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

Entry tags:

[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!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

If this were a story a friend were telling, it would start like this: Everything was dark, but not everything was quiet.

But friends are not here, only gangs that roam dark causeways, looking for prey. Fenris is not prey, but that's not why he's here. There's money to be made in nighttime violence. He's never forgotten that.

He forgets about other things, like bystanders. He doesn't recognize Astarion at first, and puts himself between him and the woman fighting him with two curved daggers. "Hide!"

Fenris' tattoos flare to light, and he pushes forward.

In truth, he’s hardly blameless: trouble follows him like a shadow— or, no, maybe it precedes him— he doesn’t waste much time mulling it over in detail. He knows he’s spent a little too much time being friendly in local spaces, a man alone with coin in his pocket. An elf. Whatever it is that marks him as an easy target, or a desired one.

But he can run when he needs to, and cut when he has to, and though the first option didn’t pan out he was more than prepared to manage the second when—

Well.

He’d not expected that.

Gallant. Menacing. His unfeeling heart might skip a beat if he actually cared about more than his own neck— which is precisely why he steps backwards into shadow as Fenris strides forward.

“Gladly.”

A half-murmur, easily missed. Maybe intentional. Cutthroats always have friends, and the louder Fenris is, the more a target he makes himself over Astarion.

Fenris surges forward, sword at the ready. The fighting is uneven, slow; the Sisters Three (though there are always more than three) are fast, clever rogues. Fenris can swat them down with a hit, if he can land it. The corresponding dance is an ugly thing, them whittling away his strength until he looks knocked back on the ropes.

And then an animal yell, markings glowing with new light, and a woman's head falls to the ground. Her body follows afterward.

"Astarion," Fenris growls. The Sisters look puzzled by this nonsense word. Fenris does not spare a look to explain himself, only to make it quite clear: he knows you're here.

Maybe, were someone else here, it wouldn’t be so vicious a bout: Fenris left to weather the worst of a pack snapping at his heels, Astarion measuring whether he should simply leave, long before things even begin to look bleak—

It would be easy. The opportunity’s there.

There’s no answer this time.

Fenris may know now whose rescue he came to, but there’s only empty air where that man once stood. He’s fled. He’s gone.

—until something at the edge of view gives way with a crack of split bone and spilt blood, pale curls peeking out from behind the shoulder of a sister now in dire need of an intact throat.

Thank you for the distraction.

“—Well. That should even the odds a little.”

Fenris smiles. So he can fight, in his own way.

He surges forward for the final two, one losing several fingers in the fight, screaming and running. The other is now missing a heart. Fenris lets the bloody globule fall to the ground.

"We'll split the bounty," Fenris says, by way of thanks.

“There’s a bounty?”

He’s stretching his arms in the aftermath, fingers pointed skywards as they flex, eyes bright in the dark. The scent of blood is sickly strong, but it does nothing for him.

It’s more like a memory, or a life that wasn’t his own.

How pleasant.

“I should stumble around in the dark more often.”

Fenris' lip twitches, the echo of a smile. "Kirkwall is littered with gangs, and those who would see them gone. Hightown especially."

He nods to the fine buildings around them, the statuary, the dark windows only pretending to have no eyes staring out.

“We make quite the team, you and I.”

Aha, he sees it, even in the depth of night with eyes now a little less accustomed to dimly lit spaces, that flicker of a pull against the grain of dour features. And he’ll pocket that as another win, too. “So they actually pay up, do they? No owed favors, no weaseling invitations to soirées that only serve piss poor wine and middling company at best?”

“I’ve known more than a few rich bloods in my time. They have a surprisingly invariable tendency to be stingy whenever the mood strikes.”

He’s eyeing his own cuff— then his hand— where crimson is splashed bright across it. He doesn’t need it, and he certainly isn’t tempted, but...it’s a curiosity all the same.

And then he’s glancing away, cheerfully tucking his daggers back into discretion at his belt, and opting to toe at that heart instead. Hah. Gross.

"They don't pay well," Fenris admits. "But there is enough cleaning to do that the pay adds up."

Fenris shrugs, the metal feathers at his shoulders dipping briefly into he whiteness of his hair. "I am more skilled at this than theft."

“Theft?”

Now hold on a moment, that’s interesting.

“I didn’t take you for the sort to even bother trying, what with all your posturing and heroic snarling.”

"Noble?" Fenris spits out a laugh. "When I ran, I took what I needed to get by. Of course I stole."

“Makes sense, of course. I suppose I would’ve done the same— well, if I weren’t inclined to already, that is.”

If he’d been running longer, if he’d stayed in Faerun with all those unfamiliar faces cluttered up together in one muddy little camp. Hard to imagine it now, without a tadpole in his mind and a clock ticking down over his head, leaving him to jump at every shadow.

The smile he flexes isn’t sympathetic, but...maybe a little more human than his usual fare. Or maybe that’s just the lack of light.

“But you know, if you’re so much in need, we could always make arrangements.”

Fenris wonders if Astarion knows how to say that word without rolling it into innuendo. Probably not.

"I would appreciate that. Before, when I lived here, I did similar with..."

Uh.

"Friends."

Mostly.

“Friends?”

Hm.

“You know, I’ve been doing some of my best work down by the docks these days: gambling, pickpocketing, borrowing favors— no upstanding citizens by the way. Only ruffians and brutes.” Aside from the occasional member of Riftwatch, but what’s the harm? They’re all sharing funds as allies anyway. “Of course I can get into trouble just fine, but getting out is...less reliable. As I’m sure you’ve seen.”

He prowls closer, one foot before the other, reaching high— and scuffing a soft-padded thumb across the arch of Fenris’ cheek, wiping away a touch of blood.

Hi.

“Keep me safe, we’ll say...half of what I take is yours.”

More like a third, but Fenris doesn’t need to know that.

It's a good offer, a gentle touch, and Fenris rejects both, jerking his head back. "I'll not stand bodyguard again."

Even he can hear the sudden bitterness of his tone. He shakes his head, not wanting to lose control over something so terribly small. Yet, his next words are spit out just the same, and he offers no explanation. "Do not touch me again without warning."

There should be some familiarity there. Some understanding. Maybe if Astarion were a little more sober-hearted, he’d see through the rejection for what it really is. Pain.

Instead it sours his mood, and his features twist sharply for a passing flicker of a beat— before giving way to bitter petulance.

“Suit yourself. I certainly don’t need your help, I’ve done just fine on my own.”

He’s a proud creature. He shouldn’t be.

“Keep your bounty. I hope it’s everything you dreamed of.”

Seeing he has caused hurt-- nonphysical-- is strange. He's insulted some aspect of this man's pride by refusing him. Strange to think Fenris is held in enough regard to cause such an insult.

Still, his temper is high, even as he explains himself. Each word is spit through gnashing teeth. "I was a bodyguard before. That is why I was marked so. To be impressive, silent, and dangerous. I will not do it again."

He wants to hold onto his wounded pride. It’s easier, you see, more comfortable. There’s a reason why each time Fenris brings up the past, Astarion opts to wriggle free at the first opening available.

...but his gaze flickers for a moment, darting down, then left, then up again. A sure sign that something’s found purchase.

It always is.

“I don’t want a bodyguard, anyway. I do my own fighting. Just— ” mm, what’s the word he wants? The one he needs? It feels like empty space where a memory should fit, and there’s a moment where he’s stuck pacing before resigning himself to regaining his poise, rather than continuing to fight a losing battle.

“Tell me that if I get into trouble, you won’t make yourself scarce.”

~~Friendship, Astarion. That’s friendship, generally speaking.~~

Fenris watches this display, and is strangely refreshing. To see such pomp and circumstance in an elf, when such airs are usually only found with well-bred humans. He likes it. He likes Astarion. Even if he is an idiot.

Yet at the request, Fenris' lip twitches. "I do not run when allies are in danger, and I don't need to be reminded to help."

“Then you’re an idiot.”

Murmured bitterly, each syllable of the word idiot emphasized as though the sharpness might somehow puncture skin, no trace of performative sweetness to be spotted. “Get paid for risking your own neck, next time you think about unsheathing that sword of yours.”

“And you’ve blood in your hair. Just above your eyebrow.” Since he’s not allowed to touch you, sir, he’s making this as petty a note as possible.

He hasn’t left, though. Which is probably a good sign— that is, if his company could ever be considered good by anyone’s standards.

Fenris rolls his eyes, and cards sharp-fingered hands through his hair. It reveals yet more markings: three dots of scarred white-blue above his brow.

"I will accompany you to gambling dens as an ally," he says, "as I would for no split of your dubious winnings."

“No, it’s— ” to the left is what he tries to gesture, raising a few fingers and nearly brushing them across his own angled brow—

“Oh, never mind.”

He doubts Fenris cares what he has on him, the same as he can’t seem to convince the man to let go of pre-conceived notions of alliances and what they’re actually for.

With a sigh, the pointedness bleeds from his features; if Fenris won’t look after himself, he supposes he can.

A little.

“Hold out your hand.”

For all Astarion's grand airs and grander words, Fenris still can find no reason to mistrust the man. He knows he's capable of guile, that's obvious. But they are what they are. Broken creatures, but viable.

He holds out his hand, gauntlet and all.

“It’s what I stole from them earlier. As thanks.” The gap between them isn’t bridged with ceremony this time, in fact Astarion lacks all flourish when he leans forward, inhaling once (the way someone might inhale prior to ripping off a sealed bandage) before upturning a small collection of coins previously kept in a pouch at his own hip, letting them tumble down into gauntleted fingers.

“I don’t think I would’ve done half as well on my own. But— don’t you dare rub it in. Not unless you’re planning on dinner and flowers first.”

When his fingertips catch for a split-second across the barest edges of Fenris’ open palm, dragging, it’s entirely intentional. He could be far more subtle if he wanted to.

This makes them even.

His pale fingers scrape against the line of white markings in Fenris' palm. He's accustomed to the pain, but the deliberateness of it leaves him... displeased. He can endure that, though. He can endure most things.

"When are you playing cards, next?"

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

iv: a new hope.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)