Halsin remained blissfully unaware of what was happening just a short distance from his studies, so engrossed with what he was reading that no sound could bother him. Typically people knew better than to interrupt him of his readings unless it was an emergency... though lately the exception to that rule was in the form of a single rogue vampire. A fact that others were beginning to take notice of as well.
So when Astarion entered into the area with the scent of blood clinging heavily to his form, Halsin found himself blinking up from the book ...
Only to have the book practically thrown to the ground as he surges to his feet, crossing the distance between then in three long strides. Fingers immediately take a gentle hold of Astarion's chin, tilting his head up and then first to one side, and then the other, hazel eyes intensely gauging for any injuries... though he couldn't discern Astarion's blood from the blood that saturated his collar.
"What happened, Astarion?" his voice was low and seemingly calm, releasing the gentle hold he had on Astarion's chin as he takes a step back. He can feel his heart thundering in his chest, hands opening and closing as if preparing for some sort of fight that had yet to come to his doorstep.
Little did he know that a fight was exactly what was about to come ... in the form of one red headed elf by the name of Kagha. With the body discovered and drained dry of the blood, she had begun her march down to where Halsin currently resided...
Drabbling of events (with @never-surrender & @apalestar)
He wished he could say he remembered the Feywild.
There was some subconscious part of his memory that knew precisely which direction to venture toward, but if Tareque were ever put in a position where he had to recall the finer details, it would be a fruitless effort. Too much of his mind had been lost to the void over the years, the warping and twisting of his soul each time he regenerated from being felled or giving whim to constructs of a darker nature.
The twilight-like skies were all he had to gauge his location, the only recollection of finding his way through the mostly foreign plane. There was some ways to travel and he begrudgingly doubted he would be returning to the meeting point with Astarion within the timeline he had been given.
Aurelia is going to be furious, he realized, having not taken into account the passing of time varying between there and Faerun until that moment. It wasn't that he had been oblivious to the knowledge, but more that he'd never had reason to account for it until events of recent.
While many of his actions could be viewed as impulsive, Tareque had not run into this blindly. His unseen personal artillery of scrolls and potions was perhaps more a threat than his spinal blade, and he had no hesitation to cut down and Nilshai in his path.
The sky had blackened nearly a dozen haunting times before he finally found her, and the woman screamed a bloodcurdling yell when she spotted him, laden with the phosphorous blood of the sorcerers he'd obliterated.
"A bit overdramatic," he muttered, using the sharp of his sword to cut the bonds around her wrists.
"Tareque...?" The woman stared at him with a combination of fear and confusion in her eyes, because what mother would not recognize her own son, even beneath the ichor and rot that his own convictions had twisted him into. "What have you done?" The hushed whisper barely touched his ears, but it was enough to make his chest clench.
"What does it look like," muttered out, not at a question, but a curt response.
Her aging body clearly was not at a disadvantage when it came to aiding their escape from the settlement, but he still lifted her to carry her over the poisonous lichen that jutted from the rocks in clouds of orange sickly fog.
When they had finally cleared the most dense region of the forest, Tareque's destination became the lingering cities of glass spires, intent on returning the matron to the civilization she knew.
"No," she had decided. "The people are leaving," Callia, his mother, explained to him. "They flee to Faerun. A retreat, some say, but is it truly so if it assures survival? I want to join them."
Tareque stared to her with utter surprise. She wanted to accompany him to Faerun? The prospect of having the only family member that remained to him on the same plane was a possibility that had never crossed his mind. Yet, after abandoning the Feywild behind him, how could he ever deny her that if it was in his realm of capability?
So it was that the search for a portal began. The magic of Sildeyuir was unstable at best, so interplane openings were practically random. And when they did encounter one, it was less than optimal.
"The strength is weak," Callia said quietly. "We could not both traverse through."
Of course... Tareque simple let out a slow breath in a quiet acceptance. "Go on. I will make my own way. I will find you when I return." He handed her his sword and his bag, because those were not items that could regenerate with the lich. She looked to him with a lack of understanding, but merely nodded. What other option did she have? With that, she stepped through the portal.
Just as she had said, the weave flickered in her wake, the portal warping and snapping in a distinctive sound before it vanished entirely. Tareque waited, just in case it might reappear or leave some scar of magic in it's wake, but there was nothing but silence.
Good...
Now, that left him in quite a position. Tareque knew exactly what he was doing, however. He drew the dragger from his belt and turned his head back in the direction they had just fled from. It would mean his death, but that was precisely the intent. A regeneration was a one-way ticket back to his tower, and he would slaughter as many of the realm's invaders as he could in the process. Sure, he could have simply slit his own throat, but this was a far more dramatic way to end one of his countless lives. For her. And for Sildeyuir.
He was oblivious to how much time passed between then and when the fight of his body finally gave up, his mind spinning into that blackened state of death before the phylactery grasped his soul and began the process of regenerating his form.
The dirty stone of the crypt was cold beneath his skin.
That was the first conscious thought.
He could hear the echoing drip inside the well.
It had worked.
When his body allowed him, Tareque scrambled to his feet. He all but tripped up the stairs as he ran, rushing into the main foyer of the tower, entirely nude and -- Face first into Aurelia--!
"My love!" He planted a heavy kiss on her lips before pulling away with speed. "I will be right back!" Grabbing for whatever cloak was nearest to the door, he fled outdoors.
Was that a lamb-? No, he would worry about that when he returned.
It took fleeting amounts of magic to locate Callia amidst Faerun's borders, but when he did, he collected the woman and teleported them both back to the front of the tower.
"Is.... Is it pink?" The woman asked, incredulously.
The lich blinked and peered upward. His vision was incapable of sorting out the hue. "Is it?"
And... those were definitely animals. Oh dear. How long had he been away?
"Just a sweater? Well... that is more than you usually wear. Good on you, I suppose."
Random asks || always accepting
"If you wish to see me naked, my dear, you needn't beat around the bush." He clicked his fingers and the sweater was completely gone, revealing a very naked incubus before the poor vampire.
asterion is ... savvy, and he talks to her like a person, rather than a mere extension of her father or as a stain left by her mother. rather than deal with her father, or any of the other consorts. and asterion is from beyond the mists, and is probably more in touch with what outsiders would consider 'trendy', at least- outside of barovia.
"can you spare me a moment?" valentyna practically appears out of nowhere- well, in reality, preferred taking servant's passages- if only to avoid another run in with the others. she's holding a few pieces of parchment, a guest list- and a dinner menu.
nominally. one of the consorts is supposed to act as the host/hostess of castle ravenloft, but valentyna had been taking over that part since she had been chosen. rather- it was something that had been dumped on her lap, at least where those who weren't vampires were concerned. "i'm finalizing a few things- if you'd like to add any input, you're welcome to do so before i send the invitations out."
@apalestar Every since the cleric joined the camp and acknowledged his curse, Astarion has been weary of her. It's in his nature. But what he can not help was what he scented in her blood. Something foul. Tainted. It reminded him of something rotting. Similar to those ill-stricken or undead by his measure. For a while he said nothing on it. But the days pass and Isobel seemed to not do a damned thing about it.
And the smell was beginning to bother him. "You may wish to see to that injury of yours." He commented in passing.
As a cleric of Selune and the daughter of Melodia, Isobel prided herself in being a welcoming. To be accepting of everyone, regardless of their faith or even lack there of it. Outside of faith she also embraced the difference in personalities and race. This also extended who Astarion, whom despite being a vampire, seemed to be one of the good ones. She could trust that he would not hurt her, or the others and that was enough. His charming personality helped, too.
However she wasn’t sure the same courtesy would have been returned to her. Outside of Aylin, no one knew about it her affliction, her taint which had been apart of her since her resurrection. Luckily her sickeningly green veins were hidden well. No one would ever know. Though she found herself wondering if Astarion would notice. As a vampire could he smell the undead in her? She wasn’t sure one day until he said something to her.
Isobel had come back to camp with a minor wound, one in which she unfortunately couldn’t heal herself. She had done what she could to patch it up but healing was slow with her body being resistant to her moon maidens healing. “I can’t do that.” She finally admittedly quietly, carefully they only he heard her.
“What you’re smelling isn’t my wound. It’s me, little vampire.” Isobel said with a frown. The look she gave him practically begged for secrecy as she briefly revealed a part of the veins on her wrist before hiding it again. “You aren’t the only one cursed. Tell me what do you smell? Answer honestly, little vampire.”
♛ —— ; Sylverian found himself in Baldur's Gate,
a visit orchestrated by his dear mother, who had insisted he attend this high society gathering.
It wasn't that Sylverian didn't absolutely love social events and parties ( and being the center of attention ), but he despised politics. Unfortunately, this particular event was hosted by a high-ranking politician, and among his many admirers vying for the unwed lord's favor tonight were generals and even more politicians, all of whom were woefully uninterested in high-society gossip.
However, despite his rather... scandalous reputation, Sylverian knew how to conduct himself in public. He hid his boredom behind a mask of polite interest, nodding along and laughing softly at what they thought were amusing anecdotes about economy and warfare.
Eventually, he excused himself for a moment and made his way outside onto one of the large balconies overlooking a lavish garden, a glass of wine in hand. He hoped no one would follow, but he also knew that leaving unseen was sheer impossible given the way he looked in his diamond-studded, gold-adorned robe with a risqué thigh slit and jewelry from golden head to toe.
So, he had to be quick.
He reached into his sleeve and retrieved a small vial filled with a pink powder he had managed to smuggle in; a Silkroot blend that would hopefully elevate some of that crushing boredom that was beginning to give him a headache.
