illithidnapped: (AC9)
Tʜᴇ Pᴀʟᴇ Eʟғ | Asᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ Aɴᴄᴜɴíɴ ([personal profile] illithidnapped) wrote in [community profile] albinomilksnake 2025-04-10 12:15 am (UTC)

[. Breakfast starts relatively early for the others, but it begins late for a pair more in sync with liminal hours— part and parcel of creatures from opposing worlds, destined only to meet when water kisses at the shore. By the time they rise it's well past noon, Astarion yawning like a madman whilst Leto (hair sticking up in all directions) stumbles raggedly along, neither one fully sporting functional vision between squinting, half-shut eyes, bogged down by wakefulness in both their slouches.

'There's fresh juice in the icebox if you're thirsty, and the tavern leftovers have been expertly preserved thanks to a touch of magic from yours truly,' Gale cheerfully offers from the pages of his textbook, Tara rumbling happily on his lap. The common room is bustling like a miniature reunion full of faces Astarion doesn't recognize (the same isn't true in turn it seems, for the aasimar and human in the corner stare as keenly as the demoness sat closer to the hallway, or the old, distinguished tiefling reading in the lounge through narrow spectacles), but a few of the others are out shopping— for supplies, apparently, but whether that means battlements or luxuries is anybody's guess.

Helpfully, Gale shifts his focus, 'And don't think we've forgotten about you either. There's locally sourced rooftop dove in the trap by the window— pristine— to keep starvation from your door.'

Astarion's red (in so many ways) eyes slip open. The act is pointed.

Which is to say, it's sharp.
]

You expect me to feed on animals? Common vermin? [Sends Gale's eyebrows lifting. The Astarion he knew would've been none other than relieved to be able to feed openly, animal or not. This, on the other hand....] Gods above, what do I look like to you— an impoverished stray?

['Well—']

Free the damned bird. I'll hunt for myself once the sun sets.

Or you can offer yourself in indemnity, if you've any sense of bloody decorum in you alongside all that magic.

[Gale's laugh is soft; the picture of a man tolerating a snarling cat while it protests for its dinner— batting at his sleeve despite an ocean of feigned fury.

'Oh believe me you wouldn't want that, my friend.']

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