[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

[molineux]

Margaery's eyes narrow under the weight of her own smile, although she can hardly keep her amused skepticism entirely at bay. Sometimes, she wonders if Astarion truly enjoys betraying his own (arguably genuine) sentiments by the way he speaks - other times, it feels very much like a certainty.

In this moment, she feels the latter. What better way to ensure that she falls into his trap by the tug of unavoidable curiosity and the gentle prick of challenge?

"I somehow doubt that, dear Astarion." She crosses her arms with a sort of expectant tilt to her head - the look of someone who's waiting for the other shoe to drop, but her tone remains soft and patient, her smile knowing. Her steps towards him are light and small.

"I foresee a long and grand life ahead of you no matter what might befall me, and you know I wouldn't be able to rest if I knew you were in danger on your own," She's timed her pace and movement so she looks up at him with wide eyes at this precise moment. "So you might as well share your burdens."

[illithidnapped]

“Oh, darling.” He croons, knees faintly buckling as he sways as though he’s been struck through the heart by an arrow cast by the goddess Sune herself. Rapturous and potent.

“Well, with a promise like that, who am I to say no?” From there he leans nearer, a difference of inches— not so much as to be outright intrusive in regards to her own space. There’s a fine line between enticing and intolerable, after all. “Pasts as turbulent as the one that clouds this city, they tend become something of a home for the fortunate and downtrodden alike, I find. Both have their share of vices, troubles and so on and so forth, mind. This isn't me judging anyone for their...mm, necessities.”

“But the brutes that like to prey on whatever they can find? They’re quite often drawn to, shall we say, fine-boned creatures in the dead of night.” A straggler here, a nobleman there— anyone that looks incapable of making a fuss over whatever coin they have in their pocket is a keen target for hungry eyes.

“I like to make that assumed weakness their downfall. Or at the very least a ticket to a headache or two come morning.”

[molineux]

His theatrics never fails to set Margaery at ease, helps her laugh with genuine delight rather than the initial trepidation she'd felt in his presence. Perhaps it's the familiarity, a slight tug of home where no one's ever truly meant what they've said.

"Astarion," she says slowly, mulling over the entirety of what he's just said. Her words are lightly spoken, yet there's a depth of sincerity in her eyes that allows for him to fall into that vein if he wishes to. "Are you inadvertently admitting to me that you've a heart?"

And yet, following that logic -

"And am I correct in assuming that you're in need of... proper bait?"

[illithidnapped]

“Please no. Nothing so banal as heroism.” He flicks his fingers dismissively, waving away the very prospect like an ill-fitted coat.

“No, it’s just that when it comes to making trouble for profit, one knows precisely who the city watch cares for. And it isn’t the people with knives in their pockets and a network of scars across their backs.”

Should he be saying this aloud? Probably not. But then again, if she’s to join in, then he doesn’t want word getting out that he might be doing a bit of good during the off hours.

Even though yes fine, all right, technically he is.

“Anyway, I’m used to playing bait myself, but with you loitering around, that opens up a wealth of possibility.” A pause lives there, his head tilting just slightly as his voice goes softer with musing consideration.

“...and risk.”

[molineux]

"Of course," is all Margaery says, nodding with a solemn curve to her mouth that indicates she's absolutely on the same page as Astarion and not at all seeing the thread of goodwill that still lingers through the center of his explanation.

"My relationship with risk has changed since I've gotten here," she says after a pregnant pause, shifting her footing. Perspectives tend to change after one almost dies in a massive explosion. Whatever the case here, at least she won't be as helpless as she was in that moment; the dagger Adrasteia gave her is always close enough to reach.

"My only concern is, what will you do if we attract more prey than you might be able to handle?"

[illithidnapped]

He laughs there, lilting and honeyed, swift to sweep her previously fine-boned fingers up in the tangle of his own.

What a lovely thing she is, up close.

“Why, my exceptional beauty, what does anyone do when they snare a touch more trouble than they bargained for?” His thumb folds soft across her knuckles, cooler than it ought to be. He’s forgone undeath in stumbling through the Fade, but his circulation still stands poor at best.

“They run.”

[molineux]

Her eyes have narrowed under the weight of her smile, and not for the first time, Margaery wonders if his charming brand of self-awareness is what keeps her more negative emotions from ever being roused. It speaks volumes of her experiences, that she cannot help but be drawn into his game even as he lays a trap before her.

"I appreciate your honesty." Her fingers tighten around his, just enough that it mimics a lover's touch - as if attempting to overwhelm a temporary chill with her own heat. It's a bad idea. It's a bad idea. She knows she should step away, but while she may not be angry, Astarion's gaze stokes the embers of her pride - still bruised, still reshaping itself - far too well.

If she were to walk away now, it'd feel far too much like losing. Perhaps she ought to try his brand of reckless behavior for tonight.

"And how can I be the best bait for you, my darling?"

oh good autocorrect made preciously into previously, pls end me

[illithidnapped]

He is sincere in his insincerity. Like a snake that promises to bite if touched, or a cat quick to bare its claws in displeasure, there is a certain reliability to be found in the patterns Astarion so chaotically weaves— or perhaps that in and of itself is a trap. Difficult to say for sure.

Either way, what he offers now with pervasive allure and a stare far too wicked to be kittenish, is a departure from painful normality. An opportunity for risk and reward in equal measure. If by reward, one means excitement, and the satisfaction of a job well done making Kirkwall all the more secure for a little while.

He isn't sharing his coin.

"Well for starters, no dabbling in magic while we stroll hand-in-hand through darkened alleyways. I realize there are plenty of people who dislike mages for their own fretful little reasons, but that fear's more likely to scare off smaller fish...and lure in something bigger." Despite what some might think, Astarion isn't here to cause too much of a ruckus in his dealings.

And as he speaks, he turns her doting grip towards him by degrees, dipping low enough to plant a kiss across the back of her hand for good measure.

"Of course if you haven't any magic at all to speak of, that makes things easier: just tuck your slender little arm around mine, turn that pretty face of yours to the moonlight, and act as though we've just had the time of our lives getting woefully inebriated at the nearest tavern."

i saw nothing!!!

[molineux]

Bigger - another urge to smile tugs incessantly at the corners of her lips as she's suddenly treated to the thought of Astarion meeting Cersei and how that might go; Margaery's not quite sure which party she'd pity more.

"No magic." she repeats, the picture of demure obedience even as her fingers curl inwards, straining against the cloth wrapped wrapped tightly around her shard. "You might have to forgive my initial theatrics, dear Astarion. I haven't felt the need to put on an act in so long." There's one last expressive flutter of her eyelashes to really nail in the 'uncertain novice' front before she's melting into his side almost too easily, too practiced, in contrast.

And so begins their (his) quest.

Her footfalls get clumsier with gradually decreasing effort, as a lifetime of sure steps isn't so easy to set aside, but her amused huffs of laughter sound reasonably joyful for a late-night stumble back home from the tavern.

"Oh darling-" She only speaks once they turn to a wider street, illuminated with little more than moonlight and the soft curls of smoke where groups of people have gathered. Her cheek presses against his arm as her voice wavers in pitch, where both of hers cling to him like a mindless maid might when she's entertaining soft romantic hopes on the horizon. It's not a far-fetched idea to think she'd be charmed into following a handsome stranger like Astarion home if she only possessed a quarter of her brain and drank away most of it anyway. "-Did you really mean it when you said you'd spoil me beyond my wildest dreams?"