faderift | [OPEN] Young Blood, say you want me out of your life

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[OPEN] Young Blood, say you want me out of your life

WHO: Astarion and, gasp, maybe you
WHAT: catch-all for Kirkwall mayhem involving a certain vampire
WHEN: ~whenever~ pick your poison
WHERE: Gallows, Kirkwall proper, anywhere you want
NOTES: 1 intolerable vampire pretending he doesn't give a damn

I: CHARITY

He keeps odd hours, that’s the nature of being a nocturnal monster designed to feed on the blood of his prey— or, well, former monster, as luck would have it. He certainly isn’t turning to ash each time the sun rises, and he isn’t burning to death every time he sinks into a nice, hot, afternoon bath. Food, even, that’s a new luxury too, though he isn’t entirely fond of what the Gallows serves on the regular: his taste runs a touch finer, as a habit— which might be why one passing trip through the market sees an arm slung sweetly around your own for a cheerful bout of unprompted conversation at Astarion’s mercy.

It’s quick, takes barely more than a few moments of lingering closeness, and then—

And then nothing. He’s gone as quickly as he came. Wait— do your pockets feel noticeably lighter?

Pursuit would only find him sometime later, slung casually across a table in some smoky little hole in the wall: drinking a glass of vivid red, eating a very lovely meal and chatting up someone with cheekbones so sharp they could open envelopes via proximity alone.

And he probably paid for all of it with your coin. Oh dear.

II: VICE CITY

“Aha, no, wrong again, darling— that win belongs to me.”

He’s learned the rules quickly. He’s learned everything, quickly, in fact, winking slyly as he rakes a meager mess of coins and knickknacks across the table towards him. Hardly a vivid sum, but enough that the brute opposite to him growls something unintelligible— veering away as the chair they’d been occupying topples right to the floor, the noise of it snapping right through an otherwise pleasant scene.

“Well.” Astarion scoffs, silvered brows raising. “Talk about a sore loser.”

He’d only cheated a little, besides. Still, red eyes snap to, the edges of his lips curling into an easy smile, gesturing with slender fingers towards the now-emptied seat across.

“Your turn, dearest.”

III: A VAMPIRE STILL

He haunts dark spaces in later hours. Bright eyes in shadow, attentive without exhaustion. The Gallows is bustling in daylight, and near silent without, and he prowls like a cat in the gaps between lanterns, searching for something nameless and shapeless.

Perhaps out of sight until the very last, unsettling second when pale features seem to cut through pitch-soaked corners.

Try not to shriek, if you stumble into his path, won’t you? It is late, after all, and he doesn't fancy a headache.

IV: WILDCARD

[ooc: pick your poison, swap one of the prompts around, opt for daylight and cheerful drinking— the sky's the limit. Astarion can even be caught doing a little studious reading in closed-off spaces, though don't expect him to take kindly to being noticed.

Also I'll match tagging format to whatever suits you, and/or hit me up if you want something else plotwise entirely!]

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This merits a chuckle, Barrow's arm looping around to pat Astarion lightly on his own shoulder, giving credit where it's due.

"Well, I don't know a thing about you," he admits, "what should I be complimenting?"

There's a spark in those crimson eyes, a sudden flicker of wicked enthusiasm: he’d been hunting for entertainment within sullen shadows, he hadn’t expected to actually find it.

"For starters? I hear I'm terribly clever. Utterly charming, and— ” his brows tangle slightly as they pinch, head tilting just so as he measures the substantial differences between them.

“Well, not as tall as you, but tall enough, I suppose.”

"Then fair's fair," Barrow replies, "and you've got to compliment me for being tall. And handsome."

He pushes his curly hair back out of his face to illustrate the point.

"What's a clever and charming fellow like yourself doing, lurking about in the shadows? One might think you're up to no good."

“Hm. Handsome, maybe. I’ll need to study you in daylight to be sure before I sign off entirely on that assessment.”

His hand withdraws entirely from the curve of that shoulder at last— but instead of resting at his own side, it first flicks gently across the underside of Barrow’s chin. A playful gesture. Nothing more.

“Dear boy, good— or lack thereof— is only ever a matter of perspective.”

"Then I withhold charming until you agree on handsome," Barrow decides solemnly-- this isn't a game, there are stakes here.
No pun intended.

He looks down at the elf with a smirk. "And what's your perspective, then?"

“Agreed. Though should you change your mind before dawn, I’ll take no offense.”

Washing his hands through the air before him, dramatic and fleeting, nothing more than conversational flair as they stroll.

“My perspective is whatever it needs to be. So long as no one decides to trouble me as I go about hunting, I’ll not trouble them.”

"Likewise."

Barrow walks in companionable silence for a moment, just a moment, before the little man's words completely nestle into his mind.

"Hunting?" He pauses. "...what're we hunting?" It's 'we' now, at least.

"We?"

He has to stifle the laugh that threatens to slip out, tongue catching against the back of his own sharp teeth.

"I thought you were heading to bed, not looking for a night of tracking down local riffraff."

"Well, what kind of riffraff are we talking?"

Pulling a cigarette and match out of his belt pouch, Barrow lights the former and tosses the latter away into the damp gloom.

"And for what reason, I suppose."

“Your typical pawns from fairytales, local legends, all that nonsense, though I’m not entirely sure what you have here, of course.” He moves to loop his arm through Barrow’s own once that cigarette is lit, striding along as though this were a Hightown garden in midday light.

“But you know how it goes, I’m certain. Ruffians, villains, all those ne'er do well sorts with coin to spare and nothing at all between their ears. Why, it'd be criminal to let them keep their spoils when so many others are...lacking.”

Barrow allows the arm looping; he's already stated his position on further flirtation, and there should be nothing more to discuss.

"Ahh, so victims to fleece," he chuckles, "well mate, I'm glad we had this chat before I played any cards with you. I've already lost too much of my substantial fortune to Mrs. Fitcher."

“No offense darling but you don’t seem much the type to go hunting down a delicate, defenseless elf in dark alleyways.”

One wistful sigh sees his attention shifting, studying what little he can of the outline of rough features. Dark curls.

Simple objective admiration, nothing more.

“Of course if you’re qualifying yourself as my prey only by a lack of thought, well— don’t worry. I won’t bite. We’re friends now, after all.”

"Gone soft, I have," Barrow admits pleasantly, but something in Astarion's phrasing has him looking askance at the elf.

"How defenseless are we talking?" There's a touch of concern, perhaps wariness-- is someone going to turn up murdered tomorrow, if he doesn't intervene?
Because that's a lot of work.

“How defenseless do you think I am?” He asks, curiosity genuinely piqued.

No, perhaps he ought to play the part first— withdrawing briefly from their arrangement to comb graceful fingers through silver curls, displacing them slightly. The ruffled silk at his throat undone, the predatory set to his features eclipsed by what can only be described as a doeish, hangdog gaze.

"Oh."

Barrow had misunderstood. He'd taken it to mean Astarion, who is decidedly not defenseless, was looking for someone who was-- and that would be a problem, despite what he'd rather be doing.

"Would you forgive me for saying 'hardly'?"

“Of course not.” How dare you, sir. “And here I thought we were friends.”

“No, go on, shamble out of here. I’ve fools to lure in, and you’re stepping on my toes.”

Said with a pouting, petulant glance to one side. Performative, undoubtedly, but there might yet be a chance to make genuine amends— if one were so inclined.

Edited (oh no I’m half asleep) 2021-06-05 08:06 (UTC)

"Had I known I would injure you so grievously, I'd have kept my mouth shut," Barrow says, failing to shamble away-- why now, when they're having such a pleasant conversation?

"I'm sure you're a right damsel in distress. One hopes your knight will come for you one day."

“I’ve found knights have a frequent habit of proving disappointing on arrival.”

That is an innuendo, thank you. “All that bravado, all that bravery— it wastes stamina.”

“But thank you, my dear. You’re quite right.” He's certain he does make a fitting damsel in distress...when that’s what he’s aiming to be.

A booming laugh, as Barrow catches his drift.

"That's when their missus calls the rugged mercenary in," he says cheerfully, making no effort to mask that he is likely speaking from experience.

"Oh my," said with a meager little gasp, fingers pressing against his own lips, as though Barrow himself is the only source of lurid mischief in this conversation. How scandalous, sir.

"You wouldn't happen to be the rugged sort, would you?"

"Me? Perish the thought."

Barrow winks down at him.

“Gods, it’s a shame you don’t dabble in my own particular caliber of fancies,” Handsome indeed, he concludes at last, in that rough-hewn, sturdy sort of way. “How I would ruin you.”

But abandoning all foolishness there he only flicks a few curled fingers back and forth, motioning between the two of them in a way that seems fond. Approving.

“Still, better friendships have started on less. I haven’t seen any with my own eyes of course— but that’s what I’ve been told.”

"Well."
Tipsy though he is, and riled up as he can be by extended periods of not, shall we say, working things out, it actually crosses Barrow's mind to take the elf up on his offer of ruination; but then he remembers what happened the last time he stepped out on the one at the end of whose leash he remains even still, for reasons even he can't fully explain.
Perhaps more for his sake than hers, he doesn't entirely want to risk this getting back around. Even recognizing the temptation pierces him with an unexpected pang of guilt, which swims down to coil itself tightly in his gut, to be ignored at his own risk.

"I won't toy with you, then," he says, some of the wind gone from his sails, as he pauses to put out his hand, "and I'll not scare away your quarry. Pleasure to meet you...?"
They never did exchange names.

Edited 2021-06-07 23:22 (UTC)

"Astarion, darling." Hand taken, though his grip is far too delicate to be considered anything even remotely close to a handshake more than the sort of offering most nobility— perhaps even royalty— tend to favor.

"Try not to forget it."

Either because of sheer muscle memory, or because he's committed to the bit (who can even tell), Barrow bends forward to give Astarion a little kiss on the back of his hand.
"Barrow," he replies as he straightens, "try and behave yourself."

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illithidnapped - 2021-06-08 06:01 (UTC) - Expand

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