albinomilksnake | RP: OPEN POST

“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.

It is as intimate as blood magic.

No wonder Astarion had been hesitant. It had been a mystery to Fenris why he'd been so restrained, for such a simple thing, so small, and yet it now makes sense. He needs as much blood as any magister. Fenris' blood boils once again at the thought of this Cazador, forcing this need onto Astarion.

Yet Fenris has given blood before, to far greedier gluttons even than this. He can tell when he begins to feel weak, and he knows when he can fight through it. He will be sluggish, but Fenris sluggish on the field is still a sight to behold. He isn't out of commission yet.

He does, however, yank Astarion back rather abruptly away from his neck, sharp fingers in soft hair. "Stop. You are finished."

Like a scruffed cat Astarion reels in that grip, his pupils dark and dilated as surely as any predator, fangs still drenched with blood and fully bared—

And then his inhale goes deep, pitched lashes falling tight across his eyes before fluttering in a rapid series of clarifying blinks, drawing him back from his own body and its perpetually damning need. The marks on Fenris' neck are deep, he can see that clearly now.

Damn.

"I'm fine—" he says at last, only a little lacking in air, working to nod in that grip to prove his own sanity. Slender fingertips passively raised, though they're still stained crimson. "I'm fine, I promise."

Better than fine, he thinks, as the drunken heat of it all crawls steadily beneath his skin, but that he'll keep to himself for the moment. They've more important things to discuss.

Fenris sits back, and moves his body in a way that suggests familiarity with bloodletting. One palm pressed to the bleeding, he tilts his head away, and lets himself meditate on the pain. He finds its bright, hollow center and moves it somewhere else. This pain will be useful to him.

Just not now. Now, it's Astarion's time. He immediately looks renewed. How had Fenris missed that?

"You were right," Fenris says, "you cannot possibly take all you need from me, and remain well."

"...I'd intended to supplement it," he confesses, his eyeline shifting between some unfixed point on the ground between them and the sight of Fenris working, piece by careful piece, through the full depth of his own pain. It's guilt, or looks like it at least, written in the downturned corners of Astarion's tightly drawn mouth.

His sleeves are far too stained; no amount of wiping makes him look any less monstrous this time.

"With animals, as always— but the journey yesterday took longer than I expected. I didn't have it in me to hunt before turning in."

Pointless explanations, as childish sounding to his own ears as something circling the drain, and his lip curls itself disdainfully as he shoves past it entirely:

"They lied to you. Those two."

Edited (wakes up at 4am finds a typo) 2021-05-29 10:47 (UTC)

"It doesn't matter," Fenris murmurs, voice deep with pain and frustration. What doesn't matter? Astarion's mistakes? Their watchful combatants? Fenris does not know how to forgive. He is always the one making mistakes, or enacting revenge against those who have wronged him. What to do with this delicate vibrancy between them? How to keep it safe?

It doesn't matter.

"Where are the rest of them?" Fenris' hand leaves his bloodied neck, reaching for the hilt of his sword once more.

“Not that— ” he corrects, reaching out to catch Fenris' arm across one heavy gauntlet before he goes stalking about and agitating that wound across his neck. Oh, it'll cease bleeding quickly enough, but as for the pain...

“About their business. What they were doing here.

I could smell it when I awoke. Hunter’s bane, overwhelming— ”

But it’s gone now, he realizes suddenly. The nausea, the cloying sweetness, and he moves quickly to his feet as he stalks closer to the first body, twisting his neck and lifting his nose to the wind, clearly trying to pick up a scent.

And confused in the aftermath.

“No, that’s impossible, I know it was just here.”

Pacing for a beat in frustration, murmuring uselessly, ruddy fingertips pressed to his lips.

“Maybe it was only the hunger. Maybe I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Not for the first time, Fenris trusts Astarion's instincts better than Astarion does. He twitches his wrist, dislodging Astarion's finely boned hand. Now is no time for touching.

"Tell me what this means. 'Hunter's bane'?"

Dreams are vivid things here. Well— they seemed vivid enough in Thedas as well, didn’t they? But for elves in Faerun, things can...carry, and Astarion is still very much what he once was, even in his strangely shifted form of undeath. Maybe Fenris is right to trust his instincts. Maybe Astarion is right to dismiss them. Either way, they’re alive and alone now.

And he’ll take that, folding fingers against his palm in thought.

“Iron-vine, a potent plant. Hunters use it to deter monsters— like myself— the stench of it makes them seem unappetizing at best.” His lips thin out, he moves closer to Fenris, pulling at the buttons of his doublet as his eyes sweep the scene.

“No one uses it for anything else. No one with half a brain, anyway. If they’d had it on them, then they were tracking us, but without it— “

He stares at the second killed, offering a cold shrug of supposition.

“They’re just thieves. Brigands. No one will care.”

Paranoid by nature, Fenris isn't willing to take chances. "I will... deal with the bodies."

He will loot and dismember them, before sending one down the river and setting the other aflame. "This is not a hunch I am willing to ignore."

Stoic in his stubborn belief, he hefts the weapon in his hand as he turns to work on the bodies. This is how he kept himself afloat along the coast, making sure he was incredibly difficult and incredibly frightening to hunt down. He will carve out the same reputation here.

"Far be it from me to dissuade you, then. Indulge away."

It's only a few minutes into whatever grim work Fenris makes for himself, that he might hear the sound of muttered curses somewhere upstream: visible occasionally above the brush is the sight of Astarion, trying to wash the blood from his clothes, his skin, his hair.

It takes longer than corpse dismemberment, apparently, because by the time Fenris is finished, he's still there, hissing insults at stream and silk alike.

Setting someone aflame is easy enough. Picking apart a body so it's both unrecognizable and distinctly horrifying takes care. The vital organs go down the river, the rest is left in a grim lump as though deemed useless for some dark purpose. Hunters-- at least, the hunters Fenris is used to-- have a superstitious mind, bursting with nervous imagination.

And then he finds Astarion, who in turn has found a new thing to be harrowed by.

"How can I help?" Seems a better question than what now? He is still feeling sluggish and impatient with himself, wishing he could recover from the bloodletting quicker.

"It burns is all." He mutters impatiently, more irritated at the lingering gaps between wading out to clean fabric— which is still now faintly tinged pink— than at either the intrusion or offer to help.

And then he turns, that churlishness dispersing just faintly as he measures the exhaustion tucked beneath Fenris' eyes, searching.

"Sit down, and hold this for me. Won't be more than a moment." Said even as he holds out the span of his own damp blouse, knuckles tight before he lets go.

He is tired, but he is alert. Searching angrily around, Fenris asks, "what burnt you? Where?"

He can see the signs of it, finger-light flickers of pink on Astarion's body. It must have been a small flame. But where?

The desire to do as ordered doesn't supersede this concern-- not anymore-- so Fenris' gauntleted hand finds Astarion's shoulder. "Speak to me plainly. I will not be ignorant where your health is concerned."

Gods, he's a weakening sight. All that earnest concern scrawled across fine features, searching for a focal point: something to fight, or to safeguard from, and even in the hellish aftermath of this morning's less-than-ideal circumstances, the smile Astarion finds winding across his lips is all genuine—

Though for Fenris' sake, he does fight to keep it subdued.

"Just...watch, love."

That now freed hand rising as a subtle gesture to keep Fenris still, his attention focused. A segue that makes it easier somehow when he turns, inhaling deep as a brace— and then plunging his head, his bare shoulders, even his chest, into the clearly chilled waters of the creek— growling in pain when he quickly yanks himself back again, shaking off the lingering bloodstains and scorching droplets of water all at once.

"—shit, that hurts—" Wincing, wiping at himself with his palms, slicking most of it away. If nothing else, he's certainly clean now.

No bloodied vampire here, thank you.

Fenris watches, concern only mounting at the conclusion of Astarion's little play. Frowning deeply, he tries to keep himself from any expression Astarion will deem pouting. This, he cannot fix.

"Water burns you?"

"In larger doses. A little mist here or there? Why, it's no problem at all."

What's left clinging to him now stings, but it's hardly anything more than a light prickling sensation crawling along where it catches him— though he imagines he much look a touch ridiculous, faintly flush with color from lingering burns.

"But that won't get anyone clean now, will it? Certainly not after this morning."

And then, with a faint chuckle:

"Not all the benefits of living in your world wanted to stick around for me here, apparently."

Fenris barely attempts to hide his anger; the result is a rage as obvious as it is directionless. He removes his hand so he cannot squeeze at Astarion's shoulder, worried and wounding both at once.

"There must be a better way of doing this. I..." His face screws up into a scowl. "I do not like to see you harmed."

He’d fight the world for this fool.

Well—

He’d lose, of course, he’s no Cazador in either strength or calculated foresight, but even so, he can’t help thinking it’d be worth it regardless, the corners of his own mouth pulling further into a lopsided look of contentment even as Fenris sinks deeper into distress.

He moves away from Fenris then, shaking out his doublet and leaving it to dry in the sun. The leather couldn’t be soaked and survive without cracking, but he’d wiped it down well enough already.

“What you can do my love, is stay here. Relax. Finish washing that shirt if you want to spare my hands so desperately— but mostly the other two: you’ve given me blood and you’ve saved my neck and I’d say that’s more than enough hard work for one morning.”

Fenris removes his gauntlets, and frowns at the shirt. He doesn't know how to wash clothing. That was never a skill afforded to him. He can wash armor and leathers, but knows how much appearance matters to Astarion. That matter will be dealt with in time.

For now...

For now, Fenris dips his hand in the cool, clear water, and raises it to the back of Astarion's neck. "Does that hurt?"

“Ahah— mm— ”

It’s a tight shiver of a thing, visible in the shudder of scarred shoulders: he wasn’t expecting that, still fussing over his own coat— his neck stretches out long, his toes curling in his boots.

Excuse you, Fenris, do you know what you’re doing?

“I imagine this is what candle wax feels like to you mortals.” Hint hint double hint as he works to regain a little posture, smiling pleasantly regardless. whew.

“But no, it doesn’t hurt. Although I feel compelled to warn you that if you think that’s how we’re going to do all the washing from now on...

...you won’t be walking straight for a week. Or. Ever again, potentially.”

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