🔮 exsanguinated (with @sangwhine)

[mystracal]

tfln | invitations | and there was only one bed | undermountain alurlyath | what could be | blood bond | the price of freedom
it wore his face | dinner with morena dekarios | rediscovery

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[mystracal]

[He smirks, perhaps a little too knowingly.]

I'd worry about the weakness inherent in not taking every advantage you can get, but you surely know best. You did turn down all the power you'd have gained through ascension, after all. I assume it's a part of your strategy, to rely on others.

[sangwhine]

[Astarion quirks an eyebrow at him, eyeing that smirk with suspicion and more than a small amount of ire.]

My "strategy," dearest? Is that what you're calling it now?

[mystracal]

[Oh, and the supposed Gale latches onto that ire, smiling all the while.]

Of course. I've been thinking about it all day, how useful it'd have been to have a true vampire with us. You could have done so much with that kind of power. I really should have realized it sooner.

But never you fret, my love. I like you just the way you are, and I've got power enough for both of us.

[sangwhine]

Well, since you've had so much time to think on it, why not give me a demonstration, Gale of Waterdeep?

[He says, still holding the shapeshifter's hand in his, his smile all teeth.]

[mystracal]

Patience, Astarion.

[He meets those teeth with a look of his own, one borderlining on malice; he bites it back, maintaining the mask.]

My greatest asset cannot be used so easily. Should we discover there really is no way to defeat the likes of the Dead Three, I will unleash the orb, as Mystra commanded.

[His expression falters; it's almost somber, doubtful. It's a very Gale expression.]

There are times I wonder if I've made a mistake in waiting this long.

[sangwhine]

[Oh, really? Astarion can't help but roll his eyes at that response. Playing off a sad impersonation of Gale is only fun until they prod right into Gale's own issues, it seems. He digs his nails into "Gale's" hand, violently twisting his grip.]

I think we've waited long enough. Don't you, darling?

[mystracal]

[The false Gale's brow twists in alarm.]

Astarion, you're hurting me.

[sangwhine]

[It's so very easy for Astarion to plaster on an overly saccharine grin in response to that pain. Certainly, there's something inside him that twists and twinges at seeing Gale's face in pain like that, but he's nothing if not an expert at pushing that sort of discomfort down.]

What's wrong, dear? I thought you liked it this?

[mystracal]

When used on others, perhaps, but not against me.

[He tries to wrench himself from Astarion's grasp, putting on about as much strength as Gale would reasonably have.]

Though it should come as no surprise that you can't be gentle or sincere. [He fights the urge to smirk again, feeling the need rising in his blood, so hot and warm in his veins.] I suppose your master beat that out of you centuries ago.

[sangwhine]

[Oh no, Astarion isn't letting go. He tightens his grip, his free hand reaching behind his back and swiftly pulling his dagger out so the point of it rests against the apple of "Gale's" throat.]

Oh, enough of the charade already. You're a poor imitation.

[mystracal]

[The supposed Gale stares at Astarion, injury written across his expression.]

I thought you loved me, Astarion. I suppose you are still a monster, deep down.

[With that said, it seems he can't maintain his feigned sadness, his frown twisting into a venomous grin. He erupts in laughter, his joints bending, cracking as they contort into impossible angles, the bones in his wrist displacing themselves within Astarion's grasp as the shapeshifter tries to wrench free once more.

Where 'Gale' once was stands Orin the Red, her white eyes boring holes into Astarion as she sneers. She hums out a taunt in a sing-song tone.]

And yet, he so adores you, little ratling. Trusts you, would do anything for you. How easy it was to lure him from the camp with you promising him a sweet rendezvous by the trees. The way he turned red, so red, a blush across his face, a spatter across the ground!

[She giggles through her teeth, as though she can hardly contain herself from the very mental image she's painting - or perhaps it's a memory, what happened to the real Gale. As she spins her knife idly in her hand, it's hard to tell.]

[sangwhine]

[No, Astarion can't keep his hold when bones are literally snapping and reforming under his hand. He still keeps his blade held high, pointed directly at Orin as she shows her true self. The problem is, Astarion has always been easy to rile, easy to taunt. He doesn't make any move to contain the anger that flashes across his face as he hears that it was his visage Orin used to lure Gale. It has him on edge, wanting to see blood. He meets teeth with teeth, answering her laughter with a snarl of his own, fangs out.]

Unless you'd like the next red you see to be your stinking blood, I'd recommend you tell me exactly what you've done with my wizard.

[mystracal]

[Orin likes that rise she gets out of him; she almost reaches out to touch his knife, so eager for the blade to draw blood - even if it is hers. Instead, she caresses her own dagger, caressing it with the gentle touch of a lover.]

I guess the ratling couldn't figure that out on his own without his wizard, could he? No no no, don't you worry. Your wizard is alive and well - oh, not well, but alive... for now. How I long to split him like a pig, to spill his innards across the stones, but I must be patient. His foul blood would make a poor offering.

[sangwhine]

[Hey now, that's Astarion's foul blood to take. He gives her a sneer, pressing his dagger closer, letting it kiss her swirling milky skin.]

I'd rather piss on the altar of your imitation god, pretender. Now, unless you'd like me to peel those flapping lips from your face and make them kiss the ass of every god in the Stormshore Tabernacle, tell me where Gale is.

[mystracal]

[Orin barely moves from his dagger, almost seeming to invite it.]

You tell your leader that should they want to see their failed Chosen again, then it's their blood the Murder Lord demands, spilled upon the altar of his temple to slake his lust. But I will tell you a secret, ratling: I am not so patient. His blood would make a poor offering, but it slicks my blade all the same.

[And with that, she swings her dagger upward to catch Astarion's, turning her head to dodge the blades should they collide.]

[sangwhine]

[Astarion's quick enough to parry her swing, but not fast enough to drive his dagger home. It arcs up and away. In the split second it takes him to pull the second dagger from his belt and drive it to plunge between Orin's ribs, she's already twisted the damn ring on her finger, vanishing in a flash of blood and dust.

He spits a curse at her, throwing his dagger so hard it buries itself to the hilt in one of Gale's fine pillows. But Astarion's too enraged to even notice. He storms from the tent, immediately seeking their leader out to convey not only Orin's message but also his own very insistent demand that they stage a rescue without any delay.

He knows Gale, he loves him, but the man is incapable of staying silent for any extended period of time. Astarion's gut twists with the worry at what might happen should the wizard draw the ire of Orin or her cultists before their party can arrive. It's only the white hot rage and craving for violent retribution that covers it up for the time being.

Thankfully, with the Guild's moves against the Stone Lord thwarted, they've a small window of opportunity before Jaheira's old companion is in any more danger. Astarion's own experience with the sewers of the Undercity also proves more than useful in directing them towards Bhaal's temple.

Yet once they've tracked Orin's location, their leader insists on taking a night's rest to ensure that they're in the right condition to face a hideout full of murderous cultists. Unsurprisingly, Astarion isn't a fan of this approach. It takes half of the camp and a few less-than-veiled threats of violence from Lae'zel to talk him down from charging in on his own. He still spends the better part of the night pacing restlessly about his tent with Halsin on guard duty to make sure that he doesn't slip away without warning.

By the time morning comes, Astarion's wound tight enough to snap at a moment's notice. It's sheer dumb luck that his haste in rushing the temple's entrance doesn't see his body crushed at the bottom of the chasm by the cultist's ambush and their little "trial" to see if the party is worthy. But his ability to cross the battlefield swifter than the rest comes in quite handy in eliminating the Bhaalist Farslayer who greets them, even if the rest of the cultists deny him the distinct satisfaction of spreading their guts across the temple floor.

The rest of the party's descent is a blur in Astarion's mind. The scent of blood is so cloyingly thick and heady, his mind focused so intently on Gale's rescue and seeing Orin punished for what she's done, he barely registers their steps down to the temple doors until they swing open. It's only their leader's hand on his shoulder that keeps him focused, reminds him that his skill in skulking about in shadows will help them ensure Gale's safety.

So he steels himself, he does what he knows best. With a robe lifted from one of the cultists they found in the sewers, Astarion creeps along the crumbling and broken steps of Bhaal's temple, avoiding Orin's notice. It's a relief to see Gale's still alive and breathing, but between the restless night and his simmering rage, he's only able to free one of the wizard's hands before the rest of the cultists take notice.

Almost on cue, their leader and the rest of the party darts in, drawing Orin's attention and goading her into the bloody battle that she wanted all along. Astarion leaps into action as well, all to eager to slit throats and spill the guts of every asshole who thought they could take what was his. He fights furiously and recklessly, teetering nearly on the edge of death himself by the time the fight is finished.

But blood-drenched or not, there's only one thing that matters to him now and that's getting Gale freed. Without the need to keep hidden, he makes quick work of the remaining locks while Shadowheart offers one of her last remaining spells to rouse Gale from unconsciousness. Astarion stands over him, hair matted with blood and dirt, bleeding from his shoulder, his side, and a cut across his cheek. Yet he holds Gale's face tenderly in his hands, anxiously waiting for his eyes to open.]

[mystracal]

[As he flits back toward consciousness, the first thing Gale perceives is the throbbing in his head. For an instant, he wonders if the protection of the artefact has finally failed them, considers these might be his last moments before ceremorphosis; however, the throb emanates again from behind his right temple, and that's when he remembers the blow he took there. The woods near camp, Astarion — no, a shapeshifter in disguise, one he'd recognized for the trap it was all too late. And then, nothing but dim recollections of being moved, words murmured around him, a blade drawn against his skin.

Outside the painful headache, he feels stone beneath his spine, the surface warmed by his body, and the touch of cold hands cradling his face. His eyes squeeze tighter before they open, as though he has to will them to do so.]

Astarion?

[His voice comes out softer than he'd anticipated, croaked, his throat dry. He can make out silver hair stained red with blood, a pale face, those ruby eyes looking at him anxiously, worriedly. He'd worry he was another doppelganger, but a fake would never look at him in such a way, he's sure. No other lover has ever cared for him as Astarion has.]

[sangwhine]

Gale—!

[He's breathless with worry and relief. Immediately he's moving his hand through Gale's hair, checking his eyes, his face, making sure that Shadowheart's magic has worked as intended. All the while, he's running his mouth, anxiety heavy in each word.]

You godsdamned fool. I should be insulted to think you mistook her imitation for me. Hells, you're lucky she didn't kill you, or I would have done it myself. You—you idiot, you besotted, stupid man.

[His hands tremble against Gale's cheeks. Suddenly floodgates holding back the reality of just how close he came to losing him come crashing down around him. He swallows, his breath suddenly thick in his throat, his vision blurring as his eyes burn with tears.]

[mystracal]

[In good news, Gale seems to be more or less in one piece, save for a few surface wounds that didn't quite heal over. If the numerous slits along his clothes and visible cuts to the skin beneath are any indication, Orin had to fight the temptation to not tear him to ribbons, letting long, slender slices and the resulting blood sustain her as she waited for their true target.

His brow knits as he watches Astarion's expression shift, tears forming along his eyelashes; he stifles a groan as he pushes off the pedestal he's been placed upon, wrapping his arms around Astarion and pulling him into a tight embrace.]

I am a besotted, stupid man, but I'm your besotted, stupid man.

[He fights back the onset of emotion himself as he catches sight of the room all around them, and reality sets in: the Temple of Bhaal, and the stone beneath him, a sacrificial table. They were so, so close to losing one another.

He laces a hand through Astarion's hair, holding him tighter, tears welling in his own eyes.]

I'm sorry.

[sangwhine]

[Once he knows the embrace won't completely shatter Gale, Astarion clings to him with everything he has. His hands twist in the fabric of Gale's shabby robe, not caring for how he might be worsening the tears that Orin's already put into the garment. He'll buy Gale a new one. He'll sew it back up for him. All that matters is that Gale is safe.]

You ought to be. You can't—you promised me forever. For all of our days. I won't have you breaking that promise on account of some addle-brained changeling. You can't leave me like that, you can't.

[His breath is labored, too fast and heavy, but it's Gale's scent that he's inhaling, it's Gale's pulse he feels against his skin. The familiar astringent tang of Gale's blood is on the air and somehow it's the most comforting thing Astarion's ever felt.]

[mystracal]

I know. I promised you I'd stay safe after your siblings attacked, and I've done a poor job of keeping my word.

[He presses a kiss to the side of Astarion's face, unwilling to let go of him just yet.]

I thought she was you, and by the time I realized my mistake, it was too late. Gods, I'm so sorry.

[sangwhine]

[Astarion gives a huff, squeezing Gale tighter. The kiss mollifies him, but his mind still feels as though it's in a thousand places at once, his thoughts still racing through all the grim fates they've narrowly avoided.]

How could you even mistake her for me? She came to our camp looking just like you but she was honestly a terrible actor. She didn't have any of your charm, your—kindness.

[mystracal]

You are a better judge of character than I am. I suppose I was lured by words I wanted to hear, my good sense drowned out by my love for you. Her eyes, though - they were wrong. Red, yes, but not like yours. Not glittering like gems, sweet like summer mulberries.

[He gives Astarion one more tight squeeze; his limbs shake before he finally lets go, his hands remaining on Astarion's arms.]

How long have I been here?

[sangwhine]

Only a day or so. I wasn't about to leave you in her clutches. I—I couldn't bear the thought of what she might do to you. I wanted to tear her limb from limb.

[He pulls away as well, brushing Gale's hair from his face, unwilling to let go.]

[mystracal]

I'm almost surprised you didn't when she took my face. I suppose you wouldn't have known where she'd taken me if you did.

[He can't help himself as Astarion brushes the hair from his face; he leans forward for a kiss, only to be interrupted by their leader, who insists they should clear out for the time being, just in case any remaining cultists kick up a fuss. Wyll, as bloody as Astarion, pipes up, mentioning that there's a room at the Elfsong they can use for their camp in the city.

Gale seems dismayed by this announcement, but keeps it to himself for now. As it is, he's hardly willing to let Astarion go long enough for them to move.]