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faderift2022-03-08 10:59 pm
illithidnapped) wrote in faderift2022-03-08 10:59 pm
Entry tags:
[CLOSED] AND YOU'LL KNOW THE NEXT TIME I WAKE UP SCREAMING
WHO: Astarion, Fenris, Bastien, Emet-Selch, Mobius, Ellie, Dante, Loki
WHAT: fear spirits are no joke when you're a bag of broken glass
WHEN: backdated to Crossroads plot hours
WHERE: the Crossroads
NOTES: so many content warnings: mind control, slavery, torture, blood, mutilation and abuse of every conceivable/literal shade, possibly more warnings to be added later, not joking this is a very horrible space. There's a reason why I'm divorcing this from the main log; Astarion's canon is, in short, unkind.
WHAT: fear spirits are no joke when you're a bag of broken glass
WHEN: backdated to Crossroads plot hours
WHERE: the Crossroads
NOTES: so many content warnings: mind control, slavery, torture, blood, mutilation and abuse of every conceivable/literal shade, possibly more warnings to be added later, not joking this is a very horrible space. There's a reason why I'm divorcing this from the main log; Astarion's canon is, in short, unkind.
source
no subject
Even if the storm has passed.
...and truth be told, he likes Mobius. A great deal more than he’s willing to let on.
So instead he only listens for a while, his fingertips finally stilling in their restless fidgeting.]
What were things like before?
[There's such longing Mobius' voice for something that must have been small, if power didn’t tempt him away from service. If overthrowing the status quo meant nothing— and Mobius hardly strikes Astarion as the oppressive sort: the kind of Templar the mages of Riftwatch so fretfully fear.
No, he doubts very much that was ever the case.
And because he wants to hear the answer, he forestalls his own.]
no subject
There's still some resistance. Doesn't care to talk about himself much, prefers to look forward, to pick at others and get them to talk about themselves instead. But now that Astarion knows-- Is there any harm in it?]
Where I was, [still neglecting the specifics, out of habit if nothing else] it was...pleasant. Our Circle didn't have the kind of now-well-known abuses that others did. You'd have some...transgressions, yeah, of course, but it-- [He takes a breath, starts again. Don't get into the nitty gritty.] At least for a Templar, on my end, it was nice. Nice city, well-stocked Circle. Clean, cared for, big library. Genuinely gorgeous library, stacked floor to ceiling. You have to understand, I was there for most of my life, barring missions elsewhere. It's what I knew. I was an established presence. Friends. Good friends, among the Templars and the mages. Occasionally exciting, mostly not. But it's where I felt I belonged.
[And that belonging was thrown out in an instant. His faith shook right up until the tipping point, and the unanswerable questions came again and again, rolled around in his head. Still do, sometimes.]
I know that's not much. [Small. He shuts his eyes and tries not to feel small, like he's about to wake up and forget everything but the Maker's light--] But we had a home, and we were doing good work, or thought we were. We weren't out in the world trying to figure out where to go; we weren't hunting mages and killing friends, weren't bickering with each other and fracturing into smaller and smaller pieces.
[He thinks that maybe they should start moving. But whatever was after them, it isn't following them. They are in the light. They are safe, in a relative manner. Take a breath, hold it, let it go.]
Your turn.
no subject
In the last two hundred years, Astarion’s found himself dreaming more and more frequently of the simplicity of so many other’s lives, resenting their steadier peace for the fact that he lacks anything similar; appreciating it because it stands as the absolute antithesis of all he’s known. Since coming to Thedas, that stands true now more than ever.
So no, he doesn’t need to be a Templar with a long lost Circle to grasp precisely what it is Mobius misses.
And he isn’t one for sympathy, but—
Well. Maybe his expression runs a little softer. His voice a little quieter. Gentler, when he exhales:]
Nine months.
[And, because he knows what’ll no doubt prove relevant to that confession:]
My master held me in binding slavery for two hundred years, before your world tore me from his side.
no subject
Possible. But is it probable?]
Did your binding include giving you teeth like that?
[Is he like his master, is the real question being asked.]
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[Low, that confirmation. Only a sliver of a breath, segueing into a subtle pause.]
His curse, passed on.
I could tell you I had no choice, and to a certain extent that was true enough: I’d been attacked on my own the night he found me, beaten to death’s very door in the street by a pack of spiteful humans. [A lone nobleman who never stood even the slightest chance, and where so much of his memory has ebbed away into nothing at all, he still remembers it vividly now. Every last painful second.
It shows, no matter how he masks it, in the stiffened lines of his expression. The wooden sound of his voice.]
I was already dying by the time he chased them off. My only chance to avoid its damning grasp was to take his offer of immortality. To let him bite me, drink what little blood I had left, and allow him to change me from an elf....into a vampire, like him. [And by now, he suspects the definition in its simplest form is obvious to a mind as sharp as Mobius’:] Red eyes. Long fangs. Eternal life— at the cost of a taste for blood, but with the benefit of power beyond any mortal’s possession.
He could command wolves. Shift into the very air itself, dominate minds and shrug off undoubtedly fatal wounds, with beauty so profound you wouldn’t be remiss in thinking he was some sort of god, if you weren’t already in the know. That is what I assumed I would be, elevated to his side. My rescuer. My merciful salvation.
[Alluring. The dream of it still clings, even now, despite how he knows better.]
But the joke was on me, of course.
In order to become a true vampire, I would’ve needed to drink his blood in turn... [The twist too obvious. The betrayal he, stupid and trusting and desperate beyond belief, never saw coming:] Cazador never intended for that to happen.
The very second my blood stained his lips, I became a vampire spawn, instead. Altered, yes, but significantly weaker. Unable to defy him— to do anything but serve his every last whim right down the last detail.
I couldn’t have bitten him no matter how much I wanted to, he made damn certain of that.
no subject
An impossible choice. And he doesn't know what kind of magic exists in this other world, what kind of prejudices if any exist against it, or against elves (although. it certainly sounds like there may be similarities.), but actively dying and being offered something that isn't death? Impossible. Part of him wants to judge, but he can't. What would he do in that situation? He has no idea.
And what of mages who choose to turn to blood, or who turn to demons, when they have fear for their lives? Mostly they choose and then fear for their lives, but sometimes, on rare occasion, it seems that there's little choice. At least in their eyes. Mostly it's power and greed and hunger and defiance. Is it fair to judge others differently? Hm.]
And do you...partake? Of blood.
[He also doesn't know what he'll do if the answer is yes. Two hundred years, and then suddenly having freedom in a whole new world, if he had gotten used to a lifestyle or has a need for it, why would he stop?]
Could you do the same to someone else? [Not would he. Just...if he possesses the power.]
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[No. A lie, but not a full one: beacause yes and no would technically be the truth regarding that first, overshadowing question, and there’s a risk in withholding the full scope of his answer, he knows—
But he’s afraid, still. A knot tangled in his stomach, twisted up like twine. Like wire. A barrier between opening the lid on shared honesty in everything, and keeping a few unsightly cards tucked in close against his own chest.
Just a few.
(He only indulges now for pleasure with those who willingly share. Or for self-defense when all the world turns dire in its cast. But what would either fact do to comfort a man that’s only ever known blood magic? Demons? Nothing. Nothing at all good...
He’s sure of it.)
So Astarion shakes his head, settling the whole of his stare on Mobius; keeping every inch of him relaxed despite everything.] And I was never permitted to feed on thinking creatures, besides. Only putrid rats or dying flies. Something to keep me repulsed in my starvation, yet still alive, and always hungry. [A short scoff, and then:] Appetizing, I know.
Still, whatever magic brought me to your world, it...changed me. [Which is true.] I kept my fangs, but my inability to dwell in sunlight? My weakness in water, my appetite for blood and my master’s binding hold— gone.
All gone.
And I was never capable of conversion, so believe me when I say you don't need to go clapping me in irons or locking me away in the nearest Chantry tower: spawn lack the capacity, and I'll prove it if it means putting any possible wariness to rest.
After all, only a true vampire is capable of adding to their cadre by amassing thralls that hang on their every whim.
no subject
He won't pick at it if Astarion won't.]
I believe you. [Quiet. Sure. About the converting, at the very least, and the details as given.] You don't have to prove anything to me.
[He can't speak for others. But this isn't about anyone else. Not right now.]
Two hundred years...and then suddenly free. Or as free as a Rifter gets. Must've been a fun adjustment period. No wonder you don't want to go back home.
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Fenris was there right from the start. [A beat, and then:]That was before his memories were stolen, of course.
He made it easier. [He still does.]
Understand that I need this world. I don’t want to leave it, for all the obvious reasons, and I’d rather not be enslaved again either— which is what every Rifter inevitably would be underneath Corypheus’ rule. And yes, I realize telling a Templar that I’ve no intention of being locked away within a Circle is absurd, but I don’t. I won’t ever be.
[No more binding tethers, no more bordering walls, no more lack of agency. Of freedom. He knows precisely what the Chantry plans to do if the war's won.
He won't have it.]
Not again.
[But that isn't aimed bitterly at Mobius. It's only honesty, ugly and coarsely cut. It falls away not long after just as Astarion's crimson stare lifts, honed in with a sharper focus.]
Regardless of all the rest, what I mean is that I’m on your side. And you’ve a weapon against me as much as you have proof that I’m not your enemy, after what you’ve just seen.
[Terrifying, that thought, to someone like Astarion. To have someone holding something so utterly fragile. An easy way to unmake him.]
I hope you realize what a massive generosity it is on my part that I’m not killing you to protect it.
no subject
[Astarion more so; he realizes this. Mobius being a Templar isn't some near-automatic death sentence, just uncomfortable, would make some people wary and others angry, and that's it. What Astarion is, the combination of things that he is, would be greeted with much more vehemency and violence.
It doesn't seem fair. This isn't about fair. It's not about equal exchange. But still. He looks at Astarion, really looks, takes in this elven man from another world whose life has been lived far too long as a whole, and too long under the unbreakable control of an actual monster. This kicked dog, this cornered wolf, who has tasted freedom and never again will allow himself to get corralled into another cage. This funny, self-assured, dangerous man.]
I can't make any promises about what'll happen when this is over. I don't know if Circles will come back, and I don't know if what Rifters can do should be classified as magic in the same way that natural-born mages are, and I don't have any future sight. But I'm not judge, jury, or executioner. Not anymore.
Used to be. You might have seen your victims in there, but I saw mine. I'll defend Templars until Andraste hears my final breath leave my chest, but I know we're not innocent. I killed people. Good people. Because someone decided they broke a rule just enough that it made them too dangerous to live. Because when everything broke loose, they all became too dangerous. I followed orders until I couldn't abide by it anymore; I had that choice. I always had a choice.
[And when you're entrenched in certain ideologies for decades, it's easy to get numb to it all. Easy to hear someone that is supposed to know better than you 'this is a blood mage' and to draw your sword against it. Easy to not think too hard or look too deep. It doesn't make him different or special that he thought too hard or looked too deep, because he still did as he was ordered, even if others thought he was too soft about it. Some didn't bother making friends or being nice or treating others with basic dignity. Some only saw themselves as a weapon begging to be used.
Doesn't make a difference now, does it?]
I'm not gonna hurt you. Not deliberately; not with this. I'm not a sword hanging over your head. I left that behind me years ago.
[He's not in the business of unmaking people. Not unless it's to build them back up to be better.
He makes to stand and holds a hand out to Astarion to help him do the same.]
We're both on the same side here, so I appreciate the whole not killing me thing.
no subject
But maybe this isn’t the time to ask that just yet.
Not when they’ve both suffered enough.
So he takes it, fingers clasped tight around an easier grip, rising to his feet with little ceremony spared outside the gesture itself. The very least he could do.] It’s a difficult sacrifice for someone like me. But I imagine I owe you, now. Just a little.
This’ll just make us even.
[Normally that’d come with a grin. Not right now, though. Not today.
All that said, though:]
I’m leaving the Crossroads. [Definitive. Decided.]
You should too.
[This place is no friend to them, and Astarion can’t stomach the thought of stumbling into another trap or grasping spirit just yet. Tired as they are. Worn thin as they are, maybe it’s better to retreat while they still can, and leave the rest to the Wardens or native elves. Hardier things.]
Be a shame if a spirit ate you right up.