albinomilksnake | RP: OPEN POST

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.”

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.

“Wait for me, won’t you?”

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.

"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."

This strange place has so, so many.

“Gods? Pfft. Useless drivel, praying to them.”

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."

“Double back?”

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.

“It’s not that simple, darling.”

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."

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