faderift | [CLOSED] You hate my bad behavior

"You have watched me employ my magicks before, have you not? Must I concern myself with..."

...he catches himself. Trails off, silent, before he carries on.

"Never you mind. I still have power enough left to me to hold my own-- mayhap enough to employ creation once more, should I make more practical study of it. I feel as if I have nigh exhausted the theoretical."

"Yes, but it's not exactly a list now, is it? Take me, for example," said with a few fingers pressed high against the center of his own chest. "You know I'm capable of stealth and assassination, but do you know I can chase a scent trail, or mix a lovely poison capable of making a man shit himself to death?"

Pretty picture, that.

"No. Because I haven't told you so. So in case there's anything you've managed to neglect, confessing now will only make drafting up a contingency plan later that much easier, your majesty."

Still, all nipping commentary aside, Astarion tips his head towards Emet-Selch with interest at the tail end of his own retaliatory lecture.

"...you're going to actually give it a go again? Really? Isn't that what brought you so much trouble to begin with?"

"It is not," he says, and leaves it at that for now. The capability itself was hardly the cause; he continues on, instead. "If you wish for a more comprehensive detailing, then... you have seen me create an illusion, and use my magic offensively, but I do have some protective capability as well, and the capacity to use magical projectiles to create an explosion rather than merely firing them as a direct weapon. And then, of course, there should be creation. This is hardly all what it once was, and I find myself incapable of much more I could once perform, but it is what I retain at my disposal."

Having listed that, though-- hm. Astarion gets a curious look.

"But if you aim to share as well, then precisely how keen is that nose of yours. I assume that can prove useful in the future, as well."

“Well, I’m no bloodhound. Certainly no gnoll— but my senses haven’t forgotten how to distinguish taste. Scent. I can tell where one thread ends and everything else begins, in essence, so long as I have something to detect.”

He lifts a hand, scrubbing it along the back of his neck in deep thought for a beat, as though filing away each fragment of Emet-Selch’s own confessed capability even as the subject settles elsewhere.

“Wysteria and I have tried to puzzle out all those nagging little details, shall we say, but the girl and I might as well be oil and fresh spring water: all I know is that I’ve been able to trace the scent of lyrium on the wind, or blood at a distance. Try not to think of it as a fool proof fix.”

As for Astarion’s eyes, well.

He and Emet-Selch possess the memory of the wastes as testament for that. The wounded leading the blind through the dark.

He doesn't need to ask about that one. It's something he remembers all too well, much as he wishes he didn't recall the part where he had to fumble through shadows.

"It need not be foolproof to be of help," he says, in an almost-idle tone; still mulling the answer over, likely. "But I suppose it is a given you would scent blood, as well..."

A more thoughtful pause follows, before: "How keen are your senses in that particular regard?"

"Blood scent? Thin, I suppose." Astarion confesses as they pass out into the courtyard where he's kept a pair of requisitioned horses tethered, their packs already prepared for the journey ahead. "In an open field, I'd be able to discern it readily. But a bloodbath or battlefield, where smell tends to overwhelm, I'd probably only grasp exactly what rests before me: gore, in other words."

Here, at least, his voice at last sinks into barely a whisper of a thing. Eclipsed almost entirely by the sound of his footsteps.

"That said, taste is a different story."

"Is it, now."

His voice is kept equally low, and it may nearly sound as if he's half musing to himself. A moment is spared for one of the horses, first, to reach up and give it a brief pet in greeting.

"And in precisely what way does it differ?"

“The same way one knows the difference between a rich, full-bodied port and an aged brandy: each— to my own understanding so far— is very much distinct.”

Emet-Selch himself had tasted different than Ellie, who in turn had tasted so much more inviting than simple beasts.

In the middle of readying his saddle, Astarion pauses.

“....why. Curious to know how you stacked up?”

"There is hardly any need for comparison," he says, with a roll of his eyes. "We both know well enough it will not be an objective one."

It sounds at first like he intends to leave it at that, but given a few moments to ready his own mount, he finishes: "Curious in what ways the difference manifested, mayhap."

"Oh. Testy." Astarion all but purrs over the rise of his own shoulder, red eyes glinting hollow in the dark.

"Maybe it'd actually favor you, my bias."

"Would it? If you believe you will lure me into that so easily, I can assure you that you are mistaken."

Said mildly, as he finishes his preparations-- though he doesn't yet swing himself up onto his mount.

"I must be losing my touch, then. Shame." Spoken as he does exactly what Emet-Selch doesn't just yet: clambering up across the closest stirrup to settle in easily, light and fluid as ever, given that he's dressed without either coat or cloak.

He pulls himself into the saddle with an amused little huff, at that-- cloaked as always, for his own part.

"Mayhap you ought to sharpen it further," he says with a shrug. "Or, mayhap, simply answer for its own sake."

“Mayhap, mayhap.” Spurring his horse with the lightest dig of his heels, Astarion lifts his chin so high it might very well look painful, imitating Emet-Selch down to the last precise details of his bearing. His tone.

Even his high-set voice.

“I, Emet-Selch, greatest Ascian in all unrecorded history can’t begin to confess my own curiosity without making a tiresome affair of it.”

The act drops there, though Astarion makes a note of adding, wryly:

“Admit it. You want to know what I think of your taste— and not for the sake of science.”

"You-"

He scoffs as he nudges his own horse onward to catch up, muttering, "That is nowhere near my voice," as he does.

(It is, in fact, a good imitation, but he is the last person who'll admit it.)

"And you simply want to be asked, but-- fine, then. Enlighten me, since you are so eager for it."

He preens.

Or rather he's as near to it as it comes without making a blatant show of it: sitting high in his seat, straight-backed and proud against a slowly lightening sky as dawn begins to kiss the horizon.

"Naturally," he confesses, letting the word roll off his tongue like a song. "But the difference between us is that I'm more than happy to admit it."

Thank you, Emet-Selch. This has been a delightful start to the journey ahead.

Doubly so given that all Astarion then does is spur his horse forward without offering up so much as an answer.

Oh, of course he does. It's not unexpected, but Emet-Selch still rolls his eyes as he urges his own mount onward to catch up.

"You clearly do not know shame," he says as he pulls up alongside-- again, something he knows. "But you know I hardly need ask the details to know the shape of it."

"You know I love it when you roughhouse." Astarion snaps back from over the slope of his shoulder, languid and content even as a few drifts of feather light snow flutter down in the air between them. The makings of a potentially uncomfortable trip to the northeast, if Emet-Selch hasn't fully prepared for winter's chill.

"But all right. Fine. Just to sate you."

Just this once.

"You're fire-blooded, if I had to pin it down to something vaguely definable. Sharp with either age or magic, and overwhelming to the senses for it: I didn't expect so much potency at first, nor the lingering richness that chased it." Admittedly it'd be easier for him to recall the finer details if he were sipping on a reprise right now— but that idea will have to wait.

"As for how you differ from her, I don't intend to say."

Nor who she is, for that matter.

"You love it a bit too much," he mutters half to himself at that first comment, but-- he does listen, after that, cloak drawn closer around himself to remain warm, and wonders idly if Astarion feels it any more when it snows.

As for the response itself, he simply takes it in, at first. Contemplates it-- it could certainly be either age or magic, with him, and there's no denying the hint of amusement that tugs one corner of his mouth up when Astarion admits to the unexpected potency. Little wonder, then, about the reaction that followed.

If Astarion doesn't intend to explain, then he doesn't intend to push, not this moment, but he can at least extrapolate enough from a statement like that to ask, one brow arched: "Only two of us thus far? Really?"

“What, you think I’m a glutton?” he asks, devoid of all obvious judgment as hoof beats carry them onward.

Away from Riftwatch’s eyes and ears, he’s much less hesitant to talk openly.

“I have to be cautious, darling. And much as I tease, the last thing I want is a host of local souls sporting bite marks in their throat.” His pause there is sharp. Palpable.

“—not that it’s the only thing stopping me from sipping freely, of course.”

"Hardly gluttonous, no. 'Tis only that the number seemed terribly... restricted, for your tastes."

He'd have expected Astarion to do at least a bit more than that, given his usual proclivities.

"But if it is not the only thing, then what else?"

"I don't always bite when it comes to sex. Or— well, I restrain myself from breaking skin when I do." For the record, at least, before Emet-Selch starts imagining Astarion's haunts in Kirkwall proving to be woefully dull.

And, since it's already been the talk of Hightown...

"Take Thranduil for example. His companionship was blissful to be sure, but he doesn't even know what I am." Something they'll speak of eventually, maybe, if the Elven King doesn't waste away into ash and mourning first.

"Anyway what stops me is that I'm no longer fully cursed by my former master. I don't need blood, it's simply a...luxury."

Like chocolate. Or murder.

"A luxury you keep rare, evidently. I wasn't only implicating sex."

Surely he's taken out some of the enemy-- an opportune time if there ever were one.

"But I suppose while you are keeping your nature quieter, you cannot quite do so with reckless abandon."

"Precisely."

Ever the quick study, Emet-Selch.

"How do you think it'd go over if an ally or a spy saw me chomping away in the middle of a fight?" How much leverage would someone gain through it, being able to point a finger at who Riftwatch chooses to employ. Who acts on their behalf.

No. Better to keep it close. Locked tight.

"I've had more than enough of being called an abomination already."

"I would hardly expect you to do it in the middle of the field," he says, mildly, but-- files that away. It is, at the least, an implication that he is not off murdering people in dark alleyways where this would not be a problem.

"Fair enough, however. I know as well as you do precisely how tiring it can become."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject