albinomilksnake | RP: OPEN POST

"Well, I won't exactly be brimming with untold power," There's a wry little twist to his lips when he says it, keeping that wrist snared between them— as though Fenris himself might slip entirely away into the gaps between realms if he's allowed so little room to recede. "But I'm still just a vampire spawn, after all. There's not much more I can manage even if I drained you to the bone."

No, a little balance won't hurt. They won't have to worry about fighting tooth and nail soon enough, anyway.

"I'll be fine."

Fenris doubts that entirely. He doesn't think Astarion is lying; he just thinks Astarion twisting the truth to suit his momentary fancy. Wasn't he, just moments ago, speaking rapturously about how easy their life would be?

"Drink from who you will, who you must," Fenris says, a metal hand on Astarion's shoulder. He is careful not to squeeze. "I would rather harbor my own private jealousy than see you weakened."

There, he thinks, is it; if he admits to being jealous, Astarion will be pleased.

That's the difficulty of it, isn't it?

When you craft your world out of lies and pretty-half truths, eventually even the truest assurances run as thin as brittle parchment. And normally he would be pleased— of course he would— it's flattery as viable as any other, being wanted. But he can't shake the feeling something isn't peeling up the way it ought to. That Fenris isn't anything but turbulent beneath the surface, all the brilliance of this morning lost. He doesn't like it.

He doesn't know why.

"Yes, of course."

Not so pleased, then.

Fenris can't fix that. Vibrant happiness was never his. Whenever it settled in his hands, it slipped away before too long. He is accustomed to the disappointment, but not the fleeting look of loss on Astarion's face.

So he accepts it, turning away and poking at the bit of cloth refitted onto his wrist, picky until the end. "Let's get moving," he says, "if we are to find another good inn by nightfall."

Well at least he’s keeping the silk in place this time. Astarion supposes that’s consolation enough. Flexing his lips in a wan smile comes naturally: he’ll make something of this yet, somehow.

They don’t, however, make it to the inn.

The journey's too far, or Astarion's estimate too generous. Thankfully he'd stolen a few measly blankets from their prior tavern, and combined with the bedroll already scrounged up, sleeping in the dirt isn't half as miserable a prospect as it had been initially upon arrival in Faerun.

"Gods, I'm exhausted." Astarion murmurs, nearly keeling forward onto his own blankets, sprawling listlessly on his side. A whining scoff puffed loosely where he lies, staring at the fire crackling between them, barely a suitable thing.

"Why is it so much farther than I remember?"

Fenris sets his sword aside, and looks down on Astarion with no small amount of affection. How lovely he is, and somewhat Fenris' own. Instead of setting up his space for sleep, Fenris sits beside Astarion's prone form. He releases one hand from his gauntlet, so he can pet Astarion's cheek with lyrium-marked fingertips, moving stray hairs away only to watch them curl back in place.

"You likely remember a journey with horses," Fenris says, voice soft. "It is no matter; tonight will only make future comfort sweeter."

Like a creature stilled in its own fitful fury those fingers bleed out every last ounce of frustration in him, lashes drifting down low across his eyes.

“Stay a little longer, won’t you.” He murmurs uselessly, the whole of his focus on those fingertips. On the sound of Fenris’ voice.

“I know you hate being near someone while sleeping but— ” He reaches up with a wearied hand, finding Fenris’ own before— no, best not to linger, wouldn’t want to cause pain.

“A little while. Please.”

"I don't hate it," Fenris says softly, "I am simply likely to punch you in your sleep. I can stay awake, for your sake."

He begins the process of shedding his armor, leathers left on, so he may curl close to Astarion on the mat. "What troubles you?"

The air smells poor— or maybe his senses are revolting against the fact that he hasn’t fed in over a full day, marching on like a man at war. He doesn’t really know, and with Fenris so close, finds he doesn’t care, either. His limbs are heavy, stricken with soreness, and all he wants is the comfort of knowing he’ll have someone there.

Someone comprised of sharp, striking features— and soft eyes.

“I’m just a little tired, and I don’t want you running off into trouble in the dead of night where I can’t find you.”

Without scent or touch or any other absent sign of life, he imagines his sleep would be fitful at best. His voice goes gentle in his throat, innocuous and humming.

“I’ll feel better with you close.”

Fenris angles himself carefully next to Astarion, tracing his lyrium-marked fingers over the fine features of Astarion's face. It's a comfort as much as a study. Propped up on one elbow, there is a distance between them, but only just. Fenris kicks one bare foot forward, intertwining their legs.

"I can sleep close," Fenris says, "but I prefer not to do so within striking distance. Believe me, you would thank me for the caution."

And tire of Fenris quickly, should he awaken to an eye-blackening strike.

He’d argue, but— it is true: if he woke up from either the depths of meditation or a full sleep thanks to an elbow to the ribs or a fist to the face, there’d be no end to his complaining.

Instead he satisfies himself with spared weight where their legs entangle, the steady coast of fingers mapping their way across his face as they like.

Reciprocation is only a dream; he can barely muster the urge to roll his shoulders let alone lift his arms to paw or preen at Fenris in turn, though his eyes fall to linger on the etching lines of toned muscle peeking out from beneath dark leather.

“No talking to strangers, no straying far. I don’t know this area near well enough to be certain—“ he yawns, overlong fangs bared fully for the briefest of moments before the whole of his expression settles heavily into drowsiness once more. “What you’ll find out there if you go poking around.”

And he still hasn’t measured those lyrium markings for any potential changes, not that they will draw in any other magics or the attentions of creatures here, but he’d rather not turn a blind eye to the possibility. And he’d also rather not disquiet the already ever-vigilant Fenris with it, either.

“Wait until morning, I'll hunt for us both.”

"I have no intention of leaving you," Fenris says, voice one of absolute certainty. "I think we've well established my penchant for jealousy."

A lingering kiss to Astarion's brow, fingers tangled in his hair, and one would believe Fenris is always so sweet, instead of calmed by the persistent nearness of his companion.

"Be honest with me, Carissimus. Do you need to feed?"

“Carissimus.”

The word doesn’t roll off his tongue as fluidly as Fenris’ own, but the delight he finds in what he can’t comprehend is evident enough. He thinks he knows what it means— or at least the heart of it.

And even so, he's smiling stupidly under the press of a kiss all too incorrupt to normally be to his taste, made utterly tame by it in fact. Yet there’s no mystery to the tingling numbness in his fingertips, or the exhaustion settling into the marrow of his unliving bones. If he were telling the truth, he’d obviously say yes, and take Fenris’ offering.

But he’s always been a keen liar.

“Tomorrow.” He’ll find a deer or a starling or some such creature to sink his fangs into. Something dull in morning light. “For now, at least one of us should probably be at the top of their game.”

Fenris doesn't like the answer, but he he'll have to live with it if this is what Astarion wants. Instead, he moves forward to kiss Astarion's neck, supplying the smallest of bites. Funny joke, huh?

"As you say," Fenris says, lying back. He moves a bit, further from Astarion until they're not in distance to touch. "Placideque quiescas, Dulcissime."

It doesn’t matter how well he sleeps, because come morning it’s the sound of screaming that likely wakes Fenris— the scent of blood in the air.

Tracking it to its source won’t take long, Astarion isn’t far from camp, hunched over a man gone breathless and still— his own doublet, the pale lines of his shirt all painted vivid, hateful red.

Except for Astarion’s face. There, there isn’t so much as a smear of it, though his teeth are bared in full fury.

Fenris follows, quick and breathless, until he sees the scene before him. Astarion needs to feed. Fenris strikes the twisted jealousy from his mind by sheer force of effort, and sits on the hillside, waiting.

"Do you need help?"

But that— despite appearances— isn’t it.

Oh, the temptation is there, the need for it, too— screaming in his ears like a live wire. Like adrenaline. But his face twists for a moment where he grips tight at his own arms, dragging his fingers down like claws against the grain.

There’s a reason there’s no blood on his lips.

He turns to bring himself closer to Fenris, away from his kill, and the effort has him stumbling. He does, in fact, need desperately to feed. He’s put it off too long, and he’ll put it off longer if he can help it.

“...A hunter— ” snapped out lividly, hatefully; the fire hasn’t left him yet.

“A damned hunter— stealing into our own camp— ”

A hunter? Fenris' first thought is- a hunter of elves. There were such creatures on the borders of the Imperium, checking for any elf leaving for any reason, intending to resell or perhaps profit on ransoms.

And for whatever reason, Astarion cannot make use of him. All Fenris knows is this human creature is someone he hates and wants to hurt.

Fenris begins, faintly, to glow. "I will deal with him."

He knows what that glow means, and where he seats himself— in the dirt and high grass, arms fitted tightly against his own chest to keep from letting the scent of iron nearer— he doesn’t offer protest as he watches Fenris prowl closer to the man who—

Well, Astarion didn’t check to see how much life was left in him after near-gutting the man without warning. The overbearing smell of metal and sweet earth, he knows it. Hunter’s bane. Iron-vine.

But he keeps his posture readied all the same, even at a distance. There may be others. He cannot tell. His senses too overwhelmed.

There is a groan, and a squelch. Neither noise come from Fenris. He asks carefully, "would the heart feed you?"

Astarion is not at his best, that much is clear. Perhaps he needs some other vitals?

“Get it away—” he snaps, twisting his head as though revolted by the sight of it, sick to his stomach already, knuckles gone tight where they grip silk.

He knows it’s an offer to help. He knows in a way it’s relief, and a promise the wretched creature is dead, but even so...

It’s only through gritted teeth that he finally manages:

“I’m trying to...” a huff, a miserably restless noise in his throat. “honor our agreement.”

"We never made an agreement-" Fenris starts, immediately, but this isn't a point of logic. Fenris discards the heart, hand coming away bloodless. He stands, and hears more than sees the arrow hitting a tree, just missing Astarion.

Anger flows through Fenris. His markings shine bright lightening blue. He has his sword unsheathed in moments. "Stay still. I will defend you."

The next arrow phases right through Fenris, and his grin is all teeth.

“Fine, I’m trying to— “

But whatever he meant to say dies the moment that arrow snaps by him, so near to catching that he freezes momentarily on instinct.

(Was it that he jerked away from Fenris? Was that the sheer luck of it all?)

It doesn’t matter, of course. He sinks low into tall grass without any further instruction, terrified to watch the next arrow rush straight for Fenris— and relieved when it meets nothing at all in return. His heart is in his throat, but Fenris is... almost mesmerizing. The edge of his grin, the way that glow seems to wreath him, as if he were a damned deity, or an aspect of Selune herself.

And damn his own inability to catch scent over that cloying iron-vine. What if there’s another archer? What if another hunter lies in wait, daring Fenris to make himself tangible for the right moment to strike?

It’s that thought that has him circling through underbrush with care against that demand, working to balance between masking his own presence, and guarding Fenris’ flank in turn.

Fighting is easy. Fighting is simple. For ages and ages, fighting was all Fenris knew. He speaks this language far better than the other three he knows. Whirling with bright, bitter energy, the archer is dislodged from his tree, and in moments has had a rib removed, casually tossed aside.

What follows is a well practiced art-- questions under duress, what other companions of his have called torture. Are there others? Who sent you? How would you like to die?

It was random chance. Just the two of them, thieves on the road. Brothers, apparently. How sad.

With a snap of Fenris' fingers against a throat, the man is dead. The lights go out. Fenris jams his blade in the grass; he will clean it later. For now- he sits before Astarion, gentle and pliant. "Drink."

Gentle, sits Fenris, and harsh is Astarion. The word barely leaves Fenris’ lips before Astarion is on him, driven still by the heady scent of blood swirling in the air, staining his own clothes: teeth sink in deep this time, fingers clawed when they dig themselves against Fenris’ spine, as though anchoring him in place. There is no sweet, alluring glamor spared— it is painful, and it is feral—

He has no more restraint to spare, only hunger.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject