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

[illithidnapped]

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!]

Comments

[cozen]

So much power, Bastien thinks, but he only communicates it with a slightly eyebrow raise before he does a little backbend, unwilling to take his eyes off this little performance, to retrieve his bow and resume tightening it.

[coquettish_trees]

Alexandrie glows merrily for his performance, and when she leans in as if sharing something in confidence her murmured reply is loud enough to be for the stage.

"Then you shall have one by the end of the evening, for I have never settled for anything." An impish smile, and she gestures towards Bastien as she straightens again. "Now come and see the cello."

[illithidnapped]

"Gladly."

She's let loose to roam free, and he moves to find a proper place to take up seating for himself— sprawled out languid and lean in whatever space he finds. Still formal, perhaps, but only just, and it paints the image of someone more inclined to trouble rather than fortunate favor.

He's in good company, he'd argue. He can spare a little truth.

And there, content in that much, he fixes his attention on Bastien.

[cozen]

"Oh," Bastien says, apparently caught off guard, apparently at a loss for how to reconfigure his two-handed hold on the bow so he can do anything else. The sort of momentary fluster that would make even an Orlesian noble who was quite accustomed to the idea of unfamiliar musicians being dangerous spies think ah, well, clearly not this one.

He figures out which hand the bow is meant to go in and picks the cello up by its neck to bring them closer to Astrarion, joining him at a respectfully friendly distance, and positions the instrument more to make an introduction than to perform.

"Like I said, it is nothing world-shattering, if you know violins. Do you play?"

[illithidnapped]

"Gods, no." Astarion scoffs casually, waving away the concept with a dismissive hand in recline. His attention lies fixed on Bastien regardless, however. He's nothing if not content to make himself a captive audience for this. Every bit as willing as he is winsome. "Granted if you had a lute tucked away somewhere I might be able to string something together, I suppose."

Don't you dare reward him for that joke.

[cozen]

Sorry, no, Bastien's snorting in a way that's more laugh than derision. Hilarious.

"I have one," he says, "but not here. Another time—unless?"

He looks at Alexandrie, who could have any number of things tucked in her skirts, never mind in this entire house.