TLV: IC Contact

[sixfeetofdirt]

Careful; I bite.

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[sixfeetofdirt]

"It has its charms," Astarion permits.

His former comrades who hadn't seen the city before were either aggressively unimpressed by everything (Lae'zel) or slightly dismayed by cities in general (Halsin). Before then, his marks had usually been in the city for at least long enough to get the first impression out of the way. Seeing the city anew through the eyes of someone who's never seen its like is...something.

"We can take a walk, if you want; I can demonstrate my talents along the way. I assume the Barge has never stopped in a place like this?"

[greatoldjohn]

"Not yet, no," he says, though he takes a moment to consider. But no, nothing quite like this.

And it's obvious that John is distracted by all the little things: the little line of pennants between two stalls, the lattice of wood that makes up a railing, in the distance the shape of the Blushing Mermaid. His robes are swaying as he aborts movements to look here or there.

"If that's all right. A walk would be... nice."

He wants to see! Everything!

[sixfeetofdirt]

"Then let's meander our way down towards the docks," Astarion decides. "The Upper City is above us, it's...fine. Rather ostentatious. I didn't spend much time there after I was turned. This way."

His first choice of spell is Misty Step: he vanishes mid-pace and reappears about thirty feet away, at the gateway into the park.

[greatoldjohn]

John startles at that before zooming to catch up immediately and it's absolutely a childlike glee.

"That's amazing! You were there and then you weren't!"

[sixfeetofdirt]

Astarion finds himself smiling. It's...sweet, almost, to find him so fascinated by something that his world has rendered positively mundane.

"Useful for getting out of a tight spot, in my experience. And as for things that weren't there..."

His next trick is a familiar summons, a raven which emerges into being near his shoulder and settles atop a nearby stonework.

"It's a fey creature. A spirit in animal form."

As he moves to keep walking away from the park and into the city, the bird follows in steady wingbeats, staying close.

[greatoldjohn]

"I can see!" he says, floating around the raven, looking at it from one side and then the other. He's just as fascinated as he was with the Misty Step, maybe even more so.

"You even gave it a form. It's a small spirit, but still a powerful spell. Does your friend have a name?"

this is canon so presumably edgar allan poe exists i

[sixfeetofdirt]

"Quoth," Astarion says, with a faint smile. "There are other forms - cats, spiders, frogs, rats."

He does not summon rats.

"Personally, if I've nowhere to hide then I prefer having a familiar who can blind an opponent."

Ehdgar Alyn Pohe, of course

[greatoldjohn]

"That makes sense! It would be very useful."

There were times, back when he was the King, that he could summon creatures like that.

"...remind me to show you a byakhee sometime."

For another time! It's not like it's something can do right now.

"What else?"

Verbal bounce verbal bounce verbal bounce.

Re: Ehdgar Alyn Pohe, of course

[sixfeetofdirt]

"Let me see."

They pass by the Blushing Mermaid, with its various nautical features. The place is normally rather raucous, particularly compared to more staid venues like the Elfsong, and it's strange to see it just...empty. Even at the very edge between night and morning, there were at least a few patrons stumbling out into the gloom.

He looks around. There's a brazier not far away, on the deck of outdoor seating, for the comfort of its patrons. Firebolt, then.

"Ignis-"

The flaming mote bursts from his hand, catching at the wood and coals in the metal bowl.

Re: Ehdgar Alyn Pohe, of course

[greatoldjohn]

"Fire!!!"

There's a cackle of glee at that. That's so neat!

"Do it again!" And then, getting a handle on himself. "Er, please. Astarion. If you don't mind."

[sixfeetofdirt]

"Oh, we're a fan of that one?"

He casts it again, into mid-air this time, showing its range. It's twilight here and the flame is vivid in the darkening sky.

"I should really ask - do you have any tricks up your sleeve, so to speak?"

[greatoldjohn]

He takes a moment to watch the flames with obvious delight before he shakes it off and answers.

"Oh. No. I don't really have much of anything like this. This is just a projection, after all. If I tried to take up the fullness of my power-

"...let's just say Arthur wouldn't be able to handle it. He's handled me like this already better than most things do. I'd rather not test it and hurt him permanently."

A pause.

"...I can hide things in a place that most beings on board can't even see, let alone reach into. If you ever need me to hide something for you, I can do that."

He considers again.

"And if I touch someone with my mask, I possess one of their senses and I'll end up with one of their limbs as well. It's been helpful a few times in an emergency, but mostly I do it with friends. It's the best way to spend time with someone."

He has and never will suggest it with Astarion. Astarion has had his body taken over and commanded by something already. He won't even trust him to help him with most things; that level of trust is lightyears away yet.

[sixfeetofdirt]

However, Mr. No Personal Boundaries over here simply looks curious.

"Is it? What makes it better than just...talking to them?"

[greatoldjohn]

"They can get a sense of my expression. Like a smile or a frown you can feel. The mask doesn't really... convey much. And I'm not very good at reading body language or facial expressions. That kind of feeling tells me a lot better how someone means something. Sometimes I can't tell otherwise. Faces are... not actually something I'm used to."

A pause.

"For most people, there's a big difference between text on the communicators and meeting in person. That's the best comparison I can make. Things feel more real."

[sixfeetofdirt]

"I see."

He makes a small beckoning gesture.

"Come on, then. You'll still be able to see, won't you?"

[greatoldjohn]

Oh he's not sure.

But...

He didn't ask. He didn't put pressure on Astarion. And maybe this will help them. It's Astarion's choice. And he'd never hurt him if he could help it. It's letting him in a little.

He'll take it.

"I will, yes. I still have sight and hearing. Hearing is just vibration so I can always pick that up. And I always have Arthur's eyes. It's complicated, how it works exactly, but how about if I take taste from you? That's usually the easiest for people. Sound good?"

[sixfeetofdirt]

"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."

[greatoldjohn]

"Unfortunately no," he admits, "but I can just pop off and try again if I get a leg. That work?"

[sixfeetofdirt]

"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.

[greatoldjohn]

...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.

[ Everything okay? ]

[sixfeetofdirt]

...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.

[greatoldjohn]

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.]

[sixfeetofdirt]

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.

[greatoldjohn]

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?]

[sixfeetofdirt]

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.