#faebhaal

There's a pause, before he grins. "It's the crunch isn't it? They're satisfying to chew on. You get it. You understand." Finally he feels validated. Take that Katya.

The crimson bath is warm around him, thick with the blood of the men who dared to disrespect his spawn. His fingers, pale and elegant, lazily swirl through the surface, sending slow ripples through the dark liquid. Across from him, Ithaca reclines in the marble tub, her dusky orchid skin gleaming beneath the blood’s sheen, an intoxicating contrast that drives his desire deeper. Astarion’s gaze lingers on her, unblinking, a dark fire burning behind his crimson eyes as they trace the lines of her body, one he knows intimately now. His creation. His perfect work of art.

❛ Gods, ❜ he mutters, breathless with the dark rapture of it all. In his blood-soaked hand, he holds a golden goblet, brimming with the same lifeblood that surrounds them. But the goblet pales in comparison to the feast before his eyes——the way the blood clings to her, tracing her curves like a lover’s caress, painting her in the very essence of what they are. She is even more stunning than he had imagined as a vampire——more exquisite, more his. ❛ I could stare at you forever, you know? ❜

He shifts, moving closer through the bath of gore with a feline grace, his legs sliding alongside hers beneath the surface, trapping her in place with a possessive ease. ❛ I don’t think I could ever create a more perfect creature, ❜ he murmurs, his voice low, hushed as though the truth of his words is a sacred thing. Because it is. Ithaca, now fully his, with those stunning, blood-red eyes that mirror his own, is the pinnacle of everything he’s craved for so long——power, beauty, and most of all, loyalty.

He leans forward, offering her the goblet with a soft, almost indulgent gesture, like a king sharing his prize with his queen. ❛ Drink, ❜ he urges, his voice a silken purr. The blood within the cup and all around them belongs to those fools who had dared look at her, their desire bold and offensive. They hadn’t understood, of course. They hadn’t known that she belonged to him, only him, and now their blood would serve a higher purpose.

❛ How are you feeling this evening, my love? ❜ he asks, his voice deceptively soft, though there’s a glint in his eyes, a darkness beneath the surface. He’s curious, yes, but more than that, he wants to know. Wants to hear her say that this life—this eternity—is what she wants. That she’s thriving under his care. ❛ Still as overwhelming as yesterday? ❜ He tilts his head, almost feigning concern. He remembers his own turning well——the shock of heightened senses, the overwhelming lust for blood, the endless hunger that gnawed at him in those early days. Cazador had used it all as a weapon to control him, to mold him into the perfect servant. But Astarion? No, he would do better. He would give Ithaca everything, lavish her with luxuries, blood, adoration——all of it.

@faebhaal

"Ithaca-" Iago starts their monotonous acknowledgment but freezes when she puts her arms around them. It isn't startling since she made her presence known well enough, but more often than not, Iago finds themselves adverse to physical contact. Particularly to anything that involves grabbing them.

Ithaca is - if Iago were to rank those in the Bhaal Temple ( they have. ) - rather high up in comparison to any of the Bhaalists and, notably, Orin. Puck still remains at the top, but that's a given and should hardly count, seeing as that position would be impossible to challenge.

Yet, when her hold on Iago tightens, a familiar, claustrophobic panic starts to crawl up their throat.

"You know I don't like to be held," they force out, still monotonous and calm despite the fact they've gone perfectly still other than their hammering heart. It's a well-known fact considering most Bhaalists who so much as brush against Iago in passing end up with charred stub where a limb should be.

Through the rise of panic, they try to recall what Sylvan they know. Their interest in language has been harder to fuel in these ever-busy days, but they understand at least part of what she says, "Yes. Good morning, Ithaca."

&&. THE BAG OF BONES ！☠︎︎ 𝐈𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐗 。

@faebhaal sent:

"Oooh look at me! I'm Puck! Bark bark bark...." she's snatched his hat when least expected.

𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬。

          ❝ I think perhaps your jokes are growing a bit tired, dear. That is a very unoriginal, uninspired imitation of ⸻ YOU ANIMAL ！！！❞ 

@faebhaal sent: i know who you are. / @faebhaal

~ A simple brow raise is all Ithaca receives in response. Solas's face remains decidedly neutral with no sign of perturbation; there is no alarm, because he believes there is no possible way that the fae could know what he truly was. ~

The succubus walks with a slow, languid confidence, the hem of her silk nightgown whispering against pale thighs. It’s a stark contrast to the carnage of earlier, but Nepharia thrives on contradictions. A demon washed clean, skin and wings gleaming under the pale moonlight like a goddess stepping out of some darkened myth.

She spots Ithaca at her tent, seated amidst the flickering shadows cast by the campfire. Around them, the goblins celebrate their victory, loud and brutish, their howls mingling with the crackle of the flames. The scent of burning wood and roasting meat fills the camp, but Nepharia hardly notices. Her senses are sharper, more acute after the battle——keen enough to pick up the faint sweetness in the air around Ithaca. The woman smells of peaches and gardenia, a light fragrance that lingers even after blood has been spilled.

Nepharia's lips curl into a sharp smile as she steps into the light of the fire, holding a bottle of dark amber liquid. The night feels ripe for indulgence. After all, what’s left to do once the bodies have fallen and the screams have faded but to drink and relish in what they’ve done? She steps closer, the bottle swinging lightly in her hand, and releases a breathy laugh that feels more like an exhale of satisfaction than humor.

❛ Want to drink about it instead? ❜ she offers, her voice silky smooth, a note of mockery dancing beneath the surface. She raises the bottle, letting the firelight catch the liquid inside, the promise of something stronger—something far better—than the swill the goblins have been passing around like mindless animals. ❛ Promise it’s way better than whatever shit the goblins are guzzling. Probably their own piss. ❜

Her smirk deepens as she watches Ithaca, the way the firelight flickers against her dusky rose skin, making her seem almost ethereal, if not for the madness Nepharia saw earlier in those strange violet eyes. The savage glee, the hunger. It’s funny, really. Nepharia had assumed the pretty little thing was softer than she was. She had been wrong. ❛ I have to admit, ❜ she purrs, the weight of her words deliberate, ❛ you surprised me today. ❜

Her gaze travels over Ithaca with open appreciation, eyes narrowing as if seeing her in a new light. The woman’s beauty is undeniable—iridescent, and the delicate features that wouldn’t seem out of place in the dreams of some lovesick mortal. But Nepharia knows better now. She knows that behind that pretty cover lies something darker. Something dangerous. ❛ I should probably stop judging people based on their pretty pink covers. ❜

"whoa! That was a close one! You marrowly escaped decapitation! It's almost like they had a bone to pick with you." / (haha I'm only a lil sorry)

Funny.

If only it didn't literally involve the fact that Connor's skull almost did in fact, get swiped off his shoulders. The undead looks over towards the woman, then to the casualty.

The assailant is dead on the ground, an array of eldritch blasts having left holes in their body. Pure energy left his fingertips in four beams at a time, and that's all it took to wipe this person's life straight out of existence.

Not how Connor wanted it to go. There's a sense of solemness to it all.