Wasnt Trying To Kill You, Only Needed A Tastethe Scian Is Out By The Time He Starts Showing His Palms,

Wasn’t trying to kill you, only needed a taste—the scian is out by the time he starts showing his palms, like that’ll stop her shoving a few inches of silvery steel into his chest. Of course she sleeps with a knife under her pillow; she isn’t some naive waif to be toyed with and certainly she isn’t somebody to let her guard down around this bunch of walking calamari-to-be. In the dim firelight behind her, she sees Astarion for what he truly is: a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A godsdamned vampire walking among them, though how he’s stayed so remarkably alive in the sunlight is certainly its own mystery. There’s no missing the fangs now that she knows to look for them, and she finally knows the story behind his marred neck. A fucking vampire.

A fucking vampire who’s had ample opportunity to eat this whole camp and yet, until now, hasn’t tried once. Anne narrows her eyes as she considers him in silence. Monsters so rarely announce themselves as such that it’s…stupid, undeniably so, to be considering mercy like she is. And yet. In the toss of those curls, in those large, sad eyes, she can’t help but see the ghost of somebody else she once knew. Somebody she’d done a poor turn for. Somebody she owed better, could start to makes amends for by…hearing out a vicious obligate killer. There really must be something wrong with her. The knife hovers between them before lowering down into Anne’s lap. If she’s destined to die tonight, she knows at least one vampire she’ll be taking down with her.

“I’m having a hard time believin this were in any way a ‘misunderstanding,’” she replies, throwing the word back into his face with no small degree of venom, “let alone the rest.” A vampire bites you and then you become a vampire, aye? That’s how it works in the stories she’s heard—read—hells, even told!

Does he expect her to chase answers with obvious questions? Because she won’t.

“Keep going and maybe ye survive the night. What were ye testing, and what made ye think I were the one t’test it on?” Unless he was looking for a knife in his chest, he’d chosen poorly, in her estimation. She’s usually a woman of action: hit first, talk later. This is…an unfortunate time to make an exception.

closed starter | @neverhangd

The spawn wakes with a start, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps, the remnants of Cazador's voice echoing like poison in his mind. His master’s commands——cruel, unyielding——linger in the corners of his consciousness, tightening their grip on his every thought. "Thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures——thou shalt know that thou art mine," the words slither through his veins like a toxin, as if even now, across the distance and the freedom the mind flayer tadpole grants him, Cazador still holds the chain around his neck.

It’s not just the dreams that haunt him. It’s the hunger——the gnawing, insistent ache that’s been growing harder to ignore. For weeks now, Astarion has managed to sneak away, feasting on whatever meager, unsuspecting creatures he could find. But these past nights, the camp has been more vigilant, the party sticking closer together. He hasn't fed properly in days. And now, under the cover of darkness, with only the low crackling of the dying fire, the craving sharpens into something unbearable, something dangerous.

His gaze falls on Anne, sprawled out nearby in a restless sleep. Her breathing is steady, her body bathed in the soft light of the dwindling flames. She’s close enough to reach——too close. Astarion’s eyes narrow, pupils dilating as he silently slips from his bedroll, gliding toward her like a shadow. His instincts——those primal, vicious instincts——take over, drowning out reason and logic, urging him forward. Just a taste. Just enough to know. The thought rolls through his mind, feverish, irrational, but so very tempting. His fingers brush against her neck, cool against the warmth of her skin, and the scent of her blood is intoxicating——so close, so rich——so alive. His fangs ache in his mouth, a dull throb begging for release.

But then, her eyes open, and in an instant, reality comes crashing down around him.

His body tenses, fangs poised inches from her throat, the hunger screaming at him to take, to feed. The moment stretches, unbearably fragile, until he jerks back, panic clawing at his insides. ❛ Shit, ❜ he hisses under his breath, barely able to mask the tremor in his voice. He’s been caught——caught in his hunger, his weakness, his desperation. And now, he’s not sure which is worse: the hunger gnawing at him, or the way Anne is looking at him now.

I owe three starters; everything else is queued or posted!

Anyone wanna plot?

be obsessed with me, it turns me on

for @pierprincess , it started as a game

On the old scrap of purple cloth sit three new mismatched cards. Two are an unsettling bloody red on their back, the third bearing the symbol for eternity on a blue and green wallpapered back. Anne pulls the journal out, strangely sure at least one of these will be one of the Alleyman’s nonstandard answers.

“Ye ready?” She waits for a sign to proceed before she does so, turning over the eternity card first. A simple cup streaming water greets them.

“Ace a’ Cups,” Anne announces without hesitation. “It’s a sign of things being brought, as it were. New people, new feelings, something refreshing. But it’s way back here in yer past. So. Something revived ye, in the past, and it’s been forefront on yer mind for a while now.”

The next card looks strange—fleshy, almost, but like skin irritated into bleeding. Its reverse shows an old illustration of a violinist colored over with bold yellows and reds. Anne eyes it for a moment before hesitantly cracking open the journal in her hand, the one embossed with a burning match.

“So this one’s called the Performer. It’s one of the Alleyman’s Other Arcana. The Alleyman tends t’yada-yada a lot in his explanations, but it says here that gettin it reversed like ye have is…the exact words are ‘innately problematic and horrifying in equal measure.’ It’s, uhm. All about trying to…escape who ye are. That there’s a…genuinely, there’s no better word for it than fear. A fear of being yerself. It’s here in the present, see?”

So. Brought forth, reborn into somebody new…and whoever that person is terrifies Star. Is it the bringer of change Anne needs to worry about or the changed woman before her?

One card to go, this one with a back like red glitter fallen on a red floor. Upside down, the image is nearly indecipherable; viewed the correct way, it shows a man burning beneath a pot, which is also on fire. Nine large coins adorn the image at different intervals.

“Nine of Coins. Usually it’s a warning against overworking, but reversed, it’s a warning against futility. Ye’re killing yerself for nothing. Nothing comes of this sacrifice.” She taps the card in the future spot, but looks into Star’s face while she does. “Yer rebirth means naught s’long as the Performer darkens yer door. Whether it’s you or him, somebody’s got t’move. Somebody’s got t’toil and lose—and if it’s you, everything’s been for nothing all along.

“Real cheerful fucking reading, hey? This is what I mean. Alleyman’s a bit of a mood killer, even if tarot in general en’t.”

Anne’s brows shoot all the way to her hairline when Raphael has dick to say about being subtle. Subtle? This is subtlety? Anne actually scoffs aloud at the very idea, looking at the massacre around her. Subtlety? With a single, elegant match, Anne had lit fire to her past, using the smoke to fill her sails for the first time out to sea. She’d been a fucking teenager when she’s done that! And somehow this bloody, obnoxious, nauseating display of carnage is…subtle?

Gods above, let her never see what unsubtle devilry must look like!

Extremes and survival. A topic they could more or less agree on, at least, the lengths needed to go to survive. Rising from the ashes, a phoenix reborn—but to what end, nobody seemed to know.

Anne rolls her eyes but ultimately succumbs to the pressure to let him prattle on some at her. She hasn’t yet met a man who’s had a taste of power that didn’t love the sound of his own voice, and the spotlight in which to show it.

“…I fail t’see what any of…this has to do with survival. Unless ye’re telling me ye nearly died…?” Both tone and look express doubt in that, though. “By all means. Enlighten me.”

" . . . gross. "

Walls dripped with blood, bodies torn apart, and limbs strewn like broken dolls. A heart, still faintly pulsing, hung skewered on a spike, the air thick with the stench of death. At her odd remark, Raphael raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a smirk. "Oh, darling," he purred, "if you think that’s gross, you clearly haven’t seen what I’m capable of on a bad day."

"What if they kissed?" ( Astarion )

I'll write a scene where our muses kiss, even if they aren't shipped together. it is it's own thing and doesn't have to lead to an official ship. a "what if scenario"

The night is lonesome as Anne squints into it. She agreed to take the midnight watch, so Astarion could hunt without fear of getting caught out when he didn’t want to be. She doesn’t mind. When the fire’s burning low and everyone else is asleep, if she tilts her head up to look into the sky, she can almost pretend she’s home. Wherever in the hells that is, save that it must be at sea to see the stars so clear. The treetops interrupt too much of the view down here.

Anne glances behind her when the silence is broken, but only long enough to confirm what she already knows: Astarion’s from returning from the night’s hunt. He looks rough. He’s fed, clearly, but equally clear is just how dissatisfying the feeding had been. He sits down when he reaches his bedroll, conveniently where Anne’s elected to post-up for watch, but does have time to let loose the first smarmy word before Anne’s pressed against his lips with her heart in her throat. It’s a quick thing, little more than a peck, before Anne’s drawing away.

“Ye’re gonna fuckin kill yerself if ye keep up this way. I…know what I said earlier, but ye’ve proved right on all other counts, and kept yer asides. Ye can…,” gods, why is there not a less embarrassing way to phrase this? “…feed on me, if ye like.”