finalflight | PSL; OCTOBER VAMPIRE NONSENSE

[ have you ever heard of "Spelljamming", Astarion? perhaps not in so many words, but the githyanki, Creche K'liir within the Tears of Selune, even the nautiloid itself... there are grand and terrible things that exist beyond the stars.

strange things. weird things. things that don't crash upon the Material Plane quite the same as the nautiloid ship, but somehow slither through the cracks as if by mistake, and find themselves... here. in a strange, loud, beautiful city they do not recognize. they know of no way back, and they are alone, and they do not look like anyone else.

so. to this end.

there's a weird bug in your garden, Astarion. there's four arms. there's way too many eyes, studded in the oil slick of their ponytail like charms. and it's crouched hiding behind your rose bushes. Astarion. ]

[It feels an age since the nautiloid ship, as though it were another lifetime ago — and in some ways, it was. A different person. Someone weak, and afeared, and unable to stand in the sunlight without the crutch of a tadpole writhing in his head. A shell, discarded.

…Very much discarded! Because the man who stands in his garden today is a far cry from some poor fool who can’t stand in the light of the sun, who would even balk at something strange and weird that now ferrets itself away behind the rose bushes. Who’d do anything other than approach, pushing aside a thorny bough of the plant to lean in. To loom a little.]

And what do we have here?

[His smile’s sharp. His eyes are very red, very assessing. That sure is a bug — four arms, too many eyes, something entirely uninvited and lurking in his home.

Eyebrows lift, and Astarion sounds amused. In the “at someone else’s expense” kind of way.]

Do you know what they call what it is you’re doing?

[Trespassing, you bafflingly wretched thing.]

[ no, no—! they feel their heart leap into their throat—

ah. no, they don't feel that, actually. but they remember the sensation, and it slides across their mind like a phantom pain as the rose bush moves and parts, and Maeve, who is crouched down in their silky butterfly-patterned dress, looks up and produces a butterfly knife from—somewhere?

from somewhere.

it flicks open and spins in hand to brandish, not as a violent instigator about to leap at him, but rather a prey animal that has remembered it possesses teeth and claws. ]

Hiding.

[ her voice, this voice, it is faint and high and scratches at the inside of your skull, something that human (or elven) ears are not meant to hear ]

I won't hurt anyone.

[The sight baffles in many ways, but he thinks he likes this little surprise behind his overgrown rose bushes. He likes things that appear a bit like prey when they look at him, and while they don’t exactly cower—no, more like bearing their teeth—it’s still a thrill. Still a delight. He loves putting others on edge. Even if their voice is a strange scratch-tickling at the inside of his skull.

Interesting.

What will they do with that knife? Gut him? He would love to see them try.]

No? But I will.

[And he quite means that. Very much means that. He’s not been back to this palace for a while, caught up in years of travel instead and only recently returned, but it is still his. And all the things that are not simply do not belong, and should be cleared out. Thoroughly.]

Unless, perhaps, you’d like to share why you got it into your pretty little head that hiding in my roses was a good idea.

Edited 2023-10-18 04:56 (UTC)

[ "unless, perhaps," is close enough to a command for Maeve Cutter. always so compelled to obey those who exert a little power over them—and whatever this man is (unsettling, he's unsettling), they can sense the wisps of power emanating from him like flashes of silver in the dark.

it itches inside her skull, selfsame. the very same.

the knife trembles in their hand, a truly white-knuckled grip, but the words begin to spill, as though he himself is pulling them from her mouth. ]

These are yours? I didn't know. I don't know why I'm here at all. How—I got here. But there are so many humans. I didn't want to scare them, so... I hid.

[Oh? There's no way to know for sure, maybe he's only intuiting it, but this stranger answers a half-beat quicker than he'd expect. And all he's doing is a little intimidation, nothing more than doling out thinly veiled threats and too-sharp smiles. Again, his gaze flicks down to their knife, assessing. Then to their face again, still holding back the rose bush, thorns threatening to stick in the sleeve of his jacket.

Now, that's quite an explanation. One that he wishes to prise the details out of it, but Astarion has the distinct feeling they certainly do not belong here, that much is true. Not just in his palace garden, but the whole of Baldur's Gate itself. Just look at them!]

...Stand, darling. And put that knife away. There's really no point in crouching in the dirt like a scared animal, so let me get a good look at you.

[ when you are told to stand, you stand.

when you are told to put down the knife, you... you...

she glances down at the blade--anodized steel, an oil slick made weapon. it fits perfectly in her palm, nestled upon the calluses of years of use. she doesn't want to want to put it away.

but. when you're told to.

they spin it in hand, not with the ease of someone who can go through the motion by heart, but by watching themselves do it, carefully. then they part the slit of their dress and slip the balisong into a sheath strapped to one thigh.

on their feet, Maeve can look him in the eye, crimson met with the flat pupils and odd colour of a deep sea creature. or, perhaps, a Far Realms creature. there are eyes in the oil-sheen, sticky-looking ponytail which drape over their shoulder, and each eye looks at him resolutely in turn. four arms, each very real. it is no illusion, no prosthetic. they stand as though subject to inspection, with their hands folded in front of them, perfectly manicured and laden with rings. they all have been fashioned to look beetles, scarabs, bees made of gemstones and gold. ]

Like this?

[Aha… ha. They stand. They put the knife away. (With some hesitance, but there it goes, that sharp edge disappearing, less of a threat than before.) They even look at him with those strange pupils and their otherworldly color, reminding him of the briny deep off the stinking ports of the Gray Harbor. And that’s not even taking into account the many eyes in their ponytail.]

Good. Just like that.

[Their appearance is quite clearly alien and, indeed, they do possess something of the Far Realms about them, limited as his experiences may be — a creeping wrongness that Astarion has felt before, though faced with a different shape and form. Illithids oozed this feeling, and an elder brain would make even the strongest-willed bend under the weight of it.

But Astarion? He reaches out, gripping one of their wrists if they make no move to disallow it. Fingers tight, lifting one hand to better look at those fingers adorned with insectoid rings.]

Lovely, really. Someone of taste. And yet I'm still left wondering what it is you are.

Edited 2023-10-18 16:58 (UTC)

Outsider.

[ "shoggoth". but maybe he... wouldn't know what that would mean. shouldn't volunteer it.

still, she flinches as he takes her wrist. but it's a flinch too soon, before he's even touched; not a physical reaction to his grip, but one borne entirely of the sight of and the understanding that he is reaching for them.

and in Astarion's grip, he will feel the mass beneath the flesh undulate slightly. no. more than slightly--he will feel it move as though the bones are abruptly sliding into place, though still not quite right. a body that forgets the more detailed shape it is meant to have until reminded, as it is reminded now, that it's meant to have it.

the eyes in their ponytail close. open again, almost demure. ]

Or Maeve. You can call me that, too. Maeve Cutter...

["Outsider" doesn't tell him much at all. It tells him only the obvious, what he could very well have guessed at on his own just by looking at them. (Though, yes, it certainly tells him more than "shoggoth" would, which is nothing.)

All those eyes... they're nearly hypnotic, upsettingly so. He finds that delightful, too.]

Maeve Cutter.

[Parroting the name back, it feels sharpened on Astarion's tongue. Like anything that filters through him is a little crueler for its effort. He runs his thumb over their wrist again, feeling the grotesque (intriguing) way anatomy shifts beneath his touch.

Just what has he found in his poor neglected garden today?]

And where do you come from, Maeve? Something tells me you've strayed very, very far from home.

[ in his grip, her own hangs limp, lifeless, and so unusually heavy for as slender as it is. the way their name sounds in his mouth prompts a shiver, though they cannot feel it move through them, how it tugs their hand in his

is this dangerous? it could be, but there is no one else here to take their cues from. only him, and he's the one giving orders. asking questions. they have to reply. ]

From the Sothothian Republic. It... is very, very far away. Yes.

[ where, in relation to here? elder gods only know. ]

I think I should go.

[No, it still means nothing to him. A Lovecraftian fan somewhere in the far multiverse, though, is probably tittering with excitement.

His grip vices a little tighter.]

Now, you can't just drop in and then run off. Where will you go? Didn't you just say you were afraid of scaring all the "humans"? Because I can tell you now, you will give them a fright. The Flaming Fist will come blazing in your direction, blades at the ready. And what will you do then?

[Especially given All That Dead Three Nonsense that happened a few years ago. Tolerance is low.]

[ they are looking at his face, those piercing eyes, and not at how he's holding onto them. when he squeezes, there comes no physiological or emotional response; they simply... continue to stand there, their arm in his hand.

lips parted, murmuring softly beneath their breath. this is why they were hiding in the rose bushes! this is why they were holding onto the knife. and now, because he is the only person in front of them offering anything at all, they bend to the need to listen to him. whatever he's talking about, he's talking about it like fact. like he knows this will happen.

what do they know?

what will they do? ]

Who are the Flaming Fist?

[They're so strangely unresponsive to his touch. His grip is not meant to hurt (yet), but it is certainly not meant to be kind, and yet there they stand, as though he were doing nothing more than gently holding their wrist aloft.]

Ha. Paid dogs playing at guard work. Pretending at some manner of [~~narrator voice~~] authority within the city.

[He doesn't squeeze again, but he angles his fingertips so that his nails will bite hard into their skin. Still nothing?]

They can't help you. They won't help you.

[He says it as though this can only be the truth. Is it? It doesn't matter.]

[ there's still nothing. not until the moment that, at the picture of bleak hopelessness Astarion paints, Maeve dodges his gaze, the many eyes of her ponytail drifting downwards. she sees his nails en-pointe, cutting into her. she inhales roughly, but where someone else might try to yank free, they stand frozen, disarmed by the mere suggestion of entrapment. ]

Let go.

[Though Maeve might not pull their arm away, they do tell him to let go. And the vampire barks out a laugh, sharp around the edges.]

Or else what?

[Here we go, some manner of reaction. If there's something more to be pulled out of this very passive demeanor--and there must be, given the glint of that knife prior--then he would like to see it and know precisely what he's dealing with. And what to do with it after.]

Are you really asking?

[ it's a distinction they have to make. there is no sarcasm in their voice, only a thin rope of tension, and an earnest anticipation of an answer.

like, they aren't stupid. they can see when something is dangerous, when someone means them harm. they know what it means when a person holds you so tightly your skin turns pink beneath their nails, what a cruel laugh sounds like. they also know what it's like to be the one holding on, while the other begs, please, just let me go, don't hurt me, I'll do anything.

when she's alone, like this... is that the person she has to be again? ]

[He will be so kind as to give them a choice, at least. Isn't that generous of him? If he wanted to harm them outright, he'd not play a little game of cat and mouse first--

Well, maybe he would.

But that is truly not the intention, at least not at this exact moment. Astarion's just picking apart a mystery that's been delivered to him!]

I am. Show me, Maeve. You, who ferrets away in my garden and thinks they can tell me what to do.

[ permission. direction. authority. it's all Maeve has ever asked for.

their auxiliary eyes all open, all of them--dozens of them--in the length of their sticky ponytail, and all of them gazing down. a watchful gaze under which they produce another knife, somewhere beneath their skirt.

it flashes in the warmth of the sun, and something catches, there's the splash of blood on the air, but the blade is still in motion, gripped hard between nicked fingers, tucking up and bearing down into the back of his hand ]

Let go.

[Oh, they're quick. Between nicked fingers and the bite of a blade pressing into the back of his hand, the air is practically rank with the scent of blood. And theirs, so very strange in his nostrils. If Astarion's heart was not a dead thing, it would be twisting with pure excitement in his chest.

Because honestly, what gall. Though it's clearly born of a wild ignorance that he finds a bit fascinating, and thus the pain stinging at his flesh, drawing red, is easily forgiven this time. He did ask them to.]

You're clumsy with that.

[He means their own knife. Notably, his grip does not release, but perhaps the bite of his nails are less prevalent than before.]

And though I can't quite make heads or tails of your heartbeat, I don't think it's because you're afraid. So what does that leave? I wonder. [He suspects.] Do you not feel my hand around you?

[ he isn't going to let go. not if they ask, and definitely not if they cut.

their heartbeat pulses in their own ears: unsteady, uneven roiling, as of waves in the deep, of thunder behind the clouds, of great old ones murmuring to her. this man will not let go.

their eyes (their many, many eyes) dart down. and up again ]

I know you are holding me.

[ and their brain supplies, sometimes still, the way it used to feel, back before they gave that curse away. touch... ]

[He will let go, but not because he's been told to, and not because of her knife carving out a little flesh from his hand.]

And your cuts? Do they sting?

[He will let go because he chooses to, no sooner or later than that. One by one, fingers unfurl from around their wrist. Slowly, so slowly, almost frustratingly lackadaisical in every movement.

Maeve is free to pull away, or not.]

[ you never run from a predator. you back away, and you do it slowly. that's what they do now, though all it does is ensconce them further in the bushes. ]

Cuts always sting.

[ a safe answer. logical. their eyes are roving his face with perturbation--he looks like he could be Outsider, too, but there is none of the kinship. none of the self in the other ]

[Act like prey, and a predator might want to tear one's throat out, see what its insides look like in the sun. All too tempting, even despite his curiosity that forgives so much in this moment -- but no. He'll not have them retreat just yet, not out of fear or anything else. This Maeve, of some faraway place he doesn't know, will either prove to be a nuisance or something useful to him. If it's the latter, he'd rather not ruin the opportunity quite yet.

And so he smiles, shaking his head at the reply. His hand, the one bleeding slightly, lifts up to adjust the collar of his shirt; a small ribbon of red trickles downwards and strains his sleeve cuff, blotting it.]

Don't be purposefully obtuse, darling.

[But, so that they do not feel caged in by rose bushes of all things, he takes a step back. Offers a small amount of clearance, splaying that same hand against his chest.]

Something tells me we've started off on the wrong foot. So let's start over, shall we? My name is Astarion. And however you've arrived here, you've somehow managed to land in my home.

[And now, a gesture to the looming palace that hangs over them like a giant, all sallow stonework and a silhouette that punches into the blue sky hanging over Baldur's Gate.]

But I've been away for years now, only just returned. Imagine my surprise to find a guest [they've been upgraded from trespasser to guest, apparently] in waiting, when I'm hardly prepared to entertain.

[ its insides probably are shiny and sickly and black, exactly like the blood which drips slowly from their fingers and stains the roses and the grass. even after he's moved back, Maeve finds herself still holding her blade in what she estimates must be a tight grip, because her skin goes very pale wherever it touches the handle.

"darling"... Maeve remembers being called "darling". ]

I'm not... not a guest. I shouldn't be here. You shouldn't have met me.

[ this could be very, very bad. don't think about that, though. think about what you're going to do to prevent it from getting worse. ]

I'm sorry about your roses.

[Maeve's going to hear "darling" a lot from this one, unfortunately.]

What, those? Nothing to apologize for. Just look at the state they're already in.

[And the garden as a whole does look overgrown. Some plants are gnarled and twisted, others have flourished almost too much without a pair of shears to tame them. As Astarion implied, it has the look of a place that's been neglected for years.]

That said, you are here. And I have met you. There's no undoing that now, is there? So you might as well take advantage of it while you can. You'd be a fool not to.

[ "darling" is nice. sounds like being cared for. sounds like what she sometimes would privately hope for Vesper and Phosphor to call her... but they never would. what kind of boss would do that? not them, never. no, instead it's the triplets, and it's always to Lysander, and they always sound mean when they say it.

...

they look down at Astarion's bleeding hand. up at his face. down at his hand. both at once, because. well. they can. ]

Me? [ lol. ] I'm not usually good at taking advantage of things. That's not what I'm... for.

["Darling" can be plenty of things from Astarion. Less and less, it's ever kind or sincere -- but it can be playful, and airy, and mean nothing at all.

Anyway, he's so very perceived by their many, many eyes; it doesn't seem to bother him in the least.]

What are you "for", then?

[ something tells them, quietly, in the very very far reaches of their mind, that they shouldn't say. it wouldn't be wise to say.

but he wants to know.

they look down abruptly, entirely, and begin the painful, slow work of closing their knife again. ]

For... Fixing things. I'm a Fixer. And that means doing what everyone needs me to do to help them.

[He watches her put away her knife with the same disaffected air as usual.]

Fixing what sort of things? [His first thought is something of a mercenary. But "what everyone needs me to do to help them" is phrased rather... benevolently, he thinks, despite the sharpness of that knife.]

Things that require the cut of a blade?

Sometimes.

[ it is simply not in Maeve's nature to lie. it takes too much confidence, and it falls apart the moment anyone suspects; to ask for the truth is to receive it. with the balisong folded, they hike their hemline and slip it into a sheath strapped to their nicked and scarred thigh.

in bowing their head down to do this, the auxiliary eyes watch Astarion. they are a simple creature to influence, and even easier to win over, but they are also a street rat at their core, and they know better than to trust, even if they can't help but to listen. ]

And sometimes it's just... getting coffee. Delivering new bodies for HR. Or stopping the end of the world. [ a wan smile ] Simple things.

[More and more useful, which is a good(?) thing for Maeve. To be presented more like a tool to be used, rather than a simple plaything to be used up.]

Oh, yes, so very simple. [Twisting, wry, very amused words. Been there, done that -- stopping the end of the world was great for a reputation boost, not to mention promised his continued survival in general. But that's so very several years ago. He'll have to ask their story on it someday, perhaps when his curiosity is not suddenly hinged on.]

And "HR" is...?

[I can't believe we're gotten to the point where Astarion Baldur's Gate is asking what an HR department is.]

[ they wait for a few seconds.

but, no. he really is asking. ]

. . .Human Resources.

[LOOK AT HOW YE OLDE EVERYTHING IS, does it look like a Human Resource Department is a common thing in Baldur's Gate??

This doesn't precisely answer, well. Anything.]

Specifically for humans only?

Um... mostly? I think so.

[ they remember the cadavers, but only in the abstract. a lot had been going on underneath the earth. ]

I didn't look that closely at the bodies. Sorry.

[Another laugh, sincerely amused but, as always, not particularly kind.]

Oh. Those kinds of resources. Wouldn’t I have loved to see that.

[Anyway!]

Well! You seem an interesting sort. I imagine you want to get back to your own plane, don’t you?

[ —looking up sharply. not sharp in their gaze, but in speed. like the flash of a knife in the dark. their many strange eyes are all mostly... mournful. their heart aches, they think. they think it would, yes. ]

Yes. I need to go back.

[An eagerness to return. Yes, they very much would like to. He can use that.]

Then you should let me- [pressing that bleeding hand to his chest] -help you.

[ now, now they step forward, pulling from the rosebushes without any concern to the thorns catching in their clothes. what are snags when compared to a promise? ]

You would do that? ...You can do that?

With enough time, darling, I'm certain I can whatever I like. Plus, you have me curious. And I'm not the sort of man to leave an opportunity skulking in his rosebushes, to fly off as soon as they've gotten a little spooked.

[ it's noted. the words he chooses, very deliberately, to use; he's 'curious'. they are an 'opportunity'.

good. an opportunity doesn't get ignored. it's a purpose to fill, then, which goes a strangely long way towards calming them.

their lips lift in the vaguest of smiles. not 'happy'. more like 'accepting'. ]

Can I come out, in that case?

From the bushes?

[Ha, well, he certainly didn't intend on leaving them there, as he said.]

Of course. Perhaps you'd like even to come indoors.

[TO HIS LOOMING PALACE]

[ Maeve's many-eyed gaze slides away from him—which is, perhaps, short-sighted of them—and towards the LOOMING PALACE. ]

Okay.

PSL; OCTOBER VAMPIRE NONSENSE

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