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[ Oh.
Thus two additional considerations emerge. Firstly, has the horn of flirtatious chicken sounded?
Usually people he's pegged for feigned interest back down once offers for a kiss and a cuddle hit the table, weeding out those who don't appreciate being threatened with a good time (close encounters with mangy peasants). He'd taken a gamble, allowing the possibility for scenarios to exist in which Astarion does not simply come within proximity to warm bodies and dementor-peck them or some such, but in so doing had bet on this not being something Astarion would want to hear and not much farther ahead than that.
Not to say he's told a strict lie himself, but... Blood and ashes. Is this bastard trying to bluff him on making good on come-ons as he bluffs him?
... well.
It's only really a bluff if he's unable or unwilling to back it up. And the prevalent factors that typically would dissuade him—heads being torn from bodies, puffed-up imperiousness, temperaments too obnoxious to bother with (Moiraine, most people in the Two Rivers), sneering insincerity (when the most stunning woman nature and the One Power ever created sizes you up like a prize pig, you do not go there and some people should really take that wisdom)—have not quite made this supposed checklist as yet.
Well, peacocking, maybe. ]
I suppose there's a reason some people wear socks to bed.
Just stay away from me with those cold feet.
[ The second consideration brings him back a step to mathlady.gif over vampire physiology a moment more. Right. Undead blood circulation. So when a boy vampire and a girl vampire or any combination therein like each other very much, how do they... ? Can they? The usual flushed and frisky way or does generating some heat involve part of the... work?
Thank everything he and his stirrings of embarrassment drifting back toward this line of thinking are safely at a distance, do not perceive him. ]
Do you feel cold? To yourself, I mean. Is that uncomfortable?
Thus two additional considerations emerge. Firstly, has the horn of flirtatious chicken sounded?
Usually people he's pegged for feigned interest back down once offers for a kiss and a cuddle hit the table, weeding out those who don't appreciate being threatened with a good time (close encounters with mangy peasants). He'd taken a gamble, allowing the possibility for scenarios to exist in which Astarion does not simply come within proximity to warm bodies and dementor-peck them or some such, but in so doing had bet on this not being something Astarion would want to hear and not much farther ahead than that.
Not to say he's told a strict lie himself, but... Blood and ashes. Is this bastard trying to bluff him on making good on come-ons as he bluffs him?
... well.
It's only really a bluff if he's unable or unwilling to back it up. And the prevalent factors that typically would dissuade him—heads being torn from bodies, puffed-up imperiousness, temperaments too obnoxious to bother with (Moiraine, most people in the Two Rivers), sneering insincerity (when the most stunning woman nature and the One Power ever created sizes you up like a prize pig, you do not go there and some people should really take that wisdom)—have not quite made this supposed checklist as yet.
Well, peacocking, maybe. ]
I suppose there's a reason some people wear socks to bed.
Just stay away from me with those cold feet.
[ The second consideration brings him back a step to mathlady.gif over vampire physiology a moment more. Right. Undead blood circulation. So when a boy vampire and a girl vampire or any combination therein like each other very much, how do they... ? Can they? The usual flushed and frisky way or does generating some heat involve part of the... work?
Thank everything he and his stirrings of embarrassment drifting back toward this line of thinking are safely at a distance, do not perceive him. ]
Do you feel cold? To yourself, I mean. Is that uncomfortable?
Edited 2023-10-31 11:32 (UTC)
[ It does seem as though the horn of flirtatious chicken, as it were, is becoming more of a siren, wailing as they get close to having to deal with any real consequences and quieting as they find their respective ways of veering back into more lower-stakes banter, so that neither of them have to admit to bluffing at all. At the very least, it makes it very clear to the both of them that they're dealing with kindred spirits insomuch as an ability to bullshit to the nth degree.
And, luckily, through a text exchange, he has no expression by which to gauge Mat's thoughts — best to leave such questions until they become truly relevant, anyway. ]
I can feel warmth, in others, but I don't feel cold, myself.
[ It'd likely be more apt to say that any such discomfort is vastly outweighed by the discomfort of vampiric hunger, but, in fairness, if he stops to think about it, it's not as though he's constantly shivering in his boots. But that's not a very appealing sort of thing to learn about, especially not where flirtation is concerned, and so Astarion elects to keep that to himself, at least for now. Who wants to hear, oh, and also, I feel a constant, all-consuming hunger that can only be temporarily sated by human blood? No one.
More importantly, that's not why he's jumped into this conversation to begin with, and he doesn't really want to leave any room for the impression that it is. ]
Maybe it did make me uncomfortable, once, but ... two hundred years is ample time to get used to almost anything.
And, luckily, through a text exchange, he has no expression by which to gauge Mat's thoughts — best to leave such questions until they become truly relevant, anyway. ]
I can feel warmth, in others, but I don't feel cold, myself.
[ It'd likely be more apt to say that any such discomfort is vastly outweighed by the discomfort of vampiric hunger, but, in fairness, if he stops to think about it, it's not as though he's constantly shivering in his boots. But that's not a very appealing sort of thing to learn about, especially not where flirtation is concerned, and so Astarion elects to keep that to himself, at least for now. Who wants to hear, oh, and also, I feel a constant, all-consuming hunger that can only be temporarily sated by human blood? No one.
More importantly, that's not why he's jumped into this conversation to begin with, and he doesn't really want to leave any room for the impression that it is. ]
Maybe it did make me uncomfortable, once, but ... two hundred years is ample time to get used to almost anything.
[ Two centuries and change? That's probably not older than socks, but maybe older than Moiraine. There are likely better reflexive responses than to laughingly file these insights away thinking by the Light, he is a damn grandpa—
But there it is: old. ]
They do say feeling cold happens as you age.
[ Listen, at no point did he promise, outwardly or inwardly, that as he keeps the door to an open mind propped ajar, in good faith seeing what sort of sum amounts from Astarion's parts, he was going to do so without recurrent heckling. The art of juggling requires balancing many balls.
And it helps, perhaps outwardly and inwardly, to rub out some of the plaintive sting from the shadowed subtleties revealed by his answer. Vampiric children's stories don't really expound on if it must be a difficult or sad thing, for the one who had gone from once living to chilled flesh, light to dark, free to obeisance to strange superstitions like invitations. Even if they pass across his mind, he follows his own personal policy to avoid sentiments that he, himself, would find shrug-worthy to hear: that sounds more than uncomfortable, that sounds hard; that sounds awful. ]
Lucky for you, people perfectly alive who feel like ice blocks all year round exist. You're hardly alone there.
[ In terms of finding companionship for himself, surely. Touch. Repellent for use in shooting down cuddling jests, sure, but in reality odds are he must not find it a dealbreaker. It's just thought exercises all around today. ]
Not such a bad move, you know. Blankets. Bundling close for warmth. The ambient heat of a still living heart, steamy but not sweaty. They pull it off in the romances.
But there it is: old. ]
They do say feeling cold happens as you age.
[ Listen, at no point did he promise, outwardly or inwardly, that as he keeps the door to an open mind propped ajar, in good faith seeing what sort of sum amounts from Astarion's parts, he was going to do so without recurrent heckling. The art of juggling requires balancing many balls.
And it helps, perhaps outwardly and inwardly, to rub out some of the plaintive sting from the shadowed subtleties revealed by his answer. Vampiric children's stories don't really expound on if it must be a difficult or sad thing, for the one who had gone from once living to chilled flesh, light to dark, free to obeisance to strange superstitions like invitations. Even if they pass across his mind, he follows his own personal policy to avoid sentiments that he, himself, would find shrug-worthy to hear: that sounds more than uncomfortable, that sounds hard; that sounds awful. ]
Lucky for you, people perfectly alive who feel like ice blocks all year round exist. You're hardly alone there.
[ In terms of finding companionship for himself, surely. Touch. Repellent for use in shooting down cuddling jests, sure, but in reality odds are he must not find it a dealbreaker. It's just thought exercises all around today. ]
Not such a bad move, you know. Blankets. Bundling close for warmth. The ambient heat of a still living heart, steamy but not sweaty. They pull it off in the romances.
Edited (correct a typo, make a new typo, so it goes) 2023-11-01 07:11 (UTC)
[ there's the unfortunate but very real chance that rand would take any comments about his own mulish hardheadedness as a point of pride, if not a compliment. two rivers folk are famed for their stubbornness; and even if rand isn't a two rivers man by birth, he is one by upbringing. that has to count for something, he thinks. it has to count. whatever else he may be, by birth or destiny, the two rivers will always be home.
(which is why, of course, he will never see it again. but better a home you can cherish in your heart, if nothing else, than none at all.)
but he listens carefully, anyway, to astarion's explanation. he keeps his eyes on astarion's face, nodding, eyes slightly narrowed in thought. it makes sense, in a funny way, why he apparently the needs the blood of a human. at least — the water comparison makes sense. in another way, it makes no sense at all. how should the blood of beasts be any different from human blood? it is all...well. it's all blood, isn't it? but if astarion had told true about the deeds of a person affecting the flavor of their blood, then it sort of adds up. maybe.
more to the point, astarion's giving far too much detail for this to be some elaborate ruse. rand isn't a suspicious person by nature; he's learned it through hard experience. he can't imagine what astarion would get out of lying about this, anyway. there are easier ways to get a taste of rand's blood, willingly even. and the promise of being gentle has a half-smile tugging at his mouth, sincere and rueful and fond all at once. ]
I'm ready.
[ he'll crane his neck if that's what astarion moves in to bite — everything he knows about vampires suggests they prefer the neck — so it's easier to get to. and as for the taste,
how to describe the nature of a ta'veren such at this one, of the dragon reborn? on the one hand, there's rand — sweet-natured, inclined to quiet living, loyal to a fault, stubborn as stone, quick to put himself between others and harm, and slow to admit the harm he takes. but on the other hand there's the dragon reborn — brimming with channeling potential, bright with the searing Light that has filled his veins time and again, and will yet until he dies. he burns like the sun, but there's the aftertaste of something wrong and rancid, the slow build of poisoned saidin from repeated exposure. and there's something else too. there's lews therin, faintly, and previous lives fainter still. but lews therin kinslayer saw the utopia around him crack and dissolve into a drawn-out and brutal war, was betrayed and did betray until some of those he loved best turned to the shadow, and the end of his life was so steeped in madness and blood and anguish that the echoes shape into nightmares that shake rand awake most nights.
how much of that translates into flavor for astarion? hard to say. but rand al'thor is likely to taste memorable, if nothing else. ]
(which is why, of course, he will never see it again. but better a home you can cherish in your heart, if nothing else, than none at all.)
but he listens carefully, anyway, to astarion's explanation. he keeps his eyes on astarion's face, nodding, eyes slightly narrowed in thought. it makes sense, in a funny way, why he apparently the needs the blood of a human. at least — the water comparison makes sense. in another way, it makes no sense at all. how should the blood of beasts be any different from human blood? it is all...well. it's all blood, isn't it? but if astarion had told true about the deeds of a person affecting the flavor of their blood, then it sort of adds up. maybe.
more to the point, astarion's giving far too much detail for this to be some elaborate ruse. rand isn't a suspicious person by nature; he's learned it through hard experience. he can't imagine what astarion would get out of lying about this, anyway. there are easier ways to get a taste of rand's blood, willingly even. and the promise of being gentle has a half-smile tugging at his mouth, sincere and rueful and fond all at once. ]
I'm ready.
[ he'll crane his neck if that's what astarion moves in to bite — everything he knows about vampires suggests they prefer the neck — so it's easier to get to. and as for the taste,
how to describe the nature of a ta'veren such at this one, of the dragon reborn? on the one hand, there's rand — sweet-natured, inclined to quiet living, loyal to a fault, stubborn as stone, quick to put himself between others and harm, and slow to admit the harm he takes. but on the other hand there's the dragon reborn — brimming with channeling potential, bright with the searing Light that has filled his veins time and again, and will yet until he dies. he burns like the sun, but there's the aftertaste of something wrong and rancid, the slow build of poisoned saidin from repeated exposure. and there's something else too. there's lews therin, faintly, and previous lives fainter still. but lews therin kinslayer saw the utopia around him crack and dissolve into a drawn-out and brutal war, was betrayed and did betray until some of those he loved best turned to the shadow, and the end of his life was so steeped in madness and blood and anguish that the echoes shape into nightmares that shake rand awake most nights.
how much of that translates into flavor for astarion? hard to say. but rand al'thor is likely to taste memorable, if nothing else. ]
Edited (lord god this got long dslkfj) 2023-11-02 00:01 (UTC)
[ For what it's worth, he appreciates the avoidance of any real sentiment, if only because he wouldn't know what to do with it beyond pretend that sympathy isn't necessary. (The opposite is true, of course — he wants to be reached out to — but that's something he's yet to really admit to himself, given the relatively short period he's had to be free of Cazador's immediate influence.) Heckling is easier to deal with, to respond to, because he knows how to ford that particular stream, has grown so comfortable with it — and the act of flirtation — that anything else feels unsettlingly alien. Some people experience arrested development and others get turned into vampire spawn when they're thirty-nine ... same thing.
It's not particularly fun to talk about, either — nothing dampens a conversation like discussing being beaten to death and subsequently diving head-first into two centuries of enslavement.
So: ]
Blankets, or the company of a hot-blooded young thing like you — not the worst options I've ever been presented with.
[ Hot-blooded being slightly more pointed in this context, even if he doesn't mean it as such. ]
I wouldn't have taken you for a romantic.
[ In the same way that most wouldn't assume as much about Astarion, really, despite the fact that he is ultimately susceptible to such things. ]
I suppose I've a little ground to recover if I'm to be anything close to a dashing prince.
It's not particularly fun to talk about, either — nothing dampens a conversation like discussing being beaten to death and subsequently diving head-first into two centuries of enslavement.
So: ]
Blankets, or the company of a hot-blooded young thing like you — not the worst options I've ever been presented with.
[ Hot-blooded being slightly more pointed in this context, even if he doesn't mean it as such. ]
I wouldn't have taken you for a romantic.
[ In the same way that most wouldn't assume as much about Astarion, really, despite the fact that he is ultimately susceptible to such things. ]
I suppose I've a little ground to recover if I'm to be anything close to a dashing prince.
[ Sincere, rueful, fond — Astarion can't begin to understand any of it, or perhaps he's simply unwilling to confront his metaphorical reflection in the face of such traits, lest it dig up his weakness for that brand of heroism. He's long buried that part of him, not just for his childhood predisposition for tales of bravery — strange that he should remember that, and so little else — and for the punishment he'd incurred the one time he'd indulged it after being turned. (A full year sealed inside a tomb, starving but unable to die, months spent scratching at the stone around him until his fingers bled. There's nothing, no one, for which he'd suffer that again.)
But two centuries' worth of stubborn compartmentalization means that the flicker in the vampire spawn's gaze is only momentary, giving way to a smile as Rand offers him his neck. He seems almost confident as he draws close, raising a hand to gently cup the back of Rand's head, the better to support him as he bares his fangs— and bites.
For Rand, the sensation will manifest as a brief flash of pain; twin needles, cold as ice, pricking his flesh. It lasts only a moment before subsiding, fading into a heady sort of numbness. For Astarion—
—from the first second Rand's blood fills his mouth, he feels as though he's been struck by lightning. He flinches, even, though it's not quite enough to get him to pull away immediately. There's a little of what he expects — the taste of something sweet, easily palatable, inviting — but Rand's blood tastes rich. He doesn't know how to process it all, the sharpness of the Light (a degree of power he's never encountered — had avoided, in a sense, given his mortal aversion to the sun), and then—
(—too much too dark too heavy sour madness lives upon lives upon lives lived and taken and—)
—when he pulls back, it's not nearly as smoothly as he's been thus far. Rather, it's like he's been slapped (as much for how unexpected this has all been as to avoid the temptation to keep drinking), a hand quickly rising to his face to brush away the red that remains on his lips. The rise and fall of his chest is quick for how composed he tries to seem, a glint in his eyes conveying both an immediate surprise and renewed interest. There's nothing for him to compare the taste to, besides knowing that he's never, ever tasted anything like it before. It's too late, he supposes, to pretend that he isn't surprised, so, pointedly: ]
Normally, I'd start with a thank you, but ... well, let's just say I assumed I'd always be the less forthcoming of the two of us.
But two centuries' worth of stubborn compartmentalization means that the flicker in the vampire spawn's gaze is only momentary, giving way to a smile as Rand offers him his neck. He seems almost confident as he draws close, raising a hand to gently cup the back of Rand's head, the better to support him as he bares his fangs— and bites.
For Rand, the sensation will manifest as a brief flash of pain; twin needles, cold as ice, pricking his flesh. It lasts only a moment before subsiding, fading into a heady sort of numbness. For Astarion—
—from the first second Rand's blood fills his mouth, he feels as though he's been struck by lightning. He flinches, even, though it's not quite enough to get him to pull away immediately. There's a little of what he expects — the taste of something sweet, easily palatable, inviting — but Rand's blood tastes rich. He doesn't know how to process it all, the sharpness of the Light (a degree of power he's never encountered — had avoided, in a sense, given his mortal aversion to the sun), and then—
(—too much too dark too heavy sour madness lives upon lives upon lives lived and taken and—)
—when he pulls back, it's not nearly as smoothly as he's been thus far. Rather, it's like he's been slapped (as much for how unexpected this has all been as to avoid the temptation to keep drinking), a hand quickly rising to his face to brush away the red that remains on his lips. The rise and fall of his chest is quick for how composed he tries to seem, a glint in his eyes conveying both an immediate surprise and renewed interest. There's nothing for him to compare the taste to, besides knowing that he's never, ever tasted anything like it before. It's too late, he supposes, to pretend that he isn't surprised, so, pointedly: ]
Normally, I'd start with a thank you, but ... well, let's just say I assumed I'd always be the less forthcoming of the two of us.
[ unsure of what to expect, rand breathes in sharply when he feels that cold spark of pain at his neck. for half a second, he thinks it feels terrible; but then it dulls, growing less unpleasant, and a shiver runs down his spine. he doesn't exactly relax against astarion's hand, but he's less tense sooner than he would've expected.
and he isn't so lost to numbness that he misses that flinch. rand has, of course, no way of knowing what it is that astarion can taste in him. but he knows enough about what he is, and what he was, and what he will be — and astarion has so thoroughly explained just what it is that determines the taste of blood — that he can begin to guess. the thoughts remain hazy, half-formed, while astarion drinks his fill; and, in truth, a part of him needs to concentrate on not channeling, by accident, in this moment. his control is — poor, at the best of times. his control is worse when he's hurt or threatened.
but he isn't hurt, not really, and he refuses to entertain the idea of astarion as a threat. blood-drinker he may be, but friendly acquaintance he remains. friendly enough that rand would never, ever forgive himself for slipping and hurting him, no matter how accidental.
so it's a relief when astarion pulls away without incident. he breathes out, slow, raising a hand to his neck. he finds the punctures by touch, pressing his palm to his throat, and keeps his eyes on astarion. in some ways, what he sees is what he expects to see. the fact that astarion had flinched when biting him; how abruptly he draws back; the rapid breathing; the plain surprise. how long until that surprise becomes revulsion? can't be long, surely. ]
You don't have to thank me. [ he tests a small shake of his head, is pleased when it doesn't make him too dizzy. ] I suppose I don't have any reason to disbelieve you now.
[ rand holds himself as if braced for a blow to land at any moment. more than that — he knows one is coming, and has accepted it as inevitable. for the best, even, you might say. it wasn't so long ago that he walked away from his loved ones as safer without him, and more recent happenings have done little but exemplify the danger that always circles him. it doesn't occur to him to feel dismay about the confirmation that astarion really is some kind of vampire, because it doesn't really change rand's perception of him. and because rand grew up on more frightening tales of mad channelers and dragons who broke the world than vampires gobbling up naughty children. ]
and he isn't so lost to numbness that he misses that flinch. rand has, of course, no way of knowing what it is that astarion can taste in him. but he knows enough about what he is, and what he was, and what he will be — and astarion has so thoroughly explained just what it is that determines the taste of blood — that he can begin to guess. the thoughts remain hazy, half-formed, while astarion drinks his fill; and, in truth, a part of him needs to concentrate on not channeling, by accident, in this moment. his control is — poor, at the best of times. his control is worse when he's hurt or threatened.
but he isn't hurt, not really, and he refuses to entertain the idea of astarion as a threat. blood-drinker he may be, but friendly acquaintance he remains. friendly enough that rand would never, ever forgive himself for slipping and hurting him, no matter how accidental.
so it's a relief when astarion pulls away without incident. he breathes out, slow, raising a hand to his neck. he finds the punctures by touch, pressing his palm to his throat, and keeps his eyes on astarion. in some ways, what he sees is what he expects to see. the fact that astarion had flinched when biting him; how abruptly he draws back; the rapid breathing; the plain surprise. how long until that surprise becomes revulsion? can't be long, surely. ]
You don't have to thank me. [ he tests a small shake of his head, is pleased when it doesn't make him too dizzy. ] I suppose I don't have any reason to disbelieve you now.
[ rand holds himself as if braced for a blow to land at any moment. more than that — he knows one is coming, and has accepted it as inevitable. for the best, even, you might say. it wasn't so long ago that he walked away from his loved ones as safer without him, and more recent happenings have done little but exemplify the danger that always circles him. it doesn't occur to him to feel dismay about the confirmation that astarion really is some kind of vampire, because it doesn't really change rand's perception of him. and because rand grew up on more frightening tales of mad channelers and dragons who broke the world than vampires gobbling up naughty children. ]
[ Same thing, same hat, same native language for the untenable tickle to the sensibilities that is compassion. And words alone so often fail to reach the deep wounds that have been licked and licked and protectively guarded—and who wants to feel pitied, even if just by the threat of it?
No, he doesn't pity Astarion.
Cracking open the empathy door, though? That's a dangerous gateway drug for the sentiment-skirters in the crowd. Got to keep an eye on that. ]
A hot-blooded young thing like me. 🌹🌹🌹 [ Colorfully embellished echo directly correlating to the amount of amusement being awarded the designation. ] Well, now you've done it. You can't go around saying that and expect me to hare off from a challenge. What are the best ones to warm you up?
[ Hope you like blanket burritos. ]
Who doesn't like a little cuddle and romance?
[ By his rather one-way definition of romancing—a favored gambit plucked from his tool belt of charms. Gestures performed to enjoy others' company for a spell, however brief and fleeting. When one is not an elven head-turner and has serious doubts about character and desirability to surpass, one must carve out a skill set to stand apart from the redheads with immaculate cheekbones and blacksmiths made out of shyness and muscle. Climbing into a thorn bush to pick flowers to entice eyes to him is worth the effort for the days or weeks indulging in a bit of playing around.
Being romanced doesn't fit the same equation. Now you're just drifting into his flirt lane. What's he supposed to do with dashes or princes? Once one of those enters the ring, it's gg. They're all anyone can pay attention to at that point. ]
That's all right, not my type. Although I can certainly recommend one or two people who might be into it. I'm not sure I could pull off the stockings for a damsel, myself.
[ What happens when two people with slightly tarnished prince routines encounter each other in the wild? Do they cancel each other out? Lock antlers and spin each other around, each leading with their left foot? Brandish bouquets of flowers instead of knives?
Perhaps if you ain't first, you're last and confused because you both tried to surprise the other at their house at the same time. ]
No, he doesn't pity Astarion.
Cracking open the empathy door, though? That's a dangerous gateway drug for the sentiment-skirters in the crowd. Got to keep an eye on that. ]
A hot-blooded young thing like me. 🌹🌹🌹 [ Colorfully embellished echo directly correlating to the amount of amusement being awarded the designation. ] Well, now you've done it. You can't go around saying that and expect me to hare off from a challenge. What are the best ones to warm you up?
[ Hope you like blanket burritos. ]
Who doesn't like a little cuddle and romance?
[ By his rather one-way definition of romancing—a favored gambit plucked from his tool belt of charms. Gestures performed to enjoy others' company for a spell, however brief and fleeting. When one is not an elven head-turner and has serious doubts about character and desirability to surpass, one must carve out a skill set to stand apart from the redheads with immaculate cheekbones and blacksmiths made out of shyness and muscle. Climbing into a thorn bush to pick flowers to entice eyes to him is worth the effort for the days or weeks indulging in a bit of playing around.
Being romanced doesn't fit the same equation. Now you're just drifting into his flirt lane. What's he supposed to do with dashes or princes? Once one of those enters the ring, it's gg. They're all anyone can pay attention to at that point. ]
That's all right, not my type. Although I can certainly recommend one or two people who might be into it. I'm not sure I could pull off the stockings for a damsel, myself.
[ What happens when two people with slightly tarnished prince routines encounter each other in the wild? Do they cancel each other out? Lock antlers and spin each other around, each leading with their left foot? Brandish bouquets of flowers instead of knives?
Perhaps if you ain't first, you're last and confused because you both tried to surprise the other at their house at the same time. ]
Edited 2023-11-03 11:53 (UTC)
[ Surprise shifts into— uncertainty, at worst, curiosity, at best. But nothing close to revulsion or any similar impulse to turn tail. Rather, Astarion seems to settle, leaning back on his elbows as he continues to look at Rand, a slight furrow forming in his brow.
It'd be easier for him to simply think he'd been duped if not for the fact that he's just had a taste of his blood. It's not unlike coming across a text in a language he doesn't know how to read; illustrations help demonstrate the broader points, but the finer details are lost upon him, indecipherable without someone else's assistance or knowledge. As scant as his experience with feeding upon humans may be, he still knows there's something else going on with the would-be shepherd. (And it all does serve to shed a sliver of light upon their previous discussion of the nature of souls.) ]
You're—
[ He laughs, hesitates, then tries again. (He can see the line of tension in Rand's shoulders, and as much as he'd deny it if pressed, it makes him feel almost guilty. The petty part of him wants to say, well, why, it's not as though I've done anything wrong, but that's not the issue, is it? The issue is that he can see that this is something that's changed the flow of Rand's life, that there must be a reason why someone who has otherwise demonstrated themselves to be incredibly, painfully honest would keep a secret.
And it's a little bit of quid pro quo, isn't it — just as much as Rand wants to avoid hurting Astarion, materially or otherwise, the opposite holds true as well.) ]
You're more complicated than I'd thought, [ is what he settles on, which he feels to be about as diplomatic as possible. ] Shall I inquire further? Or would you prefer we both pretend nothing to be out of the ordinary?
[ Normally, he'd insist upon an explanation — and he does want to know, desperately, exactly why Rand's blood tastes the way that it does — but, in the interest of equivalent exchange, a respite from interrogation is what he'll offer in return for a meal. He doesn't take that lightly, despite how carefree Rand had seemed upon arriving. The world doesn't exactly look kindly upon vampire spawn, let alone the idea of baring one's neck. ]
It'd be easier for him to simply think he'd been duped if not for the fact that he's just had a taste of his blood. It's not unlike coming across a text in a language he doesn't know how to read; illustrations help demonstrate the broader points, but the finer details are lost upon him, indecipherable without someone else's assistance or knowledge. As scant as his experience with feeding upon humans may be, he still knows there's something else going on with the would-be shepherd. (And it all does serve to shed a sliver of light upon their previous discussion of the nature of souls.) ]
You're—
[ He laughs, hesitates, then tries again. (He can see the line of tension in Rand's shoulders, and as much as he'd deny it if pressed, it makes him feel almost guilty. The petty part of him wants to say, well, why, it's not as though I've done anything wrong, but that's not the issue, is it? The issue is that he can see that this is something that's changed the flow of Rand's life, that there must be a reason why someone who has otherwise demonstrated themselves to be incredibly, painfully honest would keep a secret.
And it's a little bit of quid pro quo, isn't it — just as much as Rand wants to avoid hurting Astarion, materially or otherwise, the opposite holds true as well.) ]
You're more complicated than I'd thought, [ is what he settles on, which he feels to be about as diplomatic as possible. ] Shall I inquire further? Or would you prefer we both pretend nothing to be out of the ordinary?
[ Normally, he'd insist upon an explanation — and he does want to know, desperately, exactly why Rand's blood tastes the way that it does — but, in the interest of equivalent exchange, a respite from interrogation is what he'll offer in return for a meal. He doesn't take that lightly, despite how carefree Rand had seemed upon arriving. The world doesn't exactly look kindly upon vampire spawn, let alone the idea of baring one's neck. ]
[ Astarion isn't a stranger to being pursued — his beauty had been the primary tool in his arsenal as a hunter, an easy lure — but it certainly feels a little funny taking this particular form; not purely earnest (or lustful) pursuit, but a beating around the metaphorical bush that rings quite close to his own approach to the world. A front made up of charm, smoke and mirrors, sleight of hand for the sake of both stunning its audience and drawing attention away from the machinations behind it.
That said, he doesn't expect Mat to really have any ulterior motive in this other than a good time, as precariously close to the edge of genuine sentiment they might come. It doesn't not feel like trying to outfox one's own reflection, stumped at each new turn by the fact that they've essentially taken the same step — an endless game of one offering the other the chance to go through a doorway first.
(And what is he supposed to do with that?)
On top of all that, it doesn't escape him that Mat has generally maneuvered around anything deeper than, "Aren't I a scamp," without breaking a sweat. ]
So, no to the archetypal dashing prince, but at least a maybe to the bloodsucking monster. It must be my lucky day.
[ It's a little bit of self-effacement — he resents being referred to as a monster and has started fights over less. He trusts, implicitly, that it's not a line of joking that Mat will try to follow. ]
And don't try to pawn me off already, or I might take umbrage. I seem to recall you saying you're not one to share.
That said, he doesn't expect Mat to really have any ulterior motive in this other than a good time, as precariously close to the edge of genuine sentiment they might come. It doesn't not feel like trying to outfox one's own reflection, stumped at each new turn by the fact that they've essentially taken the same step — an endless game of one offering the other the chance to go through a doorway first.
(And what is he supposed to do with that?)
On top of all that, it doesn't escape him that Mat has generally maneuvered around anything deeper than, "Aren't I a scamp," without breaking a sweat. ]
So, no to the archetypal dashing prince, but at least a maybe to the bloodsucking monster. It must be my lucky day.
[ It's a little bit of self-effacement — he resents being referred to as a monster and has started fights over less. He trusts, implicitly, that it's not a line of joking that Mat will try to follow. ]
And don't try to pawn me off already, or I might take umbrage. I seem to recall you saying you're not one to share.
[ Advantages in tactical experience and the full 360 degree view of both pursued and pursuer, possibly, if not luck. One of them hasn't been pursued in his entire blighted life; it's enough to have him walking in circles under his own perplexed steam looking behind him, trying to figure out what's nipping at his tail.
With every question dodged on the other end, he seems a step closer to feeling out the outer boundaries to the other's teases, like being blindfolded in a completely dark room and left to map out an unknown shape with hands out. He's been pushing those boundaries on purpose—waiting for fissures of impatience to breach an act, as he can say with confidence he's more used to people wanting something they're beating around the bush to get to, when the princess sweeps in with her best charming smile seeking favours and appeals to his vanity.
Instead of terms, Astarion dangles loose threads—curious loose threads he wants to tug on to see where they go. If he would just kindly stop handing out motive, imagine the time saved writing each other off, but no! ]
Will he go dancing with me?
[ This hypothetical sharp-toothed somebody, whatever he's into roleplaying in the bedroom, no judgment.
Now that sharp tongue, though... ]
No, no, no—I wouldn't dream of holding you back, is all. Far be it for me to get in the way if you have a taste and a type for curvy women, say.
[ Speaking of what's known to draw Mat's attention in a crowded tavern. ]
With every question dodged on the other end, he seems a step closer to feeling out the outer boundaries to the other's teases, like being blindfolded in a completely dark room and left to map out an unknown shape with hands out. He's been pushing those boundaries on purpose—waiting for fissures of impatience to breach an act, as he can say with confidence he's more used to people wanting something they're beating around the bush to get to, when the princess sweeps in with her best charming smile seeking favours and appeals to his vanity.
Instead of terms, Astarion dangles loose threads—curious loose threads he wants to tug on to see where they go. If he would just kindly stop handing out motive, imagine the time saved writing each other off, but no! ]
Will he go dancing with me?
[ This hypothetical sharp-toothed somebody, whatever he's into roleplaying in the bedroom, no judgment.
Now that sharp tongue, though... ]
No, no, no—I wouldn't dream of holding you back, is all. Far be it for me to get in the way if you have a taste and a type for curvy women, say.
[ Speaking of what's known to draw Mat's attention in a crowded tavern. ]
Edited 2023-11-04 02:31 (UTC)
[ rand, who had taken the bite quietly, flinches at the first syllable out of astarion's mouth — and is immediately infuriated with himself for it. he can only hope astarion misses it for the uncertain laugh, the attempts at deciding just what to say. of all the stupid instinctive reactions. he's learning the cost of vulnerability, when he is what he is, but not quickly enough. not well enough. astarion has no interest in hurting him — he's made that much clear, is making it clear even as he tries to speak with care — but rand ought to know better, is all. he does know better. there's no safety anywhere for the dragon reborn; and he is not, himself, safe. there will always be a monster in the room, when he's in it.
so he could almost laugh at being called complicated. it is diplomatic. it's gentle, in truth, just as astarion had promised, and so is the question. he's beyond grateful for the offer. it is incredibly kind. there's nothing in the whole world he wants more than to pretend nothing is out of the ordinary.
he says, ]
You may as well ask what you're wondering.
[ there's nothing sharp in his tone. after a moment, he'll even meet astarion's eyes, a hand still pressed to the bite marks, and then shrug. they will need to have this conversation sooner or later, won't they? there's no real reason not to do it now. rand brought this on himself by hearing out astarion's entire explanation about what drinking blood feels like, and then offering his own neck. he doesn't regret the given meal — at least, he doesn't if astarion doesn't, and he's still not convinced either way of that — but he does regret that it had clearly revealed more than he'd meant to. whatever astarion knows now, however vague, it can't be un-known. rand can wish he'd had better foresight, but if wishes were wings. ]
so he could almost laugh at being called complicated. it is diplomatic. it's gentle, in truth, just as astarion had promised, and so is the question. he's beyond grateful for the offer. it is incredibly kind. there's nothing in the whole world he wants more than to pretend nothing is out of the ordinary.
he says, ]
You may as well ask what you're wondering.
[ there's nothing sharp in his tone. after a moment, he'll even meet astarion's eyes, a hand still pressed to the bite marks, and then shrug. they will need to have this conversation sooner or later, won't they? there's no real reason not to do it now. rand brought this on himself by hearing out astarion's entire explanation about what drinking blood feels like, and then offering his own neck. he doesn't regret the given meal — at least, he doesn't if astarion doesn't, and he's still not convinced either way of that — but he does regret that it had clearly revealed more than he'd meant to. whatever astarion knows now, however vague, it can't be un-known. rand can wish he'd had better foresight, but if wishes were wings. ]
— Yes.
[ a sigh of approval, at surface level; a deeper vow, buried within, with all of the heft of a binding oath. it doesn't subscribe itsef to the same possession that lives within i belong to you, or words like mine and yours and ours, better used for objects and valuables. they know better than to stake those claims upon one another as though seizing territory, have too freshly begun to unclasp their chains to long for another fetter so soon. instead, it's a weighted choice by her hand, a single word that agrees i belong with you, the way birds flock to their own and wolves demand a pack. or, perhaps, more dramatically: the way night can't exist without day, moonlight without sunlight, lungs without air.
what a thing it is to be loved, to have a home of her own making — to decide where it is she belongs, rather than be told her place in this world. her chest burns with it, with the wrenching force of the sounds pulled from her throat, uncertain if it's the bespelled nature of his words or her overwrought senses that pushes her so quickly over the edge. (he'd been right, as it turns out, to think a word as sentimental as love could sway even the most resilient hearts.) she's still pulsing around his finger in tight, frantic waves when she tugs upon his hand, a silent come here —
— that she takes into her own hands, regardless of how quickly (or otherwise) he adheres to her demand. her legs cinch around his shoulders to flip him underneath her with relatively smooth ease, a rare show of strength without violence to drive it. (a new use of it, for her.) a pronounced pause follows, splintered only by her half-flustered little smile as it beams down at him, before she begins her descent — a panther-esque crawl that sees her land in his lap, unabashed by the damp stain her arousal marks into the front of his trousers.
what she wants to ask is is this okay, is this good? — a search for reassurance that's lost, in the hungry press of her mouth, something half-starved in the nature of her kiss. but that's the thing, about having a first taste of something forbidden; it's only awoken her greed, drawn attention to that famished ache in the pit of her chest that wants — that wants, that permits it of herself. when she pulls away, it's only by centimeters, each syllable breathed into him, ]
Again. [ a mere, intoxicated whisper of a word. old, battleworn callouses catch on his skin as she frames his face with the cup of her palms. ] Tell me again.
[ a sigh of approval, at surface level; a deeper vow, buried within, with all of the heft of a binding oath. it doesn't subscribe itsef to the same possession that lives within i belong to you, or words like mine and yours and ours, better used for objects and valuables. they know better than to stake those claims upon one another as though seizing territory, have too freshly begun to unclasp their chains to long for another fetter so soon. instead, it's a weighted choice by her hand, a single word that agrees i belong with you, the way birds flock to their own and wolves demand a pack. or, perhaps, more dramatically: the way night can't exist without day, moonlight without sunlight, lungs without air.
what a thing it is to be loved, to have a home of her own making — to decide where it is she belongs, rather than be told her place in this world. her chest burns with it, with the wrenching force of the sounds pulled from her throat, uncertain if it's the bespelled nature of his words or her overwrought senses that pushes her so quickly over the edge. (he'd been right, as it turns out, to think a word as sentimental as love could sway even the most resilient hearts.) she's still pulsing around his finger in tight, frantic waves when she tugs upon his hand, a silent come here —
— that she takes into her own hands, regardless of how quickly (or otherwise) he adheres to her demand. her legs cinch around his shoulders to flip him underneath her with relatively smooth ease, a rare show of strength without violence to drive it. (a new use of it, for her.) a pronounced pause follows, splintered only by her half-flustered little smile as it beams down at him, before she begins her descent — a panther-esque crawl that sees her land in his lap, unabashed by the damp stain her arousal marks into the front of his trousers.
what she wants to ask is is this okay, is this good? — a search for reassurance that's lost, in the hungry press of her mouth, something half-starved in the nature of her kiss. but that's the thing, about having a first taste of something forbidden; it's only awoken her greed, drawn attention to that famished ache in the pit of her chest that wants — that wants, that permits it of herself. when she pulls away, it's only by centimeters, each syllable breathed into him, ]
Again. [ a mere, intoxicated whisper of a word. old, battleworn callouses catch on his skin as she frames his face with the cup of her palms. ] Tell me again.
[ Frankly, the conversation's gone past the length Astarion would typically entertain, despite (or perhaps because of) Mat's habit of pushing back. He doesn't feel uncomfortable or nervous about it, per se, just a little uncertain. There's nothing he really stands to gain out of this interaction, as far as he can tell, and it's hardly as though he wants to jump head-first into an affair, either. (Trust doesn't come easily enough to him, and as for an actual desire for physical intimacy— well, it's complicated.)
With all that in mind, it's difficult to account for his willingness to play along, or the fondness with which he engages in it. But the fact that they're both circling as opposed to showing their hands tells him that, perhaps, what trust he is willing to put in Mat isn't misplaced. ]
If you asked.
[ Yet another challenge, yet another dare, though Astarion finds that he extends it without much agonizing at all. He's tempted to ask if that's what Mat genuinely would find to be a good time, but he keeps the thought to himself, both for the sake of keeping his message appropriately mysterious and because he doesn't want to give off the impression that it'd be a bad thing. ]
Oh, I think I've heard of this tactic before: "It's not you, it's me"? More to the point, don't let me clip your wings either, my dear.
With all that in mind, it's difficult to account for his willingness to play along, or the fondness with which he engages in it. But the fact that they're both circling as opposed to showing their hands tells him that, perhaps, what trust he is willing to put in Mat isn't misplaced. ]
If you asked.
[ Yet another challenge, yet another dare, though Astarion finds that he extends it without much agonizing at all. He's tempted to ask if that's what Mat genuinely would find to be a good time, but he keeps the thought to himself, both for the sake of keeping his message appropriately mysterious and because he doesn't want to give off the impression that it'd be a bad thing. ]
Oh, I think I've heard of this tactic before: "It's not you, it's me"? More to the point, don't let me clip your wings either, my dear.
[ If the 200+ year old vampire with a thirst for human blood is doubtful about raising the stakes on this game of chicken and duelling big talk, his casual acceptance conceals it with the utmost aplomb. Well then. He's still coming like the koolaid man blasting through every opportunity to take an out—not an ounce of surrender. A summons to contest against Mat's available moves, another square of space on a board eaten up.
Consequently, the always somewhat hyper-nervous human who, not long ago, would've claimed zero interest in looking out for the welfare of his soft, supple neck or in puffed-up popinjays, is made to pause and realize—has he talked him into talking himself into talking the other into a date? All signs point to: it seems... so?
Some might make of this a sign and an off-ramp to second thoughts' disengagement, but there's a particular point of no return for people of his stock and jerky-dry crust. A one-directional cattle chute triggering in the hindbrain so the only possible means of walking backward the laws of physical will allow is doing so while facing the Creator and all the gods. One way to go and that's onward and upward.
A gamble, then, as much as a game board. A toss of the dice, no way of telling how they'll fall. ]
All right, then. Consider me asking. Would you care to take a spin with me sometime, Astarion?
[ As well it seems he might have been snagged on a point of contradiction, greedy infatuation and its antithesis in freewheeling unconstraint, but in someone with shades of covetous and addictive layered into the whole, who has had nothing to keep or covet, the two aren't mutually exclusive. One should be avoided in favor of the other, that's just a matter of sense. ]
I could be mad jealous of whoever catches your eye but I'm not fool enough to think I could keep it.
[ A pause, then in consideration of where they started and where they've got off to, a sprig more parsing: ]
If it were that, those sorts of things are better said plainly. I'd lay it out like it is, and I'd hope you'd do the same. False hopes about what you're getting and having are what bring on the sore feelings.
Consequently, the always somewhat hyper-nervous human who, not long ago, would've claimed zero interest in looking out for the welfare of his soft, supple neck or in puffed-up popinjays, is made to pause and realize—has he talked him into talking himself into talking the other into a date? All signs point to: it seems... so?
Some might make of this a sign and an off-ramp to second thoughts' disengagement, but there's a particular point of no return for people of his stock and jerky-dry crust. A one-directional cattle chute triggering in the hindbrain so the only possible means of walking backward the laws of physical will allow is doing so while facing the Creator and all the gods. One way to go and that's onward and upward.
A gamble, then, as much as a game board. A toss of the dice, no way of telling how they'll fall. ]
All right, then. Consider me asking. Would you care to take a spin with me sometime, Astarion?
[ As well it seems he might have been snagged on a point of contradiction, greedy infatuation and its antithesis in freewheeling unconstraint, but in someone with shades of covetous and addictive layered into the whole, who has had nothing to keep or covet, the two aren't mutually exclusive. One should be avoided in favor of the other, that's just a matter of sense. ]
I could be mad jealous of whoever catches your eye but I'm not fool enough to think I could keep it.
[ A pause, then in consideration of where they started and where they've got off to, a sprig more parsing: ]
If it were that, those sorts of things are better said plainly. I'd lay it out like it is, and I'd hope you'd do the same. False hopes about what you're getting and having are what bring on the sore feelings.
Edited 2023-11-06 13:12 (UTC)
[ If Astarion could hear Rand describe himself that way — a monster — he'd laugh until his ribs hurt. He's seen true ugliness and, for all that Rand's blood sketches out the picture something too titanic to be easily contained, the young man certainly isn't it. (And to call Rand a monster would be to damn himself to the appellation — a monster by dint of what exists in his blood rather than by his own choices and actions.)
But, for now, all that he offers is a quizzical gaze, willing as ever to accept an invitation but made a little more hesitant by Rand's manner. It clearly makes him uncomfortable — he's suffered for it, that much is evident — but, like his vampirism, it does feel like a hump they'll have to surmount sooner or later. And as he knows full well, what really matters is less the telling of it than how it's received. ]
I'm almost afraid I don't know how to ask the right question, [ he begins, ] "Why does your blood taste like that?" Let alone the fact that I doubt you know what your own blood tastes like— [ other than the typical iron tang that non-vampires can register, which doesn't count ] —it seems ... too simple.
[ Another pause, before Astarion seems to settle on trying for as light a touch as possible. ]
Well, how about this, then—
[ He fixes his gaze upon Rand, intent but hardly interrogatory. ]
Who are you?
But, for now, all that he offers is a quizzical gaze, willing as ever to accept an invitation but made a little more hesitant by Rand's manner. It clearly makes him uncomfortable — he's suffered for it, that much is evident — but, like his vampirism, it does feel like a hump they'll have to surmount sooner or later. And as he knows full well, what really matters is less the telling of it than how it's received. ]
I'm almost afraid I don't know how to ask the right question, [ he begins, ] "Why does your blood taste like that?" Let alone the fact that I doubt you know what your own blood tastes like— [ other than the typical iron tang that non-vampires can register, which doesn't count ] —it seems ... too simple.
[ Another pause, before Astarion seems to settle on trying for as light a touch as possible. ]
Well, how about this, then—
[ He fixes his gaze upon Rand, intent but hardly interrogatory. ]
Who are you?
[ Were he a wiser man, he'd cut the whole thing off now, consider it a fun little exercise in flirting with no strings attached now that hunting isn't a priority, and move on. But he doesn't. Perhaps it's because of the petty part of himself that refuses to follow the rules as dictated to him, or out of simple curiosity as to what will come next, or a desire to keep playing the game.
The latter scenario isn't impossible — an actual ask brings their game of chicken to an impasse, but only one that will last until they next meet. Can he wheedle Mat into being the one to suggest a second date, will they ever broach the topic of genuine affection, etc.
Then again, perish the thought, but perhaps it's because he actually wants to go. ]
I would. Name the time and the place, and I'll be there.
[ And perhaps — not so divorced from any of the former hypotheticals — there's something about Mat's general earnestness (try as he might not to be) that makes the idea of being pursued appealing. At the very least, he hasn't been scared off by the fact that he's a vampire spawn; that's not nothing. ]
Don't sell yourself so short. That's my job, I think.
[ And as for that last point, somewhat harder for Astarion to brook without outright admitting that he simply loves to never give a straight answer to anything: ]
I suppose it doesn't cost me anything to promise you that much, though I won't go so far as to say it's the least I can do.
But you have my answer, on both fronts, now.
The latter scenario isn't impossible — an actual ask brings their game of chicken to an impasse, but only one that will last until they next meet. Can he wheedle Mat into being the one to suggest a second date, will they ever broach the topic of genuine affection, etc.
Then again, perish the thought, but perhaps it's because he actually wants to go. ]
I would. Name the time and the place, and I'll be there.
[ And perhaps — not so divorced from any of the former hypotheticals — there's something about Mat's general earnestness (try as he might not to be) that makes the idea of being pursued appealing. At the very least, he hasn't been scared off by the fact that he's a vampire spawn; that's not nothing. ]
Don't sell yourself so short. That's my job, I think.
[ And as for that last point, somewhat harder for Astarion to brook without outright admitting that he simply loves to never give a straight answer to anything: ]
I suppose it doesn't cost me anything to promise you that much, though I won't go so far as to say it's the least I can do.
But you have my answer, on both fronts, now.
[ light, he wishes he knew the answer to that.
(it's a funny thing. he can easily hold both thoughts in his head at once: that astarion is no monster simply for the vampiric influences upon him, and that rand is one for being born with the spark. that if it had been mat, as they'd feared, then he would've still been nothing to flinch from.)
there's a huff of a laugh, bitter and mirthless, as he turns that question over in his mind. there was a time not very long ago when he could've answered: sheepherder from the two rivers, son to tam and kari al'thor, no one of any real import. but that was before the trolloc attack on winternight; that was before he found out he'd been born to a stranger during the blood snow; that was before he'd begun to channel; that was before the eye of the world, before falme. ]
What do you know, [ he starts, slow, before meeting that curious gaze, ] about the Dragon Reborn?
[ (in a way, there's no contradiction at all. rand can't recognize himself anymore, but he hates what he sees. the same can't be said for what he sees of astarion, vampire spawn or no.) ]
(it's a funny thing. he can easily hold both thoughts in his head at once: that astarion is no monster simply for the vampiric influences upon him, and that rand is one for being born with the spark. that if it had been mat, as they'd feared, then he would've still been nothing to flinch from.)
there's a huff of a laugh, bitter and mirthless, as he turns that question over in his mind. there was a time not very long ago when he could've answered: sheepherder from the two rivers, son to tam and kari al'thor, no one of any real import. but that was before the trolloc attack on winternight; that was before he found out he'd been born to a stranger during the blood snow; that was before he'd begun to channel; that was before the eye of the world, before falme. ]
What do you know, [ he starts, slow, before meeting that curious gaze, ] about the Dragon Reborn?
[ (in a way, there's no contradiction at all. rand can't recognize himself anymore, but he hates what he sees. the same can't be said for what he sees of astarion, vampire spawn or no.) ]
[ How did they get here? Looking back, he had presumed them to be on one of two paths, either "is he going to murder me" or "is he voting me off hypothetical bedmate island by mere cosmetic virtue of looks and will I wonder about that more than a responsible adult should." And now the unanticipated third path arises: RSVP to a rendezvous, sans musings about vampiric bed habits with the close quarters potential for murder.
Yet— He's come out with dividends for the casting of lots, compelling him to sit up straighter. Already smiling unconsciously in anticipation at this unexpected—but not objectionable—fork in the road that unanswered questions does little to dampen.
He can't count it a loss, certainly. Fair to say on his personal scale of most "least fun" to "most fun" ways to pass an evening, death via exsanguination is at the bottom, while dicing games and filling too-empty beds with company float near the top. But going out for a bit of revelry with company? It ranks about even—differing thrills, equivalent rewards. In spite of it being his thrown gauntlet, only in facing he's locked in to making it happen does a surge of eagerness follow. Truthfully, he does quite like dancing. They could have a good time? Doing something... normal. Light, it's been a while since he's had so much as the opportunity for it. And even if a creature of the night currently with a tadpole in his brain had designs to be some manner of tit about it, Mat thinks he could turn him onto liking a dance or two.
(—to like it with him? Does that matter? Insane to think why not?
Maybe. Maybe not. And maybe it would be worthwhile to fashion a few pleasant hours as the culmination to their stand-off, if nothing else were to come of it; to just make a night of it together and see how prissy the master of priss is off the clock.) ]
Okay, it's a date. [ Round one. ] I'll look into it.
[ Ideas percolate as he says as much. There's always an excuse to strike up dancing music somewhere... and if they went into the city—? ]
Hey, no promises, no disappointments, right? As long as everyone's enjoying themselves, that's all that matters. That's enough for me.
[ Better to rip the bandaid off and say things that need saying; best not to hold anyone to anything when promises can so easily curdle to betrayed expectations, or blow away with the wind.
Apt to say he might spread his wings; it isn't the first time someone has named him a bird that startles to flight at the first hint of being held down, and he has no desire to hold anyone by the foot, either. So no promises needed—Astarion is free to dance how, and around, and to whom he likes, the same for him. ]
Yet— He's come out with dividends for the casting of lots, compelling him to sit up straighter. Already smiling unconsciously in anticipation at this unexpected—but not objectionable—fork in the road that unanswered questions does little to dampen.
He can't count it a loss, certainly. Fair to say on his personal scale of most "least fun" to "most fun" ways to pass an evening, death via exsanguination is at the bottom, while dicing games and filling too-empty beds with company float near the top. But going out for a bit of revelry with company? It ranks about even—differing thrills, equivalent rewards. In spite of it being his thrown gauntlet, only in facing he's locked in to making it happen does a surge of eagerness follow. Truthfully, he does quite like dancing. They could have a good time? Doing something... normal. Light, it's been a while since he's had so much as the opportunity for it. And even if a creature of the night currently with a tadpole in his brain had designs to be some manner of tit about it, Mat thinks he could turn him onto liking a dance or two.
(—to like it with him? Does that matter? Insane to think why not?
Maybe. Maybe not. And maybe it would be worthwhile to fashion a few pleasant hours as the culmination to their stand-off, if nothing else were to come of it; to just make a night of it together and see how prissy the master of priss is off the clock.) ]
Okay, it's a date. [ Round one. ] I'll look into it.
[ Ideas percolate as he says as much. There's always an excuse to strike up dancing music somewhere... and if they went into the city—? ]
Hey, no promises, no disappointments, right? As long as everyone's enjoying themselves, that's all that matters. That's enough for me.
[ Better to rip the bandaid off and say things that need saying; best not to hold anyone to anything when promises can so easily curdle to betrayed expectations, or blow away with the wind.
Apt to say he might spread his wings; it isn't the first time someone has named him a bird that startles to flight at the first hint of being held down, and he has no desire to hold anyone by the foot, either. So no promises needed—Astarion is free to dance how, and around, and to whom he likes, the same for him. ]
[ Despite the short answer being not that much, that title alone — the Dragon Reborn — is enough to give Astarion pause. What he knows, of a legendary hero and a cycle of reincarnation, he might once have called the stuff of stories alone, tales told to comfort children and teach them a little about morality, but— well, he's been through a lot, recently, and even if that weren't the case, there would be the fact of what he'd just tasted in Rand's blood.
Just as slowly: ] I see.
[ Because the implication is clear enough, even if Astarion isn't immediately sure not to make of it. Not out of fear, but a lack of a blueprint to follow when it comes to meeting legendary figures made flesh.
(Still, some part of him finds the revelation almost reassuring — when one imagines a champion, who Rand is by nature isn't far off.)
He's not quite sure what else to say — whether he should offer sympathy, surprise, honor at having been allowed to feed upon the Dragon's blood, disbelief, supplication. Every option demands a certain level of deference, of care. Yet, instead, Astarion's expression shifts into one of fairly clear mischief before he says, in the kind of tone one might use after being told a piece of particularly salacious gossip: ]
—Really?
Just as slowly: ] I see.
[ Because the implication is clear enough, even if Astarion isn't immediately sure not to make of it. Not out of fear, but a lack of a blueprint to follow when it comes to meeting legendary figures made flesh.
(Still, some part of him finds the revelation almost reassuring — when one imagines a champion, who Rand is by nature isn't far off.)
He's not quite sure what else to say — whether he should offer sympathy, surprise, honor at having been allowed to feed upon the Dragon's blood, disbelief, supplication. Every option demands a certain level of deference, of care. Yet, instead, Astarion's expression shifts into one of fairly clear mischief before he says, in the kind of tone one might use after being told a piece of particularly salacious gossip: ]
—Really?
[ he's beginning to think astarion hasn't heard of the dragon, after all.
the slow surprise makes some sense. it's an outlandish claim, in truth. hard to prove, too; any fellow could claim to be the dragon, though no one decent — and in his right mind — would. (no one can say any of the false dragons were either of those two things, he thinks.) he knows astarion tasted something strange in his blood, but he doesn't actually know what. that's not proof. and how could he prove it? channeling? talking about the forsaken? repeating the prophecies he's begun to hear, that speak of his birth and foretell his death?
(blood, it's always his blood that they call for. why should he deny astarion a meal when millennia-old writings insist that his blood must be spilled soon anyway?)
it's when he notices the mischief, the playful tone, that his eyebrows draw together and he thinks he hasn't been clear at all. ]
Really, [ he says uncertainly. off-balance. he's mostly sure that's because of the confusion here, and not the blood loss. he does have to narrowly stop himself from saying "that's me," because that sounds daft even in his own mind. ] I am the Dragon Reborn. [ helpfully, ] The channeler that brought the Breaking.
[ and may yet bring another, before he's done. ]
the slow surprise makes some sense. it's an outlandish claim, in truth. hard to prove, too; any fellow could claim to be the dragon, though no one decent — and in his right mind — would. (no one can say any of the false dragons were either of those two things, he thinks.) he knows astarion tasted something strange in his blood, but he doesn't actually know what. that's not proof. and how could he prove it? channeling? talking about the forsaken? repeating the prophecies he's begun to hear, that speak of his birth and foretell his death?
(blood, it's always his blood that they call for. why should he deny astarion a meal when millennia-old writings insist that his blood must be spilled soon anyway?)
it's when he notices the mischief, the playful tone, that his eyebrows draw together and he thinks he hasn't been clear at all. ]
Really, [ he says uncertainly. off-balance. he's mostly sure that's because of the confusion here, and not the blood loss. he does have to narrowly stop himself from saying "that's me," because that sounds daft even in his own mind. ] I am the Dragon Reborn. [ helpfully, ] The channeler that brought the Breaking.
[ and may yet bring another, before he's done. ]
[ The tadpole had changed quite a lot — had broken him out of a thrall he'd thought he'd be laboring under for the rest of his life, had allowed him to walk in the sun, to come startlingly close to enjoying a normal existence again. But circumstances had drawn a rather limiting set of boundaries around what kind of paths he could take, so this — to flirt without too heavy a consideration as to consequence, to potentially go on a date that features no connection to the world-saving quest he and his companions have been on — is really the most notable chance he's had just to enjoy himself.
Strange, then, that it should make him feel uncertain, not in terms of whether or not he wants to go, but about what freedom entails to him, whether or not he knows himself outside of a setting where looking out for himself is the name of the game. Who is he, given the chance to take off his mask, given the chance to invest even the faintest amount of interest in someone else.
But — no promises, no disappointments. If he doesn't feel glad about that pronouncement, he doesn't feel bitter about it, either, which is about as good as such things can get. ]
You do make it difficult not to have a good time, at least where a little banter is concerned. We'll see how well you measure up in other areas.
[ Always handy to set a base level of interaction, e.g. being a little bitchy for the sake of being bitchy, which he thinks Mat can take perfectly well if only because at least some of their respective pages seem to be taken from the same book.
Besides, he can't complain too much about setting casual expectations — he knows how to handle that, at least, and it'll make things easier should either of them catch fright and decide to scarper. Granted, it becomes a little bit of a battle, then, to see who'll be able to extricate themselves first (winner) and leave the other empty-handed (loser), but they'll cross that bridge when they get to it. ]
Wear whatever you think makes you look the most handsome.
[ Because he certainly will. ]
Strange, then, that it should make him feel uncertain, not in terms of whether or not he wants to go, but about what freedom entails to him, whether or not he knows himself outside of a setting where looking out for himself is the name of the game. Who is he, given the chance to take off his mask, given the chance to invest even the faintest amount of interest in someone else.
But — no promises, no disappointments. If he doesn't feel glad about that pronouncement, he doesn't feel bitter about it, either, which is about as good as such things can get. ]
You do make it difficult not to have a good time, at least where a little banter is concerned. We'll see how well you measure up in other areas.
[ Always handy to set a base level of interaction, e.g. being a little bitchy for the sake of being bitchy, which he thinks Mat can take perfectly well if only because at least some of their respective pages seem to be taken from the same book.
Besides, he can't complain too much about setting casual expectations — he knows how to handle that, at least, and it'll make things easier should either of them catch fright and decide to scarper. Granted, it becomes a little bit of a battle, then, to see who'll be able to extricate themselves first (winner) and leave the other empty-handed (loser), but they'll cross that bridge when they get to it. ]
Wear whatever you think makes you look the most handsome.
[ Because he certainly will. ]
[ Astarion debates, for a moment, continuing the full-court bitchy press, but— however funny he finds it, however lightly he might try to take it, Rand certainly doesn't, and, as strange as it feels for him to ever let up on a source of teasing, well. Rand is a little too earnest for it to feel entirely good, and far be it from him to forget that the entire reason they're having this conversation at all is because Rand trusted him enough to offer his neck. The least he can repay him with is consideration.
And so his expression sobers, a hint of apology to the line of his mouth, though he doesn't offer the thought out loud. ]
That's quite the burden to bear, [ he says, at length. Again, he can't really argue the point, not when he's tasted what he's tasted. It's a little difficult to reconcile between systems of beliefs — he's not certain he's ever put much serious stock in reincarnation — and any further introspection is begging for an existential crisis he's not inclined to have in the presence of another person.
So, instead, he offers up the thought he'd had before, a kernel of honesty he wouldn't normally be inclined to share: ]
Well, I suppose we're all lucky it's you.
[ A beat. Haven't you more important things to be doing than dallying around with me? ]
I— assume I ought to keep that information to myself, should anyone ask?
And so his expression sobers, a hint of apology to the line of his mouth, though he doesn't offer the thought out loud. ]
That's quite the burden to bear, [ he says, at length. Again, he can't really argue the point, not when he's tasted what he's tasted. It's a little difficult to reconcile between systems of beliefs — he's not certain he's ever put much serious stock in reincarnation — and any further introspection is begging for an existential crisis he's not inclined to have in the presence of another person.
So, instead, he offers up the thought he'd had before, a kernel of honesty he wouldn't normally be inclined to share: ]
Well, I suppose we're all lucky it's you.
[ A beat. Haven't you more important things to be doing than dallying around with me? ]
I— assume I ought to keep that information to myself, should anyone ask?
[ if rand looked confused before, he's flabbergasted now. he cants his head, finally letting his hand drop from his neck, and gives astarion a long look.
the newfound seriousness just makes it odder, really. that's quite the burden; we're all lucky it's you; should i keep that information to myself. has anyone ever looked at him and wondered what it's like for him, instead of considering the ramifications for the world, even rightfully for themselves? someone had told him, not long ago, that she was the only person in the world who cared for him. she was wrong, of course; but she'd asserted that everyone else cares about what he can do, not about him. it's proved hard to deny.
(is that a fair assessment of his friends? he's run and run to avoid finding out how they'd respond to the revelation. and, anyway, reactions from people who knew him from the cradle and reactions from people who haven't known him half a year are — bound to differ.)
it's proved hard to deny, except right now. he looks at astarion like he's never seen him before; almost like he's never seen anyone before. ]
You really don't think it matters, [ he says wonderingly, half-unaware he'd done so aloud.
or, more to the point, astarion clearly thinks that it matters to him. and he's right on that count. but aside from that...light, how bizarre. every reaction he'd been braced for, and instead there's this. even lanfear had pretended to flinch from him at first, aware that was the most ordinary response. ]
the newfound seriousness just makes it odder, really. that's quite the burden; we're all lucky it's you; should i keep that information to myself. has anyone ever looked at him and wondered what it's like for him, instead of considering the ramifications for the world, even rightfully for themselves? someone had told him, not long ago, that she was the only person in the world who cared for him. she was wrong, of course; but she'd asserted that everyone else cares about what he can do, not about him. it's proved hard to deny.
(is that a fair assessment of his friends? he's run and run to avoid finding out how they'd respond to the revelation. and, anyway, reactions from people who knew him from the cradle and reactions from people who haven't known him half a year are — bound to differ.)
it's proved hard to deny, except right now. he looks at astarion like he's never seen him before; almost like he's never seen anyone before. ]
You really don't think it matters, [ he says wonderingly, half-unaware he'd done so aloud.
or, more to the point, astarion clearly thinks that it matters to him. and he's right on that count. but aside from that...light, how bizarre. every reaction he'd been braced for, and instead there's this. even lanfear had pretended to flinch from him at first, aware that was the most ordinary response. ]
Edited 2023-11-14 12:57 (UTC)
[ In contrast, Mat finds steadier ground in the nebulousness of where this thread is leading. Perhaps he has cause to remain wary in Astarion's crosshairs; perhaps it matters to indulge in areas not merely the paranoia from prior bites and resulting shyness; perhaps he'll see how frequently Astarion and laughter flirt; perhaps it'll be a horror show and they'll find each other so loathsome they'll strangle each other to (un)death; perhaps the thing he cannot trust anymore is his ability to make guarantees, and he would be remiss to act as though he could.
But this he can do and do well. Nebulous and casual need not make anyone a loser. He and partners had had their time together, or things ran their course as they do, and partings were amicable more often than not. In a perfect world he'd entice kisses from someone with beautiful eyes and more besides, but all he'd ever really sought was fishing out the means to a laugh and a smile. To leave an impression better than it was worse. (And he hasn't survived slaloming around matchmaking housewives, or pretty Darkfriends, or Trollocs with fangs the size of his forearm to trip up at his own bloody game now.) ]
You do know how to sweet talk a person. I can tell I'm getting warmer on the spectrum. I'll win your cold dead feet over yet.
You're not so terrible, either, whatever you feel like being.
[ Space for blanks to be filled.
That being said, he still isn't entirely convinced Astarion isn't going to try boxing him into formal ballroom waltzes, prim spines and trim distancing, likely fit for someone born to the city and high off the ground, at that. The second half of the message does little to assuage the suspicion. ]
So come as you are?
[ Mat at Mat, looking bemusedly down at what he's wearing (at least 50% what he also slept in, a solid 100% what his plotting mind had yet to consider): wait, we have to adhere to real date best practices on a fake date? To Astarion's credit, it's a gracious step removed from a you have to dress up, but nonetheless destined to be a simple selection process from an otherwise limited wardrobe.
Gracious is as gracious does, he leaves it open for an interpretive freebie: the general "you" or a specific and directed "you could fasten a potato sack over your birthday suit and be fine." All the same... a quaint thought Astarion's plotting mind might already be engaging seriously on the matter of primping and grooming, pouncing on all four paws. ]
Light, I'm flattered you find me boundlessly handsome and not starting a list of demands. [ "I also choose to take this as—" ] But I suppose if you had those, you had better tell me beforehand.
[ On the day-to-day, for the majority of comers? Intractably uncooperative and as quick to slip off the hook as a greased eel. Inside the practices of taking someone out? It may have started as poking a vampire spawn with a stick to see what he does, but if he's doing this, he'll do it going all in on it, no takebacks. Fashion sense aside, which will assuredly not be improving in great leaps and bounds in the time it takes to sort out any last skeptical second thoughts and carve out a suitable opportunity. Astarion did make the choice to poke back at a raccoon person and they'll both just have to live with that. ]
But this he can do and do well. Nebulous and casual need not make anyone a loser. He and partners had had their time together, or things ran their course as they do, and partings were amicable more often than not. In a perfect world he'd entice kisses from someone with beautiful eyes and more besides, but all he'd ever really sought was fishing out the means to a laugh and a smile. To leave an impression better than it was worse. (And he hasn't survived slaloming around matchmaking housewives, or pretty Darkfriends, or Trollocs with fangs the size of his forearm to trip up at his own bloody game now.) ]
You do know how to sweet talk a person. I can tell I'm getting warmer on the spectrum. I'll win your cold dead feet over yet.
You're not so terrible, either, whatever you feel like being.
[ Space for blanks to be filled.
That being said, he still isn't entirely convinced Astarion isn't going to try boxing him into formal ballroom waltzes, prim spines and trim distancing, likely fit for someone born to the city and high off the ground, at that. The second half of the message does little to assuage the suspicion. ]
So come as you are?
[ Mat at Mat, looking bemusedly down at what he's wearing (at least 50% what he also slept in, a solid 100% what his plotting mind had yet to consider): wait, we have to adhere to real date best practices on a fake date? To Astarion's credit, it's a gracious step removed from a you have to dress up, but nonetheless destined to be a simple selection process from an otherwise limited wardrobe.
Gracious is as gracious does, he leaves it open for an interpretive freebie: the general "you" or a specific and directed "you could fasten a potato sack over your birthday suit and be fine." All the same... a quaint thought Astarion's plotting mind might already be engaging seriously on the matter of primping and grooming, pouncing on all four paws. ]
Light, I'm flattered you find me boundlessly handsome and not starting a list of demands. [ "I also choose to take this as—" ] But I suppose if you had those, you had better tell me beforehand.
[ On the day-to-day, for the majority of comers? Intractably uncooperative and as quick to slip off the hook as a greased eel. Inside the practices of taking someone out? It may have started as poking a vampire spawn with a stick to see what he does, but if he's doing this, he'll do it going all in on it, no takebacks. Fashion sense aside, which will assuredly not be improving in great leaps and bounds in the time it takes to sort out any last skeptical second thoughts and carve out a suitable opportunity. Astarion did make the choice to poke back at a raccoon person and they'll both just have to live with that. ]
Edited 2023-11-14 13:31 (UTC)
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