[ Room left between ideas of hurling blunt objects, nightly jump scares, and this curious circling around Astarion with the spring-loaded readiness to jump snapping jaws, to surmise it's not his first prowler with malicious intent. To an extent, he'd meant it: some like Fades don't make great conversation partners between the ear-bleeding shrieks, and others are too busy telling him what a piece of shit he is while watching him sleep. Astarion? He's got flair, as threat assessments go. ]
Mm, a good rule of thumb to leave untested. [ The world might be a better place if everyone just started melting into goo (read: not knowing what the invitation rule looks like, pulling from the bag of creative options) at particular invasions of privacy. ]
You know, in all this I'm a little impressed you haven't stopped to ask if you're my type at all.
[ There's a canned, extremely Astarion answer here โ namely, that he's everyone's type โ but it doesn't quite match the tenor of the conversation as it is, or perhaps he's no longer in the mood to be so blasรฉ about it. Despite the degree of flamboyance that seems to be his natural operating state, he's capable of a little less flashiness when it suits him. ]
I'd presumed you wouldn't still be entertaining this conversation if I weren't. Don't tell me this is all for the sake of scientific inquiry?
ty, btw, accidentally deleted my first subject line ๐ฅน
Well, you didn't think you were going to get away without answering for cliches, did you?
[ It's still a somewhat canned response in the sense Mat still suspects Astarion's interest isn't just interest and he's going to be a git playing shell games about it. As a fellow shell game git, the art of saying little with a lot is neither objectionable on its own nor unappreciated. Dare he admit it, he's found it sporting fun, rousting a smile or two out of him over the course of their play.
The thing about games of such nature, though, is most of the time they're only really fun if everyone is on the same page. A bit of a blend of hypocrisy and self-awareness in action: he hasn't so much as uttered the word ta'veren, would not claim it, would pretend not to know it, but if he felt an inkling someone were only interested in a Q&A regarding the part of him he had not asked to be or could do anything about, that really had nothing to do with him besides its benefit or disadvantage to others, he'd have bit a vampire on the tail and scampered off long ago.
It's possible he's off the mark as far as presumptions go, but in this he doesn't mind being the side pressed to show a little more of his hand. ]
I can entertain conversations for all sorts of reasons, and I wager more than two reasons exist to talk to you, but...
It was something of a scientific inquiry, yeah. There's a lot of grey area between mindless beasts and substance to someone with a name that has too many vowels and sounds like something you'd name a duke's donated statue. Or a constellation. Or something else grandiose.
[ Or a Forsaken, tbh, but let's keep the Asmodeans and the Astarions in their separate corners... ]
[ Ultimately, the fact that he's willing to answer so many questions is because it's not a game most โ if any โ will engage with at all. He's spent two centuries hiding what he is, knowing that anyone who found out would likely immediately lunge for the nearest stake (not that he could really blame them). That Mat's reaction isn't hostility but rather curiosity is a welcome change of pace, a little gift in and of itself.
To a certain extent, it's also just the novelty of freedom, with the tadpole in his head severing him from his master's influence and allowing him to do damn near whatever he likes without having to worry about luring victims back to the manse. Even just weeks earlier, Mat would have been a mark.
But that's a rather boring and all-too-earnest explanation, so he doesn't have any intention of saying any of that out loud. ]
I think I prefer a constellation over a statue of some pompous rich man.
[ He's had quite enough of pompous lords for a lifetime, thank you, unless it's to part their gold from their pockets. ]
All right, but here's one for you: would that still be your pick if you, as the subject, were being honoured as a pompous rich man? With a hideous feathered cap immortalized, forever, let's say. For argument's sake.
[ Another question for the ages, perhaps: who hears "hey, do you want to come back to my mansion for a good time?" and thinks that's normal? Hello? Probably a mansion that smells like moth balls with exceeding amounts of velvet, too. ]
To tell the truth, I wasn't sure you'd pass muster. You're not what I might've expected.
[ So no, he'd insist Astarion goes against type, if anything.
Knife to his throat... it's not a stretch to say someone like him would've found a village bursting at the seams with eager marks in the Two Rivers, where aside from a rare few, dark hair, dark eyes, and rough working hands prevailed. He'd be a marvel; a shining prince turning every head; gossip on the lips of starry-eyed and rosy-cheeked village girls every which way for months, if not bloody years. Just like the odd visiting outlander, or handsome merchant's son, smiling bored smiles that went unnoticed, stepping around mud puddles in their fine leather riding boots while the girls flocking them trod straight through in their work wear none the wiser.
In the throes of judgmental pettiness from the peanut gallery along with the other completely forgotten lads, Mat in his younger years might've gleefully splashed down in a puddle right beside him and begrudged him just a little.
Of course, when perfectly normal, salt-of-the-earth folk wear kind faces and commit monstrous acts, and the people he loves turn out to be the boogeymen he grew up being taught to avoid, and he, himself, wrestles with an ugliness streaking through him...
Well. There's room to reconsider what makes people worth knowing. ]
The cap makes it a significantly less appealing proposition. The money would be better used elsewhere, I'd think.
[ On himself, he means, rather than any altruism, but he doesn't mind leaving room for interpretation.
It feels odd to consider that such a hypothetical life โ that of some noble, an oddity to those outside of the city โ would likely be one he'd still resent. He knows what his appearance can do for him, the kind of attention it can attract โ and as much as he appreciates any advantage he can get, he's come to hate being treated like a bauble. And yet, he's not sure what other role he can play.
That said, even that would be better than the existence he'd actually led under Cazador's thumb, no better than a caged dog. What good had his beauty done him, then, except to make his master's cruelty all the sharper if he failed to obey his direction?
(Then again, as a magistrate, would he have bothered to give Mat a second look? Likely not โ he doesn't necessarily recall being a just or particularly considerate man.) ]
I'll take that as a compliment ... and I suppose it wouldn't do me any harm to return it in kind. Though if we're not quite at the stage of playing completely nice with each other, I'm happy to take it back.
Quite the cruel and unusual punishment, though I must applaud your inventiveness.
[ The hypothetical sits squarely at the juncture of Astarion's ego that says he'd look good in anything yet would also refuse, on pain of death, to wear anything he thought to be garish. A hideous, feathered cap? To cover this hair? Perish the thought! ]
Pot, kettle โ you know, you never did say if I was your type.
Hey, if the shoe fits... I just call it like I see it.
[ But there's a limit to teasing, no matter how lightly meant in response to a slight in truth just as lightly taken, that stops him short of blame your parents. Family can often enough be a concealed rat burrow to twist one's ankle in; who can say what form it takes for one so old and... eaten? Changed? ... Tadpole'd? Elves must have parents. Or else maybe he just sprang out of the center of a flower like that. ]
I'm not done with my checklist of considerations. [ What, you think he'd just be walking down the street and pick him out of a crowd like "yes, that high maintenance-looking one who's awfully quick to get on the drop on heckling me first"? Light help him. And that's not talking spitting distance to see the eyes or the chompers. ]
Setting aside you can hardly expect me to commit myself to this flip-flopping and fight off your army of pretty suitors at the same time. I hate to share, I'd be overcome with jealousy.
[ It's for the best that the thought is one Mat forgoes โ what Astarion remembers of his family, now, are shadows rather than fully-formed memories, tidbits used by his master to mock him, to remind him of to whom his allegiance ought to lie. Granted, the two of them aren't at a stage where Astarion would volunteer any of this information โ more likely, he'd gloss over it, happy enough to play at normalcy rather than confronting the truth.
Also, look, the one rule that any heckler knows is that if you ain't first, you're last. ]
What good is an army of suitors if there's only one I want?
[ Is he just being flirtatious, does he really mean any of it โ that's for him to know and the player to spend three acts delving through significant trauma Mat to find out. ]
[ Completely understandable evasive maneuvers for completely understandable evasive reasons, if one were to ask Mat Cauthon, which the other doesn't, and for which Mat can remain blithely grateful for himself. For if they start posing personal questions, the other will have to answer for them, and then they'd both be waving knives and dancing around topics they'd be more comfortable avoiding with a merry detente.
Who wants to crack the lids and go exhuming around in those cans of worms? He tells stories to get around matters of family, lies so he does not have to address the dirt he crawled out of to get here and still wears in his blood and his bones. He'd be remiss to go trailblazing in no man's land first and leave his glass house behind, doors unlocked, waiting to be egged and painted on. ]
You better hold that thought. It might change depending how you feel about cuddling.
[ Oh, he's good, though. ๐
PCs forcing you to talk about trauma? What the fuck is that? You've come to the right place; get on the Randland wavelength where everyone talks about everything but that for fourteen books, and they have to trick you at your own games to get you to expose you even have it. It's enough, surely, that it makes him laugh. ]
[ Fourteen books of not having to talk anything that happened to him in the past ... sounds blissful ... ]
I'm beginning to think that "hot and cold" was a descriptor you meant for yourself. You chide me for not playing nice and then hold me at arm's length โ why, I might get my feelings hurt.
[ Considering their general dispositions, he feels Mat's qualitative comment could go either way โ either that Mat himself isn't much for it or that he (rightly) assumes that Astarion isn't really the cuddly type (though that has everything to do with the fact that he's never genuinely cared about anyone he's slept with), hence falling back on being a little brat. ]
[ ๐ค Welcome aboard the good ship "ignore it and it will go away." We keep it tight here, we keep it repressed. ]
How do you figure? It's about type. If you don't like cuddling, it's a matter of a compatibility issue.
[ Joke's on you, it's a (semi)-serious question!
When your repressed hunger for affection vents straight into a desire to make positive connections with everyone you sleep with, and be a cuddle fiend, and spend those fourteen books working out how to convince people who can and will throat punch you to let you cuddle them instead, you're not afraid to say it. ]
[ Having lost the out of leaving the question unanswered, Astarion considers his options ... and comes straight back around to a fairly weasel-y option: ]
Well, let me put it to you like this: It'll take a little extra work getting cozy, as I run quite cold.
[ On account of being dead, a blank he leaves for Mat's imagination to either fill or require some further explanation of (which he's perfectly happy to provide).
The truth of the matter is that he doesn't really know how to answer. His typical instinct is to avoid being touched entirely, butโ if pressed, he wouldn't argue against the notion that a tender touch might actually be welcome. But that comes with its own host of questions, from what Mat does or doesn't stand to gain from their embarking on whatever kind of relationship or situationship this is, to whether or not he'll ever be willing to tie himself to another person.
All this to say, he's a little envious of Mat's forthrightness. While he'd never call himself a liar, he also finds it much easier to figure out what other people want to hear rather than figuring out what he really wants. You know, classic repression stuff. ]
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 himโheads 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)โhave 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?
[ 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 โ 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 grandpaโ
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)
[ 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 โ he wants to be reached out to โ 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 โ and the act of flirtation โ 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 โ 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 โ 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.
sad pearl clutching for every backstory nesting doll opened
[ 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 guardedโand 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. ๐น๐น๐น [ 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 romancingโa 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. ]
[ Astarion isn't a stranger to being pursued โ his beauty had been the primary tool in his arsenal as a hunter, an easy lure โ 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 โ 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 โ 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.
slaps coffin, this bad boy can fit so much suffering
[ 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 purposeโwaiting 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 threadsโcurious 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, noโI 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. ]
[ 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 intimacyโ 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.
[ 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 outโnot 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 realizeโhas 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.
[ 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 โ 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 โ not so divorced from any of the former hypotheticals โ 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.
[ 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.
Yetโ He's come out with dividends for the casting of lots, compelling him to sit up straighter. Already smiling unconsciously in anticipation at this unexpectedโbut not objectionableโfork 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 evenโdiffering 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.
(โto 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 cityโ? ]
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 neededโAstarion is free to dance how, and around, and to whom he likes, the same for him. ]
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[ Room left between ideas of hurling blunt objects, nightly jump scares, and this curious circling around Astarion with the spring-loaded readiness to jump snapping jaws, to surmise it's not his first prowler with malicious intent. To an extent, he'd meant it: some like Fades don't make great conversation partners between the ear-bleeding shrieks, and others are too busy telling him what a piece of shit he is while watching him sleep. Astarion? He's got flair, as threat assessments go. ]
Mm, a good rule of thumb to leave untested. [ The world might be a better place if everyone just started melting into goo (read: not knowing what the invitation rule looks like, pulling from the bag of creative options) at particular invasions of privacy. ]
You know, in all this I'm a little impressed you haven't stopped to ask if you're my type at all.
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I'd presumed you wouldn't still be entertaining this conversation if I weren't. Don't tell me this is all for the sake of scientific inquiry?
ty, btw, accidentally deleted my first subject line ๐ฅน
[ It's still a somewhat canned response in the sense Mat still suspects Astarion's interest isn't just interest and he's going to be a git playing shell games about it. As a fellow shell game git, the art of saying little with a lot is neither objectionable on its own nor unappreciated. Dare he admit it, he's found it sporting fun, rousting a smile or two out of him over the course of their play.
The thing about games of such nature, though, is most of the time they're only really fun if everyone is on the same page. A bit of a blend of hypocrisy and self-awareness in action: he hasn't so much as uttered the word ta'veren, would not claim it, would pretend not to know it, but if he felt an inkling someone were only interested in a Q&A regarding the part of him he had not asked to be or could do anything about, that really had nothing to do with him besides its benefit or disadvantage to others, he'd have bit a vampire on the tail and scampered off long ago.
It's possible he's off the mark as far as presumptions go, but in this he doesn't mind being the side pressed to show a little more of his hand. ]
I can entertain conversations for all sorts of reasons, and I wager more than two reasons exist to talk to you, but...
It was something of a scientific inquiry, yeah. There's a lot of grey area between mindless beasts and substance to someone with a name that has too many vowels and sounds like something you'd name a duke's donated statue. Or a constellation. Or something else grandiose.
[ Or a Forsaken, tbh, but let's keep the Asmodeans and the Astarions in their separate corners... ]
I had to know where the bar was set.
ofc ofc ๐๐ป
To a certain extent, it's also just the novelty of freedom, with the tadpole in his head severing him from his master's influence and allowing him to do damn near whatever he likes without having to worry about luring victims back to the manse. Even just weeks earlier, Mat would have been a mark.
But that's a rather boring and all-too-earnest explanation, so he doesn't have any intention of saying any of that out loud. ]
I think I prefer a constellation over a statue of some pompous rich man.
[ He's had quite enough of pompous lords for a lifetime, thank you, unless it's to part their gold from their pockets. ]
Do you want me to ask, then? If I'm your type?
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[ Another question for the ages, perhaps: who hears "hey, do you want to come back to my mansion for a good time?" and thinks that's normal? Hello? Probably a mansion that smells like moth balls with exceeding amounts of velvet, too. ]
To tell the truth, I wasn't sure you'd pass muster. You're not what I might've expected.
[ So no, he'd insist Astarion goes against type, if anything.
Knife to his throat... it's not a stretch to say someone like him would've found a village bursting at the seams with eager marks in the Two Rivers, where aside from a rare few, dark hair, dark eyes, and rough working hands prevailed. He'd be a marvel; a shining prince turning every head; gossip on the lips of starry-eyed and rosy-cheeked village girls every which way for months, if not bloody years. Just like the odd visiting outlander, or handsome merchant's son, smiling bored smiles that went unnoticed, stepping around mud puddles in their fine leather riding boots while the girls flocking them trod straight through in their work wear none the wiser.
In the throes of judgmental pettiness from the peanut gallery along with the other completely forgotten lads, Mat in his younger years might've gleefully splashed down in a puddle right beside him and begrudged him just a little.
Of course, when perfectly normal, salt-of-the-earth folk wear kind faces and commit monstrous acts, and the people he loves turn out to be the boogeymen he grew up being taught to avoid, and he, himself, wrestles with an ugliness streaking through him...
Well. There's room to reconsider what makes people worth knowing. ]
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[ On himself, he means, rather than any altruism, but he doesn't mind leaving room for interpretation.
It feels odd to consider that such a hypothetical life โ that of some noble, an oddity to those outside of the city โ would likely be one he'd still resent. He knows what his appearance can do for him, the kind of attention it can attract โ and as much as he appreciates any advantage he can get, he's come to hate being treated like a bauble. And yet, he's not sure what other role he can play.
That said, even that would be better than the existence he'd actually led under Cazador's thumb, no better than a caged dog. What good had his beauty done him, then, except to make his master's cruelty all the sharper if he failed to obey his direction?
(Then again, as a magistrate, would he have bothered to give Mat a second look? Likely not โ he doesn't necessarily recall being a just or particularly considerate man.) ]
I'll take that as a compliment ... and I suppose it wouldn't do me any harm to return it in kind. Though if we're not quite at the stage of playing completely nice with each other, I'm happy to take it back.
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[ Or a cluster of stars denoting big hair. He feels quite accurate and correct about that. ]
Oh, the hot and cold routine. Playing games with my heart.
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[ The hypothetical sits squarely at the juncture of Astarion's ego that says he'd look good in anything yet would also refuse, on pain of death, to wear anything he thought to be garish. A hideous, feathered cap? To cover this hair? Perish the thought! ]
Pot, kettle โ you know, you never did say if I was your type.
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[ But there's a limit to teasing, no matter how lightly meant in response to a slight in truth just as lightly taken, that stops him short of blame your parents. Family can often enough be a concealed rat burrow to twist one's ankle in; who can say what form it takes for one so old and... eaten? Changed? ... Tadpole'd? Elves must have parents. Or else maybe he just sprang out of the center of a flower like that. ]
I'm not done with my checklist of considerations. [ What, you think he'd just be walking down the street and pick him out of a crowd like "yes, that high maintenance-looking one who's awfully quick to get on the drop on heckling me first"? Light help him. And that's not talking spitting distance to see the eyes or the chompers. ]
Setting aside you can hardly expect me to commit myself to this flip-flopping and fight off your army of pretty suitors at the same time. I hate to share, I'd be overcome with jealousy.
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Also, look, the one rule that any heckler knows is that if you ain't first, you're last. ]
What good is an army of suitors if there's only one I want?
[ Is he just being flirtatious, does he really mean any of it โ that's for him to know and
the player to spend three acts delving through significant traumaMat to find out. ]no subject
Who wants to crack the lids and go exhuming around in those cans of worms? He tells stories to get around matters of family, lies so he does not have to address the dirt he crawled out of to get here and still wears in his blood and his bones. He'd be remiss to go trailblazing in no man's land first and leave his glass house behind, doors unlocked, waiting to be egged and painted on. ]
You better hold that thought. It might change depending how you feel about cuddling.
[ Oh, he's good, though. ๐
PCs forcing you to talk about trauma? What the fuck is that? You've come to the right place; get on the Randland wavelength where everyone talks about everything but that for fourteen books, and they have to trick you at your own games to get you to expose you even have it. It's enough, surely, that it makes him laugh. ]
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I'm beginning to think that "hot and cold" was a descriptor you meant for yourself. You chide me for not playing nice and then hold me at arm's length โ why, I might get my feelings hurt.
[ Considering their general dispositions, he feels Mat's qualitative comment could go either way โ either that Mat himself isn't much for it or that he (rightly) assumes that Astarion isn't really the cuddly type (though that has everything to do with the fact that he's never genuinely cared about anyone he's slept with), hence falling back on being a little brat. ]
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How do you figure? It's about type. If you don't like cuddling, it's a matter of a compatibility issue.
[ Joke's on you, it's a (semi)-serious question!
When your repressed hunger for affection vents straight into a desire to make positive connections with everyone you sleep with, and be a cuddle fiend, and spend those fourteen books working out how to convince people who can and will throat punch you to let you cuddle them instead, you're not afraid to say it. ]
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Well, let me put it to you like this: It'll take a little extra work getting cozy, as I run quite cold.
[ On account of being dead, a blank he leaves for Mat's imagination to either fill or require some further explanation of (which he's perfectly happy to provide).
The truth of the matter is that he doesn't really know how to answer. His typical instinct is to avoid being touched entirely, butโ if pressed, he wouldn't argue against the notion that a tender touch might actually be welcome. But that comes with its own host of questions, from what Mat does or doesn't stand to gain from their embarking on whatever kind of relationship or situationship this is, to whether or not he'll ever be willing to tie himself to another person.
All this to say, he's a little envious of Mat's forthrightness. While he'd never call himself a liar, he also finds it much easier to figure out what other people want to hear rather than figuring out what he really wants. You know, classic repression stuff. ]
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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 himโheads 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)โhave 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?
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And, luckily, through a text exchange, he has no expression by which to gauge Mat's thoughts โ 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.
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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.
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It's not particularly fun to talk about, either โ 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 โ 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.
sad pearl clutching for every backstory nesting doll opened
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. ๐น๐น๐น [ 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 romancingโa 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. ]
the ol' "misery matryoshka"
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 โ 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 โ 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.
slaps coffin, this bad boy can fit so much suffering
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 purposeโwaiting 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 threadsโcurious 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, noโI 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. ]
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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.
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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 realizeโhas 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.
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The latter scenario isn't impossible โ 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 โ not so divorced from any of the former hypotheticals โ 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.
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Yetโ He's come out with dividends for the casting of lots, compelling him to sit up straighter. Already smiling unconsciously in anticipation at this unexpectedโbut not objectionableโfork 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 evenโdiffering 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.
(โto 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 cityโ? ]
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 neededโAstarion is free to dance how, and around, and to whom he likes, the same for him. ]
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