finalflight | PSL; SUNSET HIGH AND OUR BODIES LOW

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?

[ He lets Astarion reach out to poke him, and in addition to the lifting of the warlock's eyebrows by way of reaction, there's that little shimmer of movement again — something moving minutely across his skin, so brief it could be a trick of the firelight. ]

I should let you stroke my ego more often.

[ The corner of his mouth lifts. It's enough to tell Astarion he's definitely on the right track, but even then he seems to decide it's time to elaborate. ]

But you're not wrong. The whole guild is probably beside itself, now that its second in command has up and vanished.

[There are a number of ways he could reply to all of that. Firstly, the immediate one that comes to mind — Only your ego?

But that tease is sidelined by the movement he’s sure he spies flickering across the warlock’s skin, something he would attribute to the campfire, were it not the second time he’s noticed it. And even that thought is upended by Winter’s following admission.]

Second in command?

[He blinks, and drops his hand.]

Oh. That’s even more “repute” than I expected.

[ It's sort of funny how quickly he upended Astarion's line of thought. He figured for sure he'd get a suggestive remark out before anything else. ]

Oh? I guess your opinion of me wasn't as high as I thought it was.

[ Joking!! ]

Yes, second in command.

[He’ll just have to make up for it later. For now, he’s the one being teased. Again!!]

But it’s hardly any fun if you’re completely predictable, right? Think of it like that — you continue to surprise me, and I do love a little mystery.

[Not untrue.]

So… Was “second in command” earned before or after the warlock pact?

[ Don't dish it out if you can't take it, Astarion!! ]

After. And now we're getting to the part of the story that I actually owe you.

Well, I'm listening. This should be good.

[And/or traumatic. He doesn't say that part aloud.]

[ And. Definitely and. But it's been a long time since that day, so though it's left more than its fair share of scars, he can talk about it easily enough. ]

I was brought into the Blues as a boy, and in the ensuing years worked my way up their ranks... quickly, I suppose. Enough so that the guild's then-second saw me as something of a threat. So one day, he brought me with him on a job, buried his knife in my back, and left me.

[…Oh. Yes, well. Definitely and.

Seems they’ve both had their share of unwanted surprises in their lifetimes, quite literally left for dead, to bleed out and paint cobblestone red.

Or whatever surface Winter was left to die on, in this case. The vampire frowns.]

Fear and jealousy. Strong motivators, I suppose, for a bit of murder.

You obviously didn’t die. So what happened then?

Obviously.

[ Unless he cleans up remarkably well for an undead, but no. Astarion would know well that his heart still beats. ]

The temple we'd been investigating... it wasn't there to keep people out. It was there to keep something in. My patron. The bargain was a simple one, their freedom for my survival. How could I say no?

[It isn't the same, he has to tell himself that. It isn't the same as Cazador promising him immortal life on the threshold of Astarion losing his, taking advantage of fear and pain and panic.

But even so, he does have to say-]

You could have said no.

[And then, ah, a hand waggle.]

Not that I wish you did, of course. Just... Well, living is all well and good, but sometimes the cost is questionable at best.

[Though in Winter's case, it appears it's only worked in his favor.]

Though more good than bad for you, it seems.

I could have, yes. But I didn't want to. I was dying, yes, but I was also angry. Betrayed. I wanted my chance at revenge, no matter the cost.

[ Even his own soul, apparently. ]

Thankfully, my patron rather appreciates their freedom, and I'm largely allowed to operate on my own.

[Oh, revenge. Well, that is a striking parallel they share. Or did share, maybe, if Winter found what he was looking for. Struck a deal, earned a new lease on life, and also that magic of his.

Found his revenge, probably.]

I want you to tell me about your patron, but first... Did you have it? The revenge you wanted?

[At no matter the cost.]

[ He's not ignorant as to the parallels between himself and Astarion, nor is he unaware of the key difference between them. He got what he wanted, got what he was promised, and Astarion ended up in a cage. ]

Considering I now have the position he was oh-so-afraid I'd take from him? Yes. Yes, I did.

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