mystracal | 🔮 exsanguinated (with @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.

Edited 2023-11-30 18:08 (UTC)

[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.]

[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.]

[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.]

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.]

[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.

[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.]

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.

[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.

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?

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.]

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.]

[Astarion will gladly welcome the kiss, giving a frustrated murmur against Gale's lips before they're interrupted.]

Believe me, I tried—

[But their leader is right, Wyll is right. They shouldn't be lingering in a blood-stained temple surrounded by corpses when they could be resting in actual beds. He moves to help Gale up from the slab when the adrenaline running through his system abates for long enough to remind him that he took several Bhaalist blades throughout their encounter. He gives a hiss of pain, groaning with the effort.]

Ugh, hells.

Astarion—

[Though a little wobbly himself as what magic or draught they'd had him under slowly wanes, Gale is immediately by his side the moment he's off that slab, an arm around Astarion in case he needs help to stand.]

Can you walk?

[And he doesn't even wait for an answer to that as he starts testing his magic, calling some to his hand, his fingers aglow. If nothing else, he could surely portal the two of them somewhere closer to the Elfsong. He's been practicing his portals, just in case they should need to make a quick getaway from the Brain when the time comes - or, more likely, he needs to send everyone a safe distance away from him should he explode.]

Edited 2023-12-02 10:23 (UTC)

[Astarion straightens himself up, putting his arm around Gale in turn. He's not the one who just got kidnapped, and his pride won't let him by the one who's leaning on Gale all the way home. But he does perk up when the arcane power starts to swirl about Gale's fingertips.]

If you have an alternative, I won't say no.

And it doesn't involve either of us becoming a sheep.

[He looks to Wyll, who assures them the rest of the party can walk well enough to meet them at the inn later. Halsin and the others may already be there as it stands. Gale nods.]

Right. Hold on tight, love.

[And with a swirl of magic, they are enveloped in a lavender light. It's not so much a portal as teleportation, but it will suffice. There's the sensation of being pulled from the very core, vast distances covered in the blink of an eye, and then—

He did indeed get them close, almost to the entrance of the Elfsong Tavern. They're dropped into the middle of the street, the people around them staring curiously at the two men who've appeared out of thin air, one bloodied from battle while the other's robes are cut to ribbons.]

[People can stare if they want, Astarion doesn't give a damn. He tightens his grip around Gale's waist while trying to keep weight off of his injured leg. They don't have far to go, he can endure the pain for at least that long.]

Have I mentioned before that I love you, dear? Let's get you inside.

[He moves them gently, only somewhat awkwardly into the inn. A quick conversation with the innkeeper and a very challenging set of stairs sees them both into a room with beds, a fireplace, and a basin for washing. Astarion can't help but give it an an appreciative look.]

Well, this is much better than our little outpost by the docks.

That it is.

[He's almost hesitant to say that, but his distracted from whatever troubles him by the blood trailing down Astarion's leg.]

This way. I'd hate for you to have mounted a daring rescue, only to bleed to death in the finest accommodations we've seen.

[Astarion may have wanted to get Gale inside, but Gale wants to get Astarion to that basin - and particularly to the shelf full of bandages he sees next to it - as soon as possible.]

Darling, rest assured, you'll not be rid of me so easily.

[He'll let himself be steered, immediately moving to pull his armor off, revealing the full extent of his injuries. He gives a hiss or groan as each one is revealing, making it all the easier for Gale to track them. There's a deep stab wound at the shoulder, a nasty gash across his hip, as well as several more superficial cuts elsewhere on his arms. Yet despite Astarion's injuries, he's more intent on Gale, wanting to make sure that Orin hasn't done any lasting damage to him.]

You as well, love. Come, there's room enough for both of us.

[Gale looks more and more worried as each wound is revealed, especially in knowing that he can't even provide Astarion with the sustenance he needs to heal. He hands Astarion some of the bandages from the shelf, silently insisting he should take care of those before worrying about anything else, before he unfastens his robes.

His wounds, by comparison, are almost ceremonial, reverent in their placement: lines along his ribs cut into his skin, trailing their curvature around his chest; more haphazard slices along his forearms and thighs, as though longing to dig farther, deeper; a single cut that trails the violet tendrils on the side of his throat, long and a little deeper than the others, as though he were lovingly caressed with the edge of Orin's knife.

He sighs, trying to mitigate his worry with levity.]

I do hope whomever moved our camp brought all my clothes. I'm out another set, it seems.

[Astarion takes the bandages, but he only keeps his hand on them as Gale's wounds are revealed. There's a clear anger and distaste write on his face with each line of blood reveled. The dull background throb of his own pain does nothing to ease that anger. He steps closer to Gale, gently tracing the cut to his throat.]

You'll use mine. I'll dress you.

I'm starting to think you're using our courtship as an excuse to dress me better.

[Not that Gale minds that, nor the touch to the cut on his throat; it stings beneath Astarion's cold fingers, barely healed over, not yet even scabbing. His own eyes flick over Astarion, much more worried about this still-bleeding wounds.]

Your injuries are far worse than mine, Astarion. I am grateful you came for me so quickly, though. I cannot say what I'd have looked like had Orin had to wait for too long.

Damn my injuries. I nearly lost you. All because—because you couldn't tell me from her. Because she knew she could come between us like that.

[His hand trembles, his whole body tensed at the thought of it. He moves to the cuts at Gale's ribs, fingers drawing along the lines. He hates the thought that she make these marks, that Gale was hurt like this. He hates the thought that his own manner, his penchant for flirtation and lust let her take Gale from him so easily. Is he really so simple that a shapeshifter could dupe the man who should know him better than anyone else?

He swallows against the frustration and hurt, his head suddenly heavy and dizzy from the lost blood. His hand falls heavier on Gale's shoulders, using the wizard to keep himself upright.]

[Gale will defend his foolishness later; for the moment, he's entirely too worried as Astarion struggles to stay upright.]

Astarion! Sit, please, before you fall over.

[He guides the vampire to the nearest seat, urging him to sit.]

We need to stop the bleeding. I will explain my lack of foresight later, but I cannot sit here and watch you suffer.

[Fortunately, it's easy to make Astarion sit. He's not resisting Gale, his mind is just in too many places at once. He gives a pained gasp when he moves, the wound at his hip jostling with it. The sharp spike of pain forces him to relent in his protests. He reaches for the bandages and cloth, finally tending to what he can reach of his own injuries.]

You have to—promise me you're all right. That there was nothing else she did to you.

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