#✧. queue — 𝖎𝖈 ;;

[alcriti]

Even sleep does not quell the writhing of the black blood beneath his skin. In moments of silence, in the calm, Astarion can almost feel the sludge pulse through his veins with each weak beat of his heart. His hand pushes aside the curtain within his reach; daytime. The morning sun breaking through the haze of Dettlaff's nest is not unwelcome, but brings with it an anticipation of another day spent just on the cusp of death.

He rises from the bed he was given by his host, moving through each ache with careful tenderness until he slowly pads his way down the hall. Bracing against the wall, Astarion thinks Dettlaff's administration of his own blood did not work; not like he hoped. Foolishly, he imagined he would be cured, but a curse is not so easy to break… The younger vampire stands in the frame of the door of the study, his thin shoulders loosely draped in the shirt he went to bed in. For a moment, he watches Dettlaff in silence, before finding his voice in his throat. ❝ How long was I sleeping? ❞

@highwrath / ♥

[alcriti]

There were worse things a man of his position could be caught doing, and socialising with people that walked a thin line of secrecy was low on Astarion's list of worries. Already plotting on how to smooth over the downfall should it come it light -- that a judge of the Gate was buying information to send the more elusive criminals away -- his line of thinking wrinkles when his partner, again, urges him to pay the fine due.

Astarion smiles, yet despite the friendly gesture it lacks any sort of warmth. It feels like a threat. ❝ For your time, ❞ He at last says, flicking out a handful of coins to the other elf, keeping that tight smile on his face. ❝ Now, I'm not going to find an assassin standing over my bed in a few days, am I? If you need to be reminded, confidentiality was ensured. You get me blackmail information, and I ensure this fool will never see the light of day again. ❞

@voiceofduality / ♥

[alcriti]

‘ A gift for you, darling, ‘ He was kissed upon his cheek, complimenting the package that he held in his hands. At the time, Astarion would have believed his birthday gift to be nothing but the vows of affection his aunt held for him -- until he opened the bloody thing. His expression must have gave away his disgust; his mother sitting nearby covering her mouth with her hand, holding back a mix of shock, and amusement. ‘ You are too content knowing you hold the world in your hands; not everything can be to your liking, dear Astarion, ‘

It is a lesson, he supposes, but one he takes seldomly to heart.

❝ What a terrible existence you’ve led; I would rather perish than be kept within such a wickedly hideous piece of jewelry. ❞ He fiddles with the ugly locket, passing it between each of his hands. To an observer, it seems as though the young lord is talking to himself; the absolute oddity that he carries on full conversations with no partners about potentially alarming any staff that walk by the room in which he occupies. ❝ And if I were to throw this bloody thing in the lake, what would happen then...? Aside from me no longer having to keep this thing, but to you? ❞

@sennik​​ / plotted!

[alcriti]

He pays special attention to removing the smudges, the imperfections, on his remaining blade with the stained neckerchief; a grim smile ghosting his pallid face as he completes his ritual. The tiefling essentially answers his question, and truthfully, he doubts all of them. Their intentions, their skills… He believes only himself; trusts only himself, yet despite his reservations, he is not without sensibility. To be seen as equally trustworthy requires a certain amount of… openness.

❝ When did I ever say that? ❞ The rogue replies, his voice sitting low in his throat as both knife and cloth are tucked away. He saunters forwards, hooking his thumbs into his belt as he curiously watches Oriax. ❝ Ah! I admit, I'm surprised…. You don't strike me as a noble's child. See what we learn when we talk to one another?

his fingertips are tingling with the aftermath of magic in the wake of the failed attempts on their lives. his magic leaves his fingers aching like he's run them under too cold water for a long time, the sensation slowly filtering back into them as he cleans his rapier and stows it away.

astarion's voice carries smoothly, and it takes oriax a long moment to steady his own so he doesn't sound like a weakling in the wake of more death-dealing. (he'll get used to it.)

" didn't think i had it in me? " he asks it softly, more under his breath than anything, before he acknowledges the question posed to him.

" and here i thought you didn't want to talk about our backgrounds. . .but fine. i'm from baldur's gate originally. my parents are merchant nobles there. "

he gave a gesture to the wilderness around them.

" things were pretty normal, and then i ended up out here with you all. "

[alcriti]

Her denial grabs him; such vehemence in her words, her insistance driven with such conviction, his instincts tell him something otherwise. It reminds him of himself. The way in he defends his humanity with such ferocity until he is so far removed from "monster" he cannot be anything else but the charming nobleman, the magistrate. But the fact still remains that he is what he is. He is compelled by urges not found in others; urges that seduce his base instincts, and Astarion has not found the fortitude with withstand its dark call.

Arlis is smart for recognising it in him. His smile turns a little more genuine at her comment, holding his reply. There is something more to her statement, but he refrains from prodding. They all have secrets to keep, and there was no doubt that, in time, whatever they strove so hard to conceal would no longer remain as such.

His gaze falls away from her, the smallest of hums filling his throat, weighing her words. Then he looks to her, the deadliness quelled in his eyes, but a hint of it ❝ You're right to think I am, Arlis. I am, after all, a vampire. Most should count themselves lucky to have never encountered one. There's a deadliness to them no mere thug could ever muster, and a bloodlust even most beasts don't possess. And that's completely ignoring the rest of my other skills! ❞ His laughs rings hollow, bearing his teeth in an easy smile before continuing, ❝ Being dangerous might be the only thing that sees us through the next day. Don't you agree? ❞

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘 and, very suddenly, has the sensation that she is being looked at like prey to a predator, something composed of parts rather than a whole. it's enough to make every relaxed muscle in her tired form tense and now the fire does not burn brightly enough for her liking. there is a gleam to him that was not there before or, perhaps, that was patiently concealed until now.

still, there is a flash in her eyes at his suggestions, a tensing of her jaw. ❛ i'm not any of those things, ❜ arlis states with a rare coldness and straightens her spine, ❛ i'm hardly wyll but i'm not entirely monstrous, astarion. ❜

entirely. that is the key word, of course, the one that even now coats her tongue like ash though she pushes the thought away swiftly and roughly. a long silence falls between them now, the night quiet once more save for the dying fire and wind-touched leaves. finally, teeth pluck at the corner of her lips and she replies quietly, honestly, ❛ i think you're dangerous. the others all are in their own ways, and perhaps some more than others, but none quite like you. ❜

[alcriti]

If Arlis wishes for him to stay, he can do that. It would be unduly cruel to abandon her when she wants for his company. The smile he bears is small, but reassuring. He lifts his hand, using the pad of his thumb to swipe across the ridge of her cheek, catching a tear. Even the hardest among them were not invulnerable. They all came with old wounds, bearing the scars of lives lived, but it seemed that as of late, nothing between them was going to remain completely hidden. In Arlis' case, gaining knowledge of her skills the way he did was probably not what she had wanted. More than likely, and if it were up to Arlis, no one would ever come to know.

In that regard, he understands, and so he obliges. No words are spoken to accompany her request, nodding in silence as he motions for her to follow. The benefit of being a nightowl is the time he has to himself. When he is not hunting, he is exploring; and his purposeful wandering around the boundary of their little camp has turned up a number of spots that offer all the privacy one could want. This particular overhang offers a view of the waterfall, the campsite below, and with their presence obscured by the height of the trees above them, they themselves are all but invisible.

Astarion is careful in perching on the ledge, his legs dangling over the side as his hands fold neatly between his legs. ❝ Returning to camp as you are, I truly don't need anyone to think I was the one who made you cry, ❞ He chuckles, allowing her room beside him to sit if she wishes. ❝ Admittedly… I have questions, however, if you aren't eager to answer, I won't pry. ❞ Gaze carries to the side, attempting to nudge the conversation along. ❝ I didn't want anyone to know about my vampirism. The reaction most have is anything but favourable, however… My desperation and foolishness ensured you lot would find out sooner rather than later. I suppose it's to my own benefit you know, now. It really is a wonderful thing… Not to hide, I mean. ❞

𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐍'𝐒 𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄 proves steady, the pale elf an unexpected lighthouse amidst the tempestuous sea of her own heart. arlis folds herself into him, cheek resting against the sharp curve of his collarbone, and no longer attempts to mask the faint tremble of her hands against worn linen. he had listened, he had understood and he had assessed her. for all these years, the fear of that secret, unwanted ugliness had haunted her and now, that ever-present spectre seems grievously wounded. (an odd thing, how powerful just a little light seems against shadow.)

his gaze then meets her own, crimson against rich earth, and arlis finds understanding. ❛ better, ❜ she tries out the word slowly. it feels enormous, full of promise and heavy with defiance, but it feels right. for both of them. ❛ yes, better. ❜

when she does lean back, a shy, quick laugh follows as her wrist rubs at her eyes. (there will be more tears later, born of relief, but those can be saved for the privacy of her tent.) ❛ no, i'm afraid i don't have a particularly dainty crying face, do i? ❜ she was never made for tears, truthfully, but these tears feel earned. arlis shifts her weight slightly and, after a long pause, asks quietly. ❛ would you just sit with me a while, astarion? ❜