Starcunin - Tumblr Posts
Bad dreams are making a run of the camp.
Behind closed eyes a storm rages on, lashing rain and howling wind making a massacre of the ship. Splintered wood and broken bodies litter the deck, sails and ropes hang in tatters and whip the remaining crew at the wind’s command. Anne’s voice is lost in the crashing of the waves and the cracking of thunder, but she shouts herself hoarse nevertheless. She screams in defiance of the storm and the storm screams back, sending a tall wave over the ship’s railing where it hits Anne square in the chest. She stumbles backward, trips over something, ends up on her back on the rain-slicked wood. She pushes herself up only for the heels of her hands to slip rather than find purchase; the rain pooling around her here is is tinged a discomforting shade of red.
In spite of herself, in spite of not wanting to know whose blood is painting the deck, Anne follows the reddened waters to their source and finds Read. Their dark, precious curls are flattened against their face in the rain, their wide eyes staring unseeing back at Anne. They were no casualty of the storm: there is a gaping hole in their chest where their heart used to be. Above the winds and the waves she hears his laugh, turning to the source, dead set on turning him inside out for thinking he could lay a fucking finger—
Something touches her neck, and pale green eyes snap open almost as if in response, taking the storm and its horrors away in so doing. The night she wakes up to is calmer than the one she has left, but clearly it’s no less dangerous. Frankly, she’d rather have woken with a dagger to her throat: at least she’d have known the score then. The sweat from her nightmare clings to her skin, cooling it in the cold night air. The campfire barely breathes, more warm ember than actual fire, and above her hovers the elf, mouth open like he’s trying to eat her. Like a dumbass.
She sits up slowly and slides a hand under her pillow, wrapping it around the hilt of the scian though she doesn’t pull the blade out. They didn’t turn her out for piracy, after all, even with all that implies; the least she can do is hear him out, let him see if that pretty tongue of his can twist its way out of trouble again. He’s had ample opportunity to do this before now, after all, and he hasn’t.
And anyway, she’s curious. What sort of idiot looks around this party and picks her for easy prey?
“The faster ye start talking, the less likely y’are to end up with a knife stickin out of yer gullet.”
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.
astarion is 5’9, a short king if u will
Send your character’s height and I’ll compare it to mine.
Except I prefer this site.
He’s a short something alright.
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.
Anne’s been jumpy since last night. In all of his ramblings and his non-apologies, not once did something like a justification slip out from between Astarion’s lips. Without a rhyme or a reason to assign to it, old fears have risen from the dead at his bite, necromanced by a thoughtless vampire’s attempt to feed. The ease of the past several days is gone. Anne had actually relaxed into a sort of friendliness with Astarion, comforted by the acerbic bite of his wit that had so well-paired with the lashing nature of her tongue, but she can’t help regretting that now.
Why was hers the neck he’d picked?!
Anger, hurt, betrayal, confusion, fear—all built up in the absence of an explanation, and none of it of the shade expected of her. She didn’t care what his worser nature was, only that he’d turned it upon her. Her. Where she’d seen a friend, a rare thing for herself, he’d seen a meal. But what had made her look so easy to revictimize?
“Oh, I’ll stay angry for as long as I damned well please. And for what? Huh? Why in the fuck do ye think I deserve to stay so mad?” It’s as clear from her rapid fire succession of questions as it is from the scalding tone of her voice that she expects no answers, yet she keeps going. The bright spark of her rage is lit but from a new angle. Rather than barbaric violence pouring out comes a prickling of tears and a new sensation: outrage.
“The hells had I done to become a midnight fuckin snack?! Huh?!!”
@neverhangd sent: ❛ i'm the asshole? what does that make you then? ❜
❛ Oh darling, if I'm anything, I'm far more than an asshole. ❜
He lets out a soft chuckle, rich and velvety. ❛ But if we’re assigning roles, let’s just say I’m the charming vampire spawn——the one who makes all the worst decisions but does it with such irresistible flair you simply can’t stay angry with him for long. ❜ His eyes flicker with something mischievous, his coy way of once again trying to soften the edge of his misstep the other night. When he tried to bite her.
The truth’s a hard thing to share. If anyone can understand that, it’s Anne, with her hidden past and half-hidden present, with truths and half-truths woven between lies to keep her afloat in this miserable sea called life. Astarion’s betrayal was a swell that rocked her little boat and saw to capsize it—but what truth he offers, what lifelines he throws down to drag her back up, aren’t enough. Perhaps for somebody else they would be. Perhaps for someone who had never been backhanded by someone they trusted, Astarion’s truth would be all the comfort they need!
But Anne stays weighed down in dark waters. Despite the ring of truth in them, Astarion’s words have the feel of being little more than additional justification. And her face, naked even in its outrage, says as much the whole while she spends listening to Astarion. Nightmares. Masters. She doesn’t need to ask for clarity to see that this is part of Astarion’s past, and perhaps not a thing he’s interested in discussing. Testing boundaries is a thing she can usually respect—but not this time. Not this way.
“Oh, ye can be sure of that,” she says almost immediately when Astarion claims there won’t be a repeat performance. “I’ve every intention of leaving this party the moment we reach town. I may be stuck with a monster in my head, but at least it’s never pretended to be my damn friend.”
And the crux of the matter, really: Anne, so unaccustomed to friendship, has no one to blame but herself for what happened the other night. It’s in the nature of vampires to feed; she just didn’t realize it was in their nature to feed sadistically. Her betrayal isn’t for the fact that Astarion’s tried to make a meal in camp, only that that meal was her. She starts walking again, more so that she won’t fall too far behind the others than anything else. She believes the vampire won’t attack her a second time. What she can’t believe is that he’d attacked her a first at all.
“What kind of shite are ye trying to feed me here, anyway? There were two others ‘round that campfire, and an extra at their own tent. Three others. And ye still chose—fucking hell.” She can’t even get the words out. Hot, angry tears spill out from her eyes. She brushes them away with an impatient hand and soldiers on in silence before adding, quietly, “I actually gods-damned trusted ye. And ye chose to eat me over…over anyone else, or even a fucking conversation. Thought me more fit for death than for—.”
She cuts herself off again with a shake of her head, as brusque and impatient as her hand at her tears earlier. Stupid to cry over what’s already been said and done. Stupid to feel betrayed by someone known for less than a fucking month. Stupid to get comfortable and drop guard folk with baby mindflayers in their heads. Just stupid.
“My fault, fine. I’m fucking stupid. Just thought ye might have a better reason than a godsdamned game of ‘eenie, meenie, miny, moe’ for…. For fuck’s sake!” Perhaps her outrage isn’t as spent as she assumed. She looks at Astarion again, her face an open book of emotion: disgust, that godsdamned betrayal she can’t get rid of, the need for some kind of answer, a semblance of a lifeline. “Does even the gith rank over me?! That racist fuck who thinks us all shit under her heel?!”
@neverhangd sent: ❛ i'm the asshole? what does that make you then? ❜
❛ Oh darling, if I'm anything, I'm far more than an asshole. ❜
He lets out a soft chuckle, rich and velvety. ❛ But if we’re assigning roles, let’s just say I’m the charming vampire spawn——the one who makes all the worst decisions but does it with such irresistible flair you simply can’t stay angry with him for long. ❜ His eyes flicker with something mischievous, his coy way of once again trying to soften the edge of his misstep the other night. When he tried to bite her.
i might be a killer but i don't want to become a monster.
READER, WRITER, PROTAGONIST ,
@starcunin
Anne nods, flipping the throwing knife in her hand with practiced ease. It’s a common fear, that losing of the last shreds of…well. Humanity’s not quite the right word for an elf, but that very mortal, soft quality that comes with shorter lived lives. She takes a short breath in, hefts the knife, and sends it flying with a thunk into the target on the tree. Dead center, right between the eyes of the wanted poster. She passes the next knife to Astarion and steps to the side so he can line up his shot in this game of makeshift darts.
“Right. So the question is how to keep ye from becoming a monster.” Might be a tad late for literal salvation, of course, but that hardly matters. “Taking pleasure in the kill is something of a red flag towards that end, though, Tari.” Killing may be the most common answer, but it’s rarely the first answer a not-monster tries.