finalflight | PSL; SUNSET HIGH AND OUR BODIES LOW

[ 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.]

[ The only thought that really has time to flash though his mind is the unhelpful observation that something as big as the monstrosity currently bearing down on him should not be able to move that fast.

Move-!

Something collides with him from the side, sending him sprawling. No, not something, someone. Astarion, now caught in the creature’s jaws, those terrible teeth sinking through flesh as if it were nothing. Winter can only watch with horror as the vampire is tossed like a ragdoll, slamming hard into stone. ]

Astarion!

[ Too many panicked thoughts fly through his head at once, but something urges him to move, to scramble to his feet. To do something. The spectator is rounding on him again, and Astarion is crumpled to a heap and–

The chasm flares suddenly with bright, radiant light, slamming into the spectator like a bit of much-needed divine intervention. Shadowheart, thank the gods. Further down the way, the sound of thundering footsteps, and the flame-wreathed form of Karlach, eyes wild and axe held high, comes into view. The relief he feels is brief, but palpable.

Winter takes the opportunity to scramble over to where Astarion sits, winded and bleeding, and falls to his knees, both hands going to the sides of the vampire’s face. ]

Hey– [ winded, a little harried ] –still with me?

Edited (html betrayal) 2023-08-31 20:58 (UTC)

[The disorientation has not yet worn off, and his vision is crowded only by the plumes of dust kicked up by his fall. Maybe he sees the halo of bright magic, or hears thunder footsteps approach, but Astarion really doesn’t register anything until he feels hands cupping the side of his face, redirecting his vision to focus upon Winter.

How odd — he just feels a twinge of relief, and not a lot else. Well, he’s sure the pain and frustration at the other man not being careful enough will kick in sooner rather than later. Now's not really the time for navel-gazing, besides.

So, he just tries to flash him a weak smile.]

A little bite— [“little”] —isn’t enough to kill me. I’ve had worse.

[And he has! That said, his lips twitch as the stinging pain in his side finally runs across his nerve endings.]

I’d like the minotaur back now. [Instead of a killer floating eyeball, thanks.]

[ That relief is echoed in Winter’s own expression, which is probably twice as odd, but it’s a short-lived thing with the sounds of a battle raging behind them. ]

I bet you would.

[ Like the minotaur back. He would too, honestly. But there’s no time for that now. The others will only fare so well on their own, with two of them currently out of the picture. He glances back to see how things are going, and sees one of the creature’s eyes swivel around to focus on them. Apparently, the spectator is not so keen to take all its eyes off Winter and Astarion, even with a raging tiefling suddenly up in its face.

And when that eye starts to glow an angry red, Winter’s stomach drops. He does the only thing he can think of doing – he moves himself in front of Astarion and then…

Then he asks for help.

He doesn’t often turn to his patron for some kind of direct intervention, mostly because he usually has everything he needs, and in part because he doesn’t think they quite understand the intricacies of human problems. This time, though, the sentiment is a simple one. Please, just get them out of here.

fine. says something in the back of his head, incomprehensible and easy to understand all at once. just this once, and not again until you’re ready.

That’s enough for him. The air around warlock and vampire shimmers, and they wink out of being just as a beam of light lances through the space where they once were. A split second later, they reappear some sixty feet away, right next to a very startled Shadowheart. ]

[Truly, it appears for a moment that his heroic effort to push Winter out of the way of danger will be moot. The eyestalks of the spectator glow a deep and terrible red, and they’re sitting ducks — because the warlock decides to step in the way of it, as though to provide Astarion extra cover.

The vampire tries to sit up straighter, palm pushing against the ground and biting back the pain.]

What are you doing?! You’ll—

[—be hurt. And this time, I can’t do anything to help you.

But suddenly, the air around them both shimmers. They’re there, staring down an eye of an angry monster about to blast them into ashes, probably, and then—

They’re suddenly elsewhere. Right next to a startled Shadowheart, if his ears don’t deceive him, and Astarion has to blow past another wave of disorientation before he understands what Winter’s just done.

(“Understand” is a bit of a stretch. Warlock nonsense, probably.)]

Ugh, gods… [A hand reaches to press against his side, and Astarion tries his damndest to push himself up to his feet. It’s a precarious affair.] Warn me, next time.

[ When reality finally re-settles around them, Winter teeters a little where he kneels, his face gone a shade or two paler (somehow). There’s a sharp pain in his head, right behind his eyes. A trickle of blood ekes slowly out of one nostril, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

Alright, he thinks. Message received. ]

There wasn’t really time.

[ Shadowheart, for her part, seems a bit unsure of where to turn her attention first, but Winter is quick to rectify that. He puts a hand on Astarion’s shoulder – stay down – and at the same time rises to his own feet. ]

Heal him. I’ll help Karlach.

[ Karlach, who is still currently tangling with a heavily injured, but not yet dead Spectator. Winter won’t hear an argument from either Shadowheart or Astarion, so whatever conversations there are to be had will have to wait until after the fight.

Sorry, Astarion! He won’t keep you waiting too long! ]

[Normally, he’d revel in the fact that others were delegated the heavy lifting in the battle, and he’d just sit back and be healed — but there’s something stubborn flaring in him, a part of him that feels utterly frustrated that Winter’s going to run off and continue the battle (because of course he is). Especially after viewing that trickle of red ribboning down the man’s nostril, how his complexion has paled two shades lighter. That spell must have taken its toll, at least by whatever means his patron burdens him with one.

He tries to retort but it seems as though the warlock’s already made up his mind, and even as Astarion tries to rise to his feet, Shadowheart is giving him the most disapproving glare, and her hand presses down on his shoulder as though to guarantee that he doesn’t rise back up. Their exchange is terse, with the vampire making a snide remark, but the reality soon makes it clear: she’s not going to let him back into the fight so easily, either.

At least she washes her healing magic over him to make the pain stop, the bleeding halt, and torn flesh slowly knit itself back in the worst places it was cut into.

And by the time she’s done, and Astarion feels as though he might just be able to wring out a second wind from himself, the battle’s nearly done. The spectator is on its last legs — or eyestalks, as it were. It’s sluggish, it’s struggling, though it did a fair amount of damage in its rage. The unpetrified Drow, having turned against their party while under the monster’s thrall, now lie dead and sprawled across the cavern floor. And when Karlach deals the last blow, ending the life of the spectator with furious finality, Astarion is already trying to slowly walk his way across the “battlefield” to where he had last dropped his bow.]

So glad that went well.

[Sarcasm. They’re all alive, at least. But he feels like a cat with its fur rubbed in the wrong direction, vaguely annoyed for reasons that he probably isn't turning over in his mind at the moment.]

[ Strong as she is, Karlach can’t finish the fight on her own, and with Astarion badly injured, that doesn’t leave them many options. Besides, Winter needs somewhere to funnel this hot spike of anger that seems to have lodged itself in his chest. There have been very few instances in his life where he remembers being so viscerally afraid, but that moment, watching this thing clamp its jaws around Astarion’s middle, was certainly – and inexplicably – one of them.

Hells.

Blue-purple bolts of lightning fly from his fingertips, scorching the spectator’s flesh where it’s not already been blasted and burned and cleaved. They make short work of the creature, thankfully. When the monstrosity finally falls and refuses to rise, there’s something like a collective moment of relief, but then it’s back to business as usual – checking dead bodies for anything useful, checking on each other and assessing where to go from here. Karlach is quick to point out that the way ahead is filthy with traps, so they’re going to have to find a way around or see if their resident rogue is feeling up to the task.

Given the way Astarion is hobbling about, Winter kind of doubts it. The traps aren’t important anyway. What’s important now is– ]

Astarion, are you alright?

[ Stupid question.

Winter himself has looked better, though he’s not as pale as he was when they first teleported. There’s a swath of dried blood running down one side of his face, and that smear under his nose still. ]

[It is a stupid question, and he remarks through grit teeth as he bends down to pick up his fallen bow by its middle.]

Wonderful, thank you.

[Said in his brand of lilting sarcasm that implies that, no, perhaps he's not as wonderful as he says. In fact, when he straightens again, he drops all attempts at passive aggression—that was never really his style, besides—and whirls on a foot to face Winter.]

I—

[He sees the dried blood painting the side of his face, the smear of the same under a nostril. The vampire sets his jaw and tries again, seemingly uncaring that the rest of the party is nearby ~~looting dead bodies.]~~

I go to all the trouble of mounting a daring rescue [aka pushed him out of the way], and what do you do? You end up throwing yourself in the way of danger, anyway! If it wasn’t for your patron having…

[Gods, ugh!! He wiggles his fingers.]

…poofed us away, you would have taken that blast, I know you would have. Adorned with a big, burning hole in your chest. And for what? Was I bitten for nothing? Flung about like refuse for nothing?

[This is, of course, not the core of his agitation, but it’s the easiest to articulate, so here we are.]

[ He’s not really sure what he expected to come of this conversation, but already it’s not going anywhere he thought it would. The way Astarion whirls on him, for one, makes him take a half-step back in surprise. And the hits just keep on coming. Is he… is he being scolded right now?

Dark brows knit together. His head throbs. ]

What the hells was I supposed to do? Let it kill you instead?

Yes— I mean, no, but—

[But what? Somehow, he thinks he might have lost exactly what it was he's arguing, which doesn't help matters when he was trying so fervently to make a point. Yes, maybe he was scolding him, but it feels appropriate even if he's having issues explaining why.

(Because honestly, what else was he supposed to do? Let it kill him?)]

It was reckless. Simple as that. Look at you now, you're as pale as a ghost.

Reckless? Pots and kettles, Astarion. I'm not the only one who put himself in the way of a bloodthirsty monstrosity today, am I?

[ He's not sure if the way the accusation makes him see red is a result of the way his head is still pounding, lanced through with pain, or if it's something else entirely. The moment is there and gone in a heartbeat, though. He doesn't want to fight with Astarion, even if his actions today were ill-advised at best. They need each other.

Oh, gods. They need each other.

Blue eyes flick up to search Astarion's face. ]

Why did you do that? Push me out of the way?

To help you!

[He exclaims with a reply that could answer both questions, throwing up a hand in exasperation. Winter's own flash of agitation is there and gone like a spark, but Astarion's is a low simmmer. He doesn't want to argue about this, either, but he almost sounds incredulous at the query.]

To make sure you didn't get hurt.

[A half-beat later:]

But then you went and tried to, anyway.

[ There wasn't much fight left in him, truth be told, but that takes whatever's left in one fell swoop. Something else moves into his chest to take its place, so warm it almost aches. ]

Oh, Astarion... I didn't want you to get hurt, either. You scared the hells out of me.

[ If Astarion lets him, he moves a few steps closer and — if Astarion lets him — reaches out to brush the other's cheek with his fingers. ]

We're both alive. Surely that has to count for something.

[Astarion doesn't move from where he stands, though something tightens in his shoulders, as though he is momentarily struggling to keep up the cavalier air he's so accustomed to wearing. Yet whatever tension remains there suddenly eases away when the warlock reaches out to touch him, like he's oh-so-gently punched a hole in his demeanor, and his indignity has no choice but to just... drain away.

He exhales briefly, closing his eyes, simply aware of Winter's touch.]

It does. Count for something, I mean.

[Then his eyes open again, crimson-hued gaze taking in Winter's expression.]

I was just... afraid, too, that's all. [Gods, what's happening? Since when did he ever fear someone else getting hurt? He tries to sound less, ah, pathetic about it-] Just for a moment. A flash of panic. My feet just moved on their own, and it really did look like you were about to be rent in two.

Suppose I'm still trying to shake off the excitement. ["Excitement."] It's fine now. ["Fine."] Just no more wild heroics from you, all right?

[ Just like that, the atmosphere between them subtly shifts, heralded by touch and something… something almost like surrender. Just what they’re surrendering to, well, Winter could probably give it half a dozen names, and he’s not sure which would be more right. It’s funny, because it was just a day or even just mere hours ago that he was considering this thing between them as something distant and transactional.

It’s not transactional to throw oneself in the path of oncoming danger. Not distant to feel one’s heart stop with fear while watching it happen.

Astarion’s gaze lifts to meet his own, and that constricting warmth in his chest twists. The corners of his mouth lift, expression inexplicably soft. He couldn’t school his face into anything different even if he wanted to. ]

That depends. Do I get to ask the same of you, too?

[Distant and transactional. Those are words that Astarion would like to still apply to whatever exists between them—this arrangement he has carefully crafted for his own safety—but day by day, it grows too complex to house even that simple rubric. Moments like these prove that this relationship of theirs has become…

What? Unwieldy? The least generous way to describe it, though not wholly wrong for how it feels — “unwieldy” in how it makes his chest constrict, blooming with a sort of warmth that’s so, so foreign to him these days that it almost scares him in a different way altogether.

This is perilously dangerous, he thinks, looking at Winter’s face. How his expression has softened, how he gazes at him like that.]

I… [His usual loquaciousness has absolutely departed him. He tries to dredge it up, anyway.] I promise to keep all future heroics… practical.

I suppose that’s all any of us can hope for, given the circumstances. Then I promise to do the same.

[ It would be foolish to think that they’re out of harm’s way now. If anything, things will only get more dangerous from here on out. This won’t be the last time either of them are in the line of fire… and they’ll just have to take any future instances as they come.

And then, because he feels that perhaps they could stand to lighten the mood just a little– ]

Not quite so much fun when you’re on the other end of the biting, hm?

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