#party tales

[camillathe6th]

Snippet. None of us are free.

DISCLAIMER: Everything belongs to Larian and Baldur's Gate 3. CONTEXT:  This is supposed to take place somewhere at the end of act 2 / at the beginning of act 3, when Astarion and Hero were still basking in the unresolvedness of their relationship, and were NOT basking in bickering constantly about Cazador and the meaning of freedom. They're at the point where they're honest enough to know each other (this relationship is real), but not trusting enough to let the other put a blade to their respective throat (is it real?). Deception expertise will do that to you. SOME DETAILS: Hero is a bard and a charlatan, plays the lyre, has a propensity for psychic damage, and appears in other mismatched snippets here. I'm using this to explore both their voices a little, so there's nothing key in here.

Approaching Baldur's Gate, 1492 (Hero)

Watch. I am watching. Not around, around is incidental, around is always shine and dust. Eye-catcher, eye-blinder. No, I watch; I am watching, his beautiful face, which moves like cracking paint around the lies that tug below.

“When we go back to Cazador’s palace…” he whispers.

This is the right moment to do this: night has fallen, and sleep has fallen, and in the haven of the sighing-breathing camp, only the fire crackles, a little way away. I am still seating, my feet tucked beneath the cold weight of his thigh, and from here I can see.

The stars are misted with velvet fog, as Astarion is.

He smiles; on his back, as if abandoned, as if trusting, he closes his eyes, and murmurs—a tip-toe of the tongue, just a slip, a casual talk, a faraway dream. You understand, of course: if it is light, if it is airy, then surely it can’t be dangerous.

Dangerous to you. Dangerous to me.

“You know what would be even more satisfying?”

I take away my eyes—leave him time to snag himself out of hiding.

“Stealing his jewels?” I coo. “I remember talk of a bloodstone tiara, back in the day…”

A laugh: just this side of strained. Don’t joke about this, says the strain. This is serious.

“Good one”, he lies. “But no. Stealing his ritual, rather.”

I arch a brow, mimicking a surprise I don’t feel.  

“Vampire ascendant,” I say, pensive—not pensive at all. “The most powerful of them all…”

“Yes,” he hisses, and thus shows his hand. “Yes. You get it, don’t you? I knew you would.”

A touch to my ankle, as cool as night-dew. His eyes meet mine and clasp them there—another show of faith and trust, there, keep, don’t blink, oh, I can almost hear his thoughts, go on, Astarion, let your mask slip, keep, keep so the mark will see your hunger and mistake it for your soul bared.

Two hundred years of experience, and still so ham-fisted with the changing of his face… Clearly he was not a natural.

Still, I let the semblance of a lying smile shift on my mouth—barely a hint, a little coy, a little flattered. It says, Oh, Astarion, you knew I would get it? My my, we really are soulmates.

“It would become you, it’s true,” I say with a touch of my fingers to his moonshaded knuckles. “After all these years…”

“I deserve it.”

“You deserve it,” I nod.

He does. Of course he does. Don’t we all deserve to sit on the throne of power that haunt our fantasy worlds? Don’t we all deserve to climb above, to sit in the rawness of ubiquity? Why not you? Why not me? Why not us?

It’s as simple as that. Strength. Safety. Beauty. Power. Let your soul spill over the world and shape it in your image. Have you not suffered enough for this? Bled enough for this?

Yes. He’s lying, but he’s not wrong: I do get it. I do get it. I do want it. I want it, every day, I want want want it— But if we all deserve it, that means not one of us can have it. And certainly not…

“Not just I, little lyre. We would take it together, for ourselves. Just for ourselves.”

What? I feel the slip but can’t stop it. For a second, he has me there, promising something I did not expect, an alliance he can’t, wouldn’t, won’t give. For a second, I am pinned and stuck, spider-webbed, and my heart sings louder than my mind.

Just for ourselves. Centuries of power, pulsing in our joined hands. Just for ourselves.

He smiles. Just a second. Just a second. Just a second before I catch myself back.

Tsk-tsk. Be serious now.

“But I wouldn’t become ascendant, would I?”

“I didn’t know you wanted to become a vampire to begin with,” he purrs, following the curve of my calf. “And squander all that lovely vivacity into undeath? Darling…”

“Then,” I smile, darling, sweet as child-blood, “we wouldn’t take it for ourselves really, would we?”

He frowns.

“I would share my power with you. I told you, love. This is real.”

I don’t flinch; I don’t, I know I don’t. Inside my skin I do, but skin is here to screen truth. A smooth and chiseled façade for the bile-and-guts sacks we all are.

Is this real? What binds us, is it real? Me, him, is it real? Is he real? Am I? Together and apart, are we real? The gut-sack might whisper from the depth, pounding like a heart, but it is lying. I know this. I learned this.

Nothing is real. Nothing has ever been real. Promises are smoke waiting to be dispelled. Promises of power, promises of love, promises of intimacy, promises of eternity: a charlatan arsenal, nothing more. Words and lies mould the world.

This cannot be real, and I am not caught. I am not.

I am free.

“It’s a lovely fantasy,” I say, cutting the pantomime to the quick.

And so the illusion breaks. He sits up, he tenses, eyes ruby-sharp.

“It can become reality,” he presses.

What, did he think this was ever a debate?

“No,” I laugh, a last effort at civility in front of the rushing tide. “Because I won’t let you.”

It’s a cheap shot: I know this is exactly the wrong thing to say.

“You won’t let me?”

“What did you expect? That I would encourage you to take over the world?”

“Oh, so this is about you, isn’t it?” he jeers. “You’re afraid that I will take over you. Why can’t you trust me? When I’m Ascendant, I can change you too.”

“Stop,” I clench my teeth. “It’s not about that. I don’t give a damn about ascendancy—”

“You were tempted. You were. Don’t think I don’t see through you, Hero.”

“Then you’ll know I like entertaining what could be, before I decide what should be.”

“But it’s not yours to decide!”

The star-face cracks: the smile is gone, and the composure, and the promises; and the hope. Maybe… Maybe, this is real.

“What? Do you think you’ll defeat Cazador by becoming Cazador?” I ask, harshly.

“I would not—”

“You would! I get it, alright? We’re weak. We are. Fear is guiding you now. You’re a grasping, terrified little—”

“Shut it,” he cleaves.

“No. You need to hear it. This isn’t freedom. You want freedom but you keep missing the point. Freedom is tie-cutting. To be free you need to end him, and with that I will help you unconditionally; but then you need to let it go. Do you think you’ll be free of Cazador as you recreate Cazador? Do you think you’ll be free of your past by enacting it onto others? Do you think you’ll be free at all, carrying the burden of godly power in your hands? It will only control you just like your master controlled you. Gods aren’t free, Asta—”

“Oh please!” he laughs, an ugly laugh now, his face lined, his eyes blazing, his voice as stinging as a poisoned dagger. “What do you know of freedom, Herodias? What do you know of captivity? What do you know of despair? You fled your mommy because you were sad at home, and you think you understand the plight of those who have known real enslavement? You dare preach to me about freedom because you had the guts to—what—leave a golden cage whose door stood open for your escape? Did they even come for you when you disappeared? No. They wanted you to disappear.”

“That’s not—”

“Look at you. You’ve lived nothing. I was tortured for centuries. Thrice as long as your lifetime. Do you understand that? I was used, flayed, insulted, dissected, humiliated, robbed of myself until I was nothing more than pain walking, then numbness walking. Nothing in my mind, nothing in my body, only Cazador. You think you can judge me and understand me? You think you can influence me? Do yourself a favour and keep your cheap tricks for your drunken clientele. What you know of life are stories, only stories. You’re just a brat playing make-believe, but I’m real. My pain is real. My worth is real. I will make my freedom the shape I want it to be.”

There’s a moment then, a moment of floating, ringing like blood in my ears. I’m not sure what my face looks like. I’m not sure what anything looks like, really, not through the blur. Maybe I have draped myself in the singing protection of the weave—the fear is kept at bay, but it cannot muffle the treacherous roiling, roiling—inside.

Inside, usually, I am silent. I am outward, like a shimmering mirror to what lies beyond myself, making it mine. I am, joyfully, a sham—but here, and now, inward, I am—I am—a sham—a, a, a—a sh-sh-shamed.

The tadpole squirms and projects; Astarion, in the fey glow of my unveiled thoughts, has gotten to his feet. 

“You should be,” he spits, and leaves me to sit only with myself, a punishment that fits the crime.

[small-reptile-cake]

My happiest memory is of myself running down the road in the middle of nowhere, holding a sheet above my head like a cape/tent while Britney Spears' "Hit me baby one more time" echoes into the night.

And I just pass by a couple of strangers that only get to see a drunk child holding white sheet getting blown up by the wind like a flag and a couple of other kids just yelling "Liz" as it takes a turn in the distance

[tealightsandteatime]

I went to this party Friday night before I left. And I met these two guys who are two years older than me.  And I got both of their numbers, and I ended up making out with one of them because he walked me to my car... (yeah, that doesn't add up to me exactly either). But I txtd the one I didn't kiss... and it's alright I guess? I'm strangely anxious about the whole thing.  To be honest, I could really care less about flirting with him and really talking to him I guess, because I just met him at a party and he's cool and all that, but I'm a better flirt in person and I'm kind of really naive. But I don't understand why I'm all anxious about this!  I don't care about this... but txting him is making me all nervous.  And I haven't even txtd the guy I kissed... like, what do you even say to people like this.  Now I know why you give guys your number and then they txt YOU.

[becomingjayne]

Last night a boy at a party told me he liked my polka dot skirt.

And that he was going to make me his baby mama.

I still got it.

[captaindwreck-blog]

Story Time!

Last night I "attended" a Black & White Swan themed party. I was originally dressed as "The Grey Swan" (haha) but ended up going as "The Blackout Swan" because I pregamed to hard with Whiskey at a friend's house and don't remember going to the party at all. Apparently I was pretty funny though so I guess I had fun?

Oh and I slept in a thorn bush for a while. I'll probably post pics of my arms later.

[my-false-reality]

The party was live last night, even though i can barely remember what happened xD