faderift | [ OPEN | PLAYER PLOT ] This is how it feels to take a fall

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[ OPEN | PLAYER PLOT ] This is how it feels to take a fall

WHO: Tiffany, Barrow, Astarion and...you??
WHAT: an assignment gone terribly wrong
WHEN: week 5, segueing into week 6 of the plot, just after dragon tracking concluded with a terrible, literal bang
WHERE: the most silent portion of the Silent Plains, nearer to Hasmal, and not far from Tevinter's very nicely constructed base
NOTES: cw for injury, darkness, being stranded, absolute idiocy | OOC POST: here

Previously: having successfully scouted Primus Taxarchis’ base in the Silent Plains, Tiffany, Barrow and Astarion make an unsuccessful escape under the fully alerted watch of the base’s active forces— provoking a near lethal counter attack that sees them crash landing not far away, and forcing the stranded trio to desperately petition for help.

That’s where you come in.

The ravine runs like a crooked gash throughout desert sands, deep and layered, sloping inward at an angle too steep to safely (or reliably) climb. Easy to spot from above, not as easy to get into without breaking an ankle or an arm, and impossible to freely clamber out of once inside: the stone is brittle and flaking to the touch, lean too much on it, and you’ll drop right to the earth along with it.

The caverns connected to it are far more accessible— the only downside is they’re labyrinthine in their knotted nature: it’s easy to reach an end too narrow to be traversed, or so broad that it loops back on where you’ve already been, descending downward in steeper layers, becoming a near honeycombed network at points.

Of course, you also might not be alone in the dark. This territory isn’t as unclaimed as appearances might otherwise suggest, factoring in proximity to the base the three had been previously scouting. Luckily no overwhelming force has been sent to give chase and comb the desert in pursuit, but that’s not to say there aren’t still eyes to be found in the depths of lightless pathways. Armor-clad agents working for the exact same reasons you are, their noses to the trail.

Well. Not the exact same reasons.

The temperature is freezing cold at night, and in the fuller depths of the caverns where light doesn’t reach, that’s a near consistent constant. Firelight might draw attention, for better or worse. Magic, too, and— despite earning the label of Silent— there is wildlife occasionally to be found. Proof of life’s perseverance even in the harshes of places, fleeting and skittish.

Or dangerous.

Whatever approach is taken, one thing is clear throughout: none of this is going to be easy.

[ooc notes:

-The trio rest at the very bottom of those lightless depths where they’d initially fallen, in varying states of wellness and action.

-they’re lacking in supplies, warmth, healing, mounts, protection, a way out— you name it they need it.

-time is a given: none of this will go quickly, so feel free to handwave or assume anything you need to to make your dream threads come true.

-this timeline wise takes place at the end of week five segueing into week 6, when Riftwatch forces are free to head home if they care to, but given that this is technically hostile territory between Primus Taxarchis’ base and Hasmal, it’s probably going to be a deliberate choice if your characters decide to come here.

-pls just don’t do anything to officially alert the nearby base in full, that would be Bad— and super difficult to do from a hole in the ground but mostly just Bad. Otherwise chase your bliss and make your wildest spelunking/survival/heroic fantasies a reality.

-ooc post is here, for all your delving needs and details.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ellie lays there in the dark, letting the compounding horrors of it roll over her in waves. It gets worse the more she thinks about it -- Ellie knows all the darkest parts of human nature, and vampires can't be any better. She knows what it's possible to do to another person, and how much worse it could be without free will.

Ellie, even with the horrors she's seen in her short life, still can't fathom just how bad it could be, or the things it does to a person over time.

"Jesus."

Lifetimes.

"How long did he keep you like that?" she asks, her voice quiet, faint and cold.

“Two hundred years.”

He slips a hand out from beneath the blanket after a moment, hating the silence for everything it is. The potential for pity that it holds.

In the end, he uses that motion to gently rap his knuckles against her arm— though the effort of it aches in protest— mouth working its way into the ghost of a faint smile.

“Barely a blink of an eye.”

Ellie rolls her eyes at the little tap, caught between fondness and the rest. He gets playful when things are sad, taking the edge off. She's reminded of too many people who did the same, reminded of how much she misses them. All of them, gone. But she does have them to miss.

It occurs to her how deeply and how quickly Astarion latched onto her. He likely held himself apart from connections, from people who could be used against him.

It doesn't make her sad. It pisses her the fuck off.

Rolling abruptly onto her side to face him, Ellie puts her arm down to fully turn toward him, her eyes utterly serious.

"What would happen to you, if I killed him?"

“Don’t.” He warns, voice gone low and sharp in the span of a single instant. Too warding to be mistaken for part of her inquiry so much as a demand that she stop it entirely:

“Hypothetical games are for children and fools. I'm neither.”

A pretty indulgence. Fanciful fantasy. Neither saved him. Neither helped. And for it his teeth are sharp behind the curl of his lip when he punctuates that sentiment, red eyes vivid in the dark. Unblinking. Unwilling to pull away from her stare.

“Besides. If he somehow made it into this world, you’d be dead the moment you thought to look at him. And I’d be the one to kill you.” Not a threat— a certainty, and by now she no doubt understands precisely why.

“Never forget that.”

He has to exhale to bleed out the harshness scrawled across his features. The residual fear— the paranoia— everything he'd left behind in Faerûn. Everything he'd thought he'd left behind, only rearing its detestable head in the face of vaguely posited possibility. Everything forced from his mind only a beat later, under the reiteration that it would never happen. Cazador won't ever set foot in Thedas.

And even if it's living in denial, it's what he needs.

“...broadly speaking, however, if a vampire lord dies, its spawn are freed from their servitude— though they remain spawn, all the same.”

It's possibly the most serious he's ever been with her.

Ellie stops short, meeting his ruby-red eyes, staring intently back at him. She's always been the type to feel strongly about people, and it's nearly always against her will, but she's surprised by how protective she feels already. What surprises her is how much he seems to be in return.

It comes from a place of fear. It always seems like it does, doesn't it?

Slowly, Ellie relents, her eyebrows knitting together in frustration, the tension seeping out of her shoulders as it does from Astarion's face, the standoff melting away at the same time.

"... gotcha."

With a deep sigh, Ellie picks at the edge of her cloak, pressing her lips together.

"Other than the eternal bullshit deal... how are you different from a-" Ellie pauses, frowning. She'd been about to say human, but Astarion's an elf. "-regular person?"

“...I’m not quite sure yet.” A real confession, wary and tentative and tender as the wounds beneath his skin.

“Normally I’d be cinders in sunlight. Water would burn like acid. I’d need blood just to survive, and my cold, dead heart wouldn’t be beating like it wants to die. Vampire spawn, you see, aren’t possessed of overwhelming power like our masters— it’s the drawbacks of vampirism that we’re gifted for our stupidity. And an eternity to wallow in them.”

He’s still watching her, having turned himself ever so slightly her way. It isn’t the most comfortable position for resting in the wake of being shot through with magic and dropped headlong into a ravine, but it is the most comfortable way to talk— and he’d rather see her face than the rocky crag lines overhead.

“But ever since I set foot in this world, the rules have changed: obviously I’m not reduced to ashes come daybreak, and I can eat and bathe and drink without the affair being absolutely miserable. I can even trespass without an invitation, free to move about wherever I like.”

The elation of it had been intoxicating when he’d first arrived— now, however...

“...I suppose in a lot of ways, someone might say that makes me mundane. But as you can see, I’ve still got my teeth, my quickened reflexes— I can smell and see with sharper prowess than most. And given the way I look...” Pale as a ghost down to the curls in his hair. Crimson stare. Long fangs. Albinism wasn’t always his curse, he imagines. “Perhaps only the downsides have shifted. I just don’t know.”

“And I haven’t been able to bring myself to test it out for certain...what blood might do, were I to drink it again, freely. What it even tastes like.”

Hesitation flickers in his voice. The uneasiness he hasn’t confessed to anyone just yet.

“It’s terrifying, in a way. Alluring in another.”

Ellie winces visibly. She's had repeated and intimate familiarity with acid burns; there are horrible scars all over her arms to prove it, and even the tattoo she wears on one of them can't hide them.

It's up there on her list of the worst types of pain.

So she listens, turning the idea over in her mind, surprised at the impulse that bubbles up to the surface.

"The way the Rifts work is all kinds of weird," she mumbles. "I knew they fucked with magic, but I didn't realize they could fuck with..." she makes a generalized waving motion at all of Astarion.

"Could be that it just tastes gross now. You think you'll ever want to find out?"

“...yes. But I— ”

Mm.

His brow tangles, stare flickering. “Yes, I suppose. But I don’t want to drink from lowly, twitching vermin the way I'd been forced to before.”

No, a correction:

“—I won’t drink from them ever again.”

Not even the promise of wild game compels him to dip his fangs even a fraction as much as the vivid company he keeps. Curiosity to only be sated by drinking of a thinking creature, bright as the stars at night.

Supposedly they taste better, he'd been told.

“So now you see my problem: I can’t afford to lose whatever safe harbor I’ve been granted in this world by biting one of our own. And I can’t pluck off some alleyway vagrant without risking my own neck if I’m caught drinking blood in plain sight.”

And he won’t have his first time involve lapping up meager droplets of shed blood on a battlefield. Scavenging like a rat.

Ellie opens her mouth as if to say something, momentarily breathless with how pissed she is.

"Fuck that guy," she whispers under her breath. They both know who that guy is. It doesn't seem like enough, though. She curls her hands into fists to stop the fine trembling, the buzzing in her blood, until it passes.

She tries not to think about it. She's glad that Astarion hasn't made her promise anything. She knows she won't be able to keep it.

But of course, that leaves the question left unspoken, and that at least is distracting enough for Ellie to pull all of her attention to it. What would her blood do to him?

"I'd offer," Ellie says, frowning to herself. "I mean, for the sake of science, but-"

She hesitates. Even now, years and years later, Joel's warnings still hang heavy on her. Even in a world where it can't possibly matter.

"It wouldn't be a good idea. I don't know what it'd do to you."

Humor would normally be his crutch. A way to skip lightly from the ache of his own confession right through the near-miss of her offer; he’s never been graceful when it comes to being declined, even on the friendliest of terms.

So when he doesn’t sink immediately into pettiness or anything of the sort it's a testament to how much she’s earned from him. By being here. By listening. By not letting it all wash away like some cruel joke.

“...why not?” he asks, the slowness of its start the only sign he isn't certain he wants to hear the answer to that question. Or the one that subsequently chases it, both as cautious in their tone as though he's walking across only the thinnest of splintered ice.

“Are you ill?”

Edited 2021-08-13 01:08 (UTC)

Ellie breaks eye contact. Not nervously, but the look of thought on her face is the distant frustration of someone trying to figure out how to explain something complicated.

"Not exactly," she says, slowly.

She pauses again, trying to reason through her words. She doesn't want to freak him out or anything, but she doesn't want to make light of this either.

"Y'know those fucked up monsters I've talked about, from my world?" She shifts her gaze back to Astarion's face, hesitating again. The edge of her mouth twists.

"They're that way because of an infection. Spreads through bites. If someone gets bitten, they... y'know. Turn into one of those things."

She makes a gesture with her hand, uncomfortable, and rubs her palm over her right forearm.

"I've been bitten. More than once. But... luckily, it didn't take. As far as anybody can tell, I'm immune."

Astarion remembers that conversation well: myconids— or something like them— only unfathomably worse. Not likely contained by the deep hollows of the earth, the way they would've been in Faerûn. Not if she had to guard herself so absolutely— ever on the move, and ever wary.

The sort of instincts they both maintain, after all, don't come from anything short of hellish.

“...an infection spread by being bitten? We’re more alike than I thought.” He doesn't see the way her fingertips coast smoothly across her forearm. The way it seems to almost illustrate the subject at hand— his tired eyes fixed only on her expression, and how she shifts to look away. “Well, theoretically, anyway. I imagine the ability to withstand conversion might make more than a few souls jealous.”

Still, his humor’s short lived, easing back into taxed sobriety only a moment later; he can sense it, after all, the uneasiness of the topic at hand.

And it is quite the topic at that.

“Have you told anyone else about this?”

Ellie can't quite bring herself to laugh or smile at the comparison, but the edge of her lips do twitch. She tries. Rubbing her hand again over her forearm, she looks up when Astarion's voice veers towards seriousness again.

It's clearly not something she likes talking about.

"Not here. Glimmer knows, but anyone else is..." She shrugs, shaking her head. "Far away from here."

Ellie pauses again, hesitating.

"I've never infected anybody that I know of, and I've bled all over enough people to test it. But nobody's ever drank it, y'know?"

This time, he stays subdued. Quieted.

He's thinking, and given the gravity of his thoughts, and just how exhausted he is at the moment, it's clearly devouring the whole of his available focus. Because there's more to be considered than just whether or not her blood is— in a sense— poisoned, but the risk of that knowledge getting out.

They're close, now, the two of them. Like it or not, he's grown too fond of her presence to want to lose it, and so he hasn't any choice but to imagine her existence as an extension of his own in some stranger, less empathetic sense: if he were in her place, how would he protect himself? If she's told someone else, how can he trust them?

And more importantly, what is the precise nature of her supposed infection?

It swims in his skull, a sea of questions and half-formed answers, and it leaves the both of them seated there without a word between them for nearly a minute before he speaks again, his brow knitted tight enough to pinch.

"...and you've never bitten anyone?"

Edited 2021-08-14 05:33 (UTC)

"Plenty," Ellie says immediately, before realizing that might be weird.

"Well... y'know. When you get cornered, can't reach anything. You can still bite." She gives a shrug, like this is a common occurrence for perfectly normal people.

"Nobody's ever caught it from me," she adds, thinking of the bite mark on Abby's forearm. How she'd been infection-free years later. But until then she hadn't really known.

To Astarion, it isn't weird. But maybe there's no surprise in that.

Instead his sidelong posture relaxes just a touch beneath the blanket she's gifted him, thoughts quick to turn towards the next subject of concern on his quickly solidifying list. It keeps him awake and alert, if nothing else.

"And this Glimmer. Can she be trusted?"

There's a sharpness to that question, unmistakable.

"Can anyone be?" Ellie asks immediately, and the off-the-cuff way she answers makes it clear it's the truth. She sounds tired. Sounds almost old, when she shouldn't.

She pauses, rubs a hand down her face.

"She wouldn't sell me out, if that's what you mean."

“Selling you out isn’t the only danger.”

Danger, he says, and there— entirely filterless from how his own head is still dizzied from blood loss— he tips his hand: transparent as glass for a singular beat.

“Tell me you at least know something of hers. Something that can be used as leverage if she— well, if she feels the need to let her tongue wag.”

Edited 2021-08-15 05:46 (UTC)

"She wouldn't," Ellie says firmly, almost sharply, defensive of someone she cares for deeply. It sounds like a reflex, like an argument that she's had all too often -- but then something in her eyes cracks, and settles next to him, all too familiar with what it's like to have someone being overprotective of her.

"She wouldn't," she repeats, this time softer.

"I know plenty about her. She's not perfect, but she's not that kind of person."

“Everyone is that sort of person, given the right circumstances.”

And he’s heard her voice on the network before, that bright little spark of a thing. She sounds young. Softhearted.

The sort of creature that can easily be shattered in a world hungering for anguish.

“You said so yourself already.”

Can anyone be trusted—

“Still, if you’ve bitten and bled without incident, I don’t think we have much to fear as far as risk goes— but I’m not a monster.” He says, having fed for centuries in the dark and the cold. Having sunken his teeth into twitching sinew and fur, and yet still can’t divorce himself from curiosity.

A man wouldn’t even consider it, what he’s tempted to ask for now.

“I won’t take anything you’re not offering.”

"I'd have bigger problems if those circumstances came along," Ellie mutters with a shrug, but she can't really refute Astarion's point, either.

So she rolls the idea around in her head, thinking on it -- it does seem safe enough. Even if he does somehow get whatever's inside of her, it'll be along with whatever her body's done to the infection to make it inert. Best case scenario it might even help him to get better faster.

... and even if he isn't making it obvious, he's in a lot of pain. She knows it when she sees it. He came much closer to death out here than anyone is willing to admit.

Ellie knows she's made up her mind even before it's a conscious thought.

"You don't need my neck, do you?" she asks, pulling a slight face.

"I like you, but it's-"

(Too heterosexual.)

"-not like that."

He laughs despite everything— sort of. It’s more of a huffing sound, punctuated by the edges of sharp teeth drawn into an exhausted grin.

“Right now I don’t think I could even reach your neck, tempting as it is.”

But he understands her meaning. Even listless and unraveled, he does— and the gift she’s willing to grant him offsets any shallower offense that might otherwise rear its selfish head.

“I only need a taste. Whether you want to spill a few drops, or let my teeth do all the hard work, is up to you.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, but softens it with a smile, rolling onto her side, and shifts to reach down and pull free a knife. It's smaller, lighter, and when she presses on the side of it, the blade punches out of the hilt with a soft noise. A switchblade from home, uncommon here.

"Been bitten enough for a few lifetimes," she tells him, but puts the blade to her skin.

The lack of hesitancy to cut herself might say something, but she doesn't linger over it. She chooses a spot on her left arm, pulling back the wrist of her glove, opposite of where the material covers the anchor. The hand with the missing two smallest fingers.

The cut is light, enough to bleed freely but not need stitches, across the back of her wrist. She wipes the blade and stows it away as the cut beads up, then shifts closer.

"Don't make this weird," she mumbles, and reaches out, reaching out to lay the cut against his mouth. She tries, but doesn't entirely manage not to drip onto the blankets.

As much reassurance as they have in the way of logic, Ellie watches him closely, locking down the concern.

“Then don’t look,” he murmurs, working against the dilation of his own eyes. The old instincts he no longer needs.

It’s a gift. A beautiful, glittering gift in the dark— and Astarion’s too greedy to stick to hesitation or apprehension: he’s already a monster twice over, what’s a little more risk for reward?

She puts her wrist to his lips before he can reach up to take it, hasn’t the strength to manage anything differently besides, and it’s the heat that strikes him first, so different to the dead or dying rats he’d been endlessly forced to sink his teeth into before his master’s table. Remarkable and strange, and he almost inhales more than he drinks at first, so startled by the vividness of it.

He’d feared it might be awful.

Instead, there’s an earthiness to her blood, muted and subtle beneath the salt-tang of iron. Reminiscent of something like rich whiskey in its depth, its bitter bite. Not a trace of putrescence, and without the jagged pain of hunger in him he only finds himself basking in it as crimson seeps past the edge of his own parted lips— trickling across his jaw, staining the fabric of his collar.

It’s far more than just a taste. But then again, given his own nature, she might’ve expected the onset of avarice.

The drawing sensation is strange, sends some kind of primal adrenaline burst skittering through her veins, some holdover of human instinct to pull away, fight the predator. She makes herself relax.

It hurts less than she thought it would. Stings, mostly, in a dull sort of way.

Definitely more than just a taste, but it's not like he's in any condition to fight if she decides to make him stop, so Ellie relaxes as much as she can and just... lets him have this. Hell, on the off chance it helps him heal faster, it'll be more than worth it.

And apparently she doesn't taste bad, or rotten. It's the world's weirdest comfort. That she's not decomposing on the inside, the infection isn't eating away at her.

It might be growing all through the old bite mark on her arm, the spores and cysts hidden by the acid burns and then the sleeve of her tattoo over her ruined skin, might have spread all through her skull like creeping tendrils of plague, but. At least she's still human enough for this.

She'll let him keep going, for now.

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tags you from on top of a mountain bc I thirst

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cw: blood/self-harm

cw also for blood with brief mention of animals just don't come here

cw: body horror yeah just give up on this thread sry