finalflight | PSL; SUNSET HIGH AND OUR BODIES LOW

[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.

[Astarion can't help but let a laugh tumble out of him, bright and delighted and utterly sincere. Oh, yes, his own "deal" ended with him being little more than a slave to a cruel master's whims, but sometimes you just have to live vicariously through someone else.]

Oh, I'm jealous.

[And he is. And perhaps if he lingered on it overlong, that jealousy would turn into frustration. But he really, truly is glad that Winter managed to exact his revenge, that the man who wronged him got what was coming to him.]

I can't imagine the look on that man's face when he saw you again. You must tell me how it all happened.

[ Winter does of course realize that he's one of the fortunate few. His contract is not imprisonment, nor is it a death sentence. He's seen enough of Wyll and Mizora to know just how lucky he is. It's not something he particularly like to flaunt.

But to get that kind of laugh out of Astarion? Well, he'd tell the story a hundred times if asked. ]

I could show you, if you'd really like to see it.

[ tmw you have a built-in memshare machine. Thanks, mindflayers. ]

[Oh, right. A little memshare prompt squirming about in their heads.

The cons very much outweigh the pros of having one wiggling around in their skulls, but! This particular pro is making itself known very clearly, the (willing) sharing of memories opening up so many opportunities to get to know this man a little better -- after all, if he's offering, who is Astarion to refuse? Call him curious, call him nosy. Call him strangely invested.]

I would. Really like to see it, I mean. Besides, we'd be terrible tadpole-owners if we didn't give them their proper exercise now and again, wouldn't we be?

[Coping with a terrible situation with humor!!! Regardless, there's the faint sensation of Astarion's consciousness curiously prodding at Winter's own. What damnably strange feeling, but-- let him in?]

[ Winter has leaned on the power a time or two, namely to allow them access to the goblin camp back topside. It’s useful, yes, but gods he doesn’t like the way it feels like the worm takes some piece of him with it when he does. “Sparing” has been the name of the game since.

But this? This seems largely harmless. Connecting their minds, letting one another in. Astarion’s mind bumps against his own, requesting access, and it’s an easy enough thing for Winter to allow it, ushering him into the memory of that day. ]

It’s dark, cloudy. Dreary. Perfect cover for you to skulk around the streets of Waterdeep’s South Ward – some might call the place the slums, or close to it, but to you, these streets have always been home. It smells of rain and seawater, thanks to the storms that have been raging for the better part of the week. You’re soaked and dirty and cold, having clawed your way from the brink of death only to find passage home delayed by wind and weather.

In that time, the hot spark of anger caged in your ribs has only grown, and as the Copper Kettle, the tavern that serves as a front for the Blues, comes into view on this dingy little side street, it roars to a towering inferno.

So close. You’re so close.

You burst through the door like a storm given form, and all eyes turn to you. Several people pale, like they’ve seen a ghost, not least of which is the barkeep, and you know, you know just what that snake Cason has told them all. You stalk across the room to the bar, closing the space in just a few long-legged strides.

“Where is he?” Your tone is low, the fury in it barely leashed. The barkeep is an old friend of yours, but even he looks at you like something alien. “I said where is he, Marc.”

The man behind the bar – human, ginger, with a graying mustache on his upper lip – stares at you a moment more, pieces slotting into place in his head. At last, he nods toward the door back in the kitchens, the one that will take you to the guild headquarters proper. “Kaira’s office.”

You don’t have it in you to utter a thanks, but you do manage a nod before you blow past him and into HQ. Still more people stop and stare as you pass, still more people who think they’re looking at a dead man gone walking. And when you reach the door to the guildmaster’s office, you don’t even bother to knock. You lay into the door with a boot, and it swings wildly inward.

Inside is an office laden with papers and maps, and at the large desk in its center is an elven woman halfway out of her chair, hand on the hilt of the dagger at her belt. She looks startled at first, and then confused, and then a bit concerned. You’re sure that to her eyes, you look like a wild animal. “Winter? What in the hells—”

The man standing opposite her at the desk, another human, ashy blonde hair pulled into a thin ponytail, whips around to face you, and his face goes instantly pale. It’s a different sort of expression than that worn by the people who were told you were dead. This is surprise mixed with absolute dread, because you should be dead. You should be dead and you’re not, and this whole farce is about to come crumbling down around him in the worst way possible.

“Y-You,” he stammers. “You should be d—”

“Dead?” You snap back. He starts a little. You’ve thought about it, of course, what you would say in this moment. What kind of speech you’d give the man who stabbed you in the back and left you, but now that you’re here looking at his sniveling face, a face you used to trust, all those words fly from your head. All that’s left is that bitter hatred, your only company as you lay bleeding in the dark, until your now-patron reached out to your mind.

Power swims through you, magic. You’re not unfamiliar with its touch, given your heritage. Some things are in your blood. But this? This is different. It’s cold and cosmic, and yet oddly comforting. A lifeline that you didn’t know that you needed, but now that you have it? Oh, now you’re going to make him pay. Starlight gathers in your palms and you shout, “Fuck you! When you aim to do a job, you spineless piece of shit, you’d best make sure you finish it!”

As if to punctuate your rage, that power streaks across the room, all cold darkness and impossible, flickering light, and catches Cason square in the chest. It punches a hole in his ribs, and with a pathetic, wet cough, he slumps against the desk, then falls to the floor. He doesn’t get back up.

Kaira, from her place behind the desk, watches him fall. Her eyes flick back up to you, gaze assessing. Briefly, you wonder if perhaps she’ll turn on you next, seek to repay blood with blood. Eventually, the corner of her lips quirk. “Welcome home. It seems we have much to discuss.”

[It's still so foreign to view a memory in this way like it were his own. Like he were truly the one stalking through Waterdeep, returning to HQ with so much fury in his heart. He can feel that white-hot furor churning in his chest, just like he can feel that strange, cosmic energy bursting past his palms as he finally ends the life of a man who betrayed him.

It should be disturbing, really, to experience it in this way. But even while he's still caught in the thrall of this shared memory, Astarion can feel the adrenaline spiking through his own body, the utter satisfaction in watching a true instance of fulfilled revenge take place, as clear as crystal, so real that he could nearly claim it as his own. Oh, it lacks the dash of fear that Astarion always carries in his own chest, and that desperate desire to be free, but it's nice to not feel that, too, for a change.

When the memory severs, Astarion actually does reel back a little, as though physically affected. His eyes, widened slightly, rake over the warlock before him.]

I've never seen you so angry.

[The way he ended Cason's life so quickly; why, coming from Astarion, that's practically a compliment after what he saw.]

[ It is strange to relive those moments, to beam them into the mind of another for them to see, to feel. He's not ashamed of what he did or why, but maybe there are some people who wouldn't understand. Who would have tried for the peaceable route, first.

He very much doubts Astarion is one of those people.

When it's over and their minds recede from one another, Astarion is looking at him wide-eyed. Shocked, perhaps, but not upset. ]

I haven't been that angry since.

[ He might have come close earlier, when he turned his magic on that spectator for hurting Astarion. One more thing he's not going to examine closely right now. ]

[No, Astarion very much understands. (Astarion probably thinks it's kind of hot.) The things he would do to his own master if he was ever given the chance to tear him apart, bit by bit. He knows he would feel the same, with a wave of heightened relief crashing into him not soon after. Freedom would make him so, so happy. He would absolutely not break down or anything of the sort.

He leans in again, red-eyed gaze sharp. He's utterly forgotten about the task of ushering wine back and forth.]

Well, darling, it's a good look on you, I think.

[But with that, another laugh, easing back again.]

Though I certainly never want to see it directed my way. Remind me never to cross you.

[ (Astarion is correct.)

Winter doesn't need the connection between their minds to let him hazard a guess at what Astarion is thinking about. His own situation. His own master. How it would feel to put that bastard in the ground for good. Flights of fancy for now, but perhaps not for long. ]

Considering I've yet to want to blast a hole in your chest, despite our... rocky start [ you know with the pulling a knife on him and the trying to bite him in the middle of the night and all ] I'd say you're safe.

[How sweet of him, calling acts of violence and trying to use him as a capri sun without his permission something as generous as "rocky start".]

It's my charm, isn't it?

[Don't answer that. Or do.]

Maybe someday I'll follow in your footsteps, gods willing.

[ "Rocky start" is no less accurate to how he's met most of the other people in their little group. Lae'zel also tried to kill him at first, and would probably try to again if given enough of a reason.

Anyway, he won't answer that, but he will respond to the rest, with a sort of readiness that surprises even him. ]

If there's anything I can do to help make that happen... please tell me.

[Sounds like a you problem, Winter.

The warlock says those words, as easy as anything, and Astarion finds himself briefly thrown by them — by how readily they came from his mouth like the sentiment almost needn’t be said, only expected.

It surprises him, too.]

Oh. [He forces his smile to twitch into a familiar slant, but it lacks the rakishness of its usual angle.] Wouldn’t that be something. To make that a reality like it were so easy, so simple — charge back into Baldur’s Gate, you at my side, straight into Cazador’s chambers, eyes raging with anger while we tear him a new one. A hundred times over.

[What a thought, indeed. One that delights him in one moment, and then turns around and offers him a harsher reality in the next: it’s more likely that he will be hunted down than the alternative. More likely that he would be the one torn apart should that happen, and that’s if he’s lucky.

If he was unlucky, he would revert to being a slave, no more free will of his own, just a tool to be used and abused and recycled, again and again. Trapped in ceaseless torture for more centuries to come.

Where’s that wine bottle, now? Ah, yes, still in his hand — he takes a long pull from it, in tandem with a slightly deflating demeanor.]

We can dream, can’t we?

[ It's a protag problem and he didn't ask for it!!

What starts as a mote of hope quickly goes sour, as he can see Astarion crumpling a little before his eyes. Not in any major way, but he'd like to think he knows the vampire well enough by now to spot it when the sheen of sincerity drifts off.

It strangely makes him want to make good on his offer even more. ]

We can. But who knows, I can't even begin to predict where we'd end up after all this.

[What a curse it is, to be known — and to be known by this man well enough that he can find the sincerity amid the flippancy, the cavalier attitude, the sharp-edged grins.

He brings the bottle down again, offers it to Winter. There’s a question on his tongue—]

You know, I do wonder…

[A pause. That question is thought better of, and transformed into something else.]

…What this patron of yours is like. I did say I would ask. So will you tell me?

[ That question feels like it twists halfway through, going one way and then redirected to go another. He won't prod on the matter, for now. They've all had a rough day, no need to go opening old wounds on top of ones that are already fresh. ]

I suppose I don't mind.

[ He makes no move to take the offered bottle just yet, instead asking, ]

What would you like to know?

[Take the bottle or Astarion will selfishly drink it all for himself. It’s indeed been one of those days.]

What’s it look like, for one?

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