faderift | MOD PLOT ↠ HOME FOR RIFTMAS

Entry tags:

MOD PLOT ↠ HOME FOR RIFTMAS

WHO: Everyone (more or less)
WHAT: Rifter Show & Tell & Steal.
WHEN: Early Wintermarch 9:49 (forward-dated!)
WHERE: The Crossroads and BEYOND.
NOTES: OOC post. Please use appropriate content warnings in your subject lines.

Since Corypheus began opening the Gates, Riftwatch has been noticing pockets of instability in the Crossroads—crumbling platforms, paths newly blocked by rubble or broken bridges, sections where gravity has been shifted and altered in ways unusual even for the Crossroads, with new intrusions of green-tinged rock outcroppings or corners of temple walls. The barriers between the Crossroads, the Fade, and the world are thinning. It's a problem.

But more recently, Riftwatch has been made aware of an ancient artifact known (now; one hopes this isn't its original title) as the Sealing Stone, now in pieces scattered throughout the Crossroads, and the approximate locations of those pieces. If brought together and activated, the Stone may stabilize the barrier between the Crossroads and the other realms and may provide a model Riftwatch could use to reinforce the Veil elsewhere.

So Riftwatch ventures into the Crossroads to retrieve the pieces of the Stone. It's an intensive effort undertaken by large teams, due to the many now-familiar hazards of the Crossroads, the potential for encountering the Venatori that also use the eluvian network, and the need to cover ground as quickly as possible in hopes of finding the artifacts before the Venatori notice the increased Crossroads activity and come join the hunt.

It's not as simple as merely locating the pieces, however. Whenever a group of Riftwatchers get near enough to one of the artifacts, they're alerted first by the triggering of a sort of protection mechanism. In some cases—specifically, on teams without any rifters—spirits suddenly swarm from the metaphorical woodwork in numbers so great and with such hostility that retreat is the only viable option. The spirits chase the teams only as far as necessary to push them away from the artifact's location, then mass into a circling shoal, guarding the spot until they're left alone long enough to decide the risk has passed.

But for groups containing at least one rifter, something with the mechanism goes wrong. Or right, arguably. Rather than being overwhelmed by spirits, they instead find themselves abruptly engulfed by what appears to be a rift, opening suddenly and rapidly large enough to swallow entire masses of people before contracting again to lie in wait like a carnivorous plant for anyone else who comes too close. Those caught in its radius tumble out into what appears to be a new and unfamiliar world–for most. For one or more of the rifters in each group, it will be perfectly familiar.

The first group to encounter this effect will be one including Tony Stark and Stephen Strange, and will drop them and their compatriots straight into midtown traffic. Any groups attempting to travel to the same spot in the Crossroads to investigate the apparent vanishing—whether they have rifters with them or not—will find themselves drawn through the same "rift" almost as soon as they get within sight of the place, before anything can be discerned about their lost fellows. They will likewise emerge into Stark & Strange's United States.

Subsequent groups including other rifters will be seemingly drawn into their companions' worlds by the same effect. In each, Riftwatch will have to navigate local hazards and retrieve a distinctive lyrium-etched artifact, at which point the world will dissolve around them like a dream and they will find themselves back in the Crossroads where they began, in possession of a carved chunk of stone glowing with lyrium runes.

1 ↠ MCU Earth-199999

Alternate-universe Earth, New York and Los Angeles, 2012-2025, Tony Stark & Stephen Strange.

Earth-199999 is very much like contemporary Earth as we know it, featuring the same historic events, same nations, same conventions. For the average person, there is no difference, except that they know magic and aliens and gods and superpowers are all real and have been causing problems for a while now, with NYC as the hub for most of the shenanigans. MCU Earth has also made leaps and bounds in all science fields as compared to real Earth, although these leaps and bounds are not widely accessible, primarily exclusive to private organisations like Stark Industries, mad scientists, and the likes of SHIELD, but can range from interactive three-dimensional holograms through to biotechnology that turns people into supersoldiers.

It's commonplace to see or hear about criminals causing havoc in the streets with superpowers or gadgets, and crime-fighting vigilantes trying to stop them. The Avengers, as the world's first superheroes, became widely-known commercialised celebrities in-universe with merchandise, documentaries, book deals, and memorial murals to the deceased Iron Man.

Special Abilities: Everyone is nerfed to regular human, unless you want a sudden onset of mutant powers. 1 individual themed ability per character; like pyrokinesis, superspeed, superstrength, etc.

Arrival: One main rift opens in the middle of New York City, ejecting our rifters into midtown traffic… except thanks to Strange’s own multiversal mishaps, people in this world will seem astonishingly accustomed to this sight! Bystanders will be startled, but then the rifters will likely be dogged by strangers snapping photos and videos and tweeting about their arrival.

The Fade-constructed timeline will be a little off: the old Avengers tower and its penthouse is still standing and still accessible to Tony, and Strange will also offer up the Sanctum as a sanctuary, and these will be the main mission hubs while the team gets their bearings and tries to locate the artifact. In the meantime: relax, take in the sights, maybe check out a Broadway show, wrangle your new superpowers.

A secondary rift also opens up on Hollywood Boulevard, in case people want to do some helplessly stranded on Earth RP. Tony can very easily find out this has happened and go collect them, with various degrees of efficiency according to what people want out of that OOCly. As this universe will be available to explore for a few IC weeks, people can assume some degree of Stark-provided financial freedom for basics (i.e. clothes and food, burner phones, etc), and they can stay in the Avengers tower and/or the Sanctum.

2 ↠ Shifterverse

Original alternate-universe Earth, Midwest US, 2022, Jude Adjei.

Real-world 2022, but what if Shifters?

Special Abilities: All superpowers are unfortunately nerfed. However, everyone's a Shifter now. Your choice of animal. Enjoy.

Arrival: Everyone will arrive in Yellowstone National Park, which is wholly staffed and operated by Jude's pack, but... not in an area where tourists are routinely and happily welcomed. Welcome to the deep woods and canyons and plains, where Jude's pack has built their den for some several hundred people. Characters will immediately be found by scouts in fur and feathers, who will be guarded and curious, but not hostile. The wolves and ravens will greet the interlopers as equals, and if they aren't offered any violence, they'll be treated as guests. Hundreds of pack members live in a mixture of hand-built cabin homes and meeting places, portable tiny houses and various shared spaces. There is wifi, a greenhouse, lots of tasty food and warm clothing to wear. If they stay several days and prove themselves trustworthy, they might even start to see children out and about, and there's nothing cuter than a toddler who can become a wolf pup at will. (Mind the raven toddlers and the bear cubs. They're less cute.)

3 ↠ Tassia

D&D Original World, Loxley & Richard Dickerson

Tassia is an original Dungeons&Dragons inspired world, a single continent divided into four nations that is otherwise completely isolated from any other possible world beyond it. These nations are Lloryndell, Sylvica, Ifrin, and Promias, and at its centre lies the Cruxal, a university-city of diverse cultural influence.

While Tassia resembles Thedas in its day-to-day technology levels, including its anachronisms, it is more heavily laden with fantastical elements. Along with humans, elves, and dwarves, there are goblins, dragonborn, tritons, tieflings, sentient robots, bird people, centaurs, and more (https://www.dndbeyond.com/races) (but no qunari). There are many different kinds of magic users who wield their powers openly. There are shops full of magic items, potions, and spell scrolls. There are monsters of countless kinds that lurk just about everywhere. Most cultures in the material plane are polytheistic and worship themed gods from the default D&D (Faerun) Pantheon. Some smaller cults and individuals worship ancient fey, fiendish, and eldritch beings who dwell on the outskirts of their respective planes and may provide power to the exceptionally loyal -- for a price.

Special Abilities: You can choose to be a normal depowered person, but you are equally encouraged to take on magical abilities, whether you're a mage or not. In brief, you can be a wizard, whose magic comes from spellbooks and knowledge, a sorcerer, who have innate magical abilities, a bard, who draws their magic from music, words, and performance, a warlock, who has made a pact with a powerful entity in exchange of magical ability, a druid, who draws their magic from nature, and a cleric, whose divine abilities are gifted to them by a deity. (Other classes have magic too, but it might be easier to pick one of these major ones if you are unfamiliar!)

Rather than overthinking it, we recommend you pick whatever sounds fun to flavour your magic with, and then browse magical spells using classes as a filter. (Eighth and ninth level are off limits, and it may be easier to limit yourself further due to how many spells there are.) Given the temporariness of these powers, don't worry too much about how many spells you get or how frequently you can do them, but know that higher level spells (anything above fifth) can only be cast one or twice a day.

Your character may be Tassia-ised, in terms of their race, but in a limited capacity. All humans will stay human, but elves may adopt D&D traits like seeing in the dark.

Arrival: Rifts will open in the streets of the Cruxal. People will be startled by the sudden appearance of rifters and stand offish, but otherwise: they've seen it all before! No one will be calling the guard on you, unless you decide to start something, so please don't. Or enjoy jail.

The Cruxal is a labyrinthian melting pot built up in concentric rings around a massive central university and library. Goblins scarper among humans, elves, and dwarves in the street. There are tusked half orcs and horned, scale-clad dragonborn mixed in among more familiar silhouettes. This is a university town, but while a large portion of the population are students, academics, and staff, it is also self-sustaining, with taverns, shops, temples, brothels, residences, and marketways.

The university itself is guarded and degrees of entry closely regulated due to the school’s extensive collection of dangerous artifacts -- one of which just so happens to have gone missing last night. News of the theft has been suppressed, but every temple, tavern, and brothel on the outskirts of town is abuzz with the rumor. The entire corridor, they say, was scorched black.

Loxley and Richard won't be too concerned about herding everyone but can provide some coin as needed for inn rooms and food. They appear to have a near bottomless stash, at least as far as living costs go.

4 ↠ Sulleciel

Original fantasy world, Petrana de Cedoux.

What if magic was real and holy emperors still kissed the ring in Rome, until someone beheaded the fucking pope? Welcome to Sulleciel, and specifically to Lamor City, capitol of Lamorre and the seat of the Lamorran empire, ruled over by Empereur Marius IX and his consort, Empress Petrana Solene. A nation and empire in the throes, still, of great upheaval — think Versailles or Orlais, but lurching ungainly out of its dark ages into a theoretically more enlightened time, control of which is being actively fought in the halls of power and at grassroots levels of social influence. Power vacuums abound, thanks to the fall of the church and the rise of a conqueror who is less interested in ruling than he was conquering; women are still the often-illiterate property of their fathers and husbands, but now there are more alternatives to family and marital homes, and dedicated studies of witchcraft are being encouraged, with pilot programs across the empire primarily in those early sanctuary cities, figuring out how this is all going to work. Known for her efforts to lean on the scales in the people's favour Petrana herself is, in this era, rumored to be imprisoned; graffiti of her crowned likeness can be found in some places in the city, with the epithet ""la reine du malheur"".

Special Abilities: In Sulleciel, magic is a skill that may be pursued like any other — and there are those of more or less talent, as if someone were to attempt the violin, or swordplay. It is practised primarily through incantations and foci, with more elaborate spellwork for more ambitious results sometimes requiring particular items or a full coven to achieve. As magic is limited in Sulleciel only by the will, imagination and stamina of those practising it, no one coming here will be subject to any nerfs; all mages and otherwise magical or powered individuals will be able to use their powers as they're used to using them. In addition to this, anyone who is as magical as a chair-leg ordinarily can feel free to have a go at Sulleciel's magic — it's up to you if they have a knack for it or not. Simple spells like casting a light or telekinesis of small objects can be mastered by toddlers; a powerful enough witch or coven might be able to summon a thunderstorm and alter weather patterns, but ""can"" and ""should"" are different and it's generally advised that you try not to do a climate change.
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Arrival: The rift will open into a spacious, luxuriously-appointed tower on the grounds of the imperial palace but not visibly connected to it above-ground. It was at one point the sole domain of the previous arciduc's personal astronomers, but is now the primary residence and working space of the Queen's Coven. The Queen's Coven is a particular group of women, so named for having been among the first witches to come beneath the new regime's protection in the first city-state to bend the knee where Petrana was first installed as Queen Regent; they are private, secretive, and increasingly cut off from the power-struggles of the imperial court, having been actively distanced from the Empress herself by a variety of other players in the game. Both relatively prepared for sudden magical happenings and inclined to keep shit in the tower on lock, they will be prepared to pass you all off as "foreign witches, seeking our enlightenment" and see both you and the sudden access to Petrana as potentially useful in their maneuverings. Which will make moving around easier, but will probably be an active hindrance to getting where and what you need. An underground tunnel connects the tower directly to the palace, though there are also pleasant, covered pathways to walk across the palace grounds; guards at the main, above-ground entrance to the tower will inquire about movements to and from, and will be skeptical but limit their interference initially ... as long as they don't see Petrana.

5 ↠ Kalvad

Original fantasy world, Wysteria Poppell.

Kalvad—specifically the city of Somerset, the magic capitol of the civilized world—is a mashup of Regency Era and Industrial-Revolution-But-Magic! Nebulously England (with the serial numbers aggressively filed off). When in doubt, default to Jane Austen vibes. But if it seems fun to do some weird magic-powered technological advancements, then go nuts.

Kalvad is an imperial island nation ostensibly ruled by three kings, though they're largely figureheads overseeing an upper and lower parliament. The country has made itself rich and powerful by doing a whole lot of war and colonization. As historically one of the most magically powerful regions in the world, magicians have long been a vital tool in the empire's efforts to do both those things.

Unfortunately for Kalvad, the strength of magic in the world has waned considerably in the last 40 years. Where once Talent was rare but reasonably powerful, magic users are both becoming more commonplace and considerably weaker. Even older magicians and hedge-witches who once might have manufactured considerable arcane feats have seen some diminishing of their powers. A popular, but unproven, theory in academic circles is that those with Talent all draw from the same "well" of magic. As more people are born with the ability to tap into that resource, the less there is to go around. Resentment for those with weaker Talents among older generations of magic users is A Thing.

That said, increased availability of minor magics has kick-started a 'minor magic' powered industrial revolution. Parlor witches who perform small arcane conveniences are growing in number; minor charms and enchantments have become more readily available to lower classes. Meanwhile, the non-magical population is slowly being shunted out of their respective cottage industry jobs and into factories powered by great enchanted machines. The empire as the world knows it is clearly teetering on the brink of major social and political upheaval, both at home and abroad. The consequences of all this change just haven't quite played themselves out yet, though you can bet there are people rushing around in an attempt to cover their asses before they do.

Special Abilities Characters will be nerfed of any abilities they had in Thedas, but can be Talented in Kalvad terms or not. Any Talented character under 40 is likely to be able to produce only minor magics (think lighting fires in fireplaces, being able to heal minor injuries, and temporarily being able to enchant objects to do one specific thing). Anyone over forty can be a little flashier (think appearance altering glamors, temporary invisibility, transfiguration and significant healing). General magic flavor is: Brothers Grimm fairy tales and Arthurian legends, except that someone somewhere made all that weirdly pliable magic adhere to a strict ruleset. Easy, thoughtless channeling of magic is a secret lost long before the arcane powers in the world began to diminish. Now, all magic must be carefully and deliberately designed and constructed. The magicians most accomplished by Kalvadan standards are methodical and patient. Think clockmakers and mathematicians, not wizards on the side of a van.

Arrival: Members of Riftwatch will arrive through a rift and find themselves on the wooded outskirts of a sprawling city. Luckily, no one will witness their initial arrival. Even more convenient: once they've gotten their bearings and made their way into the city, they'll discover they aren't the only weird strangers in town (although they may want to strongly consider indulging in petty theft to make themselves stick out less—particularly as it comes time to infiltrate places). It seems that a sprawling months-long academic conference turned party turned cover for political intrigue and cold warfare has descended upon Somerset.

In the aftermath of what everyone is claiming to be a major military victory somewhere, delegations from a number of implicated countries have converged on the city at the invitation of the Kalvadan Crowns in order to share and demonstrate their various technical and arcane achievements. The World's Fair-like atmosphere has drawn a number of non-Talented tourists, scheming politicians, and cutthroat spies along with the legitimately academically and/or magically inclined.

While Somerset is something of a city of wonders by the world's estimation, it's still first and foremost a dirty and crowded industrial hub in a world that has yet to bother with paving all its major roads. The conference has quadrupled that effect, transforming it into a riot of sights, sound, and (often to its detriment) smells. At this point, finding a room and board in the city has become less a question of where you want to stay and more one of how many other people you're willing to timeshare a bed with.

Luckily, it doesn't seem like Riftwatch will be sticking around long. Some snooping around the of pamphleting/gossip will reveal that the artifact they're after is likely to be found in the grand exhibition hall, and that there will be an opportunity to get their hands on it that evening.

6 ↠ Abeir-Toril

D&D Forgotten Realms, Astarion

The D&D continent of Faerûn is loosely based on Eurasia—if it ran entirely on magic, was roughly stuck somewhere in the 14th century forever, and was filled to the brim with elves, dragons, gnolls, faeries, gods, demi-gods, and just about any myth (or mythological creature) you’ve ever encountered in your life. For the purpose of simplicity, everyone from Riftwatch is going to get plunked down in the titular Baldur’s Gate: the city is massive, it’s known as the jewel of Faerûn, and its cultures, districts, trades and pastimes reflect that remarkable splendor. Still, think of it like Kirkwall in that there are some pretty damn rigid socioeconomic divides separating the city via districts. QUICK GUIDE.

The Upper City is the fancy part of town where nobles (known as Patriar) and their servants live, and it also houses the city’s government and key recreational buildings. There are no bars, pubs, taverns or drinking halls. Anything rowdy happens behind closed doors, and if you don't have an invitation, you'd better look for fun somewhere else. Magical enchantments and lanterns make it beyond stunning at night to stroll through. Lower City is more varied: you’ll find taverns, shops, tons of entertainment and ample trade, as well as pirates by the docks (and their ships), and the harbor waters are absolutely gorgeous for sailing on calm days. Doors are shut and locked during nighttime hours aside from taverns, inns or gambling parlors. Visibility is also lower at night when harbor fog rolls in, particularly where poorer residents can't afford oil, tallow or magic every night. The Undercity stretches deep (and hidden) beneath both the Upper and Lower Cities: it begins at its most shallow within the city as sewers and along seawall cliffs as open-mouthed caves. The deeper you go, the worse it gets: undead catacombs, cultists, temples, blood sport and bloody magic prevail alongside monsters too dangerous to clear out. Outer City sucks. There's almost next to no law or order, and is inherently dangerous to explore. Treat it like Lowtown for the most part, and you'll be pretty smack on (slavers and actual kind impoverished poor included).

CULTURE: Baldur’s Gate is primarily run by humans, and to a lesser extent, elves. Other races aren’t really considered a foothold here, but they’re more than welcome in the city and treated exceptionally well with a few exceptions here and there (ogres, trolls, more ferally inclined goblins, etc). This is not at all like Thedas: someone more familiar with discrimination against non-humans, certain pairings and particularly mages wouldn't find it here. Most of the time if you dress nicely and carry yourself well, you’ll be well respected. Or robbed. Or both!

Special Abilities: Characters will be adjusted to fit D&D, and powers are optional for all. For D&D’s magic/power/race everything, please take a look at some basic classes.

Arrival: Characters will arrive via rifts torn into the Outer City, just along its riverfront sprawl. They won’t be too far from the city gates, but witnesses to the scene will be inclined to gossip and gawk, assuming everything from a freak magical incident to believing the new arrivals are wealthy travelers from somewhere far and exotic, who simply missed their mark in teleporting to the Upper City for sightseeing. Anyone wearing Thedosian clothes will be fine to go without changing— wearing something more modern or say, nothing at all for some reason, will definitely require staging some kind of Terminator II style clothing (theft) acquisition in order to fit in.

Ideally, the team will at least want to make their way into Lowtown in order to begin snooping around, but it’s a big damn city to say the least, and information is expensive. Astarion will help within reason, but being a vampire means that he can only afford to fund so much on his own.

Might be a good idea to do some fetch quests or live your best Adventuring Party life, because you’re all going to likely be here for a (time distorted) relative while.

7 ↠ Orphan Black

Alternate-Universe Earth, 2014; Toronto, Canada; Cosima Neihaus.

Real-world mid-2010s, but secret unethical biology/biotech experiments including viable human cloning in the mid 1980s. Carrying out such technologically advanced work is a combination of international organizations including a private research company, at least one paramilitary organization and a shadowy organization that oversees both. (Orphan Black also features minor differences from our world typical of its genre, such as plot-convenient hacking and variably competent law enforcement, but the cloning project and related scientific offshoots are the most salient differences.) Relevant to this plot in particular, the Dyad Institute is a private organization, considered ""fringe"" by the mainstream scientific community, devoted to research related to human evolution and biotechnology. Some of its many employees had connections to the ""neolutionism"" community, the members of which believed human evolution should be actively shaped by scientific and technological intervention. The organization was responsible for the project that created Cosima and her sisters roughly 30 years before in-world present day. Also at the moment they're jumping to, Cosima works there, it's complicated. (If anyone is familiar with the canon, we're jumping in circa season two.)
A tiny pinboard.

Special Abilities: None, you're all just unpowered humans. Sorry/you're welcome.

Arrival: The group arrives at what turns out to be a nondenominational winter party for a local school; there are some mild shenanigans as Cosima clocks that it's a school attended by children she knows, and more pressingly, partially overseen by their mother, who has Cosima's face. Cosima press gangs one or more other people into helping her hide her own face while negotiating with Alison to borrow her minivan. She shuttles the group to Alison's large suburban Toronto home, which becomes the FR group's base of operation. (It is perhaps telling that while Alison finds this frustrating, she and her husband Donnie do sort of roll with it also.) If desired/depending on how big the group is, Cosima could also stow some Riftwatchers with Felix, the foster brother of one of her other clones, who has a big artsy loft downtown. She is not against taking anyone to her place, but she's a grad student; it's not huge. Everyone who knows how to use a phone or can be trusted to figure it out with a tutorial gets a burner phone for convenience. (Perhaps additionally telling how quickly Alison gets everyone a burner phone. She also decorates the protective cases for them. No, it's not optional.)

8 ↠ The Last of Us

Post-Apocalyptic Earth, Spring 2038, Seattle, Abby Lasterson & Ellie Williams.

This world was ours until 2013, when a worldwide pandemic broke out overnight. A fungus (cordyceps) that had originally infected mainly insects adapted to infect human beings. Anyone bitten by an infected person or who has breathed in a significant or concentrated amount of fungal spores becomes infected themselves. Over a maximum of two days, they utterly lose their humanity and deteriorate into violent monsters, eventually sprouting spores and fungal plates. There is no known cure, and the only human being ever known to be immune is Ellie Williams. 25 or so years later, humanity has crumbled into various factions in a struggle to survive. First came the Federal (FEDRA) response, resulting in Quarantine Zones and martial law. Life in the zones is highly regulated, with work assignments and rations that often aren't enough to go around. Many citizens are forced to turn to crime just to make ends meet. Orphaned children become wards of the state and are trained to become FEDRA soldiers by the time they're sixteen.

Various civilian groups rose up to rebel against FEDRA, forming factions such as the Fireflies (rebels who recruited scientists in an effort to find a cure), and the Washington Liberation Front (a militia-minded organization who overthrew FEDRA in Seattle). There are other smaller groups such as the religious zealots called the Seraphites, or the violent slavers known as the Rattlers.

Few and far between are independent human settlements like Jackson of Wyoming, where small communities have managed to gain self-sufficiency and safety with tireless group effort and highly vigilant defenders. They bolster their numbers by welcoming peaceful outsiders and engaging in trade with travelers.

Living outside of these groups, people are largely on their own, vulnerable to packs of hunters, bandits and even cannibals that prey on anyone brave enough to risk travel.

The infected are an ever-present threat everywhere, and the world is a ruin quickly being reclaimed by nature. (cw: body horror in the link) See board for world aesthetic and depictions of the Infected.

Special Abilities: Everyone is a normal human here. No supernatural powers, no magic, no non-humans.

Arrival: Welcome one of Ellie and Abby's least favorite places: Seattle. The Space Needle is visible in the distance, so despite the advanced state of decay, it's actually recognizable. Except it's been bombed, and rotting, and nature's reclaimed it for the last quarter-century. This adventure won't be for the faint of heart; there are no home bases and no safe space to be had. All clothing, supplies, weaponry and food are things you'll need to find yourself. Everyone can assume they'll get a quick lesson in gun safety and a rundown on various types of infected. Multiple rifts will open, so feel free to appear anywhere in the city (even apart from others) but expect to find no native allies. The city of Seattle is embroiled in civil war between the Seraphites (a religious cult who rejects anything "old world" and scars their faces, called "Scars") and the Washington Liberation Front (a ruthless mercenary coalition, called "Wolves") and both sides will assume you're with the other group and attack on sight. Better pick up a brick.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[The kiss tastes awful and he doesn't care. Astarion's tongue slips against his own tasting of copper and iron and ash and Leto doesn't care, for right now even fetid blood tastes sweet. Leto moans into the kiss, surging forward as best he can (and oh, how easily Astarion keeps him in place, fingers latching so tight against his shoulder), tipping his head as he gasps into his mouth. More, more, and he groans impatiently for every scolding whisper, not because he disagrees but because he's that desperate to resume their kisses. More please more, tongues tangling together and saliva hanging in slender strands between their lips, his hands roaming over every inch of Astarion he can reach. It's half to be sure he's as hale and whole as Leto remembers (no cuts, no scars, no bruises that he can feel, no telltale bump of bandages or plaster) and half to simply assure himself that he's here.

He's here, an assurance breathed out in the familiar bump of Astarion's ribs, the notches of his spine, the familiar tapering span of his waist. He's here, he's alive, he's all right, he isn't hurt, he isn't captured, he isn't gone, endless echoing assurances as they scuff furiously against one another, Leto's fingers knotting in Astarion's hair, his other planted firmly on his hip as he tries to pull him in even closer. They're flush against one another, legs intertwined and hips bumping together, as all the terrors he'd kept a faltering grip on these past three weeks burst to the forefront of his mind. Astarion dead. Astarion enthralled. Astarion kneeling before a master with limitless cruelty and an endless amount of time— my little runaway, did you think you could flee forever, and Leto has not forgotten Cazador's cold tones, the goading gilt of his tongue. How many times has he imagined Astarion in his clutches again? Chained up or stretched out on a rack, his torso slit and his ribs pried open, his body bloody and broken as he screams and screams— or worse still, packed away in some forgotten place, frantic pleas falling on indifferent ears as he is slowly walled up, please master please I didn't mean to please—

No.

No. No, he is here, he is whole, and yet Leto jerks his head back anyway, his eyes darting frantically over Astarion's face as he pants for breath. He's fine, he's fine, but looking isn't enough. Touch, his fingers skittering beneath his shirt to smooth over cold skin, isn't enough.]

I swore that I would find you.

[Breathed out as their noses bump together again and again, desperate scuffing before he steals another kiss— and then another, addicted to the way his mouth throbs with each pulsing push and pull.]

And I do not make it a habit to break my oaths. Not especially to you.

[Another kiss, his tongue flicking out to drag against the swell of Astarion's bottom lip. And oh, his surge of terror is nothing compared to the giddying relief swelling up in him. He's here, he's all right, and right now, Cazador and the other spawn are a million miles away. There's only them, there's only now— and so he's smiling faintly, fondly, the next time their lips part.]

I am only sorry it took me so many weeks to find you . . .

Edited 2022-12-22 06:32 (UTC)

Fool thing. Stubborn little pup.

[Somewhere along the way, all his cursing's gone so ingloriously soft.

Between rows of perfumed plants that suffocate his senses and over the taste of slaty blood, every lick, every rolling nuzzle or overwarmed slide of roughened fingers (lacking that glassy feel he's come to know so well, or the distant hum of resonating magics) has him melting like a brick of bundled ice. Jagged shapes bowing hard so that every stupid, touchstarved (again, again he feared the dark— ) inch of him might push itself into Leto's touch until even bloodless skin sports livid bruises.

Nothing tastes sweeter than what you think you'll never have again. Nothing feels better after weeks of isolation than too-familiar fervor slipping between silk and skin, charting the topography it's memorized before. And it tracks no vivid injuries— no bindings or plaster or festering scars marring pristine skin— only a few scrapes and cuts from a fight now minutes passed: sparse claw marks scuffed across his shoulders through dark, tattered cloth that doesn't show a drop of blood; a single swipe over his chest. Nothing to do with the master he still eludes, only the fresh, necessary collateral from protecting what's his—

And all less than the slightly tackying flow of what rests beneath his palm, burning hot and invitingly pungent.

Peripheral, for now. Predatory eyes and ears attuned to words that keep his focus spurred into giving chase; swallowing promises instead of blood.]

I'd have waited an eternity— or cut my way through the Fade to make it back.

[He keeps the rest in check. Stuffing down the urge to confess until it's smothered underneath his tongue, unsaid: I thought perhaps I'd vanished at last. Succumbed to the mark or came unstuck alongside that supposed Fadeborne magic. I thought things might've gone back to the way they were for good. That I lost you— everything.]

I always knew you'd come.

[Murmured because he wants desperately to believe it. That doubt never once seeped into his mind. And like any story worth telling, it doesn't matter if it's actually the truth.

Voicing it makes it real enough.

(A sweep of his fingers, another nuzzle marking the end of that fragile sentiment: planting it in the polished stone beneath their feet like a grounding wire— done, and better off forgotten. Dryness slipping back into his tone to match.)]

But I'll admit it'd have been easier to snare you sooner if I could've actually scented you, you know, instead of being chased out of two separate dens for the unsettling smell of a stranger lurking about.

Hm. I certainly changed when I passed through the Fade into your world. I suppose I didn't think much about the other way around. You're so—

[Gods but it's tactless, admitting how much lyrium is by far and away the most distinguishing hallmark of Leto's presence (oh yes, so sorry I didn't know it was you, my darling; without your master's handiwork you just don't seem— you). Then again, pain for pain, perhaps: what would Astarion be without his red eyes? His fangs? His bloodless pallor? Some things just are what they are.

In other words: to his mind, Leto only smells like prey, now.

A problem he'll learn to overcome. Even as he pulls himself carefully from those perfect fingers— razor sharp fangs set to ripping the edge of his own (already ruined) sleeve, just for the sake of beginning to bind the worst of Leto's shoulder injury.]

—different.

[(Astarion. Sweetheart. Rude.)]

[Rude it might be, but wrong? Oh, no, and Leto knows it well. He's spent too long peering at himself in the mirror, examining every inch of himself, mouth twisting as a confusing clash of emotions warred with one another in his mind. Blue Wraith, they call him in another world, but Ma— no, gods, that's what they say here— gods, but it's strange not to be that anymore. Not to glow faintly in the dark; not to have his lyrium lines blaze through fabric or pulse warily when magic is done near him. Not to feel pain each and every moment . . . oh, he has not allowed himself to think too much about that, knowing what a shocking relief it will be. He'll reel over it, and there were more important things to focus on. There still are, he thinks, stroking the curve of Astarion's cheek with two knuckles.

(I always knew you'd come, and he knows it isn't true, not because of a lack of faith, but because hope hurts. Too much hope will kill you, especially in a place like this. Better to bury it away, smothering your heart until it only occasionally whimpers out a plea, oh please oh please find me.

And he has. And that's all that matters in the end).]

Mmph. I forget you have not seen me with my hair so long.

[It's a joke. A teasing joke, dry and indulgent, as his wounded shoulder throbs in time with his pounding heart. And you know, he's so overwhelmed with pleasure at seeing Astarion that he nearly misses what his amatus is saying. Scented and dens, and for the first time, Leto begins to drink in the details that had first escaped him. The chill of Astarion's skin, yes, but more than that: the pallor of it. The sharpness of his fangs, and the way his nostrils flare as another droplet of blood trickles down tan skin.]

And I did not know your sense of smell was so sensitive.

[Truly he hadn't— and it makes him wonder suddenly what else he doesn't know. What details have eluded him, not out of neglect but simply because there was no need for them to ever come up.]

Tell me what has reverted. What . . .

[Vampire spawn, and for the very first time, Leto considers what that means. He never has, you know, not outside of Cazador and the horrors of enslavement and mutilation. They have not ever spoken of what it is to drink blood, only the grief that comes from being starved; they have not talked about shying from daylight or lacking a reflection, except for Astarion's relief at not having to take such precautions anymore.

It isn't that he's suddenly lost him. But it's unsettling to realize that there are things about his amatus that he does not know, and that, combined with the forced separation of three weeks, leaves Leto feeling off-kilter.]

You are different to me, too. And I would understand those differences, and confess my own.

[And he isn't thinking about his shoulder. He isn't thinking about starvation or blood or anything, really, save the surge of loneliness that's pulsing through him. He steps forward, closing the distance between them, uncaring for how bloody skin or ragged fabric presses against Astarion, for when have they ever cared for such things?]

[Laughter.

Gods above, if he knew how much a reprise that brittle, breathless burst from his throat actually is. So noiseless that it hardly clears his teeth, and shorter-lived than the warmth it leaves behind in its wake: reminding Astarion of just what it feels like to be rekindled in the oppressive cold Toril always manages to force around his heart.

Ever a dead, lonely thing until the most peculiar elf comes along.]

Sometimes I wonder if you even pay attention to me.

[Which is all the playful banter he manages before pale hands find themselves pressed closer by Leto's encroaching form (bloodied knuckles turned towards his own face via the leverage it enacts— potent scent suddenly wafting directly into agitated senses), washing an otherwise lovesome expression in distillate darkness that spreads like a bloody wildfire before he has a chance to stop it: burning the tips of his fingers, his knuckles, his joints, his ribs, his throat, his mouth, his mouth, his mout— ]

Edited 2022-12-23 09:57 (UTC)

Mmph— !!

[A flinch. A near whimper mapped out by the edges of a grimace that doesn't abate for all the distance he shoves between them, palms first: Leto flat against the wall again, the vampiric thing that covers him a single stride away, locked by its own overpowering grip. Head dropped towards the floor, hung between raised shoulders— Astarion's fineboned features fully hidden behind a curtain of garnet-drenched curls (white at their roots, dark and dripping at their tips: only spawn blood, and there is so much safety in that fact).]

Don't, don't don't. [He mutters, hoarse and rabidly aflame. Voice like a trembling knife pushed up against vulnerable skin. Sharpened by the smell of living tissue. Extant copper. Savory, salivating depth that promises to quench his every pain, like cool water on a hot day, and even his tongue curls itself to try and lap within his shut mouth at what isn't anywhere near its reach.]

—don't.

[One hand lifts on its own. Fisted one moment— flexed the next. Claws gleaming red-slick before curling hard enough to cut against the underside of his palm. Far from immune to the agonizing pain it causes— but then again, that's the point:]

You've no idea how alluring you are right now.

[Bitter humor on his tongue; it falls to the floor the second that it leaves his lips.

And precedes the rising of a hollow stare.]

Edited 2022-12-23 14:08 (UTC)

The other spawn. The vampires that hunted you, it was your blood they were after.

Starvation made them desperate. Weak. [Astarion remembers it too clearly even now, pulling his fingers from Fenris' comforting grasp in a cramped little Lowtown flat that stank of mildew and clinging chill. Too damned afraid of what might happen the second he confessed what he was: a blood-drinking, immortal, cursed monstrosity— and though he's joked blithely about it ever since, fear always made certain he never really tacked on more.

After all: as they say, the devil's in them.]

Weaker than I am now, but not by as much as I'd care to admit.

From the way it sounds, we've both been here for weeks. Which means I haven't had a drop since— [Thedas, and even then, how many weeks ago was that?]

I haven't had a drop.

[There. The crux of it.]

So, to answer your question: I'm not the living elf you knew back home. [home] Reunited with my master's gift, I can scent creatures for miles with distinctive ease; I can overpower most mortals just as effortlessly— provided I'm at my full strength. I can see in perfect dark, and my teeth and claws can turn even thickened flesh into ribbons.

I don't age. I don't breathe. I don't die.

—at least, not in any way a living thing would.

And somehow, because of the Fade or something else entirely, the enslaving hold my master should have on me in exchange for all that power isn't working like it should. What that might mean, I don't know.

[With a heavy swallow in a too-dry throat, he pulls his grasp back towards those partially fastened bindings: smoothing down agitated cloth before tying off and tucking in the edges, staying the worst of Leto's wounded flow. There. There.]

But what you need to understand right now is that I love you more than the risk that comes from keeping you safe. That I've waited too long to spot even a glimpse of that pretty face to go fleeing back into the darkness, alone. Not so long as I can help it.

And that despite all that, what my body is screaming at the top of its fetid lungs as long as you keep bleeding—

[Red eyes slide higher, their reflective inner hollows blazing even in that unlit space. He's a deliberate thing, Astarion. He knows he's invoking some keen sense of primal horror; the passed-down fear of standing stock-still in the dead of night and turning to see two glinting circles peering back in formless shadow.

Here. This is what I am. What I've always been.]

Is that you're nothing more than food.

[Three things occur to him, one after another. Three thoughts that trip over one another in their haste to be heard, yammering as Leto stares at hollow eyes and intent stare.

The first is this: that he does not care for what danger Astarion brings, for he knows in his heart of hearts that his beloved would never hurt him.

It's a nice thought. He's glad, later on, that such a loving thought was his first impulse. It speaks to how instinctively he trusts Astarion, that even when his beloved bares his teeth and warns him away, still, some part of Leto would still have blind faith in that love. That first thought is born from besotted love and overwhelmed relief; it is the answer to that utterance of home that slips past Astarion's lips, the summation of their hearts' adoration.

But the second thought, far more practical, is this: that Astarion is not one to shirk from telling Leto what he wants. He isn't a selfish lover, not to his Leto, not where it counts, but still: Maker knows Astarion will demand exactly what he wants when he wants it, and that surely includes blood. And on top of that: Astarion has never been one to treat Leto with kid gloves. He has always viewed his lover as a fierce, capable warrior, more than able to hold his own and withstand any violent advances that Astarion might make— gods, one of their first dates centered around stabbing one another. So if he is warning Leto away, if he is so overwhelmed that he needs to hurt himself to stop the welling urge to snarl and bite and tear, well . . . surely he means it.

And the third thought, whimpered as Leto stares at glinting eyes and listens to the flat note in Astarion's tone, is this: that it takes only a few seconds for disaster to strike. That it is a fool who looks at a snarling, seething wolf with hackles raised in defensive warning and thinks it a pretty lapdog. That Astarion would not push him away (with such strength, and the part of him ever wary takes note of that, just as he takes note of all those distinct features, claws and keen vision and sharpened teeth) unless he had good reason.

And understand: he is afraid. He stares at Astarion and sees him for what he is: a predator. A monster, not because he is cursed, but because even a wolf will bow its head low when it's faced with an alpha. His pulse picks up, a shudder running up his spine— oh, yes, he sees him, all of him, and just as Astarion's instincts breathe to him that Leto is nothing but food, so too do Leto's own instincts scream to flee. Run or hide or fight, but above all else, react, for surely if he doesn't, it will mean his death.

But they are more than their instincts.

Slowly, he exhales.]

All right.

[He will not do Astarion the disservice of ignoring all that he just said. All right, and he says it quietly, emerald eyes locked on crimson ones, letting him see all of him in return. His fear. His shock. And then: his acceptance.

His lover is a predator. A dangerous creature. But he is not a beast, ruled purely by slavering instinct and little else— and nor is Leto nothing but mewling prey, helplessly waiting to be consumed. They will adapt to this, just as they have adapted to everything this past year.]

My ears are longer, and my eyes smaller, though my senses are not altered. My hair is as it was years ago. My lyrium is gone, and all I have left are tattooed markings that have no power, but come with no pain. My feet are uselessly soft. My vision is keener in the darkness, but not as good as yours, I suspect. And I am still as deft as I used to be with a sword, but I will have to relearn how to fight.

[He pushes overlong bangs out of his eyes, a casual action as deliberately invoked as Astarion's stare.]

And if you are as unwilling to part as I am, then we need to slip into the darkness together, for I will not see you starve.

[All right. And what it really means is: I see you.

In the dying dark, closer to morning than nightfall, with his chest and his vision flooded by entropic hunger (claws anchored into lifeless flesh, staining the front of Leto's tunic a tarry shade of red, punctuating everything that's been said), Astarion shouldn't be surprised. Because all that lifts its head to meet him is the only thing that has ever lived between them: understanding.

That willingness to stare into the worst of it all and not flinch for shallow fear.

What drove two elves onto the Foundry rooftop to spar like friends and talk like strangers, no matter how vividly it hurt. What meant warm sheets. Tangled ankles. Muttered promises to someone out of reach in either direction— it doesn't matter if you don't remember me meeting you're not a demon, with both ending in that same, stubborn commitment to always straying closer. And closer. Through the Crossroads. Through second guesses in Rialto: pacing footsteps in the hall and a curtain yanked out of place. Scratched over words in enchanted books over a need to search for someone dear— or dearly dangerous. A vampire. A weapon. Sharing the same bed. Bound by rights to someone else and yet—

I see you for what you are— and I'm not running.

Like a lens shutter silently clicking. Like a second pair of lids washing over peregrine eyes, whatever unsettling cast Astarion slid into reddened eyes unwinds itself and evaporates. A single blink all it takes for the relative humanity to nestle back into its still dilated den. Hooded stare heavy and dark, but nothing more.

(What a brave little thing, his wolf.)

It's enough to know the rest. And strewth, there's so much more he's tempted to ask, now that distance and a closed-off wound's made it nominally less excruciating to tamp down on his own hunger (in part) or scrape up even a somewhat cohesive thought— but even fascinating revelations have their limits, particularly in an herbalist shop's shuttered closet.

Well.

That, and the mention of slipping away together.]

All right.

[Slowly said. A perfect echo of Leto's own prior intonation, only crafted out of the most cautious little exhale of palpably frigid breath.

Grip slackened at last. Lips beginning to curl at their corners.

He's finding his footing again.]

But if we're going to escape into the night together, my dear Eladrin [and how amusing it is to say that for the first time with absolutely literal sincerity] then you'd better hope you have a decent place for us to retreat to in short order, because we certainly can't stay here—

[His fingers lift themselves high, ruddy claws splayed wide in a self-serving shrug that's all characteristic fuss.]

And thanks to you, I don't have anywhere to run back to, either.

[Oh, there you are, his heart whispers. Not a relief-filled cry of shock (no, that was what the summation of their desperate kisses had been, I missed you, I feared I'd never see you again, are you safe, are you whole), but rather a slow exhale. There you are, my darling, the two of them falling into step once more, finding their rhythm and their flow after what felt a lifetime of separation. There you are, there you are, and he dares to reach for him now, fingers snagging gently against the hem of his shirt to tug playfully once or twice as he pulls back.]

I did not force you to flee your den. And it is gratifying to know my investigative skills are not lacking, even after all this time.

[Tartly said, if not fondly, as he gently pulls him along towards the window. Any other spawn have surely fled by now, for the most opportune time to attack would have been when they were consumed with their reunion. And indeed: the rooftops are empty as he hoists himself up there, shivering faintly as the breeze cuts through thin clothing.

It isn't so far to the tavern where he's been holed up. Cheapness is the watchword of this particular institution, from the rates they charge to the quality of ale they offer, but what it does have is a private entrance. True, it's a set of rickety stairs that leads up to the second floor, and yes, that does offer another point of attack if any opportunistic thieves think him easy prey, but at least it's private. He's come to value that, here in this world where he can finally and truly move without notice.]

Mm. Tell me how much you need to sate you for the night. I suspect an animal's blood will be far easier to obtain, but slavers or thieves cannot be so hard to find either.

[He unlocks the door and slips inside without a second thought, assuming Astarion will follow him in. Of course he will. They've never stood on propriety before.]

For that matter: tell me what things you need. We can block the window, for I know sunlight is deadly to you. But I—

[Er. He turns, blinking at the still open doorway.]

Astarion?

[What a world they live in ( —oh, Astarion, worlds) that the mention of hunting slavers twists him into the very picture of a finebred buck at court for the first time— all spry and restlessly eager as he devours each and every word that drifts into his upturned ears, eyes glittering in their kohl-lined sockets. Grinning as though his heart might burst; face an unknowingly mimicked reflection of all the excitable, earnest little starlings he'd lured into fanged mouths over the years, proving that desire has a way of making everyone a little weak. A little blind. A little puppishly transparent.

Even the things that go bump in the night.

In other words: soundlessly slipping along in Leto's shadow, he is a tame thing, now. Soft-mouthed and sweet, bounding after the mortal that dominates his loyalty. Figurative tail wagging by way of tucking in every last one of his predatory edges—

Mm. Aside from the gore and viscera, anyways.

So thank the Maker they're in the lower reaches of the city, where anyone that just so happens to spot them trotting through the alleyways towards those shoddy wooden stairs would only write it off as the odd adventuring pair returning fresh from slaying wyverns or gnolls— or perhaps from clearing out the Undercity for a Patriar who pays his finest assets in pocket change and silken lint. Boots thunking heavily as they pace up over planks that feel as sturdy as loose teeth, still busy threading unincriminating subjects together (You know you did chase me from my home, even if it was indirectly. How much are they charging you for a room so close to the docks? Have you even fought anything since coming to the city? —tonight doesn't count: I did all the work for you.) until he hisses through the gaps of his fangs to hear Leto mention sunlight's telltale lethality before the door's been shut and locked—

And hisses again to instinctively follow his packmate across the threshold as he would've done in Thedas, only to feel his body stiffen and twinge in the kind of rejection that pushes rabid beasts away from water— stuck precisely where he stands. Able to turn and leave, or stay, but not lean forward. Not even by degrees.

It must look unsettling. Like his hackles are raised; a guard dog bristling even while its master calls it closer.]

I can't.

[He answers.

And for the same reason he can't just blurt out 'I'll never fit my fangs to another animal again' into the cold night air whilst standing outside a presumably occupied tavern with all its cracked walls and possibly open windows, he can't up and tell his darling to officially invite him in, either. Not without seeming suspicious enough to wake up with a stake through his heart.

So.

There he is.

Glazed in blood, wearing tattered leathers and a blouse so ruined its open collar almost shows off his entire left shoulder, booted heels planted firmly in place, barely an inch outside the doorway. Just.

Staring.

Like, really really hard.]

....I....wouldn't want to be rude.

[The thing about traveling to another world (that Astarion must know so intimately, but that Leto is only just discovering) is this: no one gives you a handbook on social norms. No one sits you down and says good news: no one cares if you're an elf anymore, that's a first-class citizen around here— but we do have a certain subclass around here, a category of monster that includes things you've only barely heard of. All the rules are changed. All the things he'd normally be on automatic alert for when it comes to Astarion (elvish, always, that is the rule Leto abides by, and how many nights have they spent leaping over rooftops instead of risking the streets? How many times have they heard casual derisives or leering comments murmured as they wandered Lowtown?) are useless now.

So he does not understand why Astarion hisses in displeasure, not at first. He does not understand what a risk he incurs by mentioning sunlight and blood, nor why Astarion stares at him with such urgency as he talks about manners.

For the other truth of the matter, the one that Leto is discovering over and over again tonight and will for weeks on end, is this: he does not know what it is to have a vampiric mate, not really. It's obvious Astarion is trying to tell him something, but Maker only knows what. They stare at one another for a bewildering few seconds, until one dark eyebrow raises.]

You . . . aren't.

[No, that clearly isn't the right thing to say. He takes a few steps back towards the door. And you know, it isn't such a hard puzzle to solve when he stops overthinking it? I wouldn't want to be rude, an inability to enter into what is technically Leto's abode, the intensity of his stare, no, he can connect the dots quickly enough. It's just that he never knew that was a thing, not for vampires— and gods, but that lack of knowledge embarrasses him. He ought to know this. He will know this, for he'll spend tonight quizzing Astarion on every bit of vampiric lore and consideration he ought to know, but first:]

Er. Come in?

[A little awkwardly, he offers his hand, because, like, who the fuck knows with vampiric rules? Maybe it's touch-based. Who knows! ]

[It's an odd thing, admittedly. All of it, that is: the nature of defying nature— wherein great beasts capable of crushing bone between their jaws fall prey to things like simple silver. Powdered ironvine. Wooden sticks. Something of the Old World in it, Astarion always suspected. Tales of ancient spinsters stealing children, their efforts strangely thwarted by a lock of hair or a bit of straw; the changelings and their regal courts, bargaining with mortal souls just so that they'll come and dance.

Doesn't really hold up in a world where invitations are as simple as flicking a wrist.

Current invitation found by way of a single smile, pale fingers nesting in an open palm— before he strides in and knocks the door shut behind him with an agile heel.]

Good boy. [Such rumbling praise. Low and throaty and given as tribute in the process of wrapping his hand around the base of Leto's jaw— kissing him for a few beats, letting overlong fangs lead without cutting, precise as he is in their avaricious work. Neither hand letting go until he's had his fill of touch—

And sucked in air through his nose to shake off the budding urge to bite.]

Knew you'd get it right.

[Like no one else could being the part that goes unsaid.

Oh yes, but it's an odd thing, monstrous weakness. A trite thing, in all reality. A novel thing, with far too much stock put in it, besides. For there were times Astarion would kneel and watch within high-drawn halls as Cazador beguiled his devoted flock— the living and unliving alike— letting it sink in just what an inviolable landmark the man was: no monster hunter could've strolled in with whip or sword in hand and hoped to get within five feet of his master. They'd have been dead on approaching the gates, likely betrayed by their own kind. People flitted to Cazador Szarr, bled for him— did so much worse for him, all for the gravity of his stare to turn their way for a minute. Two. And even in suffering, Astarion hadn't been any different. Obedient and tuck-tailed at his heels, always trying to lap from those fingers like somehow it might save him (he knows better now): you can't squeeze love from hateful stone, no matter what it tells you.

No matter how its hands feel smoothing across your face.

And that knowledge rubs elbows with another, related truth:]

Anyway, no sunlight, like you said.

So much as a drop and I'll be ashes in minutes. Seconds. [He'd heard the screams without seeing them; makes it hard to gauge where howls stop and the echoes begin.] No running water— though the very nature of water means that it all qualifies, and thus burns like scorching acid to the touch. No wooden stakes to the heart [he adds, pulling the bloodied tool from his back pocket, waving it, and then pacing over to rest it on a nearby table.] you've seen firsthand how that one goes. And closing out on things already witnessed now, I can't enter a home without an invitation.

Mm. That last one was always tricky to figure out the reason for. My best guess is that it's a cosmic metaphor— you know, crossing the threshold between death and life. But the debate on that subject is eternally heated.

[And speaking of controversy:]

Most important is that the older and truer the vampire, the less all those rules apply.

Cazador could walk through water and barely feel the hiss of it; he would burn to death if left outside in full daylight— but you'd need to keep him in it for a good long while before that happens, and from what I've heard, you'd need to theoretically stake a vampire lord in his coffin while already weakened for it to have any sort of near-fatal effect.

In short: superstitions might work on me, but....

He's a terror.

....and I'm....

[Well.]

A different sort of terror.

[Invitations. Sunlight. Water. Stakes, and it goes in the same place all his most vital information about Astarion goes, right alongside the scent of vanilla or herbs, or when wood gets too hot in plain sunlight and each and every one of the horrors Cazador has inflicted on his beloved. It's information that he does not think about on a day-to-day basis, but rather that he allows to sink into his mind, informing his daily behavior. Before, in Thedas, it came out in different ways: he will flinch when we sink into the bath, but is not opposed to it; don't mention razors, not without warning or good reason. Little adjustments, easily made and happily ceded to, for (as Leto has discovered) that is what it means to have a lover.

Now it will emerge in other ways: running water will be dangerous, so mind yourself when you have a glass. We have to find a room without windows soon, we cannot risk sunlight, not even a little. There's nothing he can do about the lattermost point, not right now (dawn cannot be far), but he can at least work to make things more assuring for today. Leto stands, his mouth still aching from that kiss, and goes to strip the sheets from the bed, intent on pinning them behind the raggedy curtains that hang over the sole window in his room. It's far from perfect, but the more layers, the better.

He's a terror, Astarion murmurs, and oh, yes: they will have to consider that, won't they? Astarion would not act so casual if Cazador were on his heels, but still. Even Fenris had not dared to linger in the same city as Danarius; if Cazador lives in Baldur's Gate, they will need to act quickly, either in flight or fight. He will not risk his amatus being taken again, nor indeed, for them to be caught off-guard.]

You are a menace.

[He says it off-handedly over his shoulder, an idle response made by an aching mouth as he ties fabric to jutting nails. He doesn't bother following up on it, either: just waits until he's finished, then turns, focusing on the other el—

Ah. Not the other elf, is he . . .?]

How much of a threat is Cazador?

[Understand: he wants so desperately to fall into Astarion's arms. He's dreamed of nothing but that these past three weeks, vulgar and chaste, cuddling giving way to heated gasps and arched backs— but this first.]

Tell me what I need to know. Is he in this city? How quickly do you imagine he will track you? Now that I have found you, I care little for where we flee— and while he will need to be dealt with sooner or later, there is need for us to confront him immediately.

[It's a little too intense, a little too much— but he remembers what it is to be hunted. He remembers what it is to have one's master breathing down your neck, wandering ever-closer, sending all manner of mercenaries and bounty hunters to chase after you— not just because you are his favorite, but because you are his, and his ego cannot withstand such an insult. They have an advantage in that Cazador (presumably) doesn't know Astarion is back, but that will only last so long.]

But I would not have us be caught unawares.

You won't.

[The vampire behind him cuts in, watching without blinking as Leto's unburdened fingers wind cloth around hanging nails (it's the first time anyone has ever done something for him like this: vampires protect space for themselves, and all the mortals he'd ever met before Thedas— ) that hardlined edge to his voice a sign that there's nothing about this he isn't taking with utterly lethal sincerity.

And unideal as distance is to a chest filled to the brim with longing, Astarion's not about to loiter uselessly in the middle of the room while he's rife with ruddy mess. A few short strides is all it takes to deposit him across the edge of a nearby mattress: torn shirt tugged off completely, used to wring the blood from his hair— wipe it from his face, his skin— leaving behind flaky little streaks of dried red; stripes of half-scrubbed pink surrounded by palest white. Starspot moles. Boots next, and when all that's done he pulls dark silk around his thumb to fidget for a moment, fixating on his own thoughts, rather than the moon elf he can't close his eyes to for a second.

So sensation, then. Like a tuning fork or a metronome before a song. Pulling him towards the zenith of all his dread. What he hates discussing.

And never stops thinking about.]

If he'd had any idea I was here, I doubt you would've found so much as a scrap of my existence before now— let alone crossed my path tonight. [Thank the gods it was only Leto's poking about that led to this mess, not the stretching reach of something far older and more insatiable than either of them.]

So he can't be tracking me yet, and he certainly doesn't know that I've returned.

[The best place to hide something is under one's nose, as the saying goes. Though—

ah.]

Let's hope tonight's commotion doesn't happen to pique his interest.

[Still, Astarion doubts it. Those spawn didn't seem like the sort his master keeps— too feral. Too mindless, and yet free to roam. To run. Say what you will about him, but Cazador would never gift something so valuable as that to near-beastly assets.

....they'd be more fun to torture.]

He resides here in the City, but his manor lies farther towards the outskirts. [And no: he loves you, Leto, but he won't tell you where.] I try to steer clear of it, but there might be a little more luck in it for us in that he doesn't care much for refuse; in places like this, we're virtually invisible so long as we avoid the depths of his spiderwebbed assets. You'll want to worry more about his numerous allies tipping him off— and that means no more talk about my erm, affliction, shall we say, while in public.

Before, all your nosing about probably seemed like just another monster hunter tracking prey. Now that we're together, well. [Well.] Anyone that serves him will think you're on my side. Anyone that fears monsters might think you're an accomplice— or an unwitting obstacle. The best thing either of us can manage right now is to keep our heads down and our mouths shut. And like I said: he can't be able to sense or control me if he hasn't utilized either yet.

The man never could resist flexing all that power.

[A sharpened scoff, just before crimson eyes lift beneath lowered brows:]

And without your lyrium, you're as much a threat to him as a kitten is to a chimera.

Until you master your new body and its peculiarities, you'll be even less of one than that.

[Though it does no favors for his ego, Leto will admit that Astarion is right: he isn't in any condition to fight right now. He's held his own well enough against the sea of unsavory types who saw a lone moon elf wandering and thought him easy prey, but gods, there's been more than a few close calls. And the trouble isn't that he's useless without his lyrium, but rather that he thoughtlessly relies upon it— and when he counts on those breathless few seconds of shock as he half-steps into the Fade or shoves his hand into someone's chest, only to find that it doesn't happen, well. That's how people lose their lives.

So he has to take time to train, yes. He has to regain his abilities, much like any fighter that's suddenly confronted with a disadvantage. But still: kitten, and his nose wrinkles faintly as he finishes tying off the sheets. He'll show him kitten; just because he's on an adjustment curve doesn't mean he's helpless, and Astarion will learn it before the end of the night.

But ah, when it comes to Cazador . . . that, Leto won't argue against. Frankly, in all matters concerning Cazador Leto will cede to Astarion, for this is ultimately his fight. He knows his master far, far better than Leto does, and Maker knows he has far more reason to be wary of him. If he thinks keeping their head down in these slums is enough to keep himself safe, then Leto will trust him at his word. He'll still be wary, of course, for how can he not be? He'll still think intently on all that Astarion has told him about vampiric weaknesses, and sooner or later he'll pester Astarion further on what to do beyond simply running.

But for tonight, at least, there's no pressing concern.

(Still: he'll insist they move soon, just in case. He won't take a single risk, not where Astarion is concerned).]

All right.

[All right: they'll keep their heads down. Certainly there's nothing more to do tonight, for dawn is swiftly on her way, but even in the coming weeks . . . they'll be quiet. They'll linger here or in some other den, and Astarion can help acclimate him towards this world. Leto turns, facing his lover properly— and then, despite himself, feels his mouth flicker into a smile.

He can't help it. Just seeing him sitting there is enough to leave Leto's heart aching. Half-dressed, his skin pale with streaks of blood still lingering here and there, his shoulders rounded and his crimson eyes bright as he stares back up at Leto. In two swift movements he's crossed the room, perching on the bed next to him, taking that silk shirt out of his hands. One hand braces gently against the small of his back, palm pressing flat against cold skin, as he rubs insistently at a dried streak of blood.

(And gods, what a wonder it is: to touch without pain. To feel Astarion beneath his fingertips without having to ignore that dull throb radiating up his arms).]

I will not go after him. We will keep our heads low. Simply promise me that you will keep me informed if anything should change— for I do not want to be kept in the dark when it comes to Cazador.

[But he does not seriously think that Astarion will keep things from him, and so he adds half-teasingly:]

And I am not a kitten. Simply . . . unused to fighting without my lyrium. I am still more than capable of defending myself.

Edited 2022-12-28 02:51 (UTC)

[He stands corrected.

He can stop thinking about Cazador— the second Leto's hand (oh, his palms are so much softer now), presses in against his spine, eliciting the most indulgent push of stagnant air from icebound lungs. Just like that: the silk is gone. Just like that: he remembers how easily the rest of his world dissolves in seconds like these— a process that never once required Thedas, it seems, though he only sees that in looking back. Turning his body inwards into that narrow little space where division feels like miles rather than inches; weightlessness the thing that belies how inhuman Astarion is now, touch more akin to frost where it crawls across the sloping edge of Leto's cheek, testing the waters by slithering around the back of his beloved's neck. Thumb and forefinger perched on either side of a delicate nape (so slender he could snap it like a pinbone, something depthlessly restless in him thinks— tempered in how easily that observation stays distant as the sun. As his fear).

The demand closer living silently in how his bloodied lips part to show off rows of jagged fangs, craning his neck the way a serpent uncoils from a claw-marked branch. By the time his bare foot pushes down across rotting wood (half of him already perched between Leto's thighs, clothed friction found with facile ease), the name of his former master is dust. The dirt wedged between almost familiar floorboards that remind him only of Lowtown, in a bed that does the same. As palmed and melted as he'd been sucking in elfroot night after taxing night: horrors found, touch found, talk found in those hours when sitting in softened silence would only fail— horrors forgotten. A shame they don't have drink or drug to complete the circle, this time.

Astarion's face is no different. His features the same.

But somehow he looks hungrier when he grins:]

Oh?

[Light oh. Soft oh. Oh preceding the way a clawed grip crawls upwards against the grain of outgrown, pearl-silver hair: stopping only to tighten at the roots—

When Leto's neck is bared, straddled like a lamb before a lion, and smelling of anything but dangerous, deadly lyrium.]

Considering how beautifully you always mewl, I have trouble buying into that claim.

Edited 2022-12-28 10:34 (UTC)

[It's been nearly a month since they've been together.

And understand, that was the very last thing on his mind when it came to priorities. He has not spent the past three weeks with his hand between his legs, mewling for a lack of tending. Always it was his heart and head that led the search; always he ached for Astarion not for the heat of his mouth or the thickness of his prick, but because he just missed him. That's important, at least to Leto, at least when it comes to Astarion. They could live for another few centuries (and will they? Is his lifespan extended in this new body? oh, things to think of later), and still Leto will never forget that haunting little summation Astarion had murmured at the start of their relationship. I did better on my back than my feet, and Maker help him, for he never wants to put Astarion through that kind of objectifying hell.

But.

With that said . . . oh, gods, but he's missed this. His head snaps back and it takes everything in him not to moan in overheated delight, melting into Astarion's grip with all the kittenish submissiveness his amatus is so clearly soliciting. Cede to me, for that's how this game goes. Cede to me, little pup, and there are nights where he will. There have been so many nights where he'll happily moan out an agreement, his legs spreading and his back arching, and allow Astarion to conquer as he likes.

But it's been weeks. And gods, but he's missed playing with his amatus.]

Always?

[He doesn't have his lyrium, and that's a disadvantage, it's true. But nor is he helpless without it. One hand braces on Astarion's hip as the other settles on his shoulder; with a low growl Leto surges up, forcing momentum as he throws them both towards the side, spinning them around, throwing Astarion to the mattress and straddling him in one swift movement. And of course nothing is easy, of course they scramble and fight, hands grappling for a surefire grip, Astarion's weight bucking beneath him, but how it ends is this: with Leto hovering above him, his fingers wrapped tight around each of his wrists as he pins him to the bed, his hips rocking back in a maddeningly methodical rhythm, pressing down hard as he grinds himself along the quickly swelling line of Astarion's prick.

And you know, he does thrill in the power. He loves being in charge just as much as he loves submitting, but as he hovers over Astarion, drinking in the sight of muscles tensed beneath pale skin, he finds that what fills him isn't the thrill of domination. He does not want to conquer, not right now. Later, perhaps, but right now . . .

Right now, all he truly wants is to be close to Astarion.]

I missed you beneath me.

[And it's funny, for it was a taunt in his mind, but it comes out far sweeter as it slips past his lips. His body lowers, his head tipping as he catches Astarion's mouth with his own. The kisses they'd shared before were desperate things, far more about relief and reunion than anything approaching sensual— but here, now, in this quiet place that's for them alone, Leto only wants to rediscover his amatus.

Like this, and he savors the soft press of Astarion's lips. The familiar rhythm that they both have memorized, every firm push and hungry pull of their lips growing fiercer by the second. Hello, hello, I missed you, hello, and when his tongue slides forward, tangling eagerly against Astarion's own, it isn't a conquering thing, but a tease. Hello, my love, I've missed your taste, your body, all your little noises and eager movements, and he's panting when he draws back for a breath, his chest heaving and his emerald eyes dark.]

I missed how you tasted. How you sound when you're eager for me and can't take me at the pace you want . . .

[Oh, he lives for those noises, and his mouth twists into a smug smirk.]

How bratty you get when you're told not yet.

[Bratty. Tsk.

What an impudent little cub. What a troublesome little nuisance. Bold enough to throw a bloodied predator to the bed despite everything he's seen tonight, and beautiful for that same stubborn gameness, even in a new form. Not a stupid choice— a deliberate one: Astarion knows there's no one else those hands would fight to snare this way (no mortal, no companion, no spawn), just as there's not another soul Astarion would tip his throat to in the slightest— not in Thedas. Not here in Baldur's Gate. Not in all his countless years combined.

And maybe he is weak.

That ancient mockery his master and his ilk once cut him with so well (the same as the humans he'd hound and snap at in Kirkwall), as though bruised knees and bloodied pain was only a consequence of an innate desire for it— or that feebleness is as much an ingrained part of him as his sharpened ears. Maybe it's foolish to go putting so much stock in something as killable as love or finite breath in worlds where there are such open-jawed horrors as the ones that leave irreversible scars (pallid fingers smoothing over tattoo marks that are only just for show— thin and indiscernible beneath roaming fingerprints), but he can't live without it, now, and the inevitable draws him in with its inescapable gravity. That, and a proud, pretty smirk. Holding him tighter than any curse. Any leash.

Cazador would laugh at the absurdity.

Cazador isn't here.

(Let him go, Astarion— you can't feel him, he can't feel you.)

Playing prey for a softer thing, Astarion laughs until he doesn't: throwing his own head back and letting his claws uselessly perch at odd angles. Felled. Vanquished. Pink around the lips from rubbed-off blood and kisses full of conversation never said. Stiffer with every rolling pass (mmnh, he's gotten too damned good at that, his wicked darling). Legs lifting in imitation of a wanton struggle that's only false because of how he clips his own strength down into something conquerable.

Cede to me is his usual demand. Now he hisses, and writhes, and snaps clicking fangs to the tune of a heady growl while his thighs part all the wider— but they're aligned in the depthlessness of all their marrow-deep longing, and it bares its fragile belly when he next sucks in air to speak:]

And who intends to tell me— starved beast that I am— not yet?

[His stomach tenses like an underscore, shifting the (dangerous) map of his silhouette. A gasp. A groan. Swearing that he's both domesticated and not. Threatening and not. (Hello, I'm yours. I'm still yours. Hello, I never forgot you. Hello. Hello, I could ruin you. You— )]

....you, little moonstone?

Edited 2022-12-30 02:35 (UTC)

[Understand: he does know this is an act. He is familiar enough with Astarion alone to know when the other man is truly fighting and when he's merely struggling just to put up a playful show of force. Maker, he knows every inch of Astarion by now: an entire essay written in the twitch of his mouth or a sharp intake of breath; how to discern true rage from petty irritant when his tone gets a certain note, or how bright his eyes will get when he's truly happy about something. An entire year's worth of intimate study that makes moments like these so much easier, for yes, he knows that this is a gift.

And yet Leto still does not realize quite how much of one it truly is.

It isn't that he means to underestimate Astarion so much as he's so used to them being equals in every way. There are little advantages here and there, points in which one assuredly conquers the other, but never has Leto felt outmatched. And though he has listened intently to Astarion's talk of superior strength, that vampiric curse a blessing in more ways than one; though he felt tonight just how strong those spawn were, and watched how easily Astarion ripped through one— still, still, it's hard to unlearn a year's worth of familiarity.

So though this submissive mewling is assuredly a gift, he does not yet realize just how much of one it is. Nor how audacious he is as he smirks down at his captive vampire, thrilling over impotent snaps of his teeth and huffing growls. And trust he has plenty to say to that, but first—]

Little moonstone . . .

[Oh, and it's not a bad thing, not at all. It's just new, that's all, and he blinks down at Astarion for a few seconds, thrown out of their game for a moment. Moonstone, gods, but that's apt now, isn't he? Now that he glows faintly not from lyrium, but from innate elvishness; now that he is the most unremarkable creature to walk these streets . . . oh, and he wants to talk to Astarion about that. Now that the dust has settled and his mind has stopped racing around in panicked desperation, there is time enough to consider other things: like what a miracle it is that he does not feel pain as he straddles his lover. Like what a shock it is to wake each morning and realize that he does not have to account for the fluctuations in weather or how badly he'll hurt by mid-afternoon. What a giddying thrill it is to climb into bed each night and not hurt, oh, and that's to say nothing of his own identity (Blue Wraith no longer, and he doesn't understand why some part of him aches over it, this involuntary loss that he ought to be purely giddy about).

Later.

Later, though. Later, for now, he exhales softly, a slight smile flicking over his face as he leans down.]

A month's separation and you think yourself nothing but a dominant conqueror . . . yes, I intend to tell you not yet.

[Their foreheads bumping together, his breath hot against Astarion's parted lips as he leans his weight against the vampire's bound wrists and rolls his hips back. A slow draw forward and a hard press down as he inches himself back, grinding against the thickened swell beneath him. He swears he can feel him throbbing within the confines of his trousers, thin leather doing absolutely nothing to conceal just how eager the other man is for him. And be fair: it isn't a one-way street. His prick aches with every pass, swelling and thickening as he grinds against him. Can you feel that, his back arching, his thighs gripping his hips so tightly, can you feel how desperately I missed you as he grinds like a whore, methodical and mean.]

Not yet.

[A stolen kiss, a daringly brief swipe with his tongue against bloody fangs before he jerks his head back out of range.]

Not yet, and I will tell you that as long as it pleases me.

[His hair hangs in his face. His cheeks and ears are pleasingly flushed. He looks so excited right now, smouldering seductiveness undercut by giddying eagerness, I missed you I love you hello hello hello, betrayed in the way his thumbs stroke lovingly at the inside of Astarion's wrists.]

For you, my starved beast, are inclined to give me my way no matter what I ask. And if what I want is to make you wait . . .

Not yet.

[But Astarion won't stay still forever. Swiftly he draws himself up, releasing the vampire in favor of stripping off his shirt. Those blue-black tattoos span everywhere his lyrium had once touched, it seems, for he's covered in the same familiar swirls and dots. Leto darts back down, hands bracing on his shoulders this time as his hips resume their indulgent pattern— and then, quietly:]

Tell me how much you missed me, and I'll give you what you want. Tell me how much you thought of me, and I will speak devotion against your lips as I ride you for hours, til the sun sets once more. Tell me how many times you wished I was there, and I will tell you the same, for I have done nothing but think of you these past three weeks, missing you like a limb for badly I needed you.

[Until now, he was ready to spring like a steel trap.

Until now, he'd been drawing lines in the dirt with a playful smirk (cross this one and you'll be in danger, I swear it, little moon elf— ) biding his time while seconds whittle themselves down to the very bone. Rapidly vanishing wick woven together from the strands of Astarion's doting longanimity, promising that once it burns down to the fat— well. Then, he'll do what any vampire does best:

He'll strike.

Mm. But that was a thought that came before he felt the gentle brush of devoted fingers drifting over the fine bones of his wrists. Before he caught the deeply missed brunt of Leto's wickedly esurient expression— a look never once worn for a past stuffed to the agonizing brim with houndish obedience (worn for Astarion, though. Coaxed to the surface of him like a splinter sucked from skin, and trust that it doesn't matter whether the assumption's right or wrong: Astarion always credits himself for its existence just the same). His blinks coming on a little too slowly under its sway. His stagnant heart shivering in the prelude to a single beat— thudding out a stop-start stagger each time he's told, for all intents and purposes, no.

Not yet.

Crimson stare settling over tattooed muscle like the click click click of a failing mechanism. There's a foot on the pressure plate. There's a trespasser at his doorstep, encroaching on his vile reputation as a nightmare. A threat to be culled so that mortal things might thrive. The next grinding touch drags a fluttering groan from the back of his throat, and if he means to subdue the needle-fanged pup tugging at his hide, he needs to do it now.

'....For you, my starved beast, are inclined to give me my way no matter what I ask.'

Oh, and isn't that the right of it? (Sunlight. Wooden stakes. Water.) That the strongest things have the smallest weaknesses. (Leto) Damning hypothesis proven when Astarion slackens in his companion's hold, arousal crawling through him in ways that stretch his spine, false breath quickened when it washes over open lips. Unfixed stare the hooded sightline that anchors him to Leto's mouth once more: lapping at what little indulgence he's given outside the bounds of those inciting, outright merciless bucks.

When it ends he stares at undulating musculature (stomach dark and rolling in deep shadow). When it ends, his tongue is wet enough that there's a vulgar pop for the way it pulls away from the roof of his mouth. The backs of his fangs.

If he has to earn his keep, so be it.

Everything, then:]

There wasn't a second that passed without you in it.

[(Spoken like a filthy litany, but the words themselves....)]

Two hundred years of no one but myself leveled against one year at your side, and still, returned to what I was, I chose you.

Alive. Dead. The only thing that mattered was that I could still remember. Without a single thought of the damage it might do if that was where our story ended, I burned you into my bones like a brand; keeping your habits until I swore I could hear your voice in the seconds before sleep took me. You: the first thing I reached for each morning in an empty little hovel shoved into a darkened alleyway. You: the silence I spoke to each night, promising I'd return just fine.

[Eyes like emerald. Eyes like jade. Eyes he bathes in while dark lashes close around the abyssal core that sits in place of his hollowed pupils, only to find Leto's afterimage burned into his retinas. Another stiff buck of his hips meets gripping thighs, leaving his jagged inhale flush in ways he can't be anymore.]

I missed you once before.

I've gotten good at finding you again. Even before you've noticed it, yourself. Just like tonight.

[Claws patiently worked free, one hand rises to fall across the slope of Leto's cheek. There. There.]

I missed you, amatus. [Like a hole in my heart. Like ribs snapped into splinters around fragile contentment. Like air. Like sunsets. Like warmth free-flowing through pale fingertips. Like meals that don't speak. Like Rialto— ] And even my silver tongue lacks the necessary gilt to tell you just how much.

So instead I'll tell you that you never left.

That you never have.

[Sultry. Incensed. Murmured like the oath it's always been. A liar and his truths.]

Edited 2023-01-01 02:09 (UTC)

—but my precious darling, it is rude to deny a hungry thing its meal.

[Oh, that trap never really jammed at all.]

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