lamentable is the autumn picker

pov: you fell out of a nautiloid

astarion wanting to speak in private comes as no surprise; after all, every member of their camp is their own walking trove of secrets. ( perhaps the surprise is his seeking her out at all —— she's far more used to being the one wandering her way over towards his section of camp looking for conversation. ) so she makes sure she follows in relative silence once agreeing, save for the way two pairs of boots shuffle through dry gravel and rough patches of overgrown weeds, her concern conveyed instead with a pinch between her brows —— a divot that remains through his explanation.

the drow —— someone they'd both apparently had on their minds since returning from moonrise. it had taken every ounce of ettiquete her mother had managed to instill in her to keep her tone civil and her hands to herself. ( that and being in the heart of the cult they were currently trying to upend, of course. ) 

”hey,” her chin dips slightly, her head canting to the side so he can get as clear a look at her face as the dim lighting around them will provide. “remember when i said you look after me and i'll look after you? after we ran into the gur?” who knows how many times in the past he'd been told something similar only to have the words carry no real meaning. “i meant it.” and that included standing beside him while being a hair's breadth away from telling someone to fuck off.

The drow's words had landed like a hand at the back of his neck, firm and possessive, dragging him somewhere he'd sworn he would never go again. It hadn't mattered that he'd refused. The way she'd spoken to him had stripped him, reminding him and, worse, showing the others exactly how the world tended to look at creatures like him. Spawn weren't people. They were curiosities. Pets. Pretty, dangerous ornaments meant to perform on command.

It stayed with him, curling tight in his chest. The humiliation. The sick, crawling fear that his new friends had seen him through her eyes, even for a heartbeat. That somewhere between the demand and the refusal, something fragile had shifted. Astarion lifted his chin and smoothed a hand through his hair, perfecting the mask. He could play unbothered. He was very good at that. But beneath it, the thought gnawed insistently.

It surprised the rest of the party then, perhaps the rogue himself as well, when without missing a stride, he plucked Astarion up into his arms as he passed. Designed for the task, indeed. He held the elf, his weapon and shield, as well as his pack without slowing his pace at all. Astarion was held firmly against Halorith's broad chest, cushioned against the chainmail by his worn tabard.

The look on Halorith's face was unreadable in a way that made Astarion briefly, vividly imagine being unceremoniously shoved into the muck just to prove a point. He tensed, already rehearsing several scathing remarks and at least one dramatic gasp. But instead, strong hands caught him around the waist and thighs, and suddenly the ground was gone.

Astarion let out a startled sound and immediately clutched at his traveling mate's shoulders, fingers digging in as he was lifted as if he weighed nothing at all. The marsh passed beneath them, safely distant, and the tension drained from him in a rush of incredulous relief. "Well now," he laughed, a soft, breathy sound he didn't bother hiding. He adjusted his grip, clearly settling in, eyes bright with amusement. "Gods, you're strong."

         PUCK   DID   NOT   WANT     to  be  a  burden,  yet  it  seemed  he  was  destined  to  be  one  without  even  a  chance  to  introduce  himself.  He  stiffened  at  the  first  sign  of  tension,  a  man  paler  than  he  was  already  objecting  to  his  presence.

There  were  quite  a  few  more  people  than  Puck  had  expected  upon  entering  the  campsite,  footsteps  silent  in  the  dirt.  He  couldn't  blame  the  other  man  for  being  wary  ;  he  was  wary,  too.  Something  about  a  crowd  made  him  nervous.  Maybe  he  was  shy  in  his  past  life.

        Or,  perhaps,  these  were  bodies  for  the  harvest.

Puck  flinched  at  the  thought  &  hoped  the  sudden  movement  came  across  as  a  reaction  to  his  newest  companion  rather  than  his  own  mind.  He  let  the  others  introduce  him,  nodding  stiffly  at  Astarion  instead  of  speaking  aloud.  He  couldn't  remember  anything  about  himself,  but  he  knew  not  to  trust  anything  that  came  out  of  his  own  mouth.

But  then  there  was  that  awkward  silence  following  Astarion's  complaints,  &  Puck  felt  his  own  skin  crawling,  so  he  finally  spoke  up:   ❝   Uh,  well,  I  -  um,  if  it  helps,  you  won't  have  to  worry  about  tragic  backstories  with  me.   ❞

A  gesture  to  his  empty  skull,  oblivious  to  just  how  wrong  such  a  statement  would  become  in  the  future.   ❝   Can't  remember  anything  to  be  tragic  about.   ❞

Then a  timid  but  amused  smile  tugged  at  his  lips  at  the  mention  of  a  circus.   ❝   What,  you  don't  like  clowns   ?    ❞

The problem wasn't the stranger himself, not really. It was numbers. Numbers were dangerous. The more bodies clustered around the fire, the easier it became for someone to notice the little things. How he never truly slept. How he never ate. How the firelight never quite warmed his skin. And gods forbid anyone started comparing notes. One loose thread and suddenly the word vampire was hanging in the air like a drawn blade.

And then there was the other risk. Revelation.

More people meant more chances for someone to decide he was no longer… acceptable. Useful was one thing. Trustworthy was another. Monsters were tolerated right up until they weren't. The decision, of course, had already been made. It always was. Complaints were acknowledged, nodded at, and gently ignored. The stranger stayed, looking apologetic in that irritatingly harmless way.

Astarion's brows shot up. "Oh, excellent." He clapped once, slow and dry. "So instead of emotional baggage, we've picked up a mystery parcel. Marvelous. Truly. Because amnesia caused by interplanar abduction and cranial trauma certainly won't end badly for anyone."

He looked around the fire, arching a brow at the others. "Does anyone here actually like clowns? Truly. I'd love to know so I can adjust my expectations of you as people." He exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening by a fraction. Yes, he was being irritable. Painfully so. But really, under the circumstances, he felt entitled to it. Imminent doom had a way of sanding nerves down to splinters, and they were collecting enemies like souvenirs.

Ok gooners HAVE SOME MORE OF HIM 🗣️🗣️🗣️

cont'd from HERE ! / @elfbled

KATYA  WAS  NOT  THE  PATIENT  TYPE.  That  much  any  of  their  companions  could  tell  -  travelling  together  for  as  long  and  as  hard  as  they  all  had.  It  was  a  miracle  none  of  them  had  killed  each  other.  Though  it  had  certainly  come  close  a  few  times.  Probably  more  than  any  of  them  had  really  realized.  How  often  had  it  been  Katya  with  her  poor  sleep  habits  to  wake  up  to  someone  trying  to  kill  someone  else?  Or  someone  trying  to  take  a  bite  out  of  someone?  It  had  been  down  right  exhausting  and  she  felt  like  she  was  with  a  pack  of  pups  quite  often.

She  was  not  the  mothering  type  and  fights  and  bites  were  met  with  far  harsher  reprimands  -  only  driven  by  Katya's  need  to  survive.  They  all  needed  each  other  if  they  were  going  to  get  this  whole  thing  figured  out  and  that  was  the  only  thing  keeping  most  of  her  companions  alive  for  their  petty  squabbles  and  fights.  Had  it  not  been  for  their  need  of  each  other,  she  probably  would  have  bit  and  ate  half  of  them  herself  for  how  annoying  she  had  thought  them.

Even  if  a  small  part  of  her  was  fond  of  them  now.  Those  first  few  weeks  had  been  …  rough.

She  blew  a  chunk  of  hair  out  of  her  face  as  Astarion  finally  snapped  back  at  all  their  questions.  Her  own  expression  riddled  with  offence  and  annoyance.  She  was  about  to  bite  back  before  seeing  how  tense  his  shoulders  had  gotten,  the  tightness  of  his  face.

Damn  it.

It  was  so  much  easier  when  she  didn't  give  a  fuck.  But  now  here  they  all  were,  going  into  a  fight  with  a  vampire  lord  practically  blind  -  of  course  tensions  were  high.  And  of  course  Astarion  was  suffering  at  the  thought  of  going  back  into  that  hell.

"No," Astarion cut in, rubbing his temple. "If I were joking, I'd at least put some effort into it." He exhaled through his nose, clearly recalibrating. "And for the record, if I were going to compare you to a dog, I wouldn't say barking." He glanced her over, eyes sharp, then added dryly, "I'd say yipping. You know, like those tiny, crusty white ones that vibrate with rage and never, ever shut up."

Astarion was aware that's not entirely fair. Or kind. Or conducive to group morale. But the truth of it pressed in on him, turning the air heavy. Maps. Plans. Cazador's name spoken too often, too casually. As if saying it aloud didn't drag every memory back with claws. He was about to see his master again. Face to face. This isn't a skirmish or a clever diversion. This is it. Whatever happens next decides whether he walk away free or remains a thing that belongs to someone else. Or worse, consumed by the Hells so Cazador could ascend to a whole new type of monstrous being.

"I need some air." And he slipped out of the room before anyone could argue, the door clicking shut behind him with more restraint than he felt. The Elfsong Tavern swallowed him whole at once. Candlelight, voices, the smell of spilled ale and old wood. And above it all, that song. Always that song, winding through the rafters like a ghost that refused to be laid to rest. It clung, insistent, each note sinking its teeth into places he was already trying very hard not to look at.