[I don't.] Earnest. He doesn't. All that surrounds the words is a sense of thoughtful curiosity. [People are complicated. Homes are complicated.
I didn't know that the Barge was my home until you talked about yours. It helped me understand why the Butcher and Yellow showing up shook me so much. It felt like they were changing my home in ways that made it feel wrong and... not... my home. Even though this place isn't safe or perfect, it's where I've shaped a lot of who I am. Sometimes it hurts me but it's still home.]
...There was a little while, early on, that I was Cazador's only spawn. My 'older siblings' had been killed in the city. Probably by Jaheira, he's since learned. Then others appeared, and I should have been relieved that there were bodies other than mine to bear the burden of his...appetites. Instead, I was jealous. Possessive of my torturer. How fortunate that I remained his 'favourite'.
A drop of bitter amusement.
What I'm trying to say is that what maintains or taints a sense of 'home' isn't always...rational.
Astarion might feel the trepidation that comes with it, but it's a complicated sort of hesitance: as much about himself and who he wants to be as telling Astarion.
[...jealousy is... weird.
I'm jealous of Yellow. I told everyone how to help him, because I know, and I know that he's an inmate and he's trapped here but sometimes I get angry that he has me to understand him when I didn't get someone like that and I had to figure it out all by myself.
...still am figuring it out by myself a lot of the time.
I want to help him and I feel like I should be glad there's someone like me finally, but I'm also angry that he has someone to help him, but I'm still going to help him, but it doesn't feel fair. ]
My time on the Sword Coast was spent in the company of legendary heroes who had saved countless lives and would have killed me in the street, scant days before we met. I travelled with servants of gods and devils who paid them personal and specific attention and had never even glanced my way, no matter how loud my prayers. None of them would ever have seen me in need of understanding, never mind sympathy. Not until the worms in our brains forced them to stand where I had once stood.
The anger is still there. A low seething. A constant background hum, almost unnoticeable until attention is drawn to it.
It doesn't feel fair because it isn't fair. Make your peace with it, or don't. It won't really matter.
John can feel the answer, and Astarion will feel something rising in unison, entwined with it: anger on his behalf. He doesn't say the words, wouldn't claim that title these days, but it's still on the edge of his words: he was/is a god, or something like it, and Astarion is one of a very small number that he cares about.
Their fucking loss.
[It doesn't matter to anyone or anything else, no, because 'fairness' is just a feeling.]
The universe is random and chaotic and it doesn't care about you. He's very very aware of that.
[But that also means that making peace with it is the only thing that matters. ...not that that's easy when it sucks.
I think Yellow hates me a little. And I think I hate him a little, even if I feel other things too. I just have to get used to that.
I don't know. I think 'hate' is too strong a word for anything I ever felt for them. Or them for me. Anyway.
There's a sense of a line being drawn.
I didn't invite you in to get maudlin and resentful at you, as it happens. I wanted to show you something.
And 'something' needs them to be higher than they are. Fortunately, most of these buildings have balconies. He makes their way to one of the cargo buildings, all of which have fairly straightforward access to the roof for whatever maintenance purposes. It's an easy climb.
This isn't what I wanted to show you, but - look across the water. That's the Steel Watch Foundry. Or at least it was.
The Foundry was probably the largest building in the Lower City, dominating the Grey Harbour docks. It has been very exploded. A couple of its products, the huge Steel Watchers - suits of armour maybe three times a man's size - lie derelict on the paving stones, seemingly undamaged. There's a little fizz of satisfaction from Astarion.
...this is why he likes being with someone like this. Because he can feel that line being drawn. And rest assured that he can feel it, given his experience with Arthur.
[Oh.]
There is a palpable sense of awe and wonder and yes, when he feels Astarion's satisfaction, a kind of pride for him.
We were given the bomb by an ally, but I'm the quietest on my feet. It made sense that I would be the one to go in there and plant the thing.
Yes. Yes, he did that.
It made getting around the city a lot easier when we didn't have those things watching us.
He steps up right to the edge of the building, toes over the edge, then takes several long paces back. It has a very 'measuring up for a running jump' vibe to it.
He casts Feather Fall with a quick gesture, then takes the running leap.
The magic takes effect as they drop from the high point of the jump, wisps
of white light flickering in and out around them, bringing them over and
across the water of the harbour.
The feeling of being held and helped by magic is...difficult to describe.
Astarion knows that his ability to slip his fingers into the Weave and
manipulate it for his own purposes is inborn; the leftovers of a distant
fey heritage. He's never been without it. It feels like a kind word, a
gentle touch. Like being safely wrapped up in the very fabric of creation,
if only for a few moments.
He can feel how comfortable Astarion is which is very different from the resigned terror of Arthur making such an insane jump. That's why he doesn't yell or scream or complain; instead, there's something utterly delighted to feeling Astarion manipulate the Weave, use his magic and his talents. It's a little like listening to Arthur recite poetry or the few times he's heard him play the piano. He's silent, just soaking it in and enjoying it for what it is.
The fall is less than a minute long, but in the slow drift it feels like
more. He lands delicately on the harbour stones across the water from the
cargo warehouse, just outside the wreckage of the Foundry.
That's what I wanted to show you. It's hard to describe something
I can just...do, more or less.
Oh there's a glow inside, warm and delighted and fond. It's small but unmistakable. He feels very... honored is a little too formal of a word. But he feels good and a kind of special for getting to experience it with him.
He hopes Astarion sticks around long enough once he's graduated to let John do something similar.
You're welcome. As for the spell catalogue, I've only the one left to show you. Mirror what I do with my arm.
He holds up the hand he can control, waits for John to do the same and then casts Shocking Grasp, wreathing his hands and forearms in electrical sparks. The sensation is like static dancing across the skin.
I have to be within reach of my target, but this is less damaging than the firebolt. It can leave a person stunned rather than cooked.
John is very well practiced at working in sync, especially when it comes to things where there's muscle memory, and there's another burst of bright, childish glee at seeing the purple sparks.
[ There's something that can do this in the Dreamlands! ...not that that one wasn't trying to cook us.
It is. Although if I'm close enough to use it, we're closer to a fair fight than I'd like.
He releases the spell, the electricity fizzing away to nothing - then turns away from the water. Looking back uphill to the silhouettes of larger, grander buildings above them.
Where we started, the house overlooking the park - that's Cazador's palace. Convenient for him. It faced onto the Upper City for attendees to his grand parties, but the other spawn and I could easily slip through the back doors and into the Lower City, to hunt.
There's no emotion accompanying the words, besides a slight tinge of disgust.
Not in the time I knew him. He was a known figure in the city - considered
a little odd, reclusive, but by elven standards he wasn't old enough to be
suspicious. He had his reputation to consider. If one person saw something
strange at a social event, he could do something about it. If a rumour
spread that he was stalking beautiful young people in the night, well,
that's a little different.
He wants to maintain his power, his influence, his wealth. He needs to be
among his peers for that. But if anyone knew enough about him to understand
what he is, the palace would be up in flames within hours.
There's no paradox, to Astarion's mind. Knowledge is power; why would
Cazador give any of his own away?
To what end, though? That's the part he keeps getting caught on. Those with power don't hide themselves, in his own experience. They bend the world around them.
Not that he cares about Astarion worrying about it. Cazador is not Astarion's to worry about, other than as a danger and thankfully not now.
He turns away, walking along the waterfront, letting John see the boats in
the water. At the end of the dock is a temple, mostly open to the elements;
at its heart is a statue of a horned woman with tentacles from the waist
down, commanding a pack of huge sea serpents.
The Water Queen's House. The oldest temple in the city. I told you about
Umberlee, didn't I?
[Hmmm. I think so? She's one of the gods who fucked off on helping you, right?]
He will take a long time to look at the statue and Astarion might feel the enjoyment of a beautiful thing, the way he's examining all the facets of the statue itself.
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I didn't know that the Barge was my home until you talked about yours. It helped me understand why the Butcher and Yellow showing up shook me so much. It felt like they were changing my home in ways that made it feel wrong and... not... my home. Even though this place isn't safe or perfect, it's where I've shaped a lot of who I am. Sometimes it hurts me but it's still home.]
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A home is like that.
...There was a little while, early on, that I was Cazador's only spawn. My 'older siblings' had been killed in the city. Probably by Jaheira, he's since learned. Then others appeared, and I should have been relieved that there were bodies other than mine to bear the burden of his...appetites. Instead, I was jealous. Possessive of my torturer. How fortunate that I remained his 'favourite'.
A drop of bitter amusement.
What I'm trying to say is that what maintains or taints a sense of 'home' isn't always...rational.
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[...jealousy is... weird.
I'm jealous of Yellow. I told everyone how to help him, because I know, and I know that he's an inmate and he's trapped here but sometimes I get angry that he has me to understand him when I didn't get someone like that and I had to figure it out all by myself.
...still am figuring it out by myself a lot of the time.
I want to help him and I feel like I should be glad there's someone like me finally, but I'm also angry that he has someone to help him, but I'm still going to help him, but it doesn't feel fair. ]
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Astarion chuckles out loud, quiet and humourless.
My time on the Sword Coast was spent in the company of legendary heroes who had saved countless lives and would have killed me in the street, scant days before we met. I travelled with servants of gods and devils who paid them personal and specific attention and had never even glanced my way, no matter how loud my prayers. None of them would ever have seen me in need of understanding, never mind sympathy. Not until the worms in our brains forced them to stand where I had once stood.
The anger is still there. A low seething. A constant background hum, almost unnoticeable until attention is drawn to it.
It doesn't feel fair because it isn't fair. Make your peace with it, or don't. It won't really matter.
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Their fucking loss.
[It doesn't matter to anyone or anything else, no, because 'fairness' is just a feeling.]
The universe is random and chaotic and it doesn't care about you. He's very very aware of that.
[But that also means that making peace with it is the only thing that matters. ...not that that's easy when it sucks.
I think Yellow hates me a little. And I think I hate him a little, even if I feel other things too. I just have to get used to that.
Do you think yours is something like that?]
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I don't know. I think 'hate' is too strong a word for anything I ever felt for them. Or them for me. Anyway.
There's a sense of a line being drawn.
I didn't invite you in to get maudlin and resentful at you, as it happens. I wanted to show you something.
And 'something' needs them to be higher than they are. Fortunately, most of these buildings have balconies. He makes their way to one of the cargo buildings, all of which have fairly straightforward access to the roof for whatever maintenance purposes. It's an easy climb.
This isn't what I wanted to show you, but - look across the water. That's the Steel Watch Foundry. Or at least it was.
The Foundry was probably the largest building in the Lower City, dominating the Grey Harbour docks. It has been very exploded. A couple of its products, the huge Steel Watchers - suits of armour maybe three times a man's size - lie derelict on the paving stones, seemingly undamaged. There's a little fizz of satisfaction from Astarion.
no subject
[Oh.]
There is a palpable sense of awe and wonder and yes, when he feels Astarion's satisfaction, a kind of pride for him.
[You did that?]
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We were given the bomb by an ally, but I'm the quietest on my feet. It made sense that I would be the one to go in there and plant the thing.
Yes. Yes, he did that.
It made getting around the city a lot easier when we didn't have those things watching us.
He steps up right to the edge of the building, toes over the edge, then takes several long paces back. It has a very 'measuring up for a running jump' vibe to it.
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[That's amazing!]
100% genuine.
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It is.
He casts Feather Fall with a quick gesture, then takes the running leap. The magic takes effect as they drop from the high point of the jump, wisps of white light flickering in and out around them, bringing them over and across the water of the harbour.
The feeling of being held and helped by magic is...difficult to describe.
Astarion knows that his ability to slip his fingers into the Weave and manipulate it for his own purposes is inborn; the leftovers of a distant fey heritage. He's never been without it. It feels like a kind word, a gentle touch. Like being safely wrapped up in the very fabric of creation, if only for a few moments.
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The fall is less than a minute long, but in the slow drift it feels like more. He lands delicately on the harbour stones across the water from the cargo warehouse, just outside the wreckage of the Foundry.
That's what I wanted to show you. It's hard to describe something I can just...do, more or less.
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Oh there's a glow inside, warm and delighted and fond. It's small but unmistakable. He feels very... honored is a little too formal of a word. But he feels good and a kind of special for getting to experience it with him.
He hopes Astarion sticks around long enough once he's graduated to let John do something similar.
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You're welcome. As for the spell catalogue, I've only the one left to show you. Mirror what I do with my arm.
He holds up the hand he can control, waits for John to do the same and then casts Shocking Grasp, wreathing his hands and forearms in electrical sparks. The sensation is like static dancing across the skin.
I have to be within reach of my target, but this is less damaging than the firebolt. It can leave a person stunned rather than cooked.
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[ There's something that can do this in the Dreamlands! ...not that that one wasn't trying to cook us.
Looks useful! ]
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It is. Although if I'm close enough to use it, we're closer to a fair fight than I'd like.
He releases the spell, the electricity fizzing away to nothing - then turns away from the water. Looking back uphill to the silhouettes of larger, grander buildings above them.
Where we started, the house overlooking the park - that's Cazador's palace. Convenient for him. It faced onto the Upper City for attendees to his grand parties, but the other spawn and I could easily slip through the back doors and into the Lower City, to hunt.
There's no emotion accompanying the words, besides a slight tinge of disgust.
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[ So he never hunted himself? ]
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Not in the time I knew him. He was a known figure in the city - considered a little odd, reclusive, but by elven standards he wasn't old enough to be suspicious. He had his reputation to consider. If one person saw something strange at a social event, he could do something about it. If a rumour spread that he was stalking beautiful young people in the night, well, that's a little different.
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oops wrong tense
He wants to maintain his power, his influence, his wealth. He needs to be among his peers for that. But if anyone knew enough about him to understand what he is, the palace would be up in flames within hours.
There's no paradox, to Astarion's mind. Knowledge is power; why would Cazador give any of his own away?
Re: oops wrong tense
Not that he cares about Astarion worrying about it. Cazador is not Astarion's to worry about, other than as a danger and thankfully not now.
[I'm glad you didn't lose your home, then.]
That's all he can say about that.
Re: oops wrong tense
Likewise.
He turns away, walking along the waterfront, letting John see the boats in the water. At the end of the dock is a temple, mostly open to the elements; at its heart is a statue of a horned woman with tentacles from the waist down, commanding a pack of huge sea serpents.
The Water Queen's House. The oldest temple in the city. I told you about Umberlee, didn't I?
Re: oops wrong tense
He will take a long time to look at the statue and Astarion might feel the enjoyment of a beautiful thing, the way he's examining all the facets of the statue itself.
But he's also thinking of something else.
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They all did. But she's the only one I dressed as for a Halloween party.
Brief amusement.
What's on your mind, John?
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Why not? Might as well ask.
[...wanna blow it up too?]
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