing around portion will come after he's finished sniffing around this unfamiliar (figuratively) stray cat, as far as he's concerned.]
We were both adopted at different times. From different places.
[He doesn't say I found him on the streets and brought him home and taught him to use a fork, but if she sticks around here for anything longer than a month she'll hear it anyway. The Moulin Rouge bares more than just skin behind closed doors; when clothing is tantamount to small talk, there's no such thing as privacy. Secrets.]
He's my boyfriend— [squares up in how he measures her (delicate features, pretty enough to do more than stringent medical work, but with a keenness to her eyes.
Taller, too. But he's not fussed about it.
Much.)
She's one of the first drow he's ever seen, although hushed stories come to mind. Crooks his head towards his shoulder before he moves towards the door and gestures back for her to follow.] Zevlor doesn't know yet.
[There's a poster on the wall that debates that.
Astarion sounds only (slightly) petulant when he asks:]
[A polite expression of doubt. She hasn't any idea of who knows what or why, but she also isn't blind. If Zevlor doesn't know, then he must have some seriously misguided ideas about brotherly affection. But then there's that little question, and she frowns as she adds:]
No. I didn't study for three years for a gimmick. [A beat, and then:] But that's what this place specializes in, isn't it? I meant no offense in asking.
[Ask me something like that again when you're complaining about oozing sores and a scratched up back, boy, she thinks and does not say. Bedside manner is much more of a thing up on the surface, and she's doing her best to practice it. It's not hard, not really, for she's a softhearted thing when all's said and done— but some things come easier than others, and she's never had to learn how to mind her tongue before. Especially around a boy.
As they head out the door, she takes him in. Shorter than her (though knowing elves and drow, that could change any day; she's done growing, she suspects, though she longs for another few inches). Pretty, especially with those gold eyes (are they contacts or natural?), and he'll do well as a courtesan . . . though what, exactly, is the difference between a whore and a courtesan? She isn't sure, and she'd best learn quick if she's working here. But anyway: pretty, that's the point. Pretty and a little territorial, but who could blame him? And she knows better than to try and assert herself as anything but lowest on the social pecking order.
Around them, the Moulin Rouge— and there's really no better word for it— bustles. Men and women with bare legs and half-donned costumes flit about in twos and threes, giggling as they gossip cattily behind their hands; deftly they weave their way around the stagehands who stride with purpose, hauling set pieces or yanking up ropes. The sound of drifting notes echo from a distance as the musicians tune their instruments; the not-unpleasant scents of warm wood and powdery makeup fill the air, both of them underscored by the sharp scent of bodiewas (soon to be covered, she discovers later, by perfume specifically piped in when the Moulin Rouge is open for business). There are sets being painted and posters being glued up; in the distance, Fenris sighs heavily as yet another box of bottles is set down before him, one of an endless steam coming in from outside. Tables are being washed and set, lights are dimming and rising, someone is calling for Kanan and his needle and thread . . .
And there, standing like a ringmaster in the midst of his circus, is Zevlor. He calls out instructions or chidingly points out errors, and all the while answering a thousand questions from writers and artists and stagehands and actors. It's chaos, but a controlled chaos, and Dalyria watches it with no small degree of awe.
It's just so different from anything she's ever seen before. At home, things were always so orderly: everyone had their place and task, and everyone did as they were told, lest they earn the wrath of the matriarchs. Oh, there was fun to be found, and not everyone was all rigidity and obedience, but still, there was nothing like this. Nothing so masterfully chaotic.
She's stopped in her tracks, she realizes belatedly, and walks quickly to catch up.]
Is it always like this?
[It's debatable whether or not that's a complimentary tone or an overwhelmed one. Both, maybe.]
Like what? [He asks, his hackles already lost to laxity, having decided in a handful of seconds that he doesn't mind her presence so much— (or yet— ) now that the initial shock's worn off.
(Now that he's staked his claim as to what his heart belongs to, and she didn't prod it full of drow-sized holes.)
So that leaves them here in normalcy. His normalcy, that is, and having never known anything else apart from it in all his working memory, without a point of reference he's no idea whether Dalyria is asking him about the lighting or that their patchwork splendor's forever twelve steps away from falling apart. Sherry glass half-full or half-empty, that sort of thing, he supposes.
The floorboards creak under his heels. Old wood beneath rich carpet. He slows his steps to squint at her, tugging his too-large banyan robe (Kanan's robe, passed down) closed by quaint degrees.]
[She gestures around her, which is no help at all. But how to begin to describe it? She hesitates for a few seconds, and then:]
Chaotic.
[But that's not the right word, for that implies something negative. And for all that this is so dazzlingly new, it's not as if she dislikes it. There's something comfortingly precise about the way this all works . . . like a well-oiled clock, she thinks. One of those intricate ones with a hundred gears that all interconnect and sound like the apocalypse whenever the hour strikes . . . she's always loved clocks like that. It takes so much work to get them to all come together, but when it does, oh, what a glorious thing. Just like the body, really . . . a thousand different systems and functions that all rely on one another in order to work, and if just one thing goes out of place, it all comes crashing down . . .
Unless you know how to fix it, she thinks smugly, and glances over at Astarion.]
So much is happening . . . I didn't know such a place took this much effort to stay running. Or is today a day of repairs? Does everyone actually work here, or are some customers? And what do they do? Why isn't anyone dressed?
[That last question is a bit stupid, but to be fair to Dalyria, it's not every day someone walks by with their dick just, like, out and flopping around right in front of her.]
[Astarion's snort isn't derisive, it's laughter. They're halfway down the upstairs hallway (or balcony, however one calls it when a corridor breaks partway through into an overlook of the grand showroom:) finally stopping in his tracks to rest his forearms on the railing just beside her, grinning.]
You've never been to the theater before, have you? [He presses amusedly, his eyes watching the course hers follow.]
[It's defensive, but only a little. Dalyria grips the railing, feeling the wood dig into her skin, as she peers down at the flurry of activity below them. Then, when no mocking remarks come from her left, she adds:]
. . . but not as anything but a patron.
[And it was nothing like this. She watches the man in question continue on his way, his nudity treated as nothing more than an idle truth, until at last he disappears through a doorway.
It's fine, just . . . give her a minute. She's not even upset, it's just a lot— but not so much so she can't tentatively return that grin with a smile of her own.]
Does being in the theater mean you're allergic to clothing?
Instantly. [He chirps back, tilting his head a little higher. Whether or not she's looking is irrelevant; she's having her own struggles to reckon with with right now.] The moment we sign our backstage papers, we break out into terrible rashes.
[There's a flick of beadwork as he taps at his own sleeve.]
I only live with the pain.
[She'll see for herself why costume changes encourage freedom, and red lights the sort of naturalism that'd see one arrested in the streets when clients just won't— ahahah— stop coming. It's an ecosystem that makes sense to anyone that peers behind the curtain; too much explains itself compared to everything outside.
That's the world he doesn't understand. A language he doesn't ever care to speak.]
Do all doctors in Menzoberranzan have time for throwing their coin at artistic pursuits?
[Oh, yes. There's vague fondness to the way she invokes her title, but not much. Affection isn't particularly encouraged among mothers and daughters, and to have a girl-child more interested in healing than hurting . . . her mother loves her, Dalyria knows. She truly does. But she doesn't understand her, and sometimes that hurts worse.
Anyway. She glances over at him again, then back down at the stage. It's hard to know where to look, frankly, for everything happens so much around here.]
And the plays were nothing like the ones that happen here, I think. Nobody ever had sex at the end, [she adds a little unnecessarily. Do they all have sex at the end? It sort of seems like they would. Just a big old orgy right at the, aha, climax, so to speak . . .? Mm, maybe not.]
Or . . . are the actors and courtesans different? How does it work around here?
A loud, stupid squawk into the crook of his arms that echoes down into the belly of the theater itself, enough to startle Zevlor from his task— who justly narrows his eyes to see the son he'd asked to show Dalyria around now cackling in recline against the balcony railings.
If that bothers Astarion, it doesn't show: he continues on once he looks up, nesting his chin against his forearms as he meets Dalyria's fretful stare.]
Well we don't fuck on stage for one, we just pretend to— sort of.
When it's plot relevant.
[It's hard to define.]
More often it's alluded to: either through dancing or clever wordplay, and you'll find nudity is the scandalous, drool-worthy portion of the meal.
Because the actors are the courtesans— well, the headliners are, anyway— and [echoing the sly-tongued intonation of his teacher:] you want the audience to be hungry for you by the ending. Paint them a story that they're eager to see themselves penned into, and then watch as they drop as much wealth as it takes to make that happen.
[A pause. He knows his explanation makes sense— and if it doesn't, it will once she sees her first performance (or possibly rehearsal); there's little point in asking after it now.
So.]
Was it your mother's idea for you to come here?
[....to a brothel he doesn't say, though wants to. (Satine has him working on maintaining an inner monologue.)]
[She scowls when he laughs, her nose wrinkled and her mouth curved into a thin line, but it's a temporary thing. It helps that it doesn't feel as though he's set on mocking her; it helps that the explanation he offers does make sense, even if it's strange to think about.
We, she notices he says. We don't fuck on stage, we just pretend to . . . but does he, or is that more of a general thing? He speaks with an unmistakable familiarity, but there's something a little off about the way he tells her these things. And it's not that she's so knowledgeable about how a bawdy house works, but it doesn't take much insight for one student to know another.]
No.
[Short and curt. It lingers in the air for a few seconds before she blows out a heavy exhale and tightens her grip on the railing.]
She approved of my leaving home, though she could not understand what I could find on the surface. But she doesn't know I've apprenticed here.
[And she won't know, not if Dal has anything to say about it. All her visions of triumphantly returning to Menzoberranzan bearing knowledge and insight such as the city has never seen are still there, of course, but they don't involve her starting to ply her trade in a brothel. She'll just omit this part, she thinks yet again, and just as she always does, ignores the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.]
[He leans over the arch of his left foot, stretching lazily from toe to ankle as he listens.
This is the part he likes, actually. Getting to dig up who he's talking to when he doesn't really know them. Everyone here, although they come and go over the years (not to Bali so often, he learned), are all familiar souls: whores and dancers and runaways— not doctors. Not from Menzoberranzan.
He's about to ask if she'll ever tell her mother when he chokes back another rise of unexpected amusement, swallowing that question.]
Mmhm. He's married.
[Chin to the palm of his right hand, he points down with the other towards a pretty tiefling on the stage, knelt down beside an actor in regalia, stitching about as swiftly as clawed fingers can allow.] To Kanan. My other father. But you could say he's the 'mother' of the theater if that's your sort of thing— it's Zevlor that organizes everything, yet it's Kanan who keeps it breathing.
[A tepid little beat, and then, watching her with curiosity from the corner of his eyes:]
[That doesn't answer a very basic biological question, but then again, it sort of does. Dalyria watches Kanan for a few seconds, studying the tiefling. He is a pretty thing, it's true, but it's the contrast to his husband that intrigues her the most. Both of them are commanding in their own ways, but whereas Zevlor is a loud figure, a beacon to whom everyone can flock, Kanan's energy is smaller. Softer. No less powerful, for that actor is hanging on to his every word as he stitches, but still: more subdued.]
Hm? No.
[She'd been expecting this question, honestly, and takes her time to choose her words.]
We— they— don't hate men. It's simply . . . a matter of place and position. Take a tailor and put a sword in his hands and it does not matter how earnestly he wants to be a solider, for his hands will always be better suited to a needle and thread. Similarly, men have certain positions they simply do better than women.
[Not that it's framed that way, obviously, but this is how she thinks about it.]
Somewhere like this . . . if it weren't for the species difference, it would do well there. Zevlor and Kanan— Kanan?— holding such positions would be acceptable, as would you.
[It's not the reason she picked the Moulin Rouge, but she can't deny there's a relieving sense of familiarity to have a male in charge of a brothel. Not that she'd ever gone to brothels in Menzoberranzan, but still, it rings culturally true.]
Anyway, money makes the most difference. A male born into one of the House families will have a far easier time than a poor one.
[Twists the border of his grin a little higher as his eyebrows knit themselves together. For someone so insistent on clarified stances, she doesn't seem to grasp the way things work up here— or maybe she just doesn't realize how she sounds. Either way, it's sort of precious. Sort of funny, he decides too, feeling Zevlor's eyes burning a hole into his skull without looking. These days his adopted father's irritation is a sixth sense, easily divined for how thoroughly it's woven through the air.
(In actuality, it's just constantly engaged now that he and Fenris make more trouble for him than ever; even a shot in the dark won't miss when the target takes up more than half the room.)
His touch peels off the railing, and he slips towards a nearby stairwell.]
Now I also know that drow don't believe in changing careers.
[At this hour, there's little noise beyond the belly of the Moulin Rouge: the stairway's narrow borders devour everything aside from the sounds of their voices. The creaking of their footsteps. Stepping into the foyer itself reveals a hollow whistling through the ventwork from outside, hushed and humming this time of year when winter threatens to spill over slatwork and even the tightest of shut doors: a single, lone attendant organizing key rings behind the polished desk that is their post, wiping each and every last one down before hanging it over its matching hook.
They don't look up as Astarion and Dalyria move past.]
Did you come in through the front entrance, or the back? I need to know where to start if I'm to show you around properly.
[Properly has a fussier edge to it, as if Zevlor somehow might've overlooked a vital portion of this task.]
[But before she can insist upon correcting him (or at least demanding he acknowledge what she'd really meant and not that cheeky bit of correction, fussily pedantic thing she can sometimes be), he's already heading down the stairs. With a short huff of disapproval she follows.
It's colder down here, but that doesn't bother her. The Underdark is very nearly always cold, after all. Far more interesting is the number of keys behind the attendant— gods, she hadn't realized just how many rooms there were. Suddenly having two doctors and an apprentice seems barely enough; if there are at least one worker per room (and make that more like two or three, for surely hedonism is the name of the game in this world), gods, she'll constantly have her hands full. It's a daunting prospect, but only a little.]
The front. It was impressive. There's an elegance to the ostentatiousness of it, both the windmill and the elephant. [For a moment she wonders if the boy knows what ostentatiousness means, but it will do her no favors if she assumes as such.]
[Flusterment bristles in her tone. Astarion marks it without glancing off sidelong, focus loitering around the grand doorway and its offshoot coat check, its contents only halfway cleared out despite the colder drift of daylight round the cracks in doors and windows.]
It means not doing a piss poor job of it. [He starts, only half a second prior to correcting himself with a (temporary) flick of his eyes below his lashes— that's the way he talks to Fenris, after all. That way the dancers talk backstage, whose heels he listened at for years. It is not, for the record, the way a courtesan of his desired caliber should be speaking at any point in time.
Apparently they're both getting the hang of decorum, then.]
You know, showing you what you've already seen, or not explaining how things work. If there's an incident in the grand foyer, we don't want you rushing to the atrium instead.
You're one of us, now. That means you'll need to learn your cues.
[You're one of us, now, and the casual inclusion is both baffling and oddly sweet. She certainly doesn't feel like one of them, and she doubts very much that she'll be counted as such for a long while, but . . . it's nice, Dalyria thinks. It's a kind thing to say, even if this boy is putting on an arrogant sort of front, and she takes note of that.
She peers into the coatroom, taking note of how large it is (enormous, and again she has a moment of dizzied awe over the thought of just how many customers must come), then follows him as he strides forward. There's a little wave from Fenris from the bar area, though he's quickly called back into work (you aren't being paid to socialize, a tiefling woman scolds mildly). The carpet beneath their feet is pleasingly soft, albeit a little threadbare here and there; it's the same with the utensils, almost of all of which gleam. She can't fault any establishment for not having endless revenue, but still, it's interesting to note the little details.]
What are yours? I mean—
[She glances over at him, purple eyes curious.]
Your father said you were training to be a courtesan. What does that mean, exactly?
[Pssh. Ironic, Astarion mutters to himself as his wave back is forced into assumed territory— Fenris already driven dutifully back to task (the differences between them never more apparent than in moments such as these), huffing out an unsurprised breath for the fact he'll need to wait until tonight to see his beau. Our entire purpose here -is- to socialize.
Speaking of, however:]
Entertainment.
[He shrugs lightly, watching her. Gives her time to get her curiosity in (wondering too how different a place like this might look in the Underdark, judging by the marvel in her expression).] Right now I'm 'too young' [said in the way of all teenagers: laden with disagreement] to go seeing customers, so I'm honing my skills thanks to lessons from our current Diamond— Satine. [A few fingers gesture to a painting on the wall, dramatic and full of divine splendor. A woman at the center of whirls and dips of paint lines, dressed in glittering diamond and little else. At her feet, countless tuxedoe-wearing suitors reach upwards in worship— like depictions of the Maker, he supposes, but with tits.]
So for there's been etiquette, acting, dancing, social graces, charm and poise and posture, and then we'll segue into sex— although I already know more than she or Zevlor suspect.
[Oh, that poster . . . for a long few seconds she doesn't respond, too taken by the sight to pay her companion mind. It's in part for the sheer beauty of the painting (the way the diamonds seem to gleam despite being nothing more than oil and canvas), but in part, too, for the woman in question. There's so much that glitters and shines around her, and yet it's her eyes that command the most attention: a brilliant blue gaze that seems to pierce right through to the viewer, inviting them in for a closer look. Little wonder Astarion was disappointed with his own; what could compare to the brilliance of this?
But oh, his answer is interesting too, and mentally Dal goes over what he'd just recited. Etiquette, acting, dancing, social graces . . . it makes sense that he'd need to know all of those things in order to be a courtesan (and maybe that's the difference between that and a common whore). Still, she'd never thought they underwent so much training . . . it's admirable, sort of.]
I— oh. Oh?
[Does he? She cocks her head, then glances over at Fenris. It's increasingly unlikely, she thinks, that Zevlor doesn't know what's happening between the two of them, but that's just one person's opinion.]
You and Fenris . . .? For how long, exactly?
[There's something expectant in her tone: not sharp, not by any means, but the tone of someone used to getting answers when she asks questions.]
Why do you need to know about etiquette? If they're slavering all over you, I should think that would be the last thing on their minds . . .
[His eyebrow quirks to see how long Dalyria stares and stares and....]
Hm? Oh, a few weeks or so....? [There's a lingering pause as he scratches his own cheek, tallying the sum as best he can.] Maybe a month, now? But we've been in love for ages [says the boy that'd been kicking, biting and screaming just one full calendar page prior, ] so it was only natural that we fell into physicality once we came of age.
[Gods above, he's cringe.]
Anyway, Zevlor says it's because there are royals and patrons with more money than there are stars that come here, and if you offend them—
[Astarion lifts his index finger, grimly dragging it across the front of his throat.]
[She makes a politely unimpressed face. It's a face that says, if anything, that she highly doubts anything that's only a month old can be all that deep, and incidentally the phrase we fell into physicality is a little gross to hear. She doesn't want to think about this boy (or the other one) naked or doing anything, but here they all are.]
When, exactly, did you fall in love? You can't be any older than I am— I'm seventeen. How long did it take you to fall in love with your brother?
[Again, adoptive brother, but she's starting to have some serious questions about the familial dynamics here.]
Then again Zevlor said he found him on the streets of fhe wealthiest Parisian quarter (that last bit never without mention even in his own mind), so there's no telling just how old he really is— it doesn't have to be a lie when no one's privy to the truth. He could be like, twenty, even.
He's definitely not twenty.]
Anyway what's that got to do with anything? [Scoffed insecurity taking him from courtesan to child in a single unpolished instant, his arms folded in the doorway as he looks back to see if he can catch a glimpse of white hair or strong arms behind the bar.
Instead, he sees the tiefling, and makes a point of glaring at her.]
If you're old enough to leave home and start working on your own, why doesn't that apply to us, too?
I'm not questioning your right to work. And I'm not saying you can't be in love. I'm simply noting that ages is a long time when you're our age.
[Spoken like the mature little thing she is, for being the youngest comes with its own burdens and talents. It means she can summon an air of wearied experience; it also means she's blatantly imitating one of her older sisters (but no one here knows that).
(In the distance, Laira scoffs and rolls her eyes right back at Astarion, unimpressed with his posturing. And just for that, Fenris is shooed away to go to the back of the kitchens instead, working on helping the delivery men instead of organizing the bar. It isn't really a punishment, not when Fenris doesn't much care what he does— but maybe it will stop them both from mooning over the other).]
Anyway, how do you know it's love? I'm not— I'm not trying to doubt you.
[Oh, he's such a defensive thing, and she wants to be sure she's coming across the right way. Tucking her hair behind her ear again, she tips her head at him.]
But I've never been in love. How do you know?
[And maybe talking about his beloved-née-brother will settle those raised hackles a bit.]
[It's punishment for the boy still perched out front (godsdamn it, Laira), who now can't pin his focus on the possibility of Fenris, and instead has to turn himself once more back to task: motioning for Dalyria as his lips twist higher in mild thought— committed now to walking as he tries to think.
Because it's been weeks since he first felt it for the first, undeniable time. Because even in the moment it was almost impossible to define. All he really knows is that it's new, and wondrous, and blinding. All he really knows is that he's always felt it— except he hasn't, otherwise it wouldn't be new, would it?
....How does that even begin to make sense?]
I don't know. [He admits outright, forgetting either pretense or offense (again, he finds himself wondering after her life when it seems to be so different, but there'll be time enough to ask once they've gotten through all this: the front office, the smoking room and its stuffed game, the storeroom and cluttered sideways)— ] One day it was just....there. Like I couldn't stop looking at him, and didn't want him to stop looking at me, either. And once it was, it was like it'd always been there, too, right from the moment I saw him alone on the streets as a child.
[He pauses near the infirmary doorway, scuffing his knuckles and shoulder against wood.
[It's such a foreign feeling— neither good nor bad, but strange in a way that she doesn't quite understand. It sounds warm, though. Warm and comforting in a way she vaguely wishes she had for herself, but wishing rarely gets things done.]
It sounds wonderful . . .
[Said softly as she follows him. Her eyes flit over the rooms as they stride through them (none of it a shock, all of it worthy of going over in more detail later, for there's so much to drink in). It's going to take her a bit of time to learn this maze, but on the other hand, she has an excellent guide to help. Though— oh, and she almost tries to inch past him, eager to see her future domain, before he speaks.]
What? No.
[Wait, is she? She isn't poor, or at least her mother isn't, which is nearly the same thing. But nor are they like the families in the upper echelons, who swan about and have no duties save not pissing their money away.]
Not really. We never went hungry or wanted for much, but . . . we— they— we aren't even nobility, not really. Just sort of a step beneath it. Why? Are you?
[Evidence points towards no, but it seems polite to ask it in return.]
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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For now, she tips her chin back and stares at the two elven boys, their expressions equal parts bafflement and curiosity.
'A drow?' the dark-haired boy says bluntly, which earns him a chiding click from Zevlor. 'You find yourself far from home— is that not true?' he adds defensively to his father, who doesn't look any less unimpressed.]
Menzoberranzan has a limited amount of use for a healer. And the best ones to apprentice under tend to flock to Paris or Baldur's Gate.
[Not that she's apprenticing somewhere prestigious. Not that she's managed to get one of those coveted internships over at the Parisian Institute, but never mind that. Bodies are bodies, and working at a bawdy house will give her plenty of hands-on experience. The fact that the proprietor is a tiefling is a bonus; he hadn't blinked at the sight of a drow showing up in his office, never mind one looking to fill the position of healer.
And he pays her. That's important too.
'Fenris is training to become a bodyguard, Zevlor continues, 'and Astarion is on his way to becoming a courtesan. They also both happen to be my sons.'
If she's surprised by that, she doesn't let herself show it. Zevlor's eyes skim over both boys, warm pride and fond exasperation both flickering over his face. For a moment he hesitates in thought, then: 'Astarion will show you around,' he states. 'Fenris, go find Laira. She'll need your help unpacking stock— and when you're done, we'll have a lesson.'
The latter addition turns his irritable scowl into excitement; with one last lingering look towards the poster, he untangles himself from Astarion and heads for the door. Zevlor nods faintly, then turns towards Astarion. 'Introduce her to the others,' he orders. 'She'll be working with Talindra and Maude, but it would be good for her to know the insides and out. Her rooms are adjacent to theirs— you know what to do.'
He squeezes Astarion's shoulder in friendly dismissal, offers Dalyria a respectful nod, and strides out the door, already calling for someone to help him deal with the lighting.
Which just leaves her with this boy. This strange, vain little boy (who can't be more than a year younger than her, if that). She carefully tucks one silver strand of hair behind her ear, then asks:]
Is he really your brother, or is that another gimmick here?
[No judgement! No, really: drow are a lot more flexible about these kinds of things, or at least the nobility are, up to a certain point. But it's nice to know what the dynamics are early-on.]
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The showing around portion will come after he's finished sniffing around this unfamiliar (figuratively) stray cat, as far as he's concerned.]
We were both adopted at different times. From different places.
[He doesn't say I found him on the streets and brought him home and taught him to use a fork, but if she sticks around here for anything longer than a month she'll hear it anyway. The Moulin Rouge bares more than just skin behind closed doors; when clothing is tantamount to small talk, there's no such thing as privacy. Secrets.]
He's my boyfriend— [squares up in how he measures her (delicate features, pretty enough to do more than stringent medical work, but with a keenness to her eyes.
Taller, too. But he's not fussed about it.
Much.)
She's one of the first drow he's ever seen, although hushed stories come to mind. Crooks his head towards his shoulder before he moves towards the door and gestures back for her to follow.] Zevlor doesn't know yet.
[There's a poster on the wall that debates that.
Astarion sounds only (slightly) petulant when he asks:]
Is the doctor thing a gimmick?
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Oh, no . . .?
[A polite expression of doubt. She hasn't any idea of who knows what or why, but she also isn't blind. If Zevlor doesn't know, then he must have some seriously misguided ideas about brotherly affection. But then there's that little question, and she frowns as she adds:]
No. I didn't study for three years for a gimmick. [A beat, and then:] But that's what this place specializes in, isn't it? I meant no offense in asking.
[Ask me something like that again when you're complaining about oozing sores and a scratched up back, boy, she thinks and does not say. Bedside manner is much more of a thing up on the surface, and she's doing her best to practice it. It's not hard, not really, for she's a softhearted thing when all's said and done— but some things come easier than others, and she's never had to learn how to mind her tongue before. Especially around a boy.
As they head out the door, she takes him in. Shorter than her (though knowing elves and drow, that could change any day; she's done growing, she suspects, though she longs for another few inches). Pretty, especially with those gold eyes (are they contacts or natural?), and he'll do well as a courtesan . . . though what, exactly, is the difference between a whore and a courtesan? She isn't sure, and she'd best learn quick if she's working here. But anyway: pretty, that's the point. Pretty and a little territorial, but who could blame him? And she knows better than to try and assert herself as anything but lowest on the social pecking order.
Around them, the Moulin Rouge— and there's really no better word for it— bustles. Men and women with bare legs and half-donned costumes flit about in twos and threes, giggling as they gossip cattily behind their hands; deftly they weave their way around the stagehands who stride with purpose, hauling set pieces or yanking up ropes. The sound of drifting notes echo from a distance as the musicians tune their instruments; the not-unpleasant scents of warm wood and powdery makeup fill the air, both of them underscored by the sharp scent of bodiewas (soon to be covered, she discovers later, by perfume specifically piped in when the Moulin Rouge is open for business). There are sets being painted and posters being glued up; in the distance, Fenris sighs heavily as yet another box of bottles is set down before him, one of an endless steam coming in from outside. Tables are being washed and set, lights are dimming and rising, someone is calling for Kanan and his needle and thread . . .
And there, standing like a ringmaster in the midst of his circus, is Zevlor. He calls out instructions or chidingly points out errors, and all the while answering a thousand questions from writers and artists and stagehands and actors. It's chaos, but a controlled chaos, and Dalyria watches it with no small degree of awe.
It's just so different from anything she's ever seen before. At home, things were always so orderly: everyone had their place and task, and everyone did as they were told, lest they earn the wrath of the matriarchs. Oh, there was fun to be found, and not everyone was all rigidity and obedience, but still, there was nothing like this. Nothing so masterfully chaotic.
She's stopped in her tracks, she realizes belatedly, and walks quickly to catch up.]
Is it always like this?
[It's debatable whether or not that's a complimentary tone or an overwhelmed one. Both, maybe.]
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(Now that he's staked his claim as to what his heart belongs to, and she didn't prod it full of drow-sized holes.)
So that leaves them here in normalcy. His normalcy, that is, and having never known anything else apart from it in all his working memory, without a point of reference he's no idea whether Dalyria is asking him about the lighting or that their patchwork splendor's forever twelve steps away from falling apart. Sherry glass half-full or half-empty, that sort of thing, he supposes.
The floorboards creak under his heels. Old wood beneath rich carpet. He slows his steps to squint at her, tugging his too-large banyan robe (Kanan's robe, passed down) closed by quaint degrees.]
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[She gestures around her, which is no help at all. But how to begin to describe it? She hesitates for a few seconds, and then:]
Chaotic.
[But that's not the right word, for that implies something negative. And for all that this is so dazzlingly new, it's not as if she dislikes it. There's something comfortingly precise about the way this all works . . . like a well-oiled clock, she thinks. One of those intricate ones with a hundred gears that all interconnect and sound like the apocalypse whenever the hour strikes . . . she's always loved clocks like that. It takes so much work to get them to all come together, but when it does, oh, what a glorious thing. Just like the body, really . . . a thousand different systems and functions that all rely on one another in order to work, and if just one thing goes out of place, it all comes crashing down . . .
Unless you know how to fix it, she thinks smugly, and glances over at Astarion.]
So much is happening . . . I didn't know such a place took this much effort to stay running. Or is today a day of repairs? Does everyone actually work here, or are some customers? And what do they do? Why isn't anyone dressed?
[That last question is a bit stupid, but to be fair to Dalyria, it's not every day someone walks by with their dick just, like, out and flopping around right in front of her.]
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You've never been to the theater before, have you? [He presses amusedly, his eyes watching the course hers follow.]
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[It's defensive, but only a little. Dalyria grips the railing, feeling the wood dig into her skin, as she peers down at the flurry of activity below them. Then, when no mocking remarks come from her left, she adds:]
. . . but not as anything but a patron.
[And it was nothing like this. She watches the man in question continue on his way, his nudity treated as nothing more than an idle truth, until at last he disappears through a doorway.
It's fine, just . . . give her a minute. She's not even upset, it's just a lot— but not so much so she can't tentatively return that grin with a smile of her own.]
Does being in the theater mean you're allergic to clothing?
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[There's a flick of beadwork as he taps at his own sleeve.]
I only live with the pain.
[She'll see for herself why costume changes encourage freedom, and red lights the sort of naturalism that'd see one arrested in the streets when clients just won't— ahahah— stop coming. It's an ecosystem that makes sense to anyone that peers behind the curtain; too much explains itself compared to everything outside.
That's the world he doesn't understand. A language he doesn't ever care to speak.]
Do all doctors in Menzoberranzan have time for throwing their coin at artistic pursuits?
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[Oh, yes. There's vague fondness to the way she invokes her title, but not much. Affection isn't particularly encouraged among mothers and daughters, and to have a girl-child more interested in healing than hurting . . . her mother loves her, Dalyria knows. She truly does. But she doesn't understand her, and sometimes that hurts worse.
Anyway. She glances over at him again, then back down at the stage. It's hard to know where to look, frankly, for everything happens so much around here.]
And the plays were nothing like the ones that happen here, I think. Nobody ever had sex at the end, [she adds a little unnecessarily. Do they all have sex at the end? It sort of seems like they would. Just a big old orgy right at the, aha, climax, so to speak . . .? Mm, maybe not.]
Or . . . are the actors and courtesans different? How does it work around here?
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He guffaws.
A loud, stupid squawk into the crook of his arms that echoes down into the belly of the theater itself, enough to startle Zevlor from his task— who justly narrows his eyes to see the son he'd asked to show Dalyria around now cackling in recline against the balcony railings.
If that bothers Astarion, it doesn't show: he continues on once he looks up, nesting his chin against his forearms as he meets Dalyria's fretful stare.]
Well we don't fuck on stage for one, we just pretend to— sort of.
When it's plot relevant.
[It's hard to define.]
More often it's alluded to: either through dancing or clever wordplay, and you'll find nudity is the scandalous, drool-worthy portion of the meal.
Because the actors are the courtesans— well, the headliners are, anyway— and [echoing the sly-tongued intonation of his teacher:] you want the audience to be hungry for you by the ending. Paint them a story that they're eager to see themselves penned into, and then watch as they drop as much wealth as it takes to make that happen.
[A pause. He knows his explanation makes sense— and if it doesn't, it will once she sees her first performance (or possibly rehearsal); there's little point in asking after it now.
So.]
Was it your mother's idea for you to come here?
[....to a brothel he doesn't say, though wants to. (Satine has him working on maintaining an inner monologue.)]
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We, she notices he says. We don't fuck on stage, we just pretend to . . . but does he, or is that more of a general thing? He speaks with an unmistakable familiarity, but there's something a little off about the way he tells her these things. And it's not that she's so knowledgeable about how a bawdy house works, but it doesn't take much insight for one student to know another.]
No.
[Short and curt. It lingers in the air for a few seconds before she blows out a heavy exhale and tightens her grip on the railing.]
She approved of my leaving home, though she could not understand what I could find on the surface. But she doesn't know I've apprenticed here.
[And she won't know, not if Dal has anything to say about it. All her visions of triumphantly returning to Menzoberranzan bearing knowledge and insight such as the city has never seen are still there, of course, but they don't involve her starting to ply her trade in a brothel. She'll just omit this part, she thinks yet again, and just as she always does, ignores the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.]
Where's yours? Is Zevlor married?
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This is the part he likes, actually. Getting to dig up who he's talking to when he doesn't really know them. Everyone here, although they come and go over the years (not to Bali so often, he learned), are all familiar souls: whores and dancers and runaways— not doctors. Not from Menzoberranzan.
He's about to ask if she'll ever tell her mother when he chokes back another rise of unexpected amusement, swallowing that question.]
Mmhm. He's married.
[Chin to the palm of his right hand, he points down with the other towards a pretty tiefling on the stage, knelt down beside an actor in regalia, stitching about as swiftly as clawed fingers can allow.] To Kanan. My other father. But you could say he's the 'mother' of the theater if that's your sort of thing— it's Zevlor that organizes everything, yet it's Kanan who keeps it breathing.
[A tepid little beat, and then, watching her with curiosity from the corner of his eyes:]
Is it true all drow hate men?
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Hm? No.
[She'd been expecting this question, honestly, and takes her time to choose her words.]
We— they— don't hate men. It's simply . . . a matter of place and position. Take a tailor and put a sword in his hands and it does not matter how earnestly he wants to be a solider, for his hands will always be better suited to a needle and thread. Similarly, men have certain positions they simply do better than women.
[Not that it's framed that way, obviously, but this is how she thinks about it.]
Somewhere like this . . . if it weren't for the species difference, it would do well there. Zevlor and Kanan— Kanan?— holding such positions would be acceptable, as would you.
[It's not the reason she picked the Moulin Rouge, but she can't deny there's a relieving sense of familiarity to have a male in charge of a brothel. Not that she'd ever gone to brothels in Menzoberranzan, but still, it rings culturally true.]
Anyway, money makes the most difference. A male born into one of the House families will have a far easier time than a poor one.
[A little shrug of her shoulders.]
Is that all you know of us? That we hate men?
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[Lilts upwards for a moment.]
Well, no. That's not all of it.
[Twists the border of his grin a little higher as his eyebrows knit themselves together. For someone so insistent on clarified stances, she doesn't seem to grasp the way things work up here— or maybe she just doesn't realize how she sounds. Either way, it's sort of precious. Sort of funny, he decides too, feeling Zevlor's eyes burning a hole into his skull without looking. These days his adopted father's irritation is a sixth sense, easily divined for how thoroughly it's woven through the air.
(In actuality, it's just constantly engaged now that he and Fenris make more trouble for him than ever; even a shot in the dark won't miss when the target takes up more than half the room.)
His touch peels off the railing, and he slips towards a nearby stairwell.]
Now I also know that drow don't believe in changing careers.
[At this hour, there's little noise beyond the belly of the Moulin Rouge: the stairway's narrow borders devour everything aside from the sounds of their voices. The creaking of their footsteps. Stepping into the foyer itself reveals a hollow whistling through the ventwork from outside, hushed and humming this time of year when winter threatens to spill over slatwork and even the tightest of shut doors: a single, lone attendant organizing key rings behind the polished desk that is their post, wiping each and every last one down before hanging it over its matching hook.
They don't look up as Astarion and Dalyria move past.]
Did you come in through the front entrance, or the back? I need to know where to start if I'm to show you around properly.
[Properly has a fussier edge to it, as if Zevlor somehow might've overlooked a vital portion of this task.]
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[But before she can insist upon correcting him (or at least demanding he acknowledge what she'd really meant and not that cheeky bit of correction, fussily pedantic thing she can sometimes be), he's already heading down the stairs. With a short huff of disapproval she follows.
It's colder down here, but that doesn't bother her. The Underdark is very nearly always cold, after all. Far more interesting is the number of keys behind the attendant— gods, she hadn't realized just how many rooms there were. Suddenly having two doctors and an apprentice seems barely enough; if there are at least one worker per room (and make that more like two or three, for surely hedonism is the name of the game in this world), gods, she'll constantly have her hands full. It's a daunting prospect, but only a little.]
The front. It was impressive. There's an elegance to the ostentatiousness of it, both the windmill and the elephant. [For a moment she wonders if the boy knows what ostentatiousness means, but it will do her no favors if she assumes as such.]
What does properly mean, exactly?
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It means not doing a piss poor job of it. [He starts, only half a second prior to correcting himself with a (temporary) flick of his eyes below his lashes— that's the way he talks to Fenris, after all. That way the dancers talk backstage, whose heels he listened at for years. It is not, for the record, the way a courtesan of his desired caliber should be speaking at any point in time.
Apparently they're both getting the hang of decorum, then.]
You know, showing you what you've already seen, or not explaining how things work. If there's an incident in the grand foyer, we don't want you rushing to the atrium instead.
You're one of us, now. That means you'll need to learn your cues.
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[You're one of us, now, and the casual inclusion is both baffling and oddly sweet. She certainly doesn't feel like one of them, and she doubts very much that she'll be counted as such for a long while, but . . . it's nice, Dalyria thinks. It's a kind thing to say, even if this boy is putting on an arrogant sort of front, and she takes note of that.
She peers into the coatroom, taking note of how large it is (enormous, and again she has a moment of dizzied awe over the thought of just how many customers must come), then follows him as he strides forward. There's a little wave from Fenris from the bar area, though he's quickly called back into work (you aren't being paid to socialize, a tiefling woman scolds mildly). The carpet beneath their feet is pleasingly soft, albeit a little threadbare here and there; it's the same with the utensils, almost of all of which gleam. She can't fault any establishment for not having endless revenue, but still, it's interesting to note the little details.]
What are yours? I mean—
[She glances over at him, purple eyes curious.]
Your father said you were training to be a courtesan. What does that mean, exactly?
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Speaking of, however:]
Entertainment.
[He shrugs lightly, watching her. Gives her time to get her curiosity in (wondering too how different a place like this might look in the Underdark, judging by the marvel in her expression).] Right now I'm 'too young' [said in the way of all teenagers: laden with disagreement] to go seeing customers, so I'm honing my skills thanks to lessons from our current Diamond— Satine. [A few fingers gesture to a painting on the wall, dramatic and full of divine splendor. A woman at the center of whirls and dips of paint lines, dressed in glittering diamond and little else. At her feet, countless tuxedoe-wearing suitors reach upwards in worship— like depictions of the Maker, he supposes, but with tits.]
So for there's been etiquette, acting, dancing, social graces, charm and poise and posture, and then we'll segue into sex— although I already know more than she or Zevlor suspect.
[He's something of an expert himself.]
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But oh, his answer is interesting too, and mentally Dal goes over what he'd just recited. Etiquette, acting, dancing, social graces . . . it makes sense that he'd need to know all of those things in order to be a courtesan (and maybe that's the difference between that and a common whore). Still, she'd never thought they underwent so much training . . . it's admirable, sort of.]
I— oh. Oh?
[Does he? She cocks her head, then glances over at Fenris. It's increasingly unlikely, she thinks, that Zevlor doesn't know what's happening between the two of them, but that's just one person's opinion.]
You and Fenris . . .? For how long, exactly?
[There's something expectant in her tone: not sharp, not by any means, but the tone of someone used to getting answers when she asks questions.]
Why do you need to know about etiquette? If they're slavering all over you, I should think that would be the last thing on their minds . . .
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Hm? Oh, a few weeks or so....? [There's a lingering pause as he scratches his own cheek, tallying the sum as best he can.] Maybe a month, now? But we've been in love for ages [says the boy that'd been kicking, biting and screaming just one full calendar page prior, ] so it was only natural that we fell into physicality once we came of age.
[
Gods above, he's cringe.]Anyway, Zevlor says it's because there are royals and patrons with more money than there are stars that come here, and if you offend them—
[Astarion lifts his index finger, grimly dragging it across the front of his throat.]
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When, exactly, did you fall in love? You can't be any older than I am— I'm seventeen. How long did it take you to fall in love with your brother?
[Again, adoptive brother, but she's starting to have some serious questions about the familial dynamics here.]
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Me too. Seventeen also. [He lied, lyingly.
Then again Zevlor said he found him on the streets of fhe wealthiest Parisian quarter (that last bit never without mention even in his own mind), so there's no telling just how old he really is— it doesn't have to be a lie when no one's privy to the truth. He could be like, twenty, even.
He's definitely not twenty.]Anyway what's that got to do with anything? [Scoffed insecurity taking him from courtesan to child in a single unpolished instant, his arms folded in the doorway as he looks back to see if he can catch a glimpse of white hair or strong arms behind the bar.
Instead, he sees the tiefling, and makes a point of glaring at her.]
If you're old enough to leave home and start working on your own, why doesn't that apply to us, too?
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[Spoken like the mature little thing she is, for being the youngest comes with its own burdens and talents. It means she can summon an air of wearied experience; it also means she's blatantly imitating one of her older sisters (but no one here knows that).
(In the distance, Laira scoffs and rolls her eyes right back at Astarion, unimpressed with his posturing. And just for that, Fenris is shooed away to go to the back of the kitchens instead, working on helping the delivery men instead of organizing the bar. It isn't really a punishment, not when Fenris doesn't much care what he does— but maybe it will stop them both from mooning over the other).]
Anyway, how do you know it's love? I'm not— I'm not trying to doubt you.
[Oh, he's such a defensive thing, and she wants to be sure she's coming across the right way. Tucking her hair behind her ear again, she tips her head at him.]
But I've never been in love. How do you know?
[And maybe talking about his beloved-née-brother will settle those raised hackles a bit.]
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Because it's been weeks since he first felt it for the first, undeniable time. Because even in the moment it was almost impossible to define. All he really knows is that it's new, and wondrous, and blinding. All he really knows is that he's always felt it— except he hasn't, otherwise it wouldn't be new, would it?
....How does that even begin to make sense?]
I don't know. [He admits outright, forgetting either pretense or offense (again, he finds himself wondering after her life when it seems to be so different, but there'll be time enough to ask once they've gotten through all this: the front office, the smoking room and its stuffed game, the storeroom and cluttered sideways)— ] One day it was just....there. Like I couldn't stop looking at him, and didn't want him to stop looking at me, either. And once it was, it was like it'd always been there, too, right from the moment I saw him alone on the streets as a child.
[He pauses near the infirmary doorway, scuffing his knuckles and shoulder against wood.
Thinking.]
—Are you rich?
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It sounds wonderful . . .
[Said softly as she follows him. Her eyes flit over the rooms as they stride through them (none of it a shock, all of it worthy of going over in more detail later, for there's so much to drink in). It's going to take her a bit of time to learn this maze, but on the other hand, she has an excellent guide to help. Though— oh, and she almost tries to inch past him, eager to see her future domain, before he speaks.]
What? No.
[Wait, is she? She isn't poor, or at least her mother isn't, which is nearly the same thing. But nor are they like the families in the upper echelons, who swan about and have no duties save not pissing their money away.]
Not really. We never went hungry or wanted for much, but . . . we— they— we aren't even nobility, not really. Just sort of a step beneath it. Why? Are you?
[Evidence points towards no, but it seems polite to ask it in return.]
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2/2 me realizing I really need to just commit and make us more icons
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2/2 PLEASE I WOULD LOVE THIS
THEN IT WILL HAPPEN....SOON >:]
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