Tʜᴇ Pᴀʟᴇ Eʟғ | Asᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ Aɴᴄᴜɴíɴ (
illithidnapped) wrote in
faderift2021-06-01 01:09 pm
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[OPEN] Young Blood, say you want me out of your life
WHO: Astarion and, gasp, maybe you
WHAT: catch-all for Kirkwall mayhem involving a certain vampire
WHEN: ~whenever~ pick your poison
WHERE: Gallows, Kirkwall proper, anywhere you want
NOTES: 1 intolerable vampire pretending he doesn't give a damn
WHAT: catch-all for Kirkwall mayhem involving a certain vampire
WHEN: ~whenever~ pick your poison
WHERE: Gallows, Kirkwall proper, anywhere you want
NOTES: 1 intolerable vampire pretending he doesn't give a damn

I: CHARITY
He keeps odd hours, that’s the nature of being a nocturnal monster designed to feed on the blood of his prey— or, well, former monster, as luck would have it. He certainly isn’t turning to ash each time the sun rises, and he isn’t burning to death every time he sinks into a nice, hot, afternoon bath. Food, even, that’s a new luxury too, though he isn’t entirely fond of what the Gallows serves on the regular: his taste runs a touch finer, as a habit— which might be why one passing trip through the market sees an arm slung sweetly around your own for a cheerful bout of unprompted conversation at Astarion’s mercy.
It’s quick, takes barely more than a few moments of lingering closeness, and then—
And then nothing. He’s gone as quickly as he came. Wait— do your pockets feel noticeably lighter?
Pursuit would only find him sometime later, slung casually across a table in some smoky little hole in the wall: drinking a glass of vivid red, eating a very lovely meal and chatting up someone with cheekbones so sharp they could open envelopes via proximity alone.
And he probably paid for all of it with your coin. Oh dear.
II: VICE CITY
“Aha, no, wrong again, darling— that win belongs to me.”
He’s learned the rules quickly. He’s learned everything, quickly, in fact, winking slyly as he rakes a meager mess of coins and knickknacks across the table towards him. Hardly a vivid sum, but enough that the brute opposite to him growls something unintelligible— veering away as the chair they’d been occupying topples right to the floor, the noise of it snapping right through an otherwise pleasant scene.
“Well.” Astarion scoffs, silvered brows raising. “Talk about a sore loser.”
He’d only cheated a little, besides. Still, red eyes snap to, the edges of his lips curling into an easy smile, gesturing with slender fingers towards the now-emptied seat across.
“Your turn, dearest.”
III: A VAMPIRE STILL
He haunts dark spaces in later hours. Bright eyes in shadow, attentive without exhaustion. The Gallows is bustling in daylight, and near silent without, and he prowls like a cat in the gaps between lanterns, searching for something nameless and shapeless.
Perhaps out of sight until the very last, unsettling second when pale features seem to cut through pitch-soaked corners.
Try not to shriek, if you stumble into his path, won’t you? It is late, after all, and he doesn't fancy a headache.
IV: WILDCARD
[ooc: pick your poison, swap one of the prompts around, opt for daylight and cheerful drinking— the sky's the limit. Astarion can even be caught doing a little studious reading in closed-off spaces, though don't expect him to take kindly to being noticed.
Also I'll match tagging format to whatever suits you, and/or hit me up if you want something else plotwise entirely!]
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And then, with barely a breath spared in sweetness:]
Please.
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[He props one elbow on a crossed leg, chin resting in his palm, all too amused; there's no immediate answer, though, still making him wait for it for a few moments.]
Very well, then. But first: how old are you?
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Dear boy, believe me when I say you don't look old enough to be worrying about my age.
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Well, I suppose a more youthful look really does work wonders.
['Youthful', he says, as if he looks like he's 20 or something.]
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Still, I can’t give you an exact answer, I’m afraid. I don’t remember how old I was before I...changed, and from then on it was a rather dragging two hundred years, so make of that whatever you want.
[Happy?]
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[If that stretch of time alone drags, then he can't have been that old beforehand, at least by Emet-Selch's standards.]
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[His chin lifts, the set of his stare going colder, much like a cat flicking its tail back and forth as a sign of sudden change in temperament. He's met your requests, he wants his share:]
Get to the point, love.
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[He's been putting up with your shit also, Astarion, fair is fair. Another moment of pause, a thoughtful hum, and he finally carries on.]
Past a certain age, one grows accustomed to the way things change, and the way they circle back around once more to repeat themselves. The rules shift often, in that sense, but predictably so. This may be a very different sort of situation, but... people are often much the same, whichever world one happens to occupy. I don't expect them to be much different, at their cores, and so in a fundamental sense-- I believe there will be familiarity enough to adapt, however strange the circumstances may be.
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But once the subject changes, he loses all footing on indelicate ground, slow blinking in unexpected surprise:]
Well. [That is...a lot. Not entirely out of bounds for the limits of the world he’d left behind, but still not exactly common by any standards.]
Research certainly suits you, with an approach like that.
How old are you exactly?
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[Feasibly, he could slot himself into any division and manage, but- no, he's had a military career recently, he would prefer not to. Politics are much the same, and he simply prefers the idea of study and creation to the alternatives.
That last question earns a thoughtful pause, though, considering... before he finally decides on a response.]
Indulge my curiosity in turn, if you would. How old do you think?
[Sue him, he's curious what sort of guess he'll get.]
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[He's taking this at Emet-Selch's word, yes, but it's not as though Faerun had any shortage of long-lived creatures. Even Cazador and all his spawn— Astarion included— are supposedly endless, provided no sunlight or water or stakes through the heart find them in all that time.
A tall order.]
One thousand, perhaps? Two?
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[It is a respectable enough age; he probably wouldn't consider a millenium or two to be so young, so Astarion's starting off in a decent place.]
Though perhaps I should be flattered, not to seem my full age.
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[Deified and dignified and so on and so forth.]
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[Neither is he offering his exact age, though, leaving it for now at 'somewhere over two thousand'. Maybe later.]
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[Prim and huffing, the very picture of near-whining as he exhales before sinking back in his own seat— tome finally dropped uselessly across stone flooring, having lost all purpose in his life now that he's mired in conversation.]
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[After the tome drops to the floor, Emet-Selch finally shifts from his seat with an exhaled sigh, moving over to it so he can scoop it up and brush off the cover. Don't just leave things on the ground, rude.]
You know how old I am not, now; if you care to try to figure it out sometime, I may indulge you, but neither do I intend to simply tell you.
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Astarion will remember that.
Gods but the man is tall, isn't he? Listless against his own seat, he has to crane his neck back to properly look at Emet-Selch as that book (an in-depth account of regional territories and their extensive histories) is snatched up from its place at his heels.]
I see. [He reaches out with a few wandering fingertips, catching the edge of one fur-lined cuff. Experimental. Easily dismissed.] Intent on sustaining your air of mystery. How sweet.
You know I won't judge you harshly for being very attractively aged dust— well. Maybe a little. But not out of anything but friendly affection. I promise.
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As I told you, I am refusing only to hand you the answers.
[Any remaining air of mystery to his age is, then, Astarion's own doing-- not that he exactly minds.]
But if that is what you consider something of a compliment, I am sure your insults must be far more effective.
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[Something he seems quite proud of, smile reaching his eyes without so much as a drop of forced effort.]
Very well. I’ll keep guessing, and you stop me when I get too close.
[He’s keeping close watch, like a cat studying the fluttering wings of a bird— fingers still hooked at the golden edge of Emet-Selch’s sleeve, easy and relaxed as they pull it nearer by the narrowest of degrees.]
Four thousand.
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[Astarion keeps close watch, and he keeps a somewhat more distant one-- looking almost bored, detached, as he watches him pull that sleeve nearer. For the moment, he allows it.]
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[Another difference of half-inches taken by that pulling grip, reeled in under the shadow of a set stare.
He’s attended auctions before. Played little games of hot and cold: better to rush increments and counterbalance than creep along indefinitely.]
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Closer, to be certain, but... no.
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[He's disappointed to find that limit, the line where Emet-Selch refuses to let him press on— but there's no childish, insistent tug: Astarion prides himself on dignity, even in mischief, and if that is where he reaches the endpoint of their little game, so be it.
His thumb offers one last, lingering scuff along the edge of gilded cuffwork, deliberate and appreciative— and then he's let go entirely. Graciously, in fact.]
You're not a god, and you're not a demi-god— and you don't look like any vampire or cambion I've ever seen, nor necromancer for that matter.
So how on earth are you so long-lived? Because unless you're simply lying to me, I don't see how it's possible.
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I assure you, I have no reason to lie-- surely a few thousand would have been an impressive enough number to settle on, had I the mind to make it up.
[Little reason, then, to carry on further, save for the fact that it's true.]
It is simply inherent to my nature.
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[It'd be easy enough. There's nowhere to run, after all, not with the Gallows serving as their little base of diligent operations.]
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