[It's an odd thing, admittedly. All of it, that is: the nature of defying nature— wherein great beasts capable of crushing bone between their jaws fall prey to things like simple silver. Powdered ironvine. Wooden sticks. Something of the Old World in it, Astarion always suspected. Tales of ancient spinsters stealing children, their efforts strangely thwarted by a lock of hair or a bit of straw; the changelings and their regal courts, bargaining with mortal souls just so that they'll come and dance.
Doesn't really hold up in a world where invitations are as simple as flicking a wrist.
Current invitation found by way of a single smile, pale fingers nesting in an open palm— before he strides in and knocks the door shut behind him with an agile heel.]
Good boy. [Such rumbling praise. Low and throaty and given as tribute in the process of wrapping his hand around the base of Leto's jaw— kissing him for a few beats, letting overlong fangs lead without cutting, precise as he is in their avaricious work. Neither hand letting go until he's had his fill of touch—
And sucked in air through his nose to shake off the budding urge to bite.]
Knew you'd get it right.
[Like no one else could being the part that goes unsaid.
Oh yes, but it's an odd thing, monstrous weakness. A trite thing, in all reality. A novel thing, with far too much stock put in it, besides. For there were times Astarion would kneel and watch within high-drawn halls as Cazador beguiled his devoted flock— the living and unliving alike— letting it sink in just what an inviolable landmark the man was: no monster hunter could've strolled in with whip or sword in hand and hoped to get within five feet of his master. They'd have been dead on approaching the gates, likely betrayed by their own kind. People flitted to Cazador Szarr, bled for him— did so much worse for him, all for the gravity of his stare to turn their way for a minute. Two. And even in suffering, Astarion hadn't been any different. Obedient and tuck-tailed at his heels, always trying to lap from those fingers like somehow it might save him (he knows better now): you can't squeeze love from hateful stone, no matter what it tells you.
No matter how its hands feel smoothing across your face.
And that knowledge rubs elbows with another, related truth:]
Anyway, no sunlight, like you said.
So much as a drop and I'll be ashes in minutes. Seconds. [He'd heard the screams without seeing them; makes it hard to gauge where howls stop and the echoes begin.] No running water— though the very nature of water means that it all qualifies, and thus burns like scorching acid to the touch. No wooden stakes to the heart [he adds, pulling the bloodied tool from his back pocket, waving it, and then pacing over to rest it on a nearby table.] you've seen firsthand how that one goes. And closing out on things already witnessed now, I can't enter a home without an invitation.
Mm. That last one was always tricky to figure out the reason for. My best guess is that it's a cosmic metaphor— you know, crossing the threshold between death and life. But the debate on that subject is eternally heated.
[And speaking of controversy:]
Most important is that the older and truer the vampire, the less all those rules apply.
Cazador could walk through water and barely feel the hiss of it; he would burn to death if left outside in full daylight— but you'd need to keep him in it for a good long while before that happens, and from what I've heard, you'd need to theoretically stake a vampire lord in his coffin while already weakened for it to have any sort of near-fatal effect.
no subject
Doesn't really hold up in a world where invitations are as simple as flicking a wrist.
Current invitation found by way of a single smile, pale fingers nesting in an open palm— before he strides in and knocks the door shut behind him with an agile heel.]
Good boy. [Such rumbling praise. Low and throaty and given as tribute in the process of wrapping his hand around the base of Leto's jaw— kissing him for a few beats, letting overlong fangs lead without cutting, precise as he is in their avaricious work. Neither hand letting go until he's had his fill of touch—
And sucked in air through his nose to shake off the budding urge to bite.]
Knew you'd get it right.
[Like no one else could being the part that goes unsaid.
Oh yes, but it's an odd thing, monstrous weakness. A trite thing, in all reality. A novel thing, with far too much stock put in it, besides. For there were times Astarion would kneel and watch within high-drawn halls as Cazador beguiled his devoted flock— the living and unliving alike— letting it sink in just what an inviolable landmark the man was: no monster hunter could've strolled in with whip or sword in hand and hoped to get within five feet of his master. They'd have been dead on approaching the gates, likely betrayed by their own kind. People flitted to Cazador Szarr, bled for him— did so much worse for him, all for the gravity of his stare to turn their way for a minute. Two. And even in suffering, Astarion hadn't been any different. Obedient and tuck-tailed at his heels, always trying to lap from those fingers like somehow it might save him (he knows better now): you can't squeeze love from hateful stone, no matter what it tells you.
No matter how its hands feel smoothing across your face.
And that knowledge rubs elbows with another, related truth:]
Anyway, no sunlight, like you said.
So much as a drop and I'll be ashes in minutes. Seconds. [He'd heard the screams without seeing them; makes it hard to gauge where howls stop and the echoes begin.] No running water— though the very nature of water means that it all qualifies, and thus burns like scorching acid to the touch. No wooden stakes to the heart [he adds, pulling the bloodied tool from his back pocket, waving it, and then pacing over to rest it on a nearby table.] you've seen firsthand how that one goes. And closing out on things already witnessed now, I can't enter a home without an invitation.
Mm. That last one was always tricky to figure out the reason for. My best guess is that it's a cosmic metaphor— you know, crossing the threshold between death and life. But the debate on that subject is eternally heated.
[And speaking of controversy:]
Most important is that the older and truer the vampire, the less all those rules apply.
Cazador could walk through water and barely feel the hiss of it; he would burn to death if left outside in full daylight— but you'd need to keep him in it for a good long while before that happens, and from what I've heard, you'd need to theoretically stake a vampire lord in his coffin while already weakened for it to have any sort of near-fatal effect.
In short: superstitions might work on me, but....
He's a terror.
....and I'm....
[Well.]
A different sort of terror.