#starsoared

[flameclaimed]

@starsoared | closed starter.

          There is silence, no bickering nor shouting that forces him to focus on all the noise. Where he rests, they are quiet. Light snores from Nott and the Dwarven woman, Keg, but nothing out of the ordinary. This group was anything but, after all. 

          Caleb sighs a moment, flicking a small firebolt at the base of the fire, reigniting it so that he and the others would not freeze. It is one of the few times his flame had a use, and he’s not sure if that is a good or bad thing. It was good to not use it for killing, for pain. Yes, the fire he conjured was a good thing. 

          The thoughts pass, and he is left wondering why he is still there with them. They’re on a path toward slavers that took near half his group, what did that have to do with his goal? They didn’t care about him, not the way they cared for Mollymauk or Beauregard. He was useful as a source of light, or detecting magic. He couldn’t fight like Yasha or Fjord, couldn’t heal like Jester. No, he was made to hurt. But he couldn’t even do that right. 

          “You should just go,” The sound of his voice booms in his ears. The fire and insects and the soft rustling of the grass being the only other thing making noise. “It... it is time to go. Ja, time to go.” 

          He sits for a moment, then another, and he feels his feet lifting him as he stares into the fire. The rest of him knew it was best to go now, avoid the cries and arguments and bickering the group was so fond of. It would be difficult, but he spent years in hiding. Years struggling, years starving, and he would miss them. He would miss the full belly, would miss the money, would miss the safety. It was better this way, he told himself, it was better to go without a word. To disappear in the night, and not look back. Caleb straightened himself, patting his pockets to be sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. He pulled a pack over his shoulder, a day’s rations to get him back to Hupperdook. He would restock there, use what little change he had on him, and keep going. That’s all he had to do; keep going. 

          By the time he had returned to the town, the festivities of the previous night having returned to the industrial buzz it had when they first arrived. He prayed the remains of the Nein hadn’t tried to follow him, seeing as he was already a day away from their campsite. Foot travel was less ideal, but it meant he wouldn’t bring attention to himself if he traveled by horse. He meant nothing while on foot, he was nothing. He was never something, never close to becoming something. 

          The last of his coin is spent on provisions for the coming days, hardtack and dried meats and fruits. Enough to be sure he wouldn’t starve, but there would be difficulty adjusting from the comfort he had grown fat on. Still, he hesitates. There is a feeling of need, one he searches for in each shop he enters, only to leave with empty hands. 

[firebroken-blog]

@starsoared:

 caleb’s  always  been  the  one  with  the  better  memory  out  of  the  two  of  them  –  of  course  he’d  remember  their  last  meeting  so  vividly.  (  as  if  she’d  been  able  to  forget.  )  astrid  isn’t  one  to  shed  tears  over  much,  at  least,  not  around  anyone  other  than  him.  but  she  remembers  nearly  sobbing as  they  dragged  took  him  from  her  that  night;  remembers  trent’s  cold,  unforgiving  gaze  on  her  as  she  forced  herself  to  have  some  semblance  of  sobriety  over  the  overwhelming  grief.  

             it  nearly  consumed  her,  she  remembers.

  but  this?  caleb  widogast  cannot  be  standing  in  front  of  her,  alive,  breathing,  mostly  unscathed  –  she  does  not  trust  it,  the  idea  that  she  might  not  be  alone  in  her  escape  into  a  much  colder,  darker  world.  her  hands  shake.  breathing  is  much  harder,  she  notices.  astrid  does  not  want  to  shut  him  from  her  life  when  he  has  only  so  suddenly  been  reintroduced  to  it;  but  she  is  afraid  and  wary  of  trickery.  

    her  caleb  is  not  a  trickster,  but  a  kind  man  who’d  been  hurt  one  too  many  times.  astrid  would  kill  to  help  him.  has  killed,  to  help  him.

     ‘    caleb,  i   —  ‘ astrid  feels  her  heart  seize  for  a  moment.  what  can  she  say to  someone  she  was  so  sure  she’d  never  see  again?  she  doesn’t  think  there  are  words  to  describe  the  cacophony  of  confusion  and  old  despair  rising  to  the  surface  right  now.  and  when  words  fail,  then  –

        ‘  caleb  widogast.  ‘  the  name  spoken  into  the  air  is  jarring  for  her,  and  the  world  seems  to  shake  beneath  her  feet,  and  on  instinct,  astrid  reaches  out  for  him.  anything,  his  shoulder,  hand  —  she  lands  on  his  forearm,  and  forces  herself  not  to  claw  into  his  skin.  

       ‘  i  -  don’t  know  what  to  say. ‘

There are not many things Caleb can remember from his time spent clouded in madness. From the first scream uttered by his mother and until stumbling away from a stranger with curing hands, for those eleven years, he might as well have not existed. For example: he doesn’t know if he ever said goodbye to her.

He remembers the night before their graduation: how their bodies were pressed together, warmth seeping through their clothes and flowing into one another; how he fell asleep with his nose in her hair, and the taste of salt on his lips; how they parted unwillingly, by now not a secret but afraid of the consequences of Ikithon finding them together like a pair of scared rabbits.

He remembers the taste of the simple broth cooked by her mother for the four of them: how her mother hummed as she stirred; how her father told them stories about Astrid’s childhood; how Astrid’s hand shook a little when she poured the poison while Ikithon pulled her parents aside under the pretence of discussing Astrid’s future.

He thinks ... he thinks he remembers her hand squeezing his as they approached his home.

Then nothing.

Maybe that is why he has never been able to let her go, all of these years. Maybe that is why seeing her now, looking exactly like herself, save a few hints at her now near-doubled age, all he can think is ‘ in another life, I would have asked her to be my wife ‘.

Her touch sobers him. It is an anchor. It is the closest feeling to home and a sense of belonging he has had for the better part of fifteen years. His eyes, swimming in the tears collecting there, take her in like he is a dying man and she is the angel come to guide him on his last adventure. She is so clean, and he is so dirty, and he feels entirely unworthy, but he can’t stop himself, so he reaches out for her and greedily pulls her into his arms, pressing her so close to him he nearly hopes it is enough to set back the time and bring them back to the night before graduation.

All of this without a single word.

[flameclaimed]

rests her head on his stomach. tired astrid is tired and maybe hurting. — starsoared

@starsoared

          Arm rises, hand tracing circles in her back. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, trying to let help her find rest. Exhaustion was apparent, she had been pushing herself too hard. He doesn’t say a word, and lets her lay where she is. 

[flameclaimed]

there's the sound of a lock being picked, the door not making a sound as she creeps in -- there are multiple magics she's using, and it makes her all the more nervous. but she hasn't been caught yet. ' caleb? ' astrid says, quietly, noticing the figure seated in the chair, bathed in moonlight. ' caleb, it's me. i just -- wanted to know if you were okay. ' her own voice is faltering. she moves closer, brushes her fingers along his forearm. ' say something? please? ' -- starsoared

@starsoared 

          Hands fiddle with the hem of his shirt, thinking little of the action, for he cannot think. What would shatter him, leave him entirely catatonic, he cannot recall. Here, there was no need to recollect and reflect, no need to worry about the present nor past. The future was unseen, for he could not comprehend the continuation of time. So, he remains where he was placed previously, not quite tired enough to move into bed. Eyes look out into the world, and he does not wonder what lies beyond the high fence. He does not look to the moon, longing for freedom. He stares blankly, finding a loose string, and pulls on it as the hem is undone. 

          A sound is heard, and he takes time to process it as a voice. He does not turn to meet it, for he does not know he should. The sound continues, the person speaking as though he could comprehend them. He cannot. It jumbles together in his mind, and he cannot think to wonder if they are saying something cohesive. If they speak to him, but there is one sound he does know. It is a sound referring to him, the sound the workers in the place he is in refer to him as. He has tried to mimic it, but the sound he makes scares him. Whenever he made sound, another had come to him, making the same sound as others but louder. If he could understand emotion, it was anger that sound had been laced with. He did know, however, if that sound was made, it meant nothing good. 

          When a hand touches him, though it is just briefly, he withdraws quickly. Touch was bad, he knew, it meant pain. It meant splotches of purple, it meant red seeping from him. He didn’t know why it happened, couldn’t understand what he had done wrong for it to happen. It came with the loud sound, the one the man spouted each time he made a sound of his own. Each time he had done something that they did not like. Touch was bad, he knew, but withdrawing from it was worse. 

          Head turns from the window, looking out beyond the high fence and to the moon, and he sees one that does not belong. One that has not been to him here before, but one he knows. One that tries to clear the fog clouding his mind, and he knows her. He knows her. Mind pushes for memory, for recollection, for knowledge that had been sealed away from someone he trusted. He trusted her, too. A name is pressed forward in his thoughts, the first he had in so long, and he can feel wonder and understanding beginning to stem from the base of his skull and bloom in his brain. These memories, this knowledge, this need to understand to recall to focus to come home-- 

          And it is gone. A name still dances on his tongue, but he does not taste the syllables and letters, for he does not know them. 

          What she sees is not her Caleb, for he is not Caleb. He does not know Caleb, for he cannot know. His hair has grown, it hangs in front of his eyes. He is filthy, patchwork bruises decorating his skin, cuts and scraps having clotted some time ago, but had yet to start healing. Weight has been lost, and there is the question she refuses to think of an answer to that bounces in her mind. He stands from the chair, trousers nearly falling from him, for they are now too large. Shirt hangs from his torso, hand still holding the thread that had undone the hem. Eyes are sunken, vibrant blue now dulled and fogged. Caleb was not there, for he cannot be her Caleb. He doesn’t know how. But he does see her, and there is the push to speak a name he knows but cannot say. Instead, a single tear slides down his cheek, and the sensation scares him. Slowly, he steps around her so he may lie in bed. Body aches as he curls into a ball, knees tucked closely against his torso, and shoulders tremble as he begins to sob. He doesn’t know why, because he cannot know.

[flameclaimed]

starsoared is pretty fucking awesome though and I'm really glad we have an astrid.

Positivity | Accepting

@starsoared heart eyes emoji 

[flameclaimed]

' i need you to stay with me. ' ( from starsoared )

idk what this is its been 84 years @starsoared 

   Mind moves at miles per minute, too much chatter too much noise too much sound. He cannot focus, he cannot see, he cannot hear. The rattle in his rib cage, the shiver in his skin, he has to be breathing. The heartbeat hammering in his ears, he has to be living. There’s pain in him somewhere, somewhere he cannot place. Something is bitter on his tongue, but it shifts and becomes metallic instead. Vision blurs in and out of focus, he can barely see Astrid.

   She speaks, and it is mumbled and buried in the rest of the world. Every sound, every second ticking by, he knows she is there. Something in him hurts, he feels like he is being turned inside out. He feels like he is being turned inside out. His insides are coming out.

   He screams. He screams something horrible and feral, fingers pressing into his abdomen in sheer torment and desperation. His stomach was melting, it was writhing up his throat. It would spill from his lips in a mix of green and black and red, putrid and disgusting. He felt like he was going to die.

   “Leave him!” He can hear his mentor command, and it was to warn Astrid of her actions. Right, we are training. She was always good with poison. He can imagine Eadwulf laughing later, reminding Bren that she had a knack for the worst. She would be the best of the trio.

   Bren would see it as a challenge.

   “Bitte, make it stop. Mein Stern, make it stop.”

[volstrecker-blog]

' c'mon, wulf. you know i'll be good for you, i'll always be good for you, it's all i want. ' her voice is so quiet it's nearly incoherent, and she's close to just babbling at this point. she freely begs, a slew of ' please please please ' she's sure won't convince eodwulf, but it's all she has. ' wulf, please, please... ' -- starsoared uwu

@starsoared

He listens to her begging, a mess and needy. He taps his pen to stray the excess ink from his quill and stays silent as he finishes his correspondence. The contraband had been just a little processed consumables, nothing big. But examining them and naming them harmless, and dipping in to the stash had been two very different thoughts. The buzz had been pleasant for him, but something about it had struck her like lightning and fire, and he had to hide the last of it to ensure she didn’t abuse it while he was out on business.But how pretty she begged, and they had a week before they even had to return to Rexxentrum. He clicks his tongue and sets his quill down, before reaching in to his pockets to produce a small folded wax paper medicine packet. 

          “Come here, head on my lap, love.”

He prompts, cooing softly as he opens the packet. The paper flips crisply and he scoops his pointer finger through the small smear of tacky dark magenta paste on the center fold. Once she’s before him, he cradles her face in one hand, tugging her bottom lip with his thumb to get her to open up. His finger paints the paste along her gums, intimate and familiar. One streak to the left, then one to the right, before taking his finger back and taking the rest of the remnants for himself. It’s gritty between the top of his lip and his gums, but a warm numbness settles in his teeth as it soaks in.             “Go ahead, get in bed, love, I’ll come check on you              in about twenty minutes, okay?”

[flameclaimed]

' not yet. tell me how badly you want me first. ' -- starsoared

nta | no longer accepting @starsoared

   Hands are tied to the bedpost, ankles subdued in the same fashion. He agreed to this after all, something grounding. She would force him to stay within his mind, and he would be at her mercy. They both took pleasure from this, some foul interest in having one spread beneath the other, unable to stop what happened to them.

   Astrid had swallowed him whole, humming to herself as she worked him. His eyes closed, mouth agape, his breath voicing his enjoyment. He pulled at his bindings, toes curling as she continued, only for her to grab his base tightly and smile from his head.

   “Not yet, tell me how badly you want me first, schatz.” She always did love teasing him. Caleb trembles beneath her, feeling the heat in stomach begin to stretch across his entire torso, heart in his ears,

   “Bitte, meine liebe, bitte. Take me, please take me--” In his pleas, her other hand continues the work her mouth had started. Fingers still pressed firmly around the bottom of him, he squirms. Perhaps he hopes to break her hold, brief as it may be, so he can leap from where he rests. Caleb teeters on the edge of climax, one foot already over the edge and he begs her to push him off. There is a grin on her face as the hand tat restricts him is moved, now trailing over skin too sensitive for the softness, and he takes the chance to come down. He finishes harshly, heavily, ropes covering her hand and his stomach, back arched as he does. Breath ragged in his lungs, eyes rolled back in his skull.

   “Shall we go again?”