[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

III

[thereneverwas]

"Fuck--"

It's not a shriek, per se, but Barrow does stop short and clap a large hand over his chest as the pale visage all but materializes in front of him, and he takes this moment to swear off drinking forever (until his next drink).

"You out to get stabbed, mate?" Seeing that it is, in fact, only a person and not a darkspawn or an Orlesian, Barrow relaxes slightly, but irritation still twitches at the corner of his mouth.

[illithidnapped]

Forever can be as short as it needs to be, Barrow. Astarion certainly won't judge.

"Bold of you, assuming you'd hit your mark." His voice runs light, possibly even familial, even as he grins to bare the neat edges of sharp teeth. Still, he leaves space between them, giving the poor creature a moment to catch whatever breath he'd already lost. "No, my dear, I, much like yourself, am simply opting to enjoy a peaceful walk in the cool night air."

"Or— I was, at least."

Hello, stranger.

[thereneverwas]

He hadn't implied that he'd do the stabbing, after all. Just, you know. Someone jumpier than himself. He shrugs off the man's remark, rubbing his brow above the bridge of his nose.

"Certainly have a way of doing it," Barrow replies, recognizing the voice from somewhere, and feeling reassured that it at least belongs with Riftwatch-- such is the case with most disembodied voices, as it often means he heard them over the crystal network.
"Peaceful for you, at least?" Irritation doesn't tend to last, when he's tipsy.

[illithidnapped]

"Present company aside, oh yes." He isn't certain how dulled his own senses are here in Thedas— only able to mark the barest of details as reference points— but he can smell it still, just faintly: the scent of alcohol on the air, pleasant and alluring. Oh Barrow, you don't even know how much the snack your state makes you appear to his instincts.

Even so, he isn't playing old games tonight. Perhaps never again, if he keeps his mind straight and focused. A pleasant thought.

"Just kidding, of course." You're fine. He's fine. It's all a little Gallows humor— get it? "Though you seem to have had a little fun of your own, judging by scent alone."

[thereneverwas]

"Mm. That bad, is it?"
He wasn't too offended to begin with-- sometimes it's just like that-- but Barrow doesn't like to imagine that he smells. Plucking the fabric of his shirt from his chest, he sniffs at it perplexedly; he didn't spill anything, did he?

III

[notathreat]

Astarion's not the only thing that goes bump in the night. Ellie herself is a shadow that's only starting to coalesce around the edges, to take real form for the people of the Gallows. She still hides, but it's less and less.

She's got a quiet step and near-silent breath and that's when she's not trying, and the carpets in the hallways, dusty as they can be, swallow any errant sounds.

The moonlight's disturbed as they pass each other, Ellie on the edge of visibility despite her warmth, her beating heart. She shimmers into view with a soft blue glow that quickly fades away, chest-height, and a small intake of breath. The tiny click is loud in the silence, but her blade is sharp and shiny, and seems to come from nowhere, very close to him.

"Well, shit," she mutters. "Didn't expect anybody else up."

She doesn't lower the knife- she doesn't recognize him yet.

[illithidnapped]

"No. No, of course not, sweetheart."

Sidling around, he frames Barrow's shoulders with his own hands, gently ushering him along— maintaining whatever course he'd been charting before interruption via Astarion's own presence.

"I've a delicate sense of smell, you see. Remarkably sharp. Nothing at all to worry about... unless you've somewhere important to be? A late night meeting, perhaps? No, a late night rendezvous?"

[thereneverwas]

"Heading back in, actually," Barrow muses, quirking his eyebrows at the strangeness of all this, though he doesn't shrug himself free of the stranger's grip and allows himself to be ushered mildly along. He outweighs most people, and tends not to live in too much fear of physical assault.

"I'm afraid I don't, ah... well, you're not really my type," he adds, the 'dear's and 'sweetheart's finally nestling into his mind, "but don't take it personally, mate, you're good-looking and all that."

[illithidnapped]

"Nor did I." If it bothers him, the metallic glint of a poised threat in the moonlight, he certainly isn't showing it: lips curling by degrees into recognition, beat by passing beat.

So this is what you look like.

"A pleasure at last, Ellie."

[illithidnapped]

"Oh—" It's a soft scoff of a sound, delicate and delighted as though it were all flattery between them, leaving only the light-touch of one palm in place for a few moments longer. "You're sweet, but no."

Not that he's opposed, but there's always a difference, isn't there?

"The compliments, though, you can keep offering those. Just for my sake."

[notathreat]

There is an animal response in the hindbrain of all humans, but when it comes to people whose survival instincts have been fine-tuned for the span of a lifetime, it's strong. It's far from the first time Ellie's instincts have screamed predator, and it won't be the last.

The ripple of adrenaline is instant and hot, enlarging her pupils in the darkness, and her fingers squeeze down on the handle of the well-used switchblade. Her instinct is clearly fight rather than flight. But she's ahead of it, and doesn't follow through. As she recognizes his voice, she eases her hand back.

"Astarion," she answers, blowing out a breath, and folds the switchblade back into place with a practiced flip of her wrist. "You scared the shit out of me."

She sounds more exasperated than angry or afraid.

[illithidnapped]

It's a low chuckle, throaty and easy, that sees him finally reaching up to tug at the edge of one ruffled cuff once she tucks away that blade of hers— certain he won't be skewered for the gesture, now. After all, he isn't in any rush to test out what might be the death of him here, now that sunlight and water are off the table. "You'll have to forgive me, of course. I'm not used to entertaining in the dead of night, when everyone else is usually fast asleep. It makes for poor etiquette, I know."

"Still, it does beg the question of why you're skulking around in the dark."

[thereneverwas]

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?"

it's a wildcard, kind of but not really.

[kantikoy]

It's that strange combination of either very late in the evening or very early in the morning when the shadows are stretched out to irregular shapes and sizes and the sky is the darkest before the dawn. Adrasteia is up, or perhaps never went to bed; either way, her small figure exits from the smallest chapel and begins crossing the courtyard.

Difficult to say what it is that has her feeling like she's being watched but after several steps of that she stops and turns around slowly, before her eyes pick out the familiar face in a dark corner. "Hello, Asterion. What are you doing?"

[illithidnapped]

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.”

[illithidnapped]

“Observing a little piety before breakfast, of course. Same as you.”

Only the boldest of lies ever spoken, even as he cheerfully slithers over to walk at her side— one arm tucked against the small of his back, the very image of a preening bird.

Or a nobleman. Really, there isn’t much difference.

[kantikoy]

She looks at him, her brow furrows, and then she lets out a little snort at his declaration. "I hadn't taken you for much of an Andrasteian." Yes, that is a name very much like hers, she knows but isn't exactly sure if he'll comment. "Yet I suppose the Chant reaches even the darkest corners."

She smiles, putting her hands folded in front of her. "How are you finding Riftwatch thus far? Did you decide on a division?"

[illithidnapped]

“Oh undoubtedly. Consider me a devoted convert, I don’t know how I’ve survived so long without...erm, Chant...ing.”

Surely he must know he’s being a nuisance, though his smile is the picture of familiar pleasantries. Warm, even by his standards. He extends his arm, as he had once before. Whether she takes it this time, where she refused it in the darker corridors of winding alleyways, is up to her.

“Mm, indeed I did. Care to hazard a guess?”

iv: a new hope.

[broodypants]

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.

[thereneverwas]

"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."

[illithidnapped]

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.

[broodypants]

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.

ii

[truthtied]

They find each other by happenstance mostly. Hightown's elite enjoy slumming as much as Earth's elite do, the second hand thrill of danger as enticing. The Orlesian themed salon Diana had been attending as a guest (and perhaps spectacle) had turned to Lowtown pub crawl. She'd gone along more out of concern, though there was some curiosity as well.

Diana isn't sheltered, per say, but she really hasn't been to Lowtown very often. Particularly not the parts of Lowtown that have dark, smoky taverns that reek of spilled alcohol and mortals. Her companions are mostly interested in the bartender and a few other card games, so Diana has occupied her time people watching and attempting not to stand out too much (a mixed bag, but she is trying).

She doesn't recognize the man until he speaks to her, attention caught by the spectacle of his departing opponent. Her brows arch, surprise and some amusement. "You have me at a disadvantage, ser," she says, even as she stands from her seat and moves to join him, "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the game and have very little to stake besides."

Which is true. Her peplos is elegantly draped, but a plain silk and she wears little adornment, aside from the belt of gold rope (that is most certainly not glowing) at her waist and the silver bracelets on her wrists.

[illithidnapped]

“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.”

[illithidnapped]

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.”