#sanguinelf

[limpfisted]

@sanguinelf [ ( CONT. )MIRROR MIRROR, see straight through me, what is fair and what is beauty? ]

The air is stale, and Wyll feels boiling hot. He's so tired of sweating. He's so tired of how he smells different. How his skin has a different texture in sensitive, sweaty places. How his good eye now seems to match Mizora's in its infernal touch.

He would've preferred not to be able to see in the dark--than to see this pretty lake, so beautiful when bathed in sunlight--turn to such a pale shade of grey at night.

He forces himself from his thoughts, to focus on Astarion's swishing step and saunter, his honeysuckle, sucked thin sweetness. But it doesn't last, not long enough. And Astarion notices, like he seems to notice every trap---and Wyll feels just as disarmed.

He breathes a heavy sigh, and even his shoulders seem to exhale as his neck sways, his horns tugging to either side as his head swings and joints ease and knot back together.

His voice comes out a groan, a desperate plea, a cross between a yawn and a psalm in his dreamy dedication to it.

"What do you see, Astarion? When you look at me?"

He looks away, out into that pale black lake. It does not move, it does not shine. It simply sits and watches back, as if an abyss, a void, a black hole, like this air---where everything is stuck and humid---but the volume is too shallow.

"When I was young, I---" Had very few friends. Spent all my time studying and training and playing monster hunter. "I was much sought after in the ballrooms, you know. I would dance all night long. My father had to drag me away come morning."

He smiles, at the half-true memory.

"But I don't see it, any more. That was so many scars ago. And now..."

"I'm not young." And God did not come for me when I was. He did not freeze time, he did not coat me in glue and shake me like a snowglobe every Christmas. If there were glue, perhaps he would not fall apart so easily. If he was tucked away, perhaps he would be safe from harm. If It was Christmas, maybe God would have stayed, and I would still be his son.

"That was so many scars ago."

"I do not recognize this face in the mirror. How could I? I have hunted a thousand devils and stolen two thousand horns. And now I wear them. And they do not fit. And they are heavy." And the burden of the guilt is heavy.

"Do I look like a monster to you...? I was once your mirror. Be mine. What do you see." It is not a question, but a demand for an answer.

[bhaalswn-arch]

continued from here. ( @sanguinelf )

his jaw trembled as he tried to keep his emotions buried deep within, where they had been tucked away for two whole centuries. but such sentiments had never been spoken to him before. "I know I can be... a little much, sometimes." a tear slipped past long eyelashes and he tried to casually touch it away with the back of his finger knuckles. "But I had truly convinced myself that there was no such thing as good people in this world. I was wrong." when there was one, there was more. it was impossibly hide now, the pure, raw feelings that had surfaced at alkas' sentiment. there were people who cared, people who wanted the best for him; he was so, so wrong. "I'm sorry," astarion sniffled and tried to laugh off his embarrassment, dabbing at either of his cheeks with the ruffled end of his shirt sleeve. "But you all... really do mean everything to me. You're putting it all on the line here, to help me, and get nothing in return-" the only one who gets everything out of this fight is him. and they want to give it to him. no, no more tears. the elf looked up, trying to fight them off. "Cazador's arrogance will be his fall. He thinks he's untouchable, and he might have had me fooled for some time, but not anymore. He has no idea what's coming to him. We can do this. And I'll never need to be frightened of him again."

His gaze softens, and then it lowers, mostly glancing at the floor before sweeping his attention back to Astarion. "I'm not a good person, just so you know. But." There's a pause. Alkas can't see himself as a good person. Not when he knows he's done a lot of bad stuff. To discover what cruelty he committed. "It doesn't stop someone from doing the right thing." He reached out, a hand on Astarion's shoulder - an act of comfort as his fingers squeezed the muscle softly.

"We can do this. Cazador doesn't have what you have. Cazador does not have friends. I think each individual person of our group wants a slice of freedom. From Karlach to Wyll. I think we do get our reward. We do get something in return. We get to see your happiness. It might not be money nor jewels. But it's valuable."

A thought crosses his mind, and Alkas looked at him more, searching for the opportunity to say it. He breathes in slowly before adding: "Can I hug you, perhaps?"

[weavewilled]

@sanguinelf - cont.

GALE WOULD WORSHIP EVERY PART IF GIVEN THE CHANCE. Press his mouth to it, murmur affirmation into every inch, take hours and days and weeks and years to learn every part by touch. That's the romantic part of him; he loves with his entire soul, yearns with every part of his body.

He senses the hesitation before Astarion says anything at all; they know each other well enough by now that he knows when something is off. And in that moment, he's slowing, dark eyes lifting up, up. There's a question in his eyes — and it's answered before he can ask.

He stops, immediately; his attention immediately shifts, and he slips back up the bed to settle alongside him, close but not touching, letting the rogue close the distance if he pleases. He leans in, and kisses him as asked; it's sweet, soft, fingers brushing against his cheek. Gentle. And when it breaks, there's a little smile there, and it's a little worried.

" Of course. Do you want to stop? We don't have to do this. "

[haresvoid]

“&– - .....Not a question most would willingly ask me and desire an actual answer.....” // @sanguinelf

[infernalbarbarian]

one muse physically lifts the other up - karlach throwing Astarion over her shoulder like he weighs three grapes

they had just taken out the last of the enemies in combat, and karlach’s feet were planted firmly in front of an unconscious astarion, letting her robust physique become his biological shield. the vampire had taken a club to the head, which was very swiftly avenged by a harsh swing of karlach’s bloodied battleaxe. “poor fella,” karlach chirps, once the violence has subsided and their adversaries are put down. she looks down at him, his mouth slightly agape — she just knows he would be embarrassed if he could see himself now. she bends down to check his head, making sure there isn’t any bleeding, and checks his pulse, before picking him up and gently setting him over her shoulder quite easily, “let’s get him back to camp and lie him down.”

[thiefscant]

        "well. that didn't work." a statement of the completely and infuriatingly obvious, following almost a full minutes' silence. after all auntie ethel's assurances she could do something about their little tadpole problem, she hadn't the power to do anything after all. and now the hag was gone, leaving anais to stew in the failed attempt. in what it had cost her. her left eye, for that had been the one ethel took, ached in the socket, and there was a soft halo around everything. a slight blur. shit. if the hag were still around, she might stick a knife in her.

        turning to her fellow travelers at last, a slight frown was the only sign of any distress. "i guess we'd better start looking for the damn druid." if nothing else, he might know more about the magic these parasites were infused with.

starter call — accepting! ↳ @sanguinelf

[bhaalswn-arch]

continued from here. ( @sanguinelf )

sensitive vampiric hearing could pick up much more than most mortals; in this case, the simple crunching of ground beneath one's foot. astarion whipped around: it was night and he had been alone. he would have preferred any man or beast (as he could take their lives and pretend as if it never happened!) over alkas. he was drenched. his face, his neck, the front of his shirt were wet with the lake water that he was kneeling over. he had attempted to wash the crimson out, but it was still prominent on the white of his clothing. perhaps the water had even made it worse, the way it was now soaking down the threads of the fabric. "I-" the rogue's words were caught in his throat. he scrambled up, trying to present himself as tall and proud but the panic was clear on his face. what might the other think? vampires were not welcomed in society, they weren't trusted by the common. there were organized bands of folks who dedicated their entire lives to hunting spawns like himself. "Please. Allow me to explain myself."

It was another night, and you know what that meant? The likelihood of a certain someone not sleeping and patrolling. ( Or so you had pondered. ) And since Alkas tried his best not to sleep either. As he wanted to avoid what his unconscious self might paint, Alkas got up and wandered around; no lantern in hand. Darkvision was enough to see, and what he saw by the lake was ... it was odd.

But it seemed Astarion heard him first by his movements.

He saw the blood, something that looked more diluted; wet from the lake water and now spreading. Blood from someone else. ( Oh, but you imagine the death; it's absolutely clear in your mind. The blood spilling down. You hinder your dark thoughts. You do not know why these rancid images come from and you do not want to find out. ) Alkas stepped back, his golden-brown gaze searching. "Astarion, what did you do?"

[limpfisted]

@sanguinelf CONT.

"I learned to braid from My Mother." Wyll says, as his delicate too-warm fingers weave and twist around Astarion's pale waves. "It's not the same, braiding straight pasty elf hair---" He teases. "But my Flaming Fist 'cousins' would beg for her attention at dinners. And I would watch her delicate hands deftly curl through hair. She knew every possible way to do hair, it seemed like. Dwarf, orc, drow, every kind of human and elf. My Father once joked that she did not become a bard to go on adventures and learn every culture---she just wanted to be a hair stylist... Or, in his words... a 'bard-ber.'" Wyll pauses for effect, the same way his Father did, with the same goofy suppressed grin that makes his tight-lipped full-pressed smile look even goofier. He returns to his work, nimble fingers, like his Mother's.

"She then replied it was just a shame that he was bald, so he would never know her loving, talented touch. To this day, I fear my Father's hair loss."

He finishes and spins around him, laying soft on their bed in their shared bedroom on his side, like an Academic lazing in a University courtyard, flirting with another pretty student.

"I plaited your hair with wire and beads, the way Moon Elves do. My Mother once courted a Moon Elf girl on her adventures. She told me she had pale skin, like you, hair as snow white as a fairy tale Princess, and the greenest eyes. I bet your eyes were even more green. Even now, that stark, gorgeous red as thick and base and shimmering splendid as an oil painting of rubies nestled in the whitest wood. I can barely ever take my eyes away."

"I picked out beads that match your eyes, and hers. Red and green, rubies and emeralds. It may or may not have costed a small fortune, but... shouldn't the Grand Duke's consort have the best? You deserve only the finest things."

He sits upright, careful, as he leans in and gingerly traces the parts in his hair. "Plaits from the roots of your sideburns back, showing off the tips of your pretty Elf Ears, and more of your own gorgeous neck. A water fall braid lined with the wire, the emerald, the rubies. It looks like a crown. That perfectly coifed hair looks utterly voluminous. And it always frames your face so perfectly. Couldn't bear to touch it."

"You look like a different person, honestly. I can see you doing High Elf-y things. Going on High Elf-y adventures in the woods. Charming all the High Elves in your village with your serious frown, and handsome edge of maturity and experience."

He leans over to the bedside table, picks up the book he's been hiding from Astarion for days now. He may or may not have bought a book of Elven Hairstyles after seeing the High Elves that Astarion had looked at with so much longing, before he so much as thought of trying it out on him.

He thumbs to the page his favorite book mark is nestled into---Wyll does not believe in dogearing pages.

"My work doesn't look nearly as good as the picture," he lies. "But this was... my inspiration. You look just like him. The man in the picture could be your Father."

And so it is. Wyll had picked out the hair style of a Moon Elf with Astarion's white skin and hair and chin and nose and eyes. A handsome sort, every bead and braid placed in the exact same place. Perhaps less thin, and more broad, but nothing less than gorgeous, just as Wyll sees him.

Hair is culture, and culture is family. Who are you without either? Wyll... Wyll wanted to give him a little taste of both.