[He appears in a little ripple of displaced air. The wound he made on his arm is already healed, but there's a little smear of fresh blood still on the skin. It smells like blood, metallic and salty, but also different, lighter, stranger, lovelier, like the smell of a clementine compared to a grapefruit. Metallic, but glimmering metals from unknown caverns; salt, but the salt of unknown seas of thought and will and dream. But unmistakably, blood, exactly the same shade of red.
Kahl hands him a little bottle - a blue glass one ounce dropper, like they have in the infirmary, which obscures the color somewhat. Small, but full - five or six hundred drops, in that one ounce.]
One drop usually lasts a few hours. People are usually...kind of out of it. If there's any magic effects, they fade at the same time as the intoxication.
"Thank you," Astarion says, solemnly. "I, ah - I recognise that something
with such effects might cause one to form a habit. Is it physically
addictive?"
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Kahl hands him a little bottle - a blue glass one ounce dropper, like they have in the infirmary, which obscures the color somewhat. Small, but full - five or six hundred drops, in that one ounce.]
One drop usually lasts a few hours. People are usually...kind of out of it. If there's any magic effects, they fade at the same time as the intoxication.
no subject
"Thank you," Astarion says, solemnly. "I, ah - I recognise that something with such effects might cause one to form a habit. Is it physically addictive?"
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He's not an adept enough dealer to quite have the words for no withdrawal symptoms.
"People don't crave it because it makes them crave it. Just...it's nice."
Which is a weird thing to think about your own blood, and he does make a little scrunchy face about it.
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"All right." He takes the bottle and smiles. "The next time I need a little vengeance, I'll think of you, mm?"
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