It starts off thrilling. Slipping in under cover of night, a self-contained saga woven together in its entirety from quiet steps, careful climbing, nimble work to eavesdrop between guarded tower tops— any commotion, any attentive glance from their enemy a promise they won’t make it out alive— all avoided. All far from the ending to their collective tales.
An eluvian, under control of one Primus Taxarchis, shuttling assets to and from Minrathous. No wonder they were able to strike so swiftly, so efficiently.
The end of their mission, however, is less riveting, less satisfactory in any sense of the word.
'You want to leave? -Now-? We could do more to ruin them—'
The enemy’s right there. Unaware. Blissfully so. Their own exit assured now that they’ve gone through the trouble of calling for their griffin escort, clouds still hanging low enough to mask their descent and due escape. Astarion, however, lingers near the edge of the parapet, lip drawn into a resentful sneer, his eyes narrowed in a way that's all too telling.
Not that either of his companions knows him well enough to recognize it.
The moment the flutter of griffin wings can be heard overhead, Astarion turns smoothly on his heel, arrow nocked, foot to the edge of the parapet, bracing against how he leans over its side— and fires.
The dull sound of a plucked string chased by faint clattering far below. The second swift, and just the same, only this time a sharp cry of alarm rings out in its wake. Third arrow. Red eyes gone hungry with bloodlust, the heat of resentment visible in the twist of his lips, peeled back to show overlong teeth.
The base is alive with alarm. His quarry is alert, aware. They can see him just as much as he can see them in spite of the fog that clings to the tower tops. His shot is less than lethal, only striking a mage in the crook of their arm— damn.
[CLOSED] https://tinyurl.com/fftvwc5j
An eluvian, under control of one Primus Taxarchis, shuttling assets to and from Minrathous. No wonder they were able to strike so swiftly, so efficiently.
The end of their mission, however, is less riveting, less satisfactory in any sense of the word.
'You want to leave? -Now-? We could do more to ruin them—'
The enemy’s right there. Unaware. Blissfully so. Their own exit assured now that they’ve gone through the trouble of calling for their griffin escort, clouds still hanging low enough to mask their descent and due escape. Astarion, however, lingers near the edge of the parapet, lip drawn into a resentful sneer, his eyes narrowed in a way that's all too telling.
Not that either of his companions knows him well enough to recognize it.
The moment the flutter of griffin wings can be heard overhead, Astarion turns smoothly on his heel, arrow nocked, foot to the edge of the parapet, bracing against how he leans over its side— and fires.
The dull sound of a plucked string chased by faint clattering far below. The second swift, and just the same, only this time a sharp cry of alarm rings out in its wake. Third arrow. Red eyes gone hungry with bloodlust, the heat of resentment visible in the twist of his lips, peeled back to show overlong teeth.
The base is alive with alarm. His quarry is alert, aware. They can see him just as much as he can see them in spite of the fog that clings to the tower tops. His shot is less than lethal, only striking a mage in the crook of their arm— damn.