A disturbance. The minor tinge of something off in his beloved land. For he knew her as well as he knew himself. All the signs of a visitor; not the Vistani. An outsider. Brought here by the Mists. Strahd saw her in the depths of his scrying ball. The stationary crystal sphere in the private chambers of his study. Not a meal. Lamentable.
The werewolves had become sloppy to let another through in their ventures. Inattentive to be unaware of her presence. So he came to her. Out of boredom. For any outsider broke the mundanity of his existence.
He would appear as though he materialized from the woods itself. Tall and imposing in the night. "Forgive me, my lady for you seem lost." His accent thick in a dialect she wouldn't have heard before. "The woods are no friend during the night."
โ YO. TODOROKI. โ SEPH'S VOICE ALWAYS sounds harsher and more pointed than they mean it. in this particular case, she calls his name like she's about to confront him about some personal slight. but as she approaches him where he sits, seph's face is neutral, if not a little bright with intrigue. rather catlike, they hop up to sit on the table next to him, letting their gangly legs dangle off the edge. โ question for you. why don't i ever see you training without your quirk? like โ don't get me wrong, you're strong as fuck, but. โ
a pause; she runs her tongue over her teeth, spinning a little throwing knife between her fingers. how does she word this. โ okay โ hypothetical. let's say aizawa's not on our side. or let's say there's a villain with a very similar quirk. coordinated attack, you're grappled from behind. what would you do? โ
The scream of spellwork resounded behind him. The shouts of the others for Astarion to be more expedient. They paled to the words uttered from his loveโs lips. What in the devils had Orin done to him?
โOh no, thatโs not in the cards for you.โ Leave him? What had the druid been subjected to down here for him to even consider the thought? He snarled when a cultist approached, rising onto his knees. His blade slid downward from the womanโs clavicle to her heart with as much malice as Astarion could muster.
A spray of blood showered them both. The corpse yet to crumple to the floor before his attention returned to Halsin. A slow and arduous inspection of his person. The ill state of his lover served little to temper his ire and trepidation over the entire situation. His hand chilled to the touch found purchase against Halsinโs cheek. An attempt to refocus the druidโs attentions. Astarion positioned him in view; all that Halsin would see was him. He hoped it enough to knock some sense back into him. โI know Iโm fashionably late as usual. Now come on, darling. Let's get up.โ
A pat followed soon by several more. A gesture of a feline attempting to rouse their caretaker for breakfast. The longer Halsin remained insensate to his pleas, the more Astarionโs usually self-assured demeanor eroded away. โIโll get you out of here, you can be sure of that. We'll make them pay. But right now this is a wretched place to plan a hibernation.โ He'd slaughter everyone that dared to stand in his way.
The momentary distraction enough for another of Bhaalโs sycophants to meander over. This time Astarion couldnโt fully evade the knife. A nick across his upper arm. A slow line of blood seeped from the newly created wound. What decorum he still possessed driven away. He hissed with a full display of his more monstrous nature. He darted away to keep this new threat away from Halsin. Blades locked in a vicious pursuit of his prey.
it had been three months since summer had been over and the cold air of the night was slowly creeping up the child's bones. feet were barely covered. thin shoes made from hay covered the small bare feet, her clothes very thin layered, dirty and holes in the hems of them. skin dry and broken, black and blues here and there from getting whacked when caught stealing buns or apples. her survival instinct was great but even she was slowly starting to lose hope. it wasn't her first winter but it was her first winter on her own. the girl didn't know where her mother was. she'd lost her during summer matsuri somewhere.
it was dark outside already and her stomach hurt. she had not been able to eat in two days and it was so much harder to get food or sneak into places, especially now that she was old enough to be sold. most days she ended up hiding or running from the gangs of nobility.
somewhere, somewhere close she could smell something really nice. mouth watering nice. cold feet carried her towards the source, her stomach only agreeing on the plan that formed in the girls head. this was tonight's target.
through the bushes, with her frame petite and small, she could easily hide in small spots, making her way quietly over the whole small section of this estate, ducking and laying low until the kitchen eventually became silent. today must be her lucky day. the door was open and she could enter without any issues. this was great. this means she could eat to her hearts content, at least to what she could fit.
meat. there was meat. she didn't think twice about taking whatever her bony fingers could grab. all of it was tasty. even the veggies and there were eggs too. these people had to be super rich. she even found milk and took a few sips. all of it. grabbing a bento fabric she took three buns, a few eggs and some tomatoes and dared taking them along so she could eat a day or two. they wouldn't mind, they had plenty. but it was late and the place was warm, maybe if she moved inside the pantry behind one of the huge sacks of rice she could stay there for the night. she could easily leave in the morning if she got up early enough.
with a full stomach and cozily hiding in-between the bags of rice she fell asleep. this was by far the best sleep she had gotten in years. all while holding the stolen food in a tight grip between her arms.
Fingers run along the edges of the table for a second as he's inclined to think MAYBE he's found the right spot. He'd been told to meet up with his friends HERE, though judging by his sister's cryptic messages it could be a hit or miss.
"Better order something I guess."
A small grin plays at his features as he's quick to order a coffee before returning to the table he'd been at prior, notebook sliding open with some notes from his last caper that cause a grin to come to his face.
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?
The smell of blood didn't seem to want to leave his hands. Alfira's body was still laying in camp. Her body splayed, unreasonable dismantled. The smears of blood on the ground, some kind of - unfamiliar message in them. They don't want to linger and stare too much. It looks too strange. The dragonborn doesn't know what dark beast overtook him last night. Their mind is a mess, an oozing miasma, twisting against that hunger for more. The memory of bones cracking and voice silenced. Smeared gore on hand and mouthโฆ they can still taste her.
Did they devour the bard, too? It's a horrifying thought.
Yet the others had been warned, hadn't they? They had made no secret of this urge that possessed their torn, damaged mind. No identity, no trace of self beyond pain and hunger and ultimatelyโฆ disgust. Alfira had not deserved to die.
Languid movements, back to the waterside. Dipping hands to the wrist to the elbow to the shoulder, not caring about icy liquid soaking into their clothes. Just needed to be clean of itโฆ
