finalflight | PSL; SUNSET HIGH AND OUR BODIES LOW

[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?

[Anyone with half a brain would know that there's no guaranteeing they won't ever find themselves in a similar position again; knowing their luck, an even worse one. Yet the promise to try not to be foolish and reckless amid battle is a slight comfort and one that he'll happily accept for now.

Winter's attempt to lighten the mood does the trick. Astarion's lips twitch back into their usual smile, though maybe not as prominent as before. Still an improvement.]

Come now, are you really trying to compare my bite to that of a... thing like that?

[In the distance, the corpse of the spectator rests with its maw hanging open and tongue lolling out. An ungraceful sight.]

I'm offended. You know I ply a much more delicate touch.

[ In the distance, the other members of their party are also watching quite keenly, while pretending to search said spectator for loot. They are terribly unsubtle about it, so it’s a good thing that Winter has ~~failed his perception check~~ yet to notice.

He chuckles a little. ]

Do you now? I suppose you’ll have to remind me… though perhaps later.

[Can’t believe they’re all searching said monster at the same time while glancing this way. The thing only has so much loot.]

Of course. We’re still due to pick up where we left off last time.

[Astarion probably didn’t fail his perception check but also he cares a lot less about being subtle when it comes to… that. His lips quirk again, though they do falter a little in the wake of his next question—]

Later, though. Are you… feeling all right? After your little disappearing trick.

Ah, that.

[ He makes a face, nose wrinkling. His head pounds in response. Yes, he’ll be dealing with this for a while, he can tell. It’s not often he tries to overreach like that, but for a mercy, his patron was as kind as they could be about it. No turning into a devil for him. (Sorry, Wyll.) ]

My head is killing me. That’s what I get for overstepping my bounds, I suppose, but I’ll be okay with time.

[ He did just cast a sixth level spell about… well, six class levels too early. It could have been worse. ]

Ah. Overstepping your bounds.

[He states in that typically lilting way, sounding more like a dubious question than otherwise.]

And that’s something your patron is just… fine with? Taking more than you’re allotted?

[There’s something off-putting to Astarion about the very concept of a warlock, having made a deal with an entity far beyond the usual scope of mortal understanding for power. It isn’t exactly the same as being under the complete thrall of a higher power—not like his enslavement to Cazador—but the parallels exist enough to make him question the wisdom behind such a decision.

After all, he’s all for garnering power enough to not feel as though one is ever under the thumb of anyone else. But he’s also seen the consequences of an unhappy patron — just look at their other local warlock.]

Not going to sprout any extra tentacles or the like, wholly unrelated to the tadpole squirming in your head?

[ Oh. Well. He has a real answer to give, of course, and he’s starting to think that at this point in their journey (relationship??), Astarion is due a bit more of an explanation beyond the bare bones of just what his patron is.

But first– he can’t quite resist. He leans over, leans down, ebony hair cascading over his shoulders. ]

I don’t know. Would you like it if I were to sprout some tentacles?

[ I’m sorry he’s this way. ]

[ARE YOU REALLY THO

Astarion isn’t the sort to lean away when Winter tilts in, but the question actually briefly confuses him.]

I, I don’t—

[…Until it doesn’t, and gods, how is he supposed to reply to that? This man is a difficult tease when the vampire is the one who should be playing that role, and sometimes this does leave him without a retort launched on his tongue.

Eventually, he hikes up a pale brow, looking straight at him.]

You know I’m all for a bit of whimsical fun, darling, but tentacles are better left as not a surprise you spring on someone unwittingly. Besides, there’s nothing at all wrong with your body as it is now — why ruin a good thing?

[ MAYBE A LITTLE–

Winter’s eyes crinkle at the edges in amusement. It’s not often he leaves Astarion speechless, so he’s happy to count this as a victory. Not that anyone’s keeping score, of course.

In answer to that little question – why ruin a good thing – the warlock arches a brow, and there is a brief, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it shiver of something across his skin. The dark ink of the tattoo spiraling around his neck, did it just… move? Surely not.

He straightens then, though the amusement hasn’t left his face. ]

You needn’t worry about my sprouting extra appendages as punishment. The contract I have with my patron is a bit more… mutually beneficial than what you’d normally expect.

[Uh-huh. Not that anyone is keeping score. But Astarion's going to have to make certain not to turn this into a habit — can’t have him losing his edge, after all.

He clears his throat as Winter straightens, and— Was that the flicker of movement across those dark markings on the man’s skin? Did his tattoo move? Is this another weird warlock thing?

You know what? Maybe this will be sorted out with a few more questions, and Astarion realizes that he doesn’t know that much about who Winter was before they both shared similar tadpole-in-the-brain circumstances. He had been curious before, of course, but now, odd as it is, he feels more compelled to learn. To wonder. Whether or not he decides to tell himself it’s all to bolster their very transactional relationship(?) still remains to be seen.]

That’s good to know, the unlikelihood of growing extra wiggly bits. Though it sounds like there’s a tale behind that contract of yours.

[There’s always some kind of tale, isn’t there.]

I’d like to hear it sometime, if you’d like to share.

[Maybe when they make for camp again? Perhaps Winter's head will be less pounding then.]

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