finalflight | PSL; SUNSET HIGH AND OUR BODIES LOW

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[No, they’re probably not in much shape for what usually follows after Astarion takes his fill, but that’s far from a reason not to humor the thought. It’s been a very long day, and a very long night, but physically worn as they are, it’s not like trekking across the Underdark is all sunshine and rainbows. In fact, it’s the opposite; it’s bloody stressful.

Why not a bit more indulgence, a little release? It’s not like they’re hurting anybody; even if it’s only a kiss or two, for a bit of fun, a bit of play. Winter’s fingers remain in his hair, and he doesn’t know, really, how to redirect the gesture — but he finds he doesn’t have to when the warlock instead pulls away and motions at the corner of his own mouth to indicate Astarion’s lips.]

Do I?

[He knows he does. He can still taste it there, painting his lips crimson. He reaches up to wipe a trickling portion away from his bottom lip with a grazing knuckle, but it does little more than smear. Yeah, he’s still messy… and surely that’s not too bad of a look on him, is it, fangs flashing as he grins. He leans in once more, that hand yet again pressing to his thigh.]

Then be a dear and help me clean up, will you?

[ They’re going to be trekking through the Underdark for quite a while longer yet, unfortunately. (A part of Winter feels oddly at home here. He doesn’t dwell on it.) Why not enjoy what they can, when they can?

Which is to say, he knows an invitation when he sees it, the curve of his mouth sharpening with a different sort of hunger and he leans in readily to claim Astarion’s lips. The tang of copper blooms bright across his tongue, as he invites the taste of himself into his own mouth. Is this what Astarion meant? Hard to tell either way, but it’s certainly how he’s choosing to go about it. ]

[Don't worry, Winter. That is exactly what he meant, and if there was any doubt, Astarion gives a little hum of approval as their lips meet, the curve of his smile not quite lessening. More than enough encouragement to continue.

Like this, they share in the taste of his blood. And though he doubts it tastes like anything more than warm copper to him—where it’s nothing but sweet delight for a vampire—it’s still an exchange that excites him.

He lets the kiss linger, even deepens it so Winter can be sure to taste the tang on his lips fully. It’s his turn for a hand to wander into that mane of black hair, fingers resting against the back of his head as though to offer support for his playful vigor.

This counts as "cleaning up", right.]

[ It sure does count as “cleaning up”, in every way that matters at least. They’ve already tended to the messy business that is cleaning up their hurts and wounds from battle, anyway, so what could possibly be left?

They stay like that for a while, lips locked, painting streaks of crimson in one another’s mouths, and maybe a time or two it feels like things might progress a bit further, but exhaustion is settling in fast – at least it is for the slightly more human half of the duo, who knows about Astarion – and at long last, Winter draws away. ]

Mm. Gods, I need to sleep, and you’re making it difficult.

[Exhaustion buries itself bone-deep in his frame, too. The idea of sincerely taking this farther than just kissing flits around in his brain like a sparrow, but ultimately, perhaps it's an encounter better saved for when they wouldn't be complete heaps of useless nothingness when they were done.

So. The kiss is a lengthy one, a slow and languid affair, but eventually, Winter has to pull away, and Astarion doesn't chase after him tonight.]

Mm. I hope that means thoughts of me will be too busy crowding your mind for you to sleep tonight.

[He eases back, but brings a hand out to graze his fingers across the brusing on Winter's neck, so distinct against pale skin.]

Well, it's fine. You should try to sleep, anyway. You look awful. [Thanks, Astarion.] Consider this... to be continued, for now.

[ Distinct and already beginning to go purple and green around the edges, in contrast to the monochrome of the inky black tendrils crawling delicately over his skin. ]

You don't look much better than me, you know.

[ They all look like they've been through hell. But there's no real bite (ha) in the words. He breathes a small huff of amusement through his nose and offers Astarion a crooked grin. ]

Good night, Astarion.

Well, even on my worst days, I'm the best-looking member of this camp.

[He huffs out a laugh, melodic and even halfway sincere. With that retort having left his tongue, Astarion eases back and stands, turning partway to head back to where he's set up his own little space.]

Good night, then. I expect us to be as fit as fiddles in the morning.

[Or whatever counts as morning in this blasted place.

Off he goes! This day might have been a difficult one, but at least it didn't end so badly. May their trudging through the Underdark be less perilous from here on out.]

* * *

[Anyway, they're fighting a Spectator now.

A massive, ugly thing, with a gaping maw filled with sharp teeth, eyestalks that track in every direction, and one singular, massive eye in the middle of its round body. It floats, it bites, it shoots perilous rays of energy from afar, and that's not even mentioning the sorry souls it's apparently turned to stone, standing frozen for who-knows-how-long before them.

So much for less perilous.

It rises and looms above them, long tongue lolling out of its mouth.]

Oh, wonderful!

[just great!!!]

[ Thinking back on it, the rows of petrified drow who look like they had been running from something really should have tipped them off. Nothing good could have caused a scene like that, and this being the Underdark, that nothing good was probably still around.

Well, live and learn. Or, more accurately, focus on living now so they can learn later.

They’ve already been scattered thanks to the volley of beams the thing threw out when it first appeared, kicking up dirt and chunks of rock. Winter and his companions went diving in every which way to get out of the line of fire, which more or less left him and Astarion cut off from the rest by the spectator itself.

The thing’s eye-stalks swivel around to watch its back, but that large, central eye, focuses its gaze on the two men in front of it. In answer to that gaze, strange arcane energy coalesces itself in Winter’s hands, all cold darkness and distant starlight wreathed in hues of teals and magenta and blue.

He lets the Eldritch Blast fly with a quick motion of his hand, and it streaks across the space, a sliver of the night sky given form, to slam into that searching eyeball. The spectator reels back with a shriek of pain, two of its eye-stalks swinging around to compensate. ]

Less talking, more shooting, Astarion!

[ Though, he has to agree with the assessment. They’ve really gone out of the frying pan and into the fire and somehow into yet more fire since they’ve been down here. ]

Really? I thought I’d just stand here and gawk at it!

[Thanks, Winter! He knows! And he knows that he works best when he is not detected by enemies, and it’s hard to feel as though one is anything but detected when being gazed upon by a literal giant eyeball.

But Winter sends that Eldritch Blast careening towards the creature, distracting it just enough to buy him maybe a second or two — it’s not much time, but it’ll have to make do, and Astarion makes his way swiftly up the nearest slope to gain himself a bit of high ground.

There’s not a lot of movement to be had here, given they could not be fighting in a more inconvenient spot: the top of a cliffside with a very inconvenient fall in one direction should they take a topple. But no time to worry about tumbling to one’s death just yet!

He’s quick and deft about reading his bow, and sends his first arrow flying straight towards that eye. Maybe another, too, if he’s given the opportunity. THIS AWFUL THING BETTER NOT TURN HIM INTO STONE,,]

[ Just about the time the spectator recovers from a bolt of eldritch energy to the face, a pair of arrows come along and jam themselves right in its eye. With another shriek that sets Winter’s teeth on edge, the creature wraps an eye stalk around the shafts of the arrows and pulls them out in one rough motion, spattering blood everywhere. Its remaining eyes cast around wildly, looking for the source of whatever hurt it, but if Astarion has taken to the shadows, there’s no way that thing is going to spot him.

But it does spot Winter, who’s now made himself a prime target. The spectator swoops in, teeth flashing and ready to clamp down around the warlock, but it's repelled by a burst of frigid energy, ice lancing into those open jaws. Well, there goes the last of his Armor of Agathys.

Having bought himself a little time and a little distance, he flings out another Eldritch Blast ~~because that’s what warlocks do~~, and the creature reels back, eye stalks flailing. Now it's really mad. ]

[He’s left unnoticed, though the problem with that strategy? Everyone else is a target.

This was never a “problem” strategy before, of course. Astarion is usually quite fine with looking after himself, but his time adventuring with this group has taught him that sometimes he does need to take the state of others into consideration, which means he keeps a keen eye on the enemy and the rest of their party. Mostly Winter, now, who has earned the ire of the creature — and is too far away to earn the aid of the rest of their group in any timely manner.

The Spectator really is very angry now, having wrenched free arrows from its eyeball and yet still having to deal with another blast directly into it. It gnashes its giant maw, almost blindly barging forward to rush straight into the warlock. The force would be more than enough to knock him down, given its size.]

Winter!

[Godsdammit, he better be fast enough to get out of the way! He’s just given his hiding place away by calling his name. Astarion lets loose another arrow, hoping that'll be distraction enough to buy time. What else can he do, short of closing the gap to do-- To do what--? Fling him out of the way himself?

This thought might become more relevant later.]

[ For a mercy, Winter is quick on his feet. He darts to one side, only to have the spectator collide with the cliff face behind him. It kicks up a storm of debris, sending chunks of rocks flying. One glances off his forehead and he feels something warm begin to trickle down the side of his face. Somewhere, he thinks he hears his name, carried on a voice that he is quite unused to hearing in any manner of distress.

The dust is still settling as he casts around for Astarion. Godsdammit, where did he go? He’s not hurt, is he? ]

Astarion?

[ Bad move, probably, hollering back. From the dust and the rubble quite suddenly emerges the spectator, looking beaten and bloodied and absolutely, terribly livid. Whatever it has left for eyes are set on Winter, and it lunges in his direction fast. ]

[All right, that thought becomes much more relevant now.

He isn't sure what does it, really. The flash of panic surging through his veins plays some part, but it's not as though rushing forward makes any practical sense tactically. And yet his feet propel him forward all the same, darting out from his shadowed hiding spot, taking him as fast as he can manage. Because he can see how badly this is going to go. He can see the rage in that creature, beaten and bruised as it is. He watches it turn and set itself upon Winter, and make to lunge itself at him, its too many teeth gleaming.

He's there just in time, dexterous enough to leap over any detritus in the way and literally push Winter out of the proverbial line of fire, both arms extended.]

Move-!

[Which unfortunately puts him right before that large mouth, the bite force of an angry spectator. No matter where Winter ended up, at least he's not where Astarion is, where he has his side punctured with hard, sharp teeth, gnashed into, flesh torn a bit as it wrenches its head to the side and flings the vampire straight into the cliff wall.

Astarion cries out in shock more than pain, mostly registering the collision with stone than anything else just yet. Gravity brings him to the ground, disoriented and bleeding. Wind thoroughly knocked from him. He's lost his bow up the incline somewhere in-between all of this.]

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