[open]

[heirring]

WHO: Wysteria & YOU
WHAT: Anchor-related adventures and/or drama in fantasy September.
WHEN: Kingsway
WHERE: Various
NOTES: Some anchor and rift-related peril; open stuff is in the comments, but may use this as a catch-all. If an open prompt doesn't suit you, feel free to wildcard me or hit me up and I can write something bespoke. Prose or brackets is a-okay.

Comments

[heirring]

"I was perfectly fit this morning, thank you," she says, speaking over him before he has even gotten to— "Moderately useful. I will have you know that I am a highly valued member of this company."

Citation needed.

[illithidnapped]

Astarion leans to one side, effectively tilting himself nearer with all the grace of a child slumping against a wall.

"Like this, I could replace you with a sack of flour and no one would know the difference."

[heirring]

Despite all resemblance she currently bears to either a wilting plant or an especially clammy fish belly, Wisteria's scoff of outrage manages to be remarkably powerful. It all but drives up rigidly upright, the package clutched more tightly to herself, and a frown creasing her expression so hard that it's somewhat miraculous that no permanent wrinkles are left in its wake.

"I should slap you for being so outrageously impolite. Is this how you treat all young women where you come from, Mister Astarion? Or only the ones which are feeling poorly? It is a very poor show and not at all in the slightest bit gentlemanly."

[illithidnapped]

"Go on, then." He hums, still hovering close enough to be within reach. "If you can manage it, then I'll happily admit you have every right to be here."

[heirring]

"I—"

For a split second, it seems like she really actually might loose her hand from the package clutches against her, wind up, and strike him square in the face. But the fact that it seems serious means that it isn't. Means that she has hesitated long enough to give it consideration. Means that—

She cinches every one of her angles a little more tightly closed.

"No, I don't think I will. Not because I am uncapable of it, sir, but because I have no desire to stoop to the level required. Now, if that is all then I will point out that there is ample room on the slip in that direction," she says with a nod in the relevant direction. "We need not stand together if you would prefer otherwise."

[illithidnapped]

"Darling, you couldn't stoop right now if you wanted to. But it is charming when you try to snap your teeth, I'll give you that."

So. To that extent.

"What's really going on, here? You've been sick for far too long now."

[heirring]

Well if that was charming just wait until he gets a load of—

"You seem to have some expertise in the subject, Mister Astarion. Do vampires often take ill?"

[illithidnapped]

The kitten has stubborn little claws. How novel.

“Actually no. It’s surprisingly impossible for us to fall prey to illness of any sort— on account of us being dead and all.”

[heirring]

"Then I fail to see how you should know anything at all about identifying the severity of any illness—Did you say 'dead?'"

This all in one uninterrupted breath, running the gamut from patrician condescension to alarm and then right back to frowning. That's absurd. You're standing right before her, Astarion.

"If I was seriously ill, which I am not, it would be very cruel to be so cavalier with the truth in our conversation."

[illithidnapped]

“Does the word undead make it more bearable for your potentially addled brain? To die and still keep chattering away, being charming and devilishly handsome and all that.”

His smile is all teeth. All jagged teeth.

“A little less color in your cheeks and you might join me soon enough.”