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"I’m sure I can keep your teeth off of me just fine, even at your full strength, vampire." |
"If only it was just |
we were talking about..." |
Orion’s look lingers, trained on that red stare that makes him breathless, "If only." |
The vampire wets his lips, ignoring the taste of his own blood, and shifts forward, it’s become easier to tolerate the burn in his side with this temptation before him. As disingenuous as it feels to offer now, he knows what would make the fighter feel better, how he could show his gratitude for staying. It’s all he ha... |
"When we get back-" |
The growing sound of boots crunching on the dirt and gravel path pull their attention. Even in the dim lighting, the silhouettes of their companions are clear. Shadowheart’s braid swinging behind her as she moves, Wyll’s proud horns curling above him. |
"Thank the Gods." Orion stands, those trailing words from earlier left to sit between them, and moves to go meet the others. |
"Ah-! Don’t just leave me here!" Astarion protests, attempting to stand as well. |
Orion stops in his tracks, it’s unnecessary, they’re only down the path, but he obliges. With only a moment’s hesitation he comes back and takes a knee next to him. A hand on Astarion’s shoulder convinces him to not try and stand anymore. |
"You’re right, I’m sorry. I’ll stay right here." |
At that, Astarion has no response other than a haughty sound. He was expecting a hand wave or a laugh. Not this move of nearly comical chivalry. He’s grateful he can look at their approaching companions and avoid the soft, golden look that always seems to be watching over him. |
Shadowheart’s mending goes quickly, easily. The only residual burning is from the healing magic, and will wane much faster. Astarion shifts his shirt around to examine the bloody scars underneath through the holes the blades left. They’ll be healed to nothing within the week. |
"I just patched this one..." |
"I know," Orion slings Astarion’s pack over his shoulder. Wyll and Shadowheart are picking over the bodies for anything useful, just far enough away to be out of ear shot. "But better that than your ribs." |
"Better I not get stabbed at all." He continues to run his finger along the torn edge, "You didn’t have to stay with me." |
"You didn’t. But you did anyway." Astarion pulls his shoulders back, lifts his chin. Every part as regal as he was before the wound. Even if it was just a gesture of an age old guilt, a heavy memory Orion was trying to correct, it was also a kindness, and he’s not used to that. |
"Astarion," Orion takes a step closer, and from his thick voice the vampire expects a touch on his jaw, in his hair, something he’s not sure he’s dreading or excited for. It never comes. "I would do it again in a heartbeat, over and over. Anything to make sure you’re okay." |
"Orion! These yours?" The half-elf spins on his heel just in time to catch the gauntlets flying towards him. |
"Yes! Thank you, I’m all over the place, I would’ve left them..." |
He flips them in his hands a few times, and again catches Astarion’s look with a near pleading one of his own. |
"I’ll do better next time. It... makes my heart hurt to see you like that. I don’t want it to happen again." almost shyly, his look goes back down to his gauntlets. For only a moment he looks as if he wants to say something more, but he composes quickly. That casual smile back, he nods to Astarion with finality, and tu... |
Gone before he can stumble into something witty, Astarion is overwhelmed and overtaken with a feeling he had lost a long, long time ago. When Orion turns to look down the path, faint, matching pin pricks are clear on his neck. The bare side, where they’re more obvious but won’t scar his tattoo, by request. Evidence of ... |
"Ah," he breathes, and the |
between every word and thought materializes, solid and unmistakable now in his chest. His touch traces up to that instead, hand flat over his long still heart. |
"Hello there, you were supposed to be dead." |
The chill of the morning yet to be burnt away by the rising sun, Orion pulls his cloak tighter over himself while huddling over the dead fire. He flips burnt white logs that crumble to ash, poking and prodding until - there. The faint glow of a coal bed, insulated over the night, still waits underneath. He adds a bundl... |
"Did you rest well last night?" Orion doesnt look up from the fire pit he's still attempting to revive. Doesn't see the way Astarion gives him a wary look at the innocent question. |
"Why?" That makes the fighter look up and give him a strange look, "Why? What do you mean why?" Astarion stumbles, he shouldn't be suspicious of this. And if he is, he should hide it better, at the least. He hones in, sharpens himself again through the fog of hunger and fear. "I don't mean anything, just... why do you... |
"Well, not at first, but if that's the case then I owe you doubly." He stands, dusting his hands off on his pants, then gives a polite and courtly bow. "My apologies if I was a nuisance. Next time we make camp, maybe we can look for somewhere close to the water to drown it out." |
"You most certainly do, especially after this." He gestures down to his side, to bandages concealed under his shirt. Orion doesn't need to see them to know that's where the blades were buried the day before. |
"How do they feel by the way? All that healing magic, they have to at least itch." |
"Other than being reminded of how it feels to be butchered, it could be worse. As long as it's not absolutely crucial that I lean to the left today, I can get back to my own butchering, murderous ways just fine." |
Orion's chest tightens, but he spares his wounded partner the sympathies. Instead, he touches his own neck. His fingers are able to find the healed, invisible spots where fangs have sunk many times now without trying. The little pricks are colder than the rest of him. |
"How soon did you want to move our usual appointment up?" |
Astarion smiles, shifts his weight with a new, appreciative look. "Always so eager to provide... If you're already feeling up for it, it certainly would help. If not with the healing, then for everything else." Red eyes dart down to his favorite spot, starved. Orion's tanned neck, flushing with the attention, is barely... |
He clicks his tongue and easily feigns distaste, "It's not as good cold, you know. Why don't you finish warming yourself up today, and I'll come visit you later tonight? We can find you something to swing your sword at, get your heart racing... Nothing seasons quite like tearing someone apart. And then, later, you'll l... |
"I know we can never avoid it, but I'd rather not go looking for another close call just the day after. Besides," With the comfort of a couple who had been together for some time, Orion reaches out and catches Astarion's hand. He pulls it into his huddle, under the cloak and past the neckline of his thick shirt, to pre... |
"If you're going to insist... who would I be to stop you? Of course I'll share this with you." He steps closer, sliding his hand up Orion's chest and over his collarbone, always so warm... his touch is greeted with another, Orion holding the back of his arm to keep him there. The memory of so many other touches like th... |
"Should probably go back to my tent... it's hardly a secret, but that doesn't mean seeing us bloodied won't startle the others." |
"You're so considerate, and correct. The last thing I need interrupting my breakfast is another blade in my side." |
Inside, Astarion maneuvers the tent with familiar ease. They both fall into this practiced little ritual. It's not quite as passionate as the bites they share during other, more private meetings, but the intimacy still makes Orion flush and struggle with his words. |
The fighter unties his cloak, and in a moment of inspiration, tosses it over Astarion's shoulders instead. The vampire catches it effortlessly with an entertained laugh and flourish. |
"If you're trying to keep blood off of it, it's probably safer to not have it in here at all." |
"Probably." Orion pulls it tighter over him, letting the trapped warmth in the fabric work its magic. "But you already wasted so much blood yesterday, I'd hate for this to get ruined too just because you're freezing. Besides," he steps back, lowering himself onto the bed with an obvious invite of a smile, "You like it,... |
With a loose grip to keep it in place, Astarion looks away, training his expression to neutrality. He did, and gods he wished he could hear those words without it calling to mind the hundreds other who said it before him. Who didn't say it about a warmed cloak, but something worse. Why do these memories push themselves... |
"Using my own words against me, fine. I'll keep it on then." Content with even just that reaction, Orion sits back further, and loosens the ties on the neck of his shirt. That gets Astarion's attention again. The feeding, at least, was new. Unaffected by a master who always forbade it, that was new and theirs alone. |
A predator's red stare, cloak moving behind him as he approaches. In seconds Astarion transforms from a spawn fighting away tender feelings to the vampire falling to his own hunger. Orion's fingers fumble on the shirt's laces. He's not used to feeling like the prey. |
"Do you have any idea how you look when you do this?" Voice lowered, somewhere between a growl and a whisper, he steps into Orion's space. "Like the sweetest wine, a meal for the starving..." the opened shirt is pulled aside and off a tan, freckled shoulder. Habit takes over. "When you offer yourself to me, indulge in ... |
Orion tilts his head aside and gives himself over, the sharp pain gone to cold numbness and the intoxication of Astarion's touch on him in only a moment. Head and neck cradled, an open kiss and loving tongue on his neck, all while rational thought and inhibitions drain with his blood. His racing pulse settles to someth... |
Lips scarlet, pupils dilated, he looks over Orion's face to check that his lovely offerer is still okay. With a whole day ahead, he has to be careful. But there's still color in the half-elf's face, a shine to the golden eyes nearly eclipsed by pupils. Happy with what he sees, he ducks once more to catch the red trail ... |
When they part again, Orion is obviously trying to hide that he's lost his breath in the kiss. "How do you feel?" |
"You've already asked me that today, darling." |
"That was before." Orion gives a light touch over his neck to feel if there's still any blood, but Astarion is nothing if not thorough. With more deft hands, and still pressed close under the cloak, the vampire works to lace the other's neckline up again. |
"I feel better, can hardly even tell blades nearly touched my spine yesterday." |
"Are you sure? I feel less dizzy than usual." |
"Maybe you're just getting used to it?" He smooths the laces down with open palms. |
"Or maybe you've grown bored of how I taste." Orion says. |
"Never." Red meets gold in a pinning, playfully predatory look. "And don't ever accuse me of that again." |
Orion smiles back up at him, huddled close in the faint glow of the morning sun dispersing through the canvas. It hits Astarion's face like a blessing, red eyes never meant to be seen this way glowing beautifully. Every part of his guarded expression is perfect. |
"You're beautiful in the sunlight." Reverent, doting, worshipful. He says it in the same hushed voice and upturned look that he uses to send quiet prayers to Lathander in the morning. This morning, the prayers are for his vampire. |
And Astarion is terrified of it. His chest ached sweetly for the first time in hundreds of years, and already he knows he could fall in love with this man. With every countless freckle and the one dimple, the sun in his eyes, Astarion knows that if things were different... they'd stay like this forever. But that's not ... |
Like ripping himself free from a trap, Astarion steps back and takes the cloak off. Despite the warmth in the tent, the cold hits him hard. |
"And hideous when the sun goes down?" He offers the cloak back, with a tongue click, Orion takes it. "Not very good at compliments." |
"It's different at nighttime." Orion stands and pulls the cloak back over himself. "Red-eyed hunter in the dark... no less becoming, but it is daunting." |
Astarion barks a laugh, "You are bad at this! I'm less daunting after pulling my teeth from you? Just because the sun's up?" |
The half-elf is quiet, his entertained smile says that he doesn't need to answer that. He steps close to Astarion as he walks by him, lingering just a moment as their hands brush together. Then he pushes the tent flap aside and steps out into the sun's full strength before Astarion can ask why. |
My dear friend, |
I’m not sure if this courier will find you, but if he does, I hope he finds you well. The last I saw of you; you were helping the elderly Moros out of the camp as the Guard spilled through Orson’s barrier. I pray by whatever god that will listen that you all are safe and well. Words can’t describe how my heart aches... |
I write to you from a Restovian courier hub, on a brief respite from my exile. In an ironic twist of fate or, if you ask my point of view, a cruel twist of the knife, Lord Mayor Sellemius issued me a charter to bring order to the Stolen Lands. Effective banishment to the Greenbelt, never to return. But if he thinks t... |
The Stolen Lands remain dangerous, even more so with a band of complete strangers. Because of this, I wished to send to you my tale in my own words. Brevic bards will not spin tales of tragedy for me, and I wish to lay out my history lest their belladonna kiss seals my legacy. |
My mother, Atropos, was born in Absalom. She came with little of the Tiefling bloodline appearing in her form. All that she maintained were the tinniest of horns, so small that they would be mistaken for bumps to the head. My father Belphegor, on the other hand, had copper red skin, black eyes, a prehensile tail, an... |
My mother found the city life in Absalom to be distasteful. She got along well with most of its citizens, but her job working in metalcraft was bitter. She enjoyed the smaller and gentler tasks of jewel work, preferring the art rather than the martial aspects of her job. However, she could never stay at one job too ... |
My father lived in Old Issia, in a medium sized settlement called Tulipa. His father was a demon, and his mother was considered a spinster prior to her affair with the demon. After my father’s birth, no landlord would have her and she found no refuge with her own family. She raised my father on the streets, and he p... |
Eventually, my mother made her way to Tulipa on the eve of my grandmother’s death. My mother was able to secure a position in my grandmother’s parents’ home tending to my great grandmother’s instruments and jewelry. She was up late one night, tending to a particularly stubborn sapphire earring, when she felt the smal... |
And so, he was. They had their nightly rendezvouses, each time my father sheepishly finding a way to obtain her attention. He spoke of his mother, and she spoke of the necessity for her to move on to a new job soon. My mother offered to help him smuggle out more metal, enough to give my grandmother a proper burial i... |
My parents ran together through the courtyards, hand in hand. My grandmother lived long enough to see her son happy, and then passed on to another plane of existence. My mother, true to her word, cast a casket of mismatched metal for my grandmother. They buried her in a field outside of the town, marked only by a ra... |
They set off to find a new life elsewhere. As the wanted posters started to pop up, they headed south out of Issia. They landed in a village in Rostland, called Carnelia. It was adjacent to Restov, but far enough away from their old life that they were finally able to set down roots. The village folk were not welco... |
This is when I come in. I was small for a child, but for the first few years I was able to play with the other children without any of the fear that many Tieflings have. My father was relieved that my skin was a tolerable shade of seashell, white but not too white to cause immediate panic. But as I grew up, my featu... |
I don’t remember the first time a rock hurled toward me. I’ve always been small, an easy target, and I remain as such. But that, combined with my infernal heritage, sealed the deal. The rumors of my parents’ infamy in the north did not help. No one could prove anything, but as the tales and the posters spread furth... |
I took refuge in watching my mother cast metal. She couldn’t do it very often, but when she could I went with her to bask in the heat. My father took me to hear the stories of the bards. I had to strain to hear them from the rooftops, as we could not go be part of the crowd below. I gasped so loudly during one of t... |
But the bards left their impression. I would sway from side to side outside of our lean to, pretending to play an instrument. I’d pretend underneath the stars at night, laying down and looking at them and their untold stories. Eventually, my mother left to do some metal casting. I scurried to her side along the roa... |
My mother made me promise to go about mastering it, and so I did. Day after day, month after month, working to perfection. When I did, I would finally regale my parents with stories I made up about the secret Tiefling who saved the world. I eventually told them I would perform for the village. They exchanged wary g... |
There was one glimmer of friendship from me to the village. A young Halfling girl named Tasia. She was the only one who didn’t fear me. She provided me with an opportunity to practice my Common, as we spoke Infernal at home, lest we be overheard by anyone who may wish to find proof in order to collect a bounty. My ... |
As the years passed, I began to learn more from those three people I could rely on. My mother taught me glass blowing, something she considered fundamental to working with metal. My father taught me how to fight with simple weapons, to protect myself. Tasia taught me the histories and literature she learned in the s... |
When I was 16, I asked my mother why we didn’t live with a community of Tiefling. She spoke of the fear others had of us, that which I already knew. She spoke of the legend of the Stolen Lands among our people. When we did get together, she said, they’d speak of the Old Kingdom. The one that had existed after the F... |
My father piped in and stated that wherever they went, the non-Tiefling would seek to divide. They feared that much infernal blood in one place. Their stories sparked a rebellion within me, my mother’s sense of justice mixed with my father’s attention to detail. |
I met with Tasia in the village, hiding my flute in my jacket to spin her the tale I had been told, when I noticed the wanted posters. My parents staring back at me in ink. They had drawn my father with razor sharp teeth, which he did not have. They drew my mother scantily dressed like the seductresses from Absalom.... |
"Those rumors must be true, then" Nerissa scowled. |
I ran from the scene, flute in hand, not waiting to see what Nerissa did as she inhaled deeply, not hearing what she screamed as my ears rang. I zigged and zagged through different paths on the way back to our lean to. But, by the time I made it back, our home looked as though a pair of thieves had ransacked it. Hoo... |
I hid in the trees on the edge of the village. In the branches above I could see the uncharacteristic lights in the town square late that night. I swung down to the rooftops and landed lightly. Pressing my body flat against the tile, I crawled to the edge to listen. There were no bards this time, but my parents cha... |
The lord was reading off a list of things they’d stolen from my great grandparents. He moved on to other crimes, crimes they had never committed. At the end, he blamed my mother for her bloodline’s crime: the Falling of the Starstone. For my father, he charged her with aiding and abetting the crime of the bloodline.... |
Never had I felt such guilt. I was a fool for having brought my flute into the village, concrete proof of the victimless crime my parents had committed. My great grandparents had not missed their valuables. But they provided my parents comfort in life, and my grandmother comfort in death. Whatever the context, thou... |
I watched the carriage drag my parents away with tears in my eyes. Soon, the guilt and the fear turned to anger. Anger at the one person besides myself that I could blame. Nerissa. As the crowd dispersed, I slung my way across the rooftops until I reached the one that had inspired my love of song and story. Neriss... |
I pulled out my flute and played a song. It was low, sorrowful, and slightly shrill. A song of dread. I looked up as I played and saw Nerissa frozen in a look of fear. Her chest moved up and down with breath, but her open mouth popped with the sound of her choking on a scream. She didn’t appear to be in pain, but ... |
With that, I left. I had nothing, and for the two years after my parents’ exile I made my home on the streets of Restov. I played my flute proudly in the streets, knowing that it could no longer be recognized. I spun tales of my imaginary Uncle Wormwood to those that would listen. Sometimes they were tales of gener... |
I honed my craft and finally could call myself a bard. As such, the Guard eventually threw me out of the city. I could not gain the proper clearance for my craft, and the street shows began to be tolerated less and less. |
From there, I began to travel the kingdom. In true bardic fashion, I spent the little coin I made on cheap ale and enjoying the company of other young men. Some were brave enough to make their way to my bed, if I had one. The bravest and those who merely wished to tick off a bucket list item took me to their own. |
Eventually, I ran into Orson. He was the first Tiefling I ran into on my journeys. Orson was tall, red-brown skinned, with blue eyes set with yellow pupils. He cut his hair close, allowing his horns to look much bigger than they really were. We met as I was stumbling toward my grandmother’s grave. He had come to h... |
He pitied me in my drunken state and helped me back to his camp, as no Tiefling were welcomed in the town anymore. Their warden even did a full screening of head and backside for any small traces of infernal heritage. A small vestige that my mother had once roamed this province. |
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