finalflight | PSL; SUNSET HIGH AND OUR BODIES LOW

[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?

[They're going to be here a while, yes. All the more reason to enjoy that wine while they have it.

Astarion sets his book away in his nearby pack—blasted thing is already getting too heavy for his liking—then spreads a hand to indicate any empty space within his little personal area for the other to sit. (It’s certainly not the height of luxury in here; they might just have to sit cross-legged on the floor, really.)]

Not at all. How can I turn away both wine and a good drink?

[Ha. See what he did there?]

[ Winter folds himself up to sit comfortably on the ground well enough. They all want for space here, and having spent most of his life in a shared barracks, he's learned to make due. ]

Play your cards right, sir, and you can have both.

[ Astarion could probably use the pick me up, since he took the brunt of the damage in the fight earlier. By his own design, even, a notion that still sits strangely in the warlock's chest.

He pops the cork off the bottle, takes a swig, and offers it over. ]

I believe I owe you a story, yes?

Then I'll be holding you to that. [-he says, easing himself down onto the ground, then pressing a hand to his chest and leaning forward, almost imploringly. Conspiratorially.

But then he straightens again, smiling, and takes the bottle by its neck. There are more elegant ways of sipping at wine, but they've long abandoned any pretense of elegance and grace. The days when they're not doused in blood and grime are the good ones.]

I'm all ears.

[Accentuated with his own swig from the bottle. It goes down easily, pleasantly — and though nothing will ever be as sating or as satisfying as blood for an immortal vampire, he can still enjoy a good spirit or two.]

Especially since I've come to realize that I don't really know much about you at all.

[ He leans back a little, resting his weight on his hands while Astarion helps himself to the wine. There's a bit of a considering pause and he tilts his head, sending raven-colored waves spilling over one shoulder. ]

Well, to start, I'm from Gale's neck of the woods. Though I've been up and down the Sword Coast on business.

Oh? I'm not sure if that surprises me or not. That you're the well-traveled sort, I mean.

[To the vampire, Winter seems decorous and survivalist at first glance. There's a certain kind of person who can make both of these impressions work with each other, and this man is certainly the sort.

He offers the bottle back.]

And what kind of business was that, precisely?

[ He takes the bottle though doesn't immediately take another drink, twirling it lightly in his grip instead. A considering hum. ]

Mm. Asset reallocation, mostly. Namely, the reallocation of assets that belong to one person into the possession of another.

[ Cheeky. He steals things. ]

Oh, I see.

[Winter pls.]

You’re a thief.

Yes.

[ A laugh, and at last he brings the bottle to his lips for another drink. ]

But it sounded much fancier the way I said it.

Well, there's an art to making even petty criminal activity sound more splendid than it is. For instance: at night, I'm a man who relocates the essential assets of one person's lifeblood to another. Namely, to myself.

[The chuckles lowly, amused.]

You know, I'm not terribly surprised to learn this about you.

No? And here I thought I was perfectly hard to read.

[ In truth, though, he knows that once someone knows, they tend to look at him and go "ah yes, that makes sense". Not his fault that his vibe kind of aligns with skulking and stealing. ]

[Skulking. Stealing. Lying through one’s teeth. Are you sure you weren’t supposed to be a rogue, Winter.]

In some ways? Yes. In others? Why, you’re like an open book.

[But so says Astarion, who has spent centuries getting a read on others who would play the part of future victim. Perhaps it’s not a completely fair statement.]

So, then. Tell me a bit about your thieving ways. Do you work alone, or…?

[ Maybe if things hadn't gone tits up all those years ago, we'd be running double rogues in this party. But they did, so we're not. ]

Do I work alone? Usually. Do I operate alone? Most certainly not. Which of course begs me to ask how much you know about the... hm, criminal element in Baldur's Gate?

[ He offers the bottle back over. ]

We've been known to have some dealings there, from time to time.

[Ah, that more or less answers the implied question Astarion had presented. He doesn't operate alone, which often means he's slotted somewhere within the framework of an overarching organization. A guild, most likely.]

What do I know about the criminal element? [This almost makes him laugh.] Oh, I've stalked through the nighttime back alleys of Baldur's Gate more than once, that's for certain. You don't make a habit of that without rubbing elbows with a few... unscrupulous sorts. Not that you're very unscrupulous at all, mind.

[Astarion's turn to take the bottle again, though he taps the glass with a fingernail, thoughtful. Perhaps he'll draw the parallel between what he's hearing and a glimpse of a certain fabric he saw tucked away in Winter's pack, once.]

Does this "we" have a name?

[ Aw, Astarion thinks he has scruples. He supposes he might, when it comes to certain things, but more often than not it just comes down to what benefits him the most in the moment.

He and Astarion are alike in that way, too, he thinks. ]

Bluecloaks. We're no Zhentarim, mind, but we get around.

[Winter probably has a few more scruples than Astarion does on an average day. But the baseline is at a similar level (i.e. low) that they are more alike than not.]

Ah. [A flicker of recognition, if not faint. Still present, all the same.] Now, that does sound familiar. And, I suspect, it has something to do with a garment of a certain color folded up in that bottomless pit of a pack of yours?

Goodness, I've been traveling with a man of some repute.

[...As if a few of their other companions do not have "repute" of their own. Whatever. This isn't about them.]

You saw that, did you?

[ It's not as if he's been purposefully trying to hide it, but he'd rather not have it get ruined in their misadventures... and perhaps it's better not to advertise oneself as a card-carrying thief when traipsing around with who knows what kind of crowd on any given day. This crowd, however — their little party, consisting of very few people who are normal or altogether upstanding — he thinks he can trust with this. ]

How sweet of you to assume I've some repute, though. I could be some no-name underling for all you know.

[ (He's not.) ]

I did. Hard to believe, given the number of scrolls present- [still has to give him a hard time about the state of his bag] -but I do recall catching a glimpse of a specific azure that would fit the bill.

[He takes another drink, this one a slightly longer pull, if only because he has to tamp down his faux incredulity. Please, Winter. He cannot imagine that a man with his skills—that he’s seen clearly on the battlefield, thank you—would be some no-name underling, scrambling about and only taking orders. How many thieves run about with a pact with some unknowable thing under their belt, besides, and aren’t considered vaguely more useful within their organization?]

You expect me to think that someone with your capabilities is just an underling? I have eyes, you know.

I do keep meaning to sort those.

[ Tease all you like Astarion. It's not his fault that warlocks only ever get 2-3 spell slots max, ever. He's making up for it by ~~hoarding~~ collecting options!

There's another low chuckle. They have been through far too much for Winter to have much of a hope of downplaying his skills, in both talking and fighting, and he knows that. He's just curious to see what Astarion is willing to call him on or not. ]

And what do your eyes tell you?

[Gods, they're going to have a veritable library of scrolls soon, he just knows it.

The vampire reaches out with his pointer finger and presses it against Winter's chest, accusingly. But playfully.]

That you are far too competent to be a throwaway lackey taking orders from a retinue of higher-ups. For gods' sakes, you fire magic blasts from your palms to send enemies flying into next week; and even if you didn't, you have talent. Surely that makes you more unique than the average thief, and uniqueness adds value.

And value... well, it probably means some kind of influence, hm?

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