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?"
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.”
Fenris isn't a babe in the woods; he sees the reaction he's eliciting. Unexpected, but hardly surprising, given how Astarion prefers to take... everything.
A kiss, quick and stolen, pressed to Astarion's high cheekbone, and Fenris is withdrawing. He begins to try and wash the shirt as best he can.
"We'll see," is all he says, voice soft in its depth, knowing.
"For an eternity," Fenris says, missing the jump between casual and painstaking assurances. Still, he's fine alone, moving his hands through quiet water, trying to rid fabric of blood. He does his best-- likely not, he thinks, up to Astarion's standard-- before hanging it out to dry on a tree branch.
Then he waits, meditating on the sound of wilderness around him.
A deer, that’s what he brings back, its listless corpse tucked squarely beneath his arm, looking all the more proud for it.
Oh, it’s true, he’s still fragile under fire when the conditions are right— but he imagines Fenris’ perceptions have been colored by all the limitations he’d had in Thedas, rather than what a true vampire spawn is capable of.
He drops it— bloodless, of course— onto the ground, hands settling low across his hips. Bare-chested and free of all earlier rashing and flushed with intermingled blood, he fancies himself quite the vision. Whether that’s the reality is...debatable, but he’s got the confidence going for him at least.
“As promised. A meal returned— with my thanks.”
If he were kinder, he’d butcher it and cook it to Fenris’ no doubt tired tastes, but he’s done enough already, hasn’t he? This is certainly the height of generosity.
Fenris should chastise him. It's been hours since the attack; they should move. How are they going to butcher a deer in time? Why bring it back? Fenris can get along on less food with less blood in his system; he has before.
(Then again, Danarius always healed the wounds, never wanting his precious pet to be marred in an aesthetically displeasing way. He had a special word for the art of scarring, one Fenris has never bothered trying to translate into Trade. It had always disturbed him somewhat, that Qunlat had an equivalent.)
Yet Fenris is a soft hand with love or lust or whatever lives between them. He only smiles. "We'll have to make quick work of it," Fenris says, pulling out the knife on his belt made for such things. "Or offer the remainder to the god of your choice."
Do they exist? Maybe. Stranger things course their way between realms. But if they do, Astarion figures they don’t pay any attention to the whims of smaller creatures.
He’d spent more than enough years begging them for help in the dark to know better now.
“But I suppose you’re right: we don’t have time to manage the whole carcass— although if you’re not against it, I could make a little scene of the whole thing. Add to your superstitious masterpiece.”
Nothing like a little drama to steer away any nosy strays. His attention wanders, of course, even as he makes his suggestion he’s moving to inspect his drying blouse, finding it— actually in good condition. Not perfect, but with only the ruffles peeking out no one will know any better.
Fenris can go without sleep or eating; Hadriana taught him that ages ago. He'll be tired tonight, but that isn't a terrible thing. The thought of a hot meal, eaten in Astarion's sparkling company, before falling into a deep sleep with Astarion near, the last thing he sees before his eyes close...
It's very heartening.
Fenris snaps off a section of antler before gesturing to the carcass. "As you will. Anyone finding the scene should be thoroughly confused. If these hunters came from a like-minded group, it will throw them."
Why the bloodless deer, and the bloodied bodies? Why did their prey stay so long in the area? Why did no arrows hit their mark? It will leave them searching the area for some time, foolishly trying to attribute a precise meaning to the monsters in their mind. Fenris would almost suggest setting a trap, but he can't see Astarion having the patience for it.
"Still, we should avoid the main roads. Perhaps double back. If needed, I will carry you through streams. It will mask our scent."
It’s a scoff, let out even as he loosely tugs on his blouse, leaving it to hang idly before plucking up whatever Fenris carves off that clearly isn’t needed, like a child picking over supplies for crafts.
“You can’t be serious— we haven’t even gotten to the valley yet, and now you want to add more time onto that over what, a few thieves?”
"Not immediately," Fenris says, considering it. His gauntleted fingers begin to work over the bit of antler, fur and excess flesh falling off. This was not an old, dignified buck Astarion caught.
"We'll go to the valley-- an obvious choice-- then head toward a river. It will confuse anyone following."
The noise Astarion makes is unmistakable: the loudest ugh he can manage, shoulders going slack as his neck rolls back.
He’s very dignified, thank you.
“Fine. But one river only, no— triple crosses or wading through a mire. I’m not against roughing it in good company, but I’m not a bloody bog witch or basilisk, and I’ll feel better once I see us both cleaned up for a change.”
"I did pledge to carry you," Fenris says, hoping the potential romance of the gesture will assuage a bit of Astarion's ruffled feathers. "I'm sure you can find a place to suit your standard."
About that second part, he is not at all sure. But he's willing to weather that storm later, when their options are narrower and they are ultimately safer.
Romance does soothe. It always soothes. Sometimes less efficiently than others, but even in this moment, there’s a noticeably interested sidelong glance cast Fenris’ way.
“Mhm. We'll see soon enough.”
And then he’s primly returned to his duties, wrapping corded reeds around snapped antler in ways he can only faintly recall: not a perfect imitation of a monstrous charm, but an artistic interpretation, and one that’ll at least scare off any passing rabble. A few extra bones, a little spare hide, and it’ll be just—
Well, not lovely. Hideous, really, but you get the idea.
“How’s your neck?” He asks, dusting off his hands. “I can ease the pain, you know. If you need it, just for a little while.”
Something Fenris has been meaning to ask springs to mind. "Are you a mage, here?"
He understands enough of Astarion's world to know magic works differently. He knows Astarion would be dead if he was Thedosian, falling happily to a desire demon's whims.
These facts to not put him at ease, at this moment.
The word itself means something different here: someone who can use magic is only a mage if they choose to be— all those rigorous studies and schools and whatnot. Bookworms, all of them, and Astarion— while occasionally finding them intriguing at the occasional soiree— more often than not thinks the pedantry exhausting.
But that’s not important.
What is important is Fenris, and that knowledge of his own long-troubled relationship with magic. With mages, and the cruelties of its application at their hands. His head tilts slightly, his expression surrendering its pristine edge.
“But yes, I suppose to a certain extent. It’s only a little magic, mind— I can dull the pain I cause while feeding without even needing to think about it, lure even the most resilient of quarries to my side. Obviously I didn’t have access to any of that in Thedas: you fell for my charms all on your own.”
It’s a chuckle that— doesn’t really land. He expects Fenris won’t find his teasing funny, so the instinct dies as soon as it takes flight, a few graceful fingers instead curling uselessly in midair, and then dropping.
“It’s harmless, cross my unliving heart. I’d never hurt you.”
Which means the intimacy, the gentleness, the foolish pleasure of Astarion's feeding, that first time, was all an utter lie. Fenris turns away, more angry at himself than anyone else. Of course it was. Bloodletting is always painful.
His head throbs with anger or fatigue, too many things happening all at once, and he is overwhelmed.
"We should move on," Fenris says, voice flat. "Never ever use magic on me again, without asking."
Well. That makes them 0 for 2 on living the dream of romantic excursions in shared company: first the talk of biting, now this— he’s beginning to think he’s somehow swindled this poor creature into devotion— but then again, that’d be just yet another injustice done to Fenris in secret, wouldn't it?
If Fenris fell, he likely didn’t fall expecting their aggregate existence to be easy. He might be young comparatively, but he’s no child.
“Of course.”
There’s nothing else to offer but concession, and in a way— fed and invigorated twice over— he’s almost glad to take point even through the thickness of forest underbrush and tangled growth: a different creature entirely compared to his normal demeanor, vampirism sees him prowling with feline fluidity, footsteps balanced and perfectly in-line, no matter the terrain, long ears attentive and perked for even the faintest of sounds.
Fenris has guarded him well enough so far. He’ll do the same, now, in turn.
It isn’t until the evening hours that he asks, darkness swelling the shadows surrounding them, “How are you holding up?”
Astarion melts like smoke through shadow, and there is no part of Fenris that does not think he is beautiful. Even the anger, kept always in reserve, a ready weapon, transmutes itself around this thought. He keeps trudging along, occasionally fiddling with his piece of antler, leaving chips behind as he saws pieces off.
He walks, and he lets himself cool off. He does not forgive, but he knows he'll receive no apology. And, ultimately, no blood magic was used. No demons were summoned. He isn't angry enough to end things.
It is simply a wrong that will remain unrighted. He has many.
"The same," Fenris answers through the dark. He is tired, this is true, but he will survive it. "Are we lost?"
"No." he counters smoothly, softly, sounding uniquely contented as his footfalls slow with one glance high towards the tops of the canopy where they break. "The stars were never so bright in Baldur's Gate, but I know them just as well like this."
One hand lifts, the fingers of his opposite hand scrubbing idly at it while he mulls something over in silence.
"We should stop, though. For your sake. Just until morning."
“There should be a village not far from here. The one we’d been aiming for before— but walking back towards the main road and actually getting there will still take some time.”
In fact, at this rate he doubts they’ll make it there till midnight. Maybe a little beforehand if they’re lucky with their pathing and footwork.
One silvered brow arches, his head canting slightly as he looks Fenris over. Yes, he’s still standing, and yes he has faith in him, but—
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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?"
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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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A kiss, quick and stolen, pressed to Astarion's high cheekbone, and Fenris is withdrawing. He begins to try and wash the shirt as best he can.
"We'll see," is all he says, voice soft in its depth, knowing.
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Confidence becomes him when he’s fed, and he’s no less proud of that fact in this moment as he stalks towards the brush.
“Just a quick hunt, and I’ll be right back.”
Fenris snared breakfast for him not that long ago, perhaps it’s time he returned the favor.
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Then he waits, meditating on the sound of wilderness around him.
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Oh, it’s true, he’s still fragile under fire when the conditions are right— but he imagines Fenris’ perceptions have been colored by all the limitations he’d had in Thedas, rather than what a true vampire spawn is capable of.
He drops it— bloodless, of course— onto the ground, hands settling low across his hips. Bare-chested and free of all earlier rashing and flushed with intermingled blood, he fancies himself quite the vision. Whether that’s the reality is...debatable, but he’s got the confidence going for him at least.
“As promised. A meal returned— with my thanks.”
If he were kinder, he’d butcher it and cook it to Fenris’ no doubt tired tastes, but he’s done enough already, hasn’t he? This is certainly the height of generosity.
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(Then again, Danarius always healed the wounds, never wanting his precious pet to be marred in an aesthetically displeasing way. He had a special word for the art of scarring, one Fenris has never bothered trying to translate into Trade. It had always disturbed him somewhat, that Qunlat had an equivalent.)
Yet Fenris is a soft hand with love or lust or whatever lives between them. He only smiles. "We'll have to make quick work of it," Fenris says, pulling out the knife on his belt made for such things. "Or offer the remainder to the god of your choice."
This strange place has so, so many.
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Do they exist? Maybe. Stranger things course their way between realms. But if they do, Astarion figures they don’t pay any attention to the whims of smaller creatures.
He’d spent more than enough years begging them for help in the dark to know better now.
“But I suppose you’re right: we don’t have time to manage the whole carcass— although if you’re not against it, I could make a little scene of the whole thing. Add to your superstitious masterpiece.”
Nothing like a little drama to steer away any nosy strays. His attention wanders, of course, even as he makes his suggestion he’s moving to inspect his drying blouse, finding it— actually in good condition. Not perfect, but with only the ruffles peeking out no one will know any better.
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It's very heartening.
Fenris snaps off a section of antler before gesturing to the carcass. "As you will. Anyone finding the scene should be thoroughly confused. If these hunters came from a like-minded group, it will throw them."
Why the bloodless deer, and the bloodied bodies? Why did their prey stay so long in the area? Why did no arrows hit their mark? It will leave them searching the area for some time, foolishly trying to attribute a precise meaning to the monsters in their mind. Fenris would almost suggest setting a trap, but he can't see Astarion having the patience for it.
"Still, we should avoid the main roads. Perhaps double back. If needed, I will carry you through streams. It will mask our scent."
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It’s a scoff, let out even as he loosely tugs on his blouse, leaving it to hang idly before plucking up whatever Fenris carves off that clearly isn’t needed, like a child picking over supplies for crafts.
“You can’t be serious— we haven’t even gotten to the valley yet, and now you want to add more time onto that over what, a few thieves?”
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"We'll go to the valley-- an obvious choice-- then head toward a river. It will confuse anyone following."
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He’s very dignified, thank you.
“Fine. But one river only, no— triple crosses or wading through a mire. I’m not against roughing it in good company, but I’m not a bloody bog witch or basilisk, and I’ll feel better once I see us both cleaned up for a change.”
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About that second part, he is not at all sure. But he's willing to weather that storm later, when their options are narrower and they are ultimately safer.
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“Mhm. We'll see soon enough.”
And then he’s primly returned to his duties, wrapping corded reeds around snapped antler in ways he can only faintly recall: not a perfect imitation of a monstrous charm, but an artistic interpretation, and one that’ll at least scare off any passing rabble. A few extra bones, a little spare hide, and it’ll be just—
Well, not lovely. Hideous, really, but you get the idea.
“How’s your neck?” He asks, dusting off his hands. “I can ease the pain, you know. If you need it, just for a little while.”
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He understands enough of Astarion's world to know magic works differently. He knows Astarion would be dead if he was Thedosian, falling happily to a desire demon's whims.
These facts to not put him at ease, at this moment.
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The word itself means something different here: someone who can use magic is only a mage if they choose to be— all those rigorous studies and schools and whatnot. Bookworms, all of them, and Astarion— while occasionally finding them intriguing at the occasional soiree— more often than not thinks the pedantry exhausting.
But that’s not important.
What is important is Fenris, and that knowledge of his own long-troubled relationship with magic. With mages, and the cruelties of its application at their hands. His head tilts slightly, his expression surrendering its pristine edge.
“But yes, I suppose to a certain extent. It’s only a little magic, mind— I can dull the pain I cause while feeding without even needing to think about it, lure even the most resilient of quarries to my side. Obviously I didn’t have access to any of that in Thedas: you fell for my charms all on your own.”
It’s a chuckle that— doesn’t really land. He expects Fenris won’t find his teasing funny, so the instinct dies as soon as it takes flight, a few graceful fingers instead curling uselessly in midair, and then dropping.
“It’s harmless, cross my unliving heart. I’d never hurt you.”
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His head throbs with anger or fatigue, too many things happening all at once, and he is overwhelmed.
"We should move on," Fenris says, voice flat. "Never ever use magic on me again, without asking."
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He was of course, and whatever performative argument he thinks to make dies all too quickly, even as he reaches to gather up his doublet.
“But your state, darling. You need to feed on something: you won’t be well if you keep soldiering on.”
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He has never been good at holding back his anger, and how that pushes him forward.
"You know the roads. Guide us." Apparently, this is not a discussion he is having.
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If Fenris fell, he likely didn’t fall expecting their aggregate existence to be easy. He might be young comparatively, but he’s no child.
“Of course.”
There’s nothing else to offer but concession, and in a way— fed and invigorated twice over— he’s almost glad to take point even through the thickness of forest underbrush and tangled growth: a different creature entirely compared to his normal demeanor, vampirism sees him prowling with feline fluidity, footsteps balanced and perfectly in-line, no matter the terrain, long ears attentive and perked for even the faintest of sounds.
Fenris has guarded him well enough so far. He’ll do the same, now, in turn.
It isn’t until the evening hours that he asks, darkness swelling the shadows surrounding them, “How are you holding up?”
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He walks, and he lets himself cool off. He does not forgive, but he knows he'll receive no apology. And, ultimately, no blood magic was used. No demons were summoned. He isn't angry enough to end things.
It is simply a wrong that will remain unrighted. He has many.
"The same," Fenris answers through the dark. He is tired, this is true, but he will survive it. "Are we lost?"
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One hand lifts, the fingers of his opposite hand scrubbing idly at it while he mulls something over in silence.
"We should stop, though. For your sake. Just until morning."
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A function of being, as ever but now especially, the wrong kind of elf, Fenris' eyes gleam in darkness.
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In fact, at this rate he doubts they’ll make it there till midnight. Maybe a little beforehand if they’re lucky with their pathing and footwork.
One silvered brow arches, his head canting slightly as he looks Fenris over. Yes, he’s still standing, and yes he has faith in him, but—
“You’re sure you’ll be all right with that?”
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onyxia takes a deep breath
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here's my also tired secret: I didn't even notice lmao
lmao good jOB us
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puts on my dm hat and wizard robe
avali oh my god.
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