TLV: IC Contact

[sixfeetofdirt]

Careful; I bite.

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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.

[greatoldjohn]

[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.

[sixfeetofdirt]

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.

[greatoldjohn]

[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.]

[sixfeetofdirt]

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.

[greatoldjohn]

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. ]

[sixfeetofdirt]

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.

[greatoldjohn]

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.

Do you think yours is something like that?]

[sixfeetofdirt]

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.