[It isn't the end, of course. He spends an indulgent few hours with his secondsired, their conversation drifting from topic to topic. It's a bittersweet thing, but perhaps that's inevitable— and if so, at least it's more sweet than bitter. And when Fenris finally falls into a drowsy slumber, Vakares leaves him with a kiss to his forehead and a quiet promise: I will see you before it all begins.
Then, dressing in a simple shirt and trousers, he heads out to find his firstsired.
It isn't so hard to track him down, truthfully. He checks the party first, thinking perhaps Astarion tried to alleviate his grief through tearing into others, but no. Nothing but revelry and partygoers (and of course a few flock to him, and it's an awkward few minutes before he can excuse himself and resume his search). From there into the west hall— and ah, it doesn't take long to pick up the trail his furious spawn left. More than a few paintings now sport vicious clawmarks (and yet even now his Astarion is mindful, for the only paintings he truly destroyed were ones Vakares has never liked). Antique chairs are overturned; a stained-glass lamp lies in pretty pieces on the floor. On and on, hallway after hallway, until at last he comes across a door ajar. Four scratches are scored deep into the oak . . . ah.
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[It isn't the end, of course. He spends an indulgent few hours with his secondsired, their conversation drifting from topic to topic. It's a bittersweet thing, but perhaps that's inevitable— and if so, at least it's more sweet than bitter. And when Fenris finally falls into a drowsy slumber, Vakares leaves him with a kiss to his forehead and a quiet promise: I will see you before it all begins.
Then, dressing in a simple shirt and trousers, he heads out to find his firstsired.
It isn't so hard to track him down, truthfully. He checks the party first, thinking perhaps Astarion tried to alleviate his grief through tearing into others, but no. Nothing but revelry and partygoers (and of course a few flock to him, and it's an awkward few minutes before he can excuse himself and resume his search). From there into the west hall— and ah, it doesn't take long to pick up the trail his furious spawn left. More than a few paintings now sport vicious clawmarks (and yet even now his Astarion is mindful, for the only paintings he truly destroyed were ones Vakares has never liked). Antique chairs are overturned; a stained-glass lamp lies in pretty pieces on the floor. On and on, hallway after hallway, until at last he comes across a door ajar. Four scratches are scored deep into the oak . . . ah.
Gently, he pushes the door open.]
Astarion . . .?