𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐅𝐔𝐋

it’s    time    to    try    LIVING    again.

[charlatanry]

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐍(𝐑𝐘)   ━━━   a   flamboyant   deceiver.   an   impostor,   a   cheat,   a   pretender.   a   person   who   resorts   to   underhanded   means   in   order   to   obtain   money,   power,   fame   or   other   advantages   ━   usually   through   acts   of   trickery   and   deception.

semi   selective   and   mutuals   only   roleplay   blog   for   𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐍   𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐔𝐍Í𝐍   of   𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐃𝐔𝐑'𝐒   𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐄   𝟑.   favors   spawn   route.   oc,   duplicate,   multimuse   and   crossover   friendly.   est.   april   22nd.   2024.   minors   please   do   not   interact.   ❝   𝐀   𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘   𝐎𝐅 ...   reclaiming   autonomy.   intimacy, trauma   and   their   myriad   of   complexities.   snarling   at   the   world   like   a   wounded   animal.   losing   oneself.   rediscovering   oneself.   what   remains   after   every   cry   for   help   has   gone   unanswered.   the   heady   taste   of   blood   that   lingers   on   the   tongue.   the   parasitic connection   between   power   and   fear. defying   one's   abuser.   breaking   the   cycle.   healing   ━   imperfect,   nonlinear   and   ugly ...   yet   healing   nonetheless.   freedom.   freedom.   freedom.   ❞   please   read   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐃   before   interacting.

adored   /   enabled   by   𝐀𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐍.         ( they / them. 29. ) adventuring alongside ... istarly, bloodczar, marchingasone, ruinlost

[istarly-deactivated20240918]

⸻  𝐀  eyebrow  was  lifted        ❝   not  really  a  funny  joke  but  i  get  it   ❞   gale  raises  himself  and  looks  at  astarion         ❝   everyone  here  in  this  group  has  their  secrets  and  i'm  not  here  to  tell  you  how  to  get  your  food.  you  are  perfectly  capable  of  making  that  decision  yourself  and  knowing  the  consequences  of  your  actions      ❞   he  really  didn't  gave  a  owlbears  ass  how  or  when  astarion  would  get  his  food  really.  the  man  had  to  eat  somehow.  just  as  long  as  it  wouldn't  be  a  innocent  person.  then  they  would  have  a  problem  at  their  hands.

gale  turned  his  head  and  sighed  realizing  that  he  wouldn't  be  able  to  have  a  bath  before  breakfast.         ❝   i  assume  you  already  had  your  breakfast  but  would  you  like  some  tea,  coffee?  or  wine?   ❞   even  though  it  was  way  to  early  to  consume  a  alcohol  beverage  in  gale's  opinion  he  thought  that  maybe  his  vampiric  companion  wouldn't  want  something  so  light?

he  quickly  grabbed  all  his  stuff  and  slowly  walked  back  towards  the  slowly  dying  fire  and  the  make  shift  kitchen  next  to  it  that  gale  had  been  able  to  make  to  have  a  bit  of  of  a  place  to  prepare  things  instead  of  on  the  ground.

       ❝   do  you  want  to  help  out  with  preparing  breakfast  or  not?  you  don't  have  to  if  you  don't  want.  but  the  help  would  be  appreciated.   ❞

[charlatanry]

❝  well,  i'm  so  glad  i  have  your  permission  to  feed  myself. ❞   the  spawn  replies,  making  a  show  out  of  rolling  his  eyes  —  and  beneath  the  layer  of  thick  sarcasm  that  oft  envelops  nearly  every  word  to  leave  his  mouth,  there  is  a  bit  of  genuine  irritation  simmering  beneath.  consequences  this,  secrets  that  —  oh,  he's  well  aware.  (  he's  swallowing  back  a  jab  about  the  wizard's  explosive  tendencies,  himself.  )  he  doesn't  need  to  be  lectured  about  them,  ugh.

fortunately,  the  change  of  subject  distracts  astarion  before  he  has  the  opportunity  to  surrender  to  the  urge  to  say  something  unapologetically  petty.  ❝  mmh ...  none  of  the  above. ❞  the  spawn  replies,  waving  a  hand  as  he  follows  behind  him.   ❝  coffee  and  tea  aren't  to  my  tastes,  i'm  afraid. ❞  and  he  doubts  they  would  be  capable  of  waking  him  up  even  if  he  did  manage  to  gag  his  way  through  a  cup  or  two.  (  he  hasn't  tried  it,  but  vampiric  anatomy  is  so  stingy  with  its  small  mercies.  )  ❝  and  as  much  as  i  love  immersing  myself  in  shameless  decadence ...  it's  a  bit  too  early  for  wine. ❞  a  pause.  then,  ❝  also  if  you're  offering  the  swill  i  think  you're  offering,  it  tastes  like  vinegar  anyway.  so  no,  i'll  have  to  decline. ❞   save  it  for  someone  with  lower  standards.  the  rest  of  their  little  group  seem  to  have  no  problem  indulging  in  a  glass  or  two  when  the  mood  strikes  them.

he  watches  gale  make  his  way  over  to  the  space  he's  evidently  commandeered  as  a  rather  rustic  kitchen.  astarion  thinks  now  is  probably  the  perfect  opportunity  to  slip  away  —  only  for  the  wizard's  question  to  bring  him  pause.  ❝  i  don't ... ❞   the  spawn  starts  to  say,  only  to  cut  himself  off  by  faking  a  cough.  he  doesn't  remember  how  to  cook.  not  really.  (  certainly  not  enough  to  avoid  embarrassing  himself  in  the  process.  )  ❝  that's  more  your  area  of  expertise,  my  friend.  do  get  to  work,  though.  i  like  to  watch. ❞

[starwrittenfates]

"Ah, yes, we wouldn't want anything to ruin your beautiful hair." Synnove replies sarcastically with a smile. Once he finishes looting the corpses, she begins to lead the way. Luckily, they had managed to set up camp not too far away. If anything, the walk back would at least be a scenic one. The sun was starting to set in the sky and she knew their friends would be waiting for them to hear about what had happened. In the meantime, she took out the Scratch's ball and begin throwing it back and forth as they made their way back.

Her golden eyes glance to the vampire spawn beside her. When she had first met him, she didn't think too much of him. But as she got to spend time around Astarion, he had started growing on her, and in a way she didn't expect. It didn't surprise her to find out he was a vampire spawn, and nor did it scare her, even if it should have. To Synnove he was just another person with a story of their own---he is Astarion, nothing else to it. She was grateful to have met him, but especially for how he saved her back there. Maybe there was some way to repay him? After all, she cared and wanted to make sure he was alright. Clearing her throat, she speaks to break the silence. "If our enemies weren't enough for you, perhaps I could help? But once we get back to camp. And after I've eaten something myself." She pauses, continuing her game with the dog before looking back to him. "That is if you want to? Just know that I trust you, Astarion."

[charlatanry]

❝  no, ❞  the  spawn  agrees,  his  voice  going  a  touch  more  serious  than  usual,  ❝  we  most  certainly  would  not. ❞   his  hair  is  no  laughing  matter  —  obviously.  he  has  the  best  in  camp.  (  not  that  there's  truly  much  in  the  way  of  competition  for  the  title,  hmph.  )

he's  relatively  silent  on  the  short  walk  back  to  camp.  while  that  might  ordinarily  be  cause  for  alarm,  the  intermittent  clicking  of  coins  suggests  astarion  is  merely  taking  inventory  of  the  spoils.  he  is  so  unaccustomed  to  having  —  well,  anything  that  the  concept  of  a  pocket  filled  with  gold  admittedly  feels  a  bit  novel.  he  doesn't  even  know  how  he  would  begin  to  spend  it.  more  pillows  for  the  exterior  of  his  tent?  fine  clothes?  yet  another  dagger  he  can  slip  away  up  a  sleeve  or  in  his  boot  for  whenever  he  finds  himself  in  a  pinch?  he  could  buy  another  book  to  read  during  the  long  hours  spent  loitering  around  camp,  but  it's  honestly  more  entertaining  to  snatch  up  fresh  reading  material  from  the  other's  belongings.  ah  well.  being  able  to  choose  at  all  is  honestly  a  bit  exhausting.  in  the  meantime,  astarion  supposes  he'll  simply  enjoy  the  thrill  of  having  money  to  spend.

the  spawn  is  lost  in  thought  when  synnove  speaks  up.  crimson  gaze  flicks  to  her  face  —  and  it  takes  a  befuddled  blink  before  astarion's  eyes  seem  to  refocus  and  he  remembers  where  he  is.  ❝  oh,  you  generous  little  thing. ❞   unsurprisingly,  he's  able  to  switch  back  into  the  charming  facade  in  an  instant;  it's  grafted  so  meticulously  to  his  personality  the  line  between  the  two  is  nearly  impossible  to  distinguish.  ❝  i  could  go  for  dessert ...  if  you're  offering,  i'm  not  going  to  say  no. ❞  she  trusts  him,  she  says  —  and  there's  a  part  of  astarion  that  wants  to  squirm  a  bit  at  that,  like  he  can't  quite  comfortably  wrap  his  head  around  it.  he's  quick  to  push  those  feelings  down,  however,  lest  they  sour  his  good  mood.  ❝  do  take  care  of  yourself  first,  of  course.  i  am  capable  of  being  a  gentleman  about  these  things;  i  can  wait. ❞

[fleshcarverfugitive]

closed starter for: @charlatanry ✪

A brief respite after defeating the leadership of the Goblin Camp was certainly in order, bringing the tadpoled adventurers back to their camp. Amalica took a place just outside of her tent, carefully washing the blood from her newly acquired Spidersilk Armor, trying to swallow the fact that now a daughter of the Baenre was one of her enemies.

It was almost like she was back home again. Lovely.

A glance up to the vampire next door, flipping through the pages of... something. She couldn't make out the title from where she was.

"You fight well, Astarion," She noted, though, hoping to catch his attention, "I didn't have much trust in the aristocracy of surface's ability to defend itself, but it seems you don't mind a little blood on your fancy shirt."

A glance up and down, "Surely, with that type of skill, you'd be more than a magistrate at this point, no?"

[charlatanry]

he's  in  quite  high  spirits  —  though  why  would  he  not  be?  while  some  of  their  little  group  might  be  busy  making  their  arms  sore  patting  themselves  on  the  back  for  an  act  of  perceived  heroism,  astarion  is  simply  thrilled  by  the  sound  of  gold  clicking  in  his  pockets  and  a  slightly  dulled  sense  of  hunger.  goblins  aren't  necessarily  the  most  appetizing  bunch  to  sink  his  teeth  into,  the  nasty  little  beasts  —  but  they  are  considerably  more  appetizing  (  and  considerably  more  blood-filled,  for  that  matter  )  than  the  decay-steeped  rats  cazador  would  toss  his  way.  though  he  supposes  they  are  both  equally  filthy.

he  glances  up  from  his  book  when  amalica  speaks,  crimson  eyes  peering  quizzically  over  the  pages.  it  takes  astarion  a  moment  to  process  what  she's  actually  saying  —  magistrate?  ah,  right.  he  did  spoon-feed  her  that  lovely  little  lie,  now  didn't  he?  it  feels  like  a  lifetime  ago  where  he  was  threatening  her  with  his  trusty  dagger.  now  he's  turning  it  on  their  shared  enemies  —  how  novel!  ❝  i'm  not  actually  a  magistrate  these  days,  darling. ❞  he  almost  wants  to  laugh  (  bitterly  )  at  the  thought.  a  vampire  spawn  magistrate?  if  she  wasn't  so  utterly  clueless  about  the  surface,  he  might  make  some  petty  dig  against  her  intellect.  it's  nothing  personal;  being  reminded  of  all  that  he's  lost  is  just  an  excellent  way  to  kill  his  good  mood.   ❝  from  what  little  i  can  recall,  being  skilled  with  a  blade  was  never  part  of  my  resume ...  that  came  after. ❞

it  was  the  only  form  of  self-defense  he  had,  really.  he  couldn't  simply  bite  if  a  mark  became  violent  —  and  they  did  become  violent,  more  often  than  he  feels  like  thinking  about.

[ruinlost]

The warforged could practically feel astarions stare bore into him,which almost caused him to want to pull hood over his face even more than he had already had been he cant tell if hes being studied or analyzed,farrow was about to try and busy himself as a distraction had it not been for the other deciding to initiate a conversation with him (which he wouldn't deny that it threw him off ever so slightly")

Farrow sat quietly now he found himself being the one to stare ,before responding to the rather..interesting inquiry while avoiding a bit of eyecontact , ["Novel?,I highly doubt another traveler could be seen as such"] aside from the more obvious differences the warforged has going for him.

["I thought it would be good to team up with others..sticking to a group always seems to be the best option when traveling than it is alone yes?"] or at least that was the partial truth of it he doesn't really know how (or if he wishes in the current moment) to delve into the rest he crossed his arms looking back to astarion.

["so nothing..that interesting,but if I may ask why you wish to know now"]

[charlatanry]

❝  when  they  look  as  unusual  as  you?  i  daresay  novel  is  an  understatement. ❞  he's  being  given  attention,  and  that  is  quite  the  dangerous  thing  indeed.  it's  enough  to  coax  astarion  into  stepping  a  bit  closer  —  drifting  about  his  companion  in  a  languid  half-circle,  like  a  feline  debating  whether  it  wishes  to  pounce.   ❝  don't  worry. ❞   the  spawn  reassures  him,  words  teetering  on  the  edge  between  genuine  and  teasing.   ❝  i  don't  bite.  well,  not  you  anyway  —  you  don't  have  any  blood. ❞  there's  a  pause,  astarion's  footsteps  coming  to  a  momentary  halt.  he  squints  at  farrow,  arching  one  pale  brow  as  he  asks,  ❝  you ...  don't  have  any  blood,  do  you? ❞  well,  he  certainly  doesn't  smell  like  he  has  blood.  (  more  so  that  he's  been  splattered  in  it  many  a  time.  )  though  in  all  fairness,  the  scent  of  machinery  has  always  been  particularly  harsh  on  the  spawn's  sharp  senses  —  it  overpowers  all  else  like  an  especially  thick  perfume.  he  wonders  what  he  would  taste  like.  mm,  probably  wouldn't  be  worth  the  risk;  he  can't  afford  to  break  a  fang.

shaking  his  head,  astarion  resumes  his  pacing.  it's  hard  to  tell  what  his  goal  really  is  —  to  observe,  to  unsettle.  honestly  he's  just  feeling  unapologetically  nosy.  ❝  we're  sharing  a  campsite  these  days,  aren't  we? ❞   he  asks,  voice  light  with  faux-innocence.  ❝  you're  acting  like  it's  a  crime  to  get  to  know  my  neighbor.  i'm  just  trying  to  be  friendly,  honestly. ❞  he's  going  to  very  pointedly  ignore  the  blatant  hypocrisy  in  such  an  excuse  —  astarion  isn't  exactly  jumping  at  the  chance  to  share  much  about  himself,  either.  but  this  isn't  about  him,  and  he's  hoping  farrow  doesn't  have  the  gall  to  try  to  make  it  that  way,  either.

❝  unless  you  have  something  to  hide,  of  course. ❞  the  spawn  continues  aloud,  clicking  his  tongue.  he  really  doesn't  think  that  he  does  —  but  it's  always  fun  to  throw  unsavory  implications  around.  like  tossing  scraps  of  bait  into  a  pond  and  seeing  what  rises  to  the  surface  for  a  bite.

[countercharmda]

Serendipity is many things, yes. An actor, a musician, a...decent leader. He prides himself on many of these titles -- but when Astarion calls him a coward, it's effective enough of a sting. Any hesitation the bard might have had is burned away with a scoff as he watches the vampire scale the wall easily. He takes the offered hand deftly and, with a grunt, manages to join the rogue at the top.

" I am not a coward, " he informs Astarion with a sniff, before he looks at the estate beyond. " I just -- know which battles are worth fighting, is all. And I've certainly done this sort of thing before! "

[charlatanry]

he's  very  aware  of  what  effect  his  words  have,  and  doesn't  seem  the  least  bit  apologetic  about  them,  either.  and  why  should  he?  from  astarion's  perspective,  he's  completely  right  —  and  the  fact  that  ren  is  so  quick  to  come  along  with  comparatively  little  prodding  only  serves  to  hammer  in  that  fact  all  the  more.  ❝  this  is  a  battle  worth  fighting,  my  dear. ❞  he  insists,  as  his  companion  joins  him  atop  the  wall.  hands  settle  on  his  waist;  the  spawn  looks  at  the  estate  with  hunger  of  the  non-sanguinary  variety  shining  in  his  eyes.   ❝  one  we  wage  in  the  name  of  our  wealth  and  prosperity  —  is  there  truly  any  greater  cause  than  that? ❞   he  thinks  not,  in  his  absolutely  unbiased  opinion.  though  as  an  afterthought,  he  adds,   ❝  also,  they're  probably  horribly  corrupt  anyway.  most  of  these  noble  sorts  are,  in  one  way  or  another. ❞

a  little  balm  for  ren's  conscience.  assuming  he  actually  needs  it  —  certainly  can't  hurt!

gracefully,  the  spawn  crawls  down  the  opposite  side  of  the  wall.  there's  a  bed  of  meticulously  kept  flowers  in  the  soft  soil  below  and  the  pollen  shaken  free  from  his  sneaking  around  is  enough  to  make  astarion  sneeze.  (  eugh.  so  much  for  stealth.  )  ❝  they  must  have  a  wine  cellar. ❞  he  says  almost  greedily.   ❝  and  a  lock  just  begging  to  be  picked. ❞

[cursefought]

@charlatanry

"That one was rough." lips thin for a moment before the aasimar flickers their gaze elsewhere for the time being, holding out the bottle of suspiciously red liquid that has been untouched until now. "Here. A gift, from my sister and I." definitely not blood from both of them, noooo.

[charlatanry]

❝  a  gift? ❞  are  the  first  words  to  escape  his  mouth,  leaving  the  spawn's  interests  quite  shamelessly  bare.  oh,  he  loves  gifts  —  loves  being  given  them,  specifically.  (  and  this  particular  instance  is  no  exception.  )  fingers  curl  around  the  bottle  quite  eagerly,  and  he  spins  it  a  bit  in  his  hands  as  if  searching  for  a  label.  no  such  luck  —  perhaps  it  isn't  wine  after  all?  ❝  is  it  a  gift  from  you  or  a  gift  from  you? ❞  though  no  sooner  do  the  words  leave  his  mouth  than  astarion  already  uncorks  the  bottle.  what's  the  point  in  waiting?  he  gives  its  contents  a  cursory  sniff,  pleased  hum  rumbling  in  the  back  of  his  throat  that  veers  suspiciously  close  to  a  purr.   ❝  oh,  you  smell  divine. ❞   it's  a  joke,  because  —  well,  they  probably  get  it.

glancing  up,  a  little  smile  pulls  at  the  corners  of  the  spawn's  lips.  ❝  what's  the  occasion?  not  that  i  need  an  excuse  to  accept  gifts  —  gods  no.  but ...  let's  just  call  it  a  hunch,  shall  we? ❞

[fcllxn-stcr]

Astarion raised an eyebrow as the other, at first, seemingly struggled to come up with a plan. Though, as even he thought about it, what would they do?

Not that he was going to lead on that he was just as lost. Nah, best to just wait it out. See what his doppelganger struggles to come up with while he folds his arms and waits out the suspense.

"Oooh." The elf's interest is finally drawn as the so called plan comes to light. "Well, the menace is practically a bloody cockroach. Of course he's not going be done in one go." Astarion points out with a huff, but more directed towards the fact than anything else.

That was when something popped into his head.

"Or..." He begins. "If he's going to perform his little ritual to gain more power, he'll obviously need one of us to complete it." Or at least he thinks just one of them. Who knows at this point? "What if he gets sacrificed instead of us?"

Though, if he was being honest, simply killing the fucker would suffice, but why not find some way to fuck him over in the process?

[charlatanry]

it's  clear  before  astarion  even  has  the  chance  to  open  his  mouth  that  the  idea  intrigues  —  no,  fascinates  him.  ❝  i  suppose  it's  true  what  they  say. ❞   the  spawn  murmurs,  exhaling  a  soft  chuckle.  ❝  great  minds  do  think  alike. ❞   that  they  do.  but  he  wonders  if  his  doppelganger's  thoughts  are  drifting  in  a  direction  similar  to  his  own  —  because  snatching  the  fruit's  of  cazador's  unlife's  work  out  from  under  him  right  on  the  precipice  of  victory  is  tempting  indeed.  (  why,  he's  practically  salivating  at  the  thought.  )  yet  rituals  are  rarely  so  generous  as  to  split  their  benefits  between  multiple  parties  —  particularly  not  one  as  purportedly  dark  and  twisted  as  whatever  that  bastard  is  cooking  up.  even  if  they  do  somehow  manage  to  toss  cazador  into  the  proverbial  fires  in  their  place,  how  do  they  know  the  resulting  power  will  be  split  among  them  equally?  how  do  they  know  it's  even  possible  to  share  it  at  all?

and  that's  the  truth,  isn't  it?  they  don't.  knowing  their  luck,  they  probably  can't.  which  means  astarion  has  to  do  whatever  he  possibly  can  to  ensure  the  benefits  go  to  him  and  him  alone  —  the...  him-version  of  himself.  the  best  one.  (  gods,  this  is  so  confusing.  )  by  his  own  reasoning,  they  are  nothing  if  not  the  biggest  threat  to  each  other  —  vampires  being  vampires,  and  their  myriad  of  paranoid,  power-hungry  delights.

still,  until  that  moment  comes,  he  can  pretend  to  play  nice.  he's  good  at  that.

❝  shall  we  shake  on  it? ❞   the  spawn  asks  aloud,  pairing  a  practiced  smile  with  an  offered  hand  —  extended  with  an  appropriate  amount  of  dramatic  flourish.   ❝  seal  the  deal,  so  to  speak? ❞

[yardsards]

but i stay silly! *←said in the most world-weary voice you ever did hear*

[starwrittenfates]

She had been trying to pay careful attention to her surroundings, but the enemy in front of her was putting up quite the fight. It wasn't long before she was finally able to put them in their place, taking them down with her sword as a loud sound of broken glass and a crash sounds directly behind her. Synnove felt her heart almost leap out of her chest, turning quickly behind her to see the body on the floor. That was a close one! Golden eyes look to see her savior-- Astarion-- waving at her. She can't help but wave back gratefully before returning to the fight.

Once the last of their enemies are done for, the bard glances around at all the bloody bodies on the floor, letting out a sigh and putting her sword away. Being on the road for as long as they've been, she was starting to get used to things either going perfectly or ending in a battle of some kind. At least it was nothing like home. But it still didn't change the fact that fighting seemed to remind her of some elaborate dance none of the patriar's would ever be caught doing in a ballroom, or much less in general. After all, they didn't want to be seen getting their hands dirty.

With this, Synnove glances down at her hands, seeing them slightly splashed with blood and some dirt. Oh yes, she could imagine the fury on her father's face at seeing the path his daughter had decided to take, which only makes her happy to defy him even more. Scratch returns to her side as the high elf pets the dog in gratitude. "Good boy. Thank you for your help. I'll have to be sure to get you a treat." She then glances over to her companion, giving him a warm smile. "And thank you, Astarion, for that save. What would you say to returning back to camp? I know you've probably had your fill here, but I'm starving and I'd rather have something that isn't poisoned."

[charlatanry]

the  rest  of  the  fight  goes  by  almost  embarrassingly  quickly  —  for  their  enemies,  that  is.  (  though  fortunately,  they're  too  busy  being  dead  to  care.  )  honestly,  it's  a  bit  pathetic  how  hilariously  unprepared  they  were  for  a  fight.  astarion  can  only  assume  they  had  been  banking  on  the  poison  doing  most  of  the  hard  work  for  them.  it's  a  good  thing  they  came  prepared.  he  would  rather  let  his  daggers  do  the  talking  than  waste  time  exchanging  saccharine  pleasantries  anyway.

the  proverbial  dust  has  barely  settled  before  the  spawn  comes  slinking  out  from  his  hiding  place  to  rifle  through  the  pockets  of  the  nearest  corpse.  poor  bastard  hasn't  even  had  the  chance  to  go  cold  yet  —  oh  well!  his  loss.  astarion  pulls  out  a  tastefully  embroidered  bag  and  gives  it  a  little  shake,  eyes  sparkling  with  shameless  avarice  at  the  clinking  of  coins  that  greets  him.  ❝  i  could  always  go  for  another  bite. ❞   the  spawn  says  —  and  that  is  true.  his  hunger  is  never  sated  completely;  it  only  dulls  to  a  point  where  it  isn't  so  painful  as  to  be  distracting.  like  the  buzzing  of  a  particularly  pesky  insect  clever  enough  to  stay  just  out  of  swatting  range.  he  feels  wonderful  right  now,  of  course  —  yet  even  the  irritating  buzzing  would  be  akin  to  the  musical  genius  of  a  renowned  composer  compared  to  dragon's  roar  of  pure  vampiric  hunger  he's  usually  saddled  with.  ❝  ...  but  picking  at  the  dead  like  a  carrion  crow  isn't  to  my  tastes. ❞   these  days,  at  least.  of  course,  he's  moving  to  loot  the  next  corpse  as  he  speaks.  that  is  clearly  different,  though.  everyone  does  it.

once  he's  snatched  up  as  much  treasure  as  he's  willing  to  carry,  astarion  then  rises  to  his  feet.  ❝  i  suppose  we  should  get  out  of  here  before  more  of  them  show  up. ❞   he  agrees,  a  touch  of  reluctance  in  his  voice.  ❝  i  think  i  have  wine  drying  in  my  hair  —  and  i'm  not  sure  if  it's  of  the  poisoned  variety  or  not,  but  either  way ...  i  want  it  out. ❞

[bloodxstarved]

The dhampir chuckled being called altruistic, in many ways that was true and a good way to describe him. "That would be pretty accurate to describe me. I've might not explored the world much or been around for hundreds of years, but I know enough the right thing to do is not always good thing to do. Sometimes that involves killing someone and putting them on a pike." He said in a playful way of joking about something his father was well known for.

As much as Alucard strived not to be like Vlad, he was still his father's son and that ruthlessness ran through his veins just as much as the vampiric blood. He took the knight in shining armor bit as a compliment, the dhampir always helped people even when it didn't benefit himself. That was true selfless kindness to him. But then the bitterness followed and Astarious words rang true, if people didn't fear him then they wanted to use him. Alucard could sense the pale elf under his arm knew that very well.

"The sun will be coming up soon, you're welcome to stay with me if you don't have a safe place to stay." Alucard offered, his guess was that the vampire was about as welcomed in town than he was. "The sun doesn't kill me, but it's still not good for me."

[charlatanry]

❝ Oh, I love a good impalement. ❞ Astarion replies — pairing the admittance with an easy smile and wave of the hand. ❝ The murder-y kind, specifically. You can never go wrong with the classics, now can you? ❞ Ah, he supposes that's why they're called the classics to begin with. ❝ Although, I'm not so much a fan of what happens after. The mess is, well... a bit too pungent for my tastes. But while they're still fresh, it's delightful. ❞

He rises to his feet, and there is a small part of him that mourns the loss of physical contact that doesn't see disgust pooling in the pit of his stomach. It's a rare thing indeed — but the dhampir is right, and they really should get moving before they start to grow roots. Yet it's Alucard's offer that brings Astarion pause. Stay with him? That's... surprisingly generous. ( Not to mention ironic; a vampire giving another vampire an invitation and all that. ) He shoots him a glance from the corner of his eye, wary as a stray being presented with a bowl of milk. The spawn turns away just as quickly, pretending to stretch with a soft hum. ❝ I suppose. ❞ He eventually says. ❝ If you wanted to kill me, you could have saved yourself the trouble and poisoned that blood. ❞ It's a joke. Kind of. He is a bit paranoid, but Alucard feels so shockingly transparent in his intentions it's honestly throwing him for a bit of a loop.

❝ Lead the way, then. I know I make for delightful conversation, but we can't have you making yourself sick. ❞ Also he is somewhat curious about where such an individual of such high esteem might live. He hopes that it's fancy.

[rvolving]

@charlatanry liked for raphael (x)

there is little to savour about their immediate environs -- wasting away as this world is prone to do --, and yet raphael surveys it with well-performed wistfulness. ❝ ah, i do enjoy being in this neighbourhood again. it has such a rich history of abject tragedy. ❞ there's little chance of telling how genuine he's being; nor is it the point. ❝ and tragedy, my friend, well there's my bread and bloody butter. ❞

                   all this doom and gloom, why it suits the little vampling terribly. a captured animal will assimilate eventually, raphael supposes. isn't that what the illusion of free choice is all about? ❝ you do so know to find the most inhospitable locales, don't you? ❞

[charlatanry]

his  lip  curls  in  wordless  disgust  —  and  it's  clear  without  needing  to  utter  a  word  just  how  thrilled  the  spawn  is  to  be  here.  (  though  knowing  astarion,  he  won't  pass  up  an  opportunity  to  complain.  )  ❝  i've  seen  funerals  less  dreary  than  this  place. ❞  although  perhaps  funeral  isn't  so  terribly  far  off  from  the  reality  —  for  what  is  this  inn,  if  not  one  glorified  coffin  for  all  of  the  frightened  little  souls  cowering  inside?  if  that  fragile  bubble  of  moonlight  bursts,  they're  as  good  as  dead  —  and  that  collective  understanding  may  as  well  be  poison  for  all  that  it's  killing  the  mood.  he's  never  seen  a  more  dreary  bunch  of  people  clustered  around  a  bar,  and  that's  really  saying  something  considering  his  extensive  history.  it's  no  wonder  the  devil  is  loitering  about;  this  is  a  veritable  feast  of  opportunity.

he's  almost  a  bit  jealous,  honestly.  although  that  might  just  be  the  hunger  talking  —  there's  hardly  a  drop  to  be  spared  in  this  awful  land  of  death  and  decay.  if  the  spawn  wasn't  accustomed  to  starving,  he  imagines  it  would  have  driven  him  half  mad  by  now.

❝  if  my  immediate  survival  didn't  depend  on  being  here,  i  would  not  be. ❞   he  rolls  his  eyes,  offended  by  the  mere  implication.  ❝  though  honestly ...  you'd  think  a  group  of  people  with  no  tomorrow  would  live  like  it.  i  don't  even  think  they're  serving  the  good  wine. ❞

[charlatanry]

anonymous &&. said... Hi. Are you actually Astarion? I swear you must be him because your writing of him is outstanding otherwise.

ANON  PLEASE ...  YOU'RE  SO  SWEET ...  fortunately  for  all  of  us  i  can  assure  you  i  am  not  THE  astarion  ancunin.  peepaw  our  favorite  eternally  young  vampire  ™️  would  not  know  what  to  do  with  a  computer.  (  rip  astarion,  you  would  have  loved  deliberately  getting  people  angry  on  the  internet.  )  in  all  seriousness,  thank  you  so  much!  he  is  honestly  SUCH  a  blast  to  write.  i  feel  a  lot  more  confident  now  in  the  cadence  of  his  dialogue  than  i  did  a  month  ago  —  and  it  is  so  much  fun  to  just  let  him  chatter?  funny  little  guy  with  a  fascinating  brain  who  makes  me  laugh  and  cry  in  equal  measures.  a  considerable  percentage  of  his  thoughts  are  just  blatantly  self-serving  (  or  just  pretending  to  be  for  appearances  )  or  just  plain  terrible,  but  it's  how  he  comes  to  those  conclusions  i  find super interesting.  he's  a  really  entertaining  character  to  work  with  and  i  adore  him.

[charlatanry]

anonymous &&. said... The Smut Peddler is here! He hands Astarion a novel, titled: Seduced and Pounder in The Butt by The Undead Legions, written by Robert Hobbins.

what  is  this  meant  to  be  —  some  sort  of  free  sample?  astarion  hopes  that's  the  case;  he  certainly  isn't  coughing  up  the  gold  to  pay  for  it.  crimson  gaze  flicks  down,  one  eyebrow  delicately  arched  as  he  reads  the  title  —  and  for  a  moment,  he  looks  akin  to  a  skilled  gourmet  being  presented  with  a  dish  ripe  for  taste-testing.  ❝  hmm. ❞  soft  hum  rumbles  in  the  spawn's  throat;  he  opens  the  book,  flicking  through  a  few  pages  out  of  mild  curiosity.  somehow,  that  same  pale  brow  manages  to  raise  impossibly  higher  as  his  eyes  settle  on  a  particularly  evocative  paragraph.  ❝  hmmmm. ❞

then  he  looks  up,  book  snapping  neatly  shut  with  an  audible  THWACK.  ❝  no  thank  you, ❞  astarion  finally  declares  —  delicately pushing  it  back  into  the  aforementioned  smut  peddler's  hands.   ❝  i  have  definitely  read  this  one  before. ❞

...  what?  his  material  has  to  come  from  somewhere.

[astralrogue-closed-deactivated2]

It was only a half-truth. But Ceres wouldn't be caught dead admitting to Astarion what she feared caused the curse. For him to hear her vague idea, one that had absolutely no foundation, he would need to pry it out of her with necromancy.

"I haven't had to spit a petal in a year..." she admitted before snuggling back into his arms. But this time, she took the blanket with her, so both were cozy underneath it. "Please, stay with me... I don't like the Underdark... When you're with me, I don't see her face, I don't feel her touch. I can blissfully sleep." Did she ramble again? She did, didn't she? "...Please, I don't need anything except your arms around me," she clarified. Yes, it was easier to lure Astarion into her tent for shared otherworldly pleasures, but she was tired of pretending. The petal told her so. Just be honest.

"I was hoping the Book of Thay has an answer to halt it... I don't want to die, I don't want to become a tree," her voice broke suddenly, and big tears streamed down her face as she admitted, "I don't want to be in the Underdark... I know the Underdark is vast, I know the chances of meeting her are so low, I know it's irrational..." She couldn't stop anymore, her feelings spilling out like a leather bag whose seams were about to burst open in Astarion's arms. "...I want to see the sun, the stars. I'm so tired of the darkness... By the nine hells... please don't let her find me."

[charlatanry]

the  spawn's  mouth  opens  and  closes  without  a  sound.  he  can  practically  feel  his  feeble  attempt  at  optimism  crumbling  to  bits  —  and  it  serves  him  right  for  actually  trying  to  play  the  voice  of  reason  for  once,  doesn't  it?  ❝  i  haven't  found  anything  in  the  book. ❞  astarion  decides  to  say  instead.  he's  trying  to  be  helpful,  but  no  sooner  do  the  words  leave  his  mouth  than  he  realizes  how  discouraging  they  actually  are.   ❝  well  —  to  be  perfectly  fair,  the  damned  thing  refuses  to  cooperate  with  me.  the  solution  to  both  of  our  respective  headaches  might  be  written  on  those  pages. ❞  it's  unlikely,  but  not  impossible.  if  the  tadpole  isn't  going  to  be  useful,  they'll  simply  have  to  resort  to  other  means.  though  the  thought  does  manage  to  catch  astarion  off-guard  for  a  moment  —  because  logically,  it  shouldn't  actually  be  any  problem  of  his.  (  so  when  did  he  start  thinking  of  ceres'  as  an  extension  of  his  own?  )  ❝  i'll  figure  it  out. ❞  the  spawn  says  aloud.  maybe  he's  just  making  promises  he  can't  keep,  but  it's  better  than  nothing.  he's  sick  of  having  nothing.

only  half  of  the  words  coming  out  of  the  changeling's  mouth  are  really  making  sense  to  him.  perhaps  it's  by  instinct  that  astarion  pulls  her  closer,  regardless  —  it's  easier  to  think  of  it  as  a  thoughtless  compulsion.  (  force  of  habit  guiding  his  movements.  )  she  is  crying  and  that  makes  him  uncomfortable,  so  he  acts  in  the  interest  of  alleviating  that  discomfort.  nothing  more  and  nothing  less.  ❝  we  won't  be  here  long. ❞  the  spawn  hears  himself  say.   ❝  she  won't  find  you. ❞  but  he's  been  on  the  opposite  end  of  this  particular  flavor  of  paranoia  —  and  with  a  touch  of  irony,  astarion  can't  help  but  think  it's  like  he's  staring  at  a  reflection  of  himself.

...  those  shallow  reassurances  would  do  little  to  quiet  his  own  fears.  he  doesn't  know  if  words  possibly  could  —  it  feels  like  only  the  sight  of  cazador  dead  at  his  feet  would  truly  do  the  trick.

a  soft  exhale  spills  from  the  spawn's  lips.  ❝  ...  she  can't  have  you. ❞   it's  not  a  promise  of  protection  so  much  as  it  is  a  declaration  of  defiance.  it's  the  best  he  can  offer  —  that  and  simply  holding  ceres  close  until  her  tears  run  dry.

[unfortunatedarling]

[Arcana roll-- 1d20; 6 + 0 + 2 = 8: Failed.]

‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ Yunae held no doubt Astarion had done this sort of thing before. Vampires needed humanoid blood to live, they were pretty sure. Their limited knowledge of vampires and their spawn told them that they also tended to feed from sleeping victims and most would wake up none the wiser. Everything would be fine. Probably.

"All... right then," as instructed, the bard laid back down on their bedroll, eyeing Astarion as he leaned over them. Already, they seemed a little regretful on humouring the vampire, but he had already paid, and they weren't going to give that money up, greed giving way to common sense.

"Hey, you *did* brush your teeth tonight ri-- Ack!!" They yelped as what felt like sharp, cold, cat-like teeth dug into their skin, right into one of the carotid artery in their neck, and their blood pooled out like a low-pressured spring.

Their breath hitched, hands immediately pressing to Astarion's chest, ready to push him off, until the pain subsided and a strange, warm-cold numbness set in, like menthol and lidocaine on an aching muscle. Still breathing harshly and keeping their hands ready to shove him away, the muscles in their neck relaxed.

Their blood was thick, dry, and fat on the pallette, not dissimilar to a full-bodied wine, should one compare the life-giving liquid to such things. One might also conclude that they were dehydrated from how thick their blood was, and how hard it was to extract. Another factor that might play in, one might note, was that their pulse was still abnormally slow, both before and during the bite.

"H-hey... I... I think that's more than a tablespoon..." they muttered, beginning to push him off. "G-get off."

[charlatanry]

yunae's  voice  may  as  well  go  in  one  ear  and  out  the  other  for  all  that  astarion  pays  attention  to  it.  the  taste  of  their  blood  dances  across  his  tongue  —  far  more  intense  than  anything  the  spawn  has  ever  dabbled  in.  his  head  feels  a  bit  like  it's  spinning,  some  potent  cocktail  of  hunger,  instinct  and  euphoria  crashing  into  him  like  a  strong  liquor  on  an  empty  stomach.  (  if  his  heart  still  beat,  it  would  surely  be  racing.  )  it  takes  every  ounce  of  self-control  he  has  not  to  lean  closer,  sink  his  teeth  deeper,  drink  them  down  to  the  very  last  drop  —  even  then,  astarion  feels  as  though  he's  teetering  precariously  on  the  edge  of  some  dark  and  ravenous  abyss.  it  would  only  take  a  moment  to  crush  their  throat.  muffle  cries  before  they  ever  have  a  chance  of  escaping.  there  are  so  many  warm  bodies  around  them,  ripe  for  the  draining  —  and  he  is  so  very  hungry.  now  that  he  knows  he  can  bend  the  rules,  what  else  is  there  to  stop  him?

it's  that  thought  more  than  yunae's  struggles  that  finally  convince  astarion  to  let  go.  no,  no,  no.  tempting  as  it  may  be,  better  to  quit  while  he's  ahead.  a  thumb  drags  across  one  red-stained  corner  of  the  spawn's  lips.  he  laughs  —  shaky  and  breathless,  tongue  darting  out  to  savor  that  drop.  ❝  that  was ...  amazing. ❞   he  murmurs.  and  for  a  moment  his  eyes  seem  unfocused,  like  his  thoughts  are  a  million  miles  away.  it  takes  astarion  several  long  seconds  to  come  back  to  his  senses  completely,  giving  his  head  a  brisk  little  shake.  hunger  still  gnaws  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  but  the  ever-present  ache  seems  dulled  somewhat  —  and  he  feels  strangely...  energetic?  he  tries  to  claw  through  the  fog  of  his  memories  to  recall  the  high  of  a  caffeine  buzz.  he  thinks  he  had  a  taste  for  that  sort  of  thing  once,  but ...  no,  the  sensation  is  completely  lost  to  him.  shame.

❝  mmh ...  this  has  been  a  lovely  transaction. ❞   well.  it  would  be  lovelier  if  he  didn't  actually  have  to  pay  for  it,  but  astarion  is  in  high  enough  spirits  to  put  that  little  transgression  to  the  side  for  now.  the  spawn  stretches,  slow  and  languid  like  a  cat  roused  from  slumber.  ❝  although ...  something  about  your  vintage  strikes  me  as  a  little  bit  peculiar.  the  wine  has  been  aged  longer  than  the  label  suggests,  so  to  speak. ❞   his  eyes  suddenly  seem  a  bit  brighter  than  usual  as  they  study  yunae's  features  —  searching  for  a  reaction,  perhaps.

yet  just  as  quickly  as  he  brought  it  up,  astarion  drops  the  subject  altogether.  ❝  don't  worry  —  we  all  have  our  secrets  here,  don't  we? ❞   it  sure  seems  that  way,  considering  the  company  they  keep.  though  as  an  afterthought,  he  adds,  ❝  although ...  you  really  should  drink  more  water,  dear.  you  taste  positively  parched. ❞

[starwrittenfates]

Synnove can't help but agree with him. If things went wrong, she wouldn't enjoy this one bit...but at least Astarion would no doubt be happy sinking his teeth into their enemies. Even though she had been through her fair share of battles now with her companions, the bard still preferred speaking her way out of problems (yet wasn't afraid to fight, using cutting words if needed too.) Despite the racing of her heart at the fear of failure, she forced a smile on her face, bringing forth her charm.

Going through the motions of accepting handshakes and even complimenting their potential allies, her eyes glance around the room cautiously every now and then, trying to keep an eye out for Scratch. So far it seems things will be going well. They might not have to shed blood.

That is... until the dog returns to her side, speaking to her and barking about them putting poison into the drinks they intended to serve them with a smile. Synnove sighs, shaking her head. "Why can't anyone just offer drinks and merriment without any problems or hidden agendas? Things would be better if you didn't try to poison your guests, it's rude..." reaching for her sword, she glances at Astarion, giving him the signal. "Let's play!"

A battle it would be. All Synnove knew was that she would be looking forward to returning to camp after this was finished.

[charlatanry]

he's  keeping  an  ear  out,  even  as  he  flits  from  conversation  to  conversation.  it's  easy  enough;  astarion  is  no  stranger  to  exchanging  pleasantries  while  hiding  ulterior  motives  behind  his  back  —  like  a  dagger,  waiting  for  its  chance  to  plunge  into  an  awaiting  throat.  someone  presses  a  glass  into  his  hands  with  a  charming  smile  and  a  sprinkling  of  melodic  praises.  it's  almost  adorable  how  they  think  he  isn't  a  seasoned  expert  of  the  game;  the  spawn  purposefully  waits  to  drink  until  their  faithful  canine  companion  returns.  (  he's  not  especially  eager  either  way;  it's  all  going  to  taste  like  vinegar  on  his  tongue.  )  he  doesn't  know  what  the  dog  says,  but  he  certainly  remembers  the  signal.

let's  play,  synnove  says  —  and  oh,  they  will.

the  wine  is  splashed  in  the  face  of  the  nearest  prospective  ally  turned  enemy.  they  recoil  and  scream,  but  not  loud  enough  to  drown  out  the  cruel  laughter  of  a  certain  vampire  spawn  having  more  fun  than  he  probably  should.  as  their  surroundings  erupt  into  chaos,  astarion  plunges  his  dagger  into  a  conveniently  unarmored  stomach  —  then  shoves  the  fool  into  their  wine-blinded  cohort,  leaving  them  to  collapse  into  a  tangle  of  flailing  gore.  there's  a  bar  nearby,  and  he  hops  (  graceful  as  a  cat  )  over  the  counter,  teeth  sinking  into  the  throat  of  the  man  presumably  responsible  for  spiking  their  drinks.  well,  astarion  supposes  the  least  he  could  do  is  provide  some  actual  refreshments.  (  blood.  he  means  blood.  at  least  he  tastes  delicious  —  unlike  that  toxic  swill  he  was  trying  to  serve  them.  )  when  the  spawn  peeks  over  the  bar  a  few  moments  later,  his  mood  has  improved  considerably  and  a  bit  of  red  drips  from  one  corner  of  his  mouth.  eyes  sweep  to  and  fro  across  the  room,  before  settling  on  his  ally.

there's  some  fool  with  a  blade  in  hand  trying  to  sneak  up  behind  synnove.  cute,  but  slinking  around  in  the  shadows  is  more  his  territory.  astarion's  fingers  curl  around  an  unopened  bottle  and  he  throws  it  —  successfully  shattering  the  thing  on  their  forehead  and  sending  their  would-be  assassin  crumpling  to  the  ground.  he  offers  synnove  a  little  wave  while  he's  at  it.  for  encouragement.