...he's going for it. He goes for Astarion's shoulder, settling the inside of the mask neatly on it like a stylish pallid pauldron. Astarion will feel him settle in Astarion's own being, his sense of taste whiting out into nothing and yes, his left arm will go numb up to the shoulder luckily enough.
With it will come the sense he'd talked about: John, the sense of his mood, some of his joyful wonder and the hope and happiness of Astarion letting him share like this. There is no overwhelming sense of love the way there is with some of his friends: he'd told Astarion the truth, that he cared about him as a person, but Astarion was right that he didn't love him like he did Natalie or something. They didn't know each other yet. But there is something there, the bud of something that could become that, bright and warm and fond. It's like the first time a cat decides they want to accept pettings from you, only in the center of one's self.
He'll hear John's voice inside of his head now, a little less otherworldly, a little smoother.
He'd anticipated something a little like the brief skim of connection he'd shared with other tadpole hosts, and it's not not like that, it just...keeps going. All emotion, no images. As for the numb arm, it's nothing he hasn't experienced before.
There's a sense of familiarity. Curiosity. Satisfaction. Astarion's emotions flit through his mind like birds darting over a frozen lake.
Strange, but I don't dislike it. I almost feel like I should ask if I'm comfortable.
Comfortable in the sense that a coat might be comfortable.
There's a startle of surprise that Astarion can talk to him like that; Arthur can't. He has to speak out loud to him, and that's been inconvenient more than not. But with the wonders of the tadpole have a fun unexpected result.
Astarion will feel that delight before he answers.
[Yesss.]
That is a deeply satisfied eldritch horror. Comfort filters out from him; he wouldn't keep that from Astarion.
[Don't worry; I can follow your stride after a few steps. I'll move your arm in time.]
He keeps walking. Beyond the tavern, they're approaching the waterfront.
There are storage buildings, and mechanical cranes for lifting cargo from
boats. A slight wind brings in the scent of salt. Just off the docks on its
own little island stands the Counting House, a veritable fortress of a
structure accessed via a short bridge.
Baldur's Gate is where the Chionthar meets the Sea of Swords. It's been a
wealthy trading post since it was first founded. A busy crossroads for all
Faerun's races. I don't know how the locals would feel if they learned
that their legendary Balduran was a mind flayer when he founded the city.
Astarion has never been so fluid and free with his words before, not without some weird complicated-between-them emotion and obviously never while John was being held by him. Thus just listening to his inner voice, explaining thoughtfully, is a new experience and one that John likes all by itself. Astarion can feel that simple little fact, just a fond happiness and enjoyment of his voice and being with him and doing this with him and his words and his choice to share them with him.
John is not by any means a simple creature, but he enjoys many simple things.
But there is curiousity.
[You said this was your hometown. How do you feel about it?]
Ambivalence makes his emotions grey and muddy. Fondness; fear; familiarity; hatred. He leans against a low wall, looking out onto the water, turning from grey-blue to shimmering black as the sun sets and the moon brightens.
It's home. I don't remember living anywhere else. I don't know that I would have wanted to live anywhere else, if I'd had the choice. But I'm also very much aware that I didn't.
[Is it hard that you'll have a choice when you're done here?]
Astarion had told him about his difficulty with home, however complicated his emotions are about it. He hadn't even wanted to change his cabin but he'd been so sure that he wouldn't return to his world. John isn't trying to catch him in a lie, but he is trying to understand. There's a gentle desire to comfort that filters through, like a cat settling beside you to just be with you through something.
That he'll never come back here, that he has no desire to return to the crisis he left behind. But there is one exception to that. Something dark and cold and avaricious moves under the ice. Waiting. Starving.
But if he survived the ritual and the others didn't, what then? He'd return to a pile of bodies. He can't take Cazador's place; he can't ascend. It's ruined.
You think I'm a hypocrite. I won't go home but I won't alter my quarters because they are home.
[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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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"Taste is fine."
It's not like he'd even really notice the absence while they're just out and about like this.
"And an arm, if you're able to choose."
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"It's just a flip of a coin, I suppose. Yes, that works."
He turns to face John fully, arms spread in an inviting sort of gesture.
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With it will come the sense he'd talked about: John, the sense of his mood, some of his joyful wonder and the hope and happiness of Astarion letting him share like this. There is no overwhelming sense of love the way there is with some of his friends: he'd told Astarion the truth, that he cared about him as a person, but Astarion was right that he didn't love him like he did Natalie or something. They didn't know each other yet. But there is something there, the bud of something that could become that, bright and warm and fond. It's like the first time a cat decides they want to accept pettings from you, only in the center of one's self.
He'll hear John's voice inside of his head now, a little less otherworldly, a little smoother.
[ Everything okay? ]
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...Yes. Yes, it's fine.
He'd anticipated something a little like the brief skim of connection he'd shared with other tadpole hosts, and it's not not like that, it just...keeps going. All emotion, no images. As for the numb arm, it's nothing he hasn't experienced before.
There's a sense of familiarity. Curiosity. Satisfaction. Astarion's emotions flit through his mind like birds darting over a frozen lake.
Strange, but I don't dislike it. I almost feel like I should ask if I'm comfortable.
Comfortable in the sense that a coat might be comfortable.
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Astarion will feel that delight before he answers.
[Yesss.]
That is a deeply satisfied eldritch horror. Comfort filters out from him; he wouldn't keep that from Astarion.
[Don't worry; I can follow your stride after a few steps. I'll move your arm in time.]
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Thank you.
He keeps walking. Beyond the tavern, they're approaching the waterfront. There are storage buildings, and mechanical cranes for lifting cargo from boats. A slight wind brings in the scent of salt. Just off the docks on its own little island stands the Counting House, a veritable fortress of a structure accessed via a short bridge.
Baldur's Gate is where the Chionthar meets the Sea of Swords. It's been a wealthy trading post since it was first founded. A busy crossroads for all Faerun's races. I don't know how the locals would feel if they learned that their legendary Balduran was a mind flayer when he founded the city.
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John is not by any means a simple creature, but he enjoys many simple things.
But there is curiousity.
[You said this was your hometown.
How do you feel about it?]
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That's...complicated.
Ambivalence makes his emotions grey and muddy. Fondness; fear; familiarity; hatred. He leans against a low wall, looking out onto the water, turning from grey-blue to shimmering black as the sun sets and the moon brightens.
It's home. I don't remember living anywhere else. I don't know that I would have wanted to live anywhere else, if I'd had the choice. But I'm also very much aware that I didn't.
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Astarion had told him about his difficulty with home, however complicated his emotions are about it. He hadn't even wanted to change his cabin but he'd been so sure that he wouldn't return to his world. John isn't trying to catch him in a lie, but he is trying to understand. There's a gentle desire to comfort that filters through, like a cat settling beside you to just be with you through something.
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I said what I said.
That he'll never come back here, that he has no desire to return to the crisis he left behind. But there is one exception to that. Something dark and cold and avaricious moves under the ice. Waiting. Starving.
But if he survived the ritual and the others didn't, what then? He'd return to a pile of bodies. He can't take Cazador's place; he can't ascend. It's ruined.
You think I'm a hypocrite. I won't go home but I won't alter my quarters because they are home.
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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.
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[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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oops wrong tense
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