finalflight | PSL; SUNSET HIGH AND OUR BODIES LOW

[ 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.]

[ Winter is, by all accounts, a very weird warlock. Something that his boss back home is usually too happy to point out to him when she sends him off on errands involving the strange and arcane. ]

I think by now you’ve earned the right to hear it.

[ He’s gotten bits and pieces of Astarion’s story in the time they’ve been together – more so in the time they’ve been sleeping together. If nothing else, it would only be fair to return the favor.

But, some part of Winter sincerely wants Astarion to know. ]

I’ll come find you when we settle back at camp.

["Earned the right." By way of growing closer throughout their adventure? So it would seem. He is, however, strangely warmed to hear it. For now, he tamps down any wayward anticipation. They've still a bit of cavern-trawling to get through in this blasted place, after all.]

Back at camp, then. For now, if our little ragtag crew is done looting the corpse of that thing ten times over by now...

[YEAH HE SEES ALL Y'ALL OVER THERE]

We should get a move on.

[And so they do.

Really, nothing about the Underdark is pleasant, and the day is yet one more long one, though there are no more instances of exploration turning pear-shaped a second time. Once camp has been set up, Astarion is simple enough to find, keeping company with a book splayed open in his hands as is usual. Most everyone has turned in for the night; the center campfire blazes warmly, crackling and tossing out shadows here and there, but it's quiet. Almost peaceful, or as closely as the Underdark can afford a sense of true peace.]

[ By the time they finally, finally settle down for the night, the pain behind Winter’s eyes has faded to a dull sort of throb, much more easily ignored than when it was searing and sharp. Having taken some time to wash the dried blood and general grime of crawling around through the Underdark away, he meanders over to the by now familiar sight of Astarion reading near his tent. ]

That must be quite the captivating read.

[ He’s here! And he brought wine, an unopened bottle held loosely in one hand. ]

[At least, at this juncture, they've much improved from the state they were in during the spectator fight -- that is, bleeding from the side and bearing a pounding headache behind the eyes. Still worn, still tired, but that seems to be the default for "adventuring" travelers like themselves, and Astarion perks up as Winter nears. He raises his brows at him.

(And notes the wine, too. How thoughtful of him.)]

Oh, yes. Very. At least, I make do with whatever we manage to pick up along the way. In this case... [He closes the book, then turns to read from its spine.] The Traveler's Guide to the Sword Coast, Volume 4.

I don't know where 1, 2, or 3 have gone off to, but maybe I'll find them along the way.

[ Winter will be more than happy to quit this place once their business is done, but there’s much left to do. There’s a whole lake to cross, a whole ruin to explore, a whole gaggle of gnomes to find (or whatever the collective noun for a group of gnomes is), and a True Soul’s head to bring back to an exceptionally vengeful mushroom.

They’re going to be here for a while.

He’s learning quickly to appreciate these moments of reprieve while they have them. ]

Oh, I’m sure they’ll turn up on some musty bookshelf or other. We could start a whole library with the tomes we’ve unearthed.

[ He lifts the bottle of wine. The glass catches in the firelight. ]

May I join you?

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