@astarigod || plotted starter
What in all the nine hells was she looking at?
In a feline mix of disbelief and fascination, Astaria stilled with those red lips parted just ajar. It didn’t take a genius to piece it together—curled ash-blond hair catching the light like tarnished silver, eyes glinting garnets, skin pale as candle wax. He looked almost exactly like her, if you stripped away the breasts and tailored it around a man’s frame.
And gods help her, he was a vampire too?! The silence where a heartbeat should have been betrayed his nature. But something about him was wrong—off-key, like a familiar song played half a step too slow.
“…Well, isn’t this a curious little nightmare.” She breathed, her tenor rolling low and amused, as though she were already bored of her own disbelief. “But then again, what isn’t? Now, I’d hate to ruin the theatrics, but why in the hells do you look so much like me?”
Astaria had no illusions about her appearance. She knew exactly how she looked—cameras these days were merciful enough to humour even vampire vanity. Crimsons studied him from head to toe, her smirk equal parts mocking and intrigued. “And honestly… what in the gods’ names are you wearing? You look like the past five centuries chewed you up and spat you out of a crypt. On a spaceship, no less.”
Ironically, with the rumours of tentacled crafts zigzagging across the American skyline lately, perhaps that wasn’t such a far cry from the truth.
