#SORRY ASTARION it's not personal I promise. sure seems like it tho huh I was gagged when I rolled this one for him

[accultant]

Much like a skittish cat, running towards Iago at full speed is quite possibly the most alarming thing one could do. Their hackles raise in panic the second they see Astarion - I rather like that vampire, a shame he's decided to join in on all the fun that is hunting me for sport. 'Twas only a matter of time, I suppose - headed towards them.

They brace themselves for a fight, a number of spells already dancing on their tongue, before something makes them pause. Maybe it's the way he's running. He doesn't usually look so... goofy odd when he runs, does he? And the expression on his face- it isn't exactly pleased, but it isn't the bloodlust they expected.

Iago's heart is hammering when he stops just before slamming into them and they stumble backwards a step to gain a safe distance. He follows and levels them with a look.

Oh, no, he is not pleased one bit. In fact, he looks quite upset with them. They quickly run through the day's events in their mind to try and figure out what they did this time. "You looked like a mad dog running over here like that," they say curtly.

They take another step back. He follows again in an odd, jerky motion that sends a chill down their spine for a reason they can't quite put their finger on. "And will you please back up while you explain what it is exactly that you want me to stop? Hells, you look like you're about to pounce on me, Astarion. If you're feeling peckish, just say so."

[Roll 1d100 = 96] Roll Call!: For the next 24 hours, saying a creature’s name will cause them to rush to Iago's side to the best of their ability. If someone is too far to reach Iago, they will still make the attempt to reach them until the 24 hours are up. The wild magic surge had occurred earlier that day, almost forgotten by now since things seemed unperturbed, any effect unseen. Perhaps simply a dud, the party concluded. That is, until Astarion finds himself compelled to sprint full-speed towards Iago for no apparent reason.

his body isn’t his own—he knows this curse ( or something even more sinister, but enough like it— ) and rails against the sensation with every fibre that makes him, him.  powerless to resist, and little time to dwell. the wind roars past his face, whips his hair, arms and legs propelling him forth at a blistering pace.  and there’s iago.  and there’s astarion—not crashing into them, but skidding to a perfect stop, just at their side.  like a puppet.  a breathless, slump-shouldered, marionette.   “... iago.”   huff, puff.  he bends forward, grasping his knees. peers up at them from beneath the deep furrow of his brows.   “what in the hells was that?” iago budges; astarion budges. astarion arches his neck, thunders out: “make it stop!”