#netherill

More than once, Serendipity had wondered what Gale Dekarios looked like. Talk of betrothals for the sake of Astenade feels like a thing of ancient past, nowadays. He'd been a different person then, had a different life to float through. He remembers whinging and whining when his mother had told him of the 'fine young man' she'd set him up with. The letters he'd received, however, told a story with words polite and flowery. Few in number, yes, but it was enough to give the young prince hope.

Maybe, he'd thought once, Gale Dekarios could be a friend. Someone to trust, and -- with time -- love.

Now, dinner is in progress, half-sprawled about the camp's makeshift table, and Serendipity is laughing. Odd, sure, to do so with a mindflayer tadpole behind his eye, but he can't help himself. His betrothed -- they were still betrothed, weren't they? -- might look nothing like what he'd imagined, and he might not ever go back home. But they'd been brought together again, somehow.

Gale Dekarios kisses his hand, and Serendipity is relieved to find the friend he'd hoped for all those years ago in him.

astarion’s instincts kicked in, the moment flashed and passed and before he knew it there’s a body, carnage, blood dripping, staining his finger tips, breath jagged slightly. an undead heart beating, there’s this lingering feeling of pride with it all. gale was safe, gale was alive. how quaint how funny this job had stopped feeling like a job so long ago. it felt like it was his own life, everything on the line. red eyes busy, looking over his shoulder scanning for anything else…he feels him shake a hand cupping his face and it brings him back, and he hears him. may I kiss you? he asks, and game sounds so bare so genuine, scared but not of astarion. and he lets himself be pulled. who is he to deny him? and astarion folds. leans in closer, he’s never been the one to fantasize about someone. he doesn’t think he deserves something like this, in fact what they are doing may be considered beyond dangerous, but he isn’t above a reward. a creature made to kill, to maim, and all he wants in this moment is to comfort gale. he’s safe, he’s made sure of it. as long as it's possible to do so. he'll make sure of it. "of course, my lord..." it's teasing, playful. perhaps with the intent to make him settle. to tell him that it's fine, that he's alright now.

his hand moves, holds gale's face gently. (stains his face, perhaps he’s staining something else. this isn’t his place. this isn’t what he’s meant to be doing and astarion does not care.) he smirks, knowing. with a hand on the wall to hold onto he kisses him. slow, not careful of his fangs. the taste of blood spilled, and the taste of gale. astarion isn't soft, so his kisses aren't either. but he can be sweet, and at least to start and to savour he moment. he is going to be sweet. hand delicate and precise when it shifts to hold and angle up gale's head slightly, to deepen the kiss. which isn't selfless at all, astarion is greedy and he wants what he cannot possibly have. covers him, from spying eyes, from the night.

⌈ * send me✏️ for my muse to draw your muse . ⌋

it is all too easy to get lost in these stacks. that is the beauty of them, and the challenge; the impossible on offer, available only to those who have the strength to hold back. not so for them: they are above the tests of this, their most holy place. already they have been tested and come away victorious. now is the time to reap their rewards. she goes laughing, when he cages her in against the shelves - it is not an uncommon occurrence, and the goddess does so love to be wanted. she arches her neck, provocative, instinctive; her hair slips over one shoulder in endless, ethereal curtains, the nebulae of her unseeing gaze trained entirely on her love. she smiles, razor-like [ there is no other way, for her, not anymore ] and drapes the loose shape of her arms around that of his neck. overhead, the dome of a cathedral: the boundless astral, above and about, and this their very own celestial kingdom. it is perfect. he is perfect.

he  takes  a  few  steps  away  —  a  slight  sway  to  his  hips  like  the  saunter  of  a  particularly  haughty  feline.  ❝  besides, ❞   the  spawn  then  turns,  flashing  pointed  teeth  in  a  knife-sharp  smile, ❝  having  our  resident  wizard  owe  me  a  favor  might  come  in  handy. ❞

@netherill &&. liked for a STARTER.

tav finally understands that the skills i bring can help us, and so with this strange smile on my face i drag our group deeper into the recesses of the lower city until i come upon a familiar street. the dragonborn guarding the entrance is new, which means my smile may just come in handy.

" oh darling, i'm so glad keene finally has someone as strong and beguiling as you guarding the street, but i do know how to get into the guild already. you know -- " my middle and index finger of my left hand swoop down from my forehead to my cheekbone, a twinkle in my eyes. there's an acknowledgement from the guard and we are off. or well. . . on.

tav and shadowheart move to the front as i lazily describe exactly where they need to go. they don't need @netherill and i to gain an audience with nine fingers; tav has certainly earned quite a name for themselves already in our adventures. so instead, i veer to the right at the top of the stairs, pulling at gale's hand to sit us down at the familiar bar.

" severn! " my eyes alight at the bugbear, leaning forward toward him. " aren't you a sight for sore eyes. "

" 'starion. thought you'd finally gotten yourself outta town. "

" oh you know. baldur's gate's home. can't stay away for long. but uh -- you still have my favorite behind the bar? "

" mhm. and it'll still cost ya double. "

@netherill

"I would offer you one, Mr. Dekarios, but you left on short notice. You worried your mother and I sick! I thought something horrible happened to you." Like Mystra or worse. "Don't give me wrinkles, and don't sneak off while I'm hunting. At least leave a note or take me with you."

her hands are not her hands. she'd misplaced them, severed vestiges of the memory of a body, the memory of a voice. have i not sown enough death, my most unholy father - look upon this garden i have planted, sun bleached bones and ash. where is my death ?? where, father, the promised nothingness ?? have i not given you enough ??

the others are white noise around her. there are scars on this body she does not recognise : a burn mark on her upper arm, a cut in her right palm, both having hurt then healed in the time she'd been ... gone. the cleric had threatened to tie her to the bed, but there had been no need. no, she's floating, unfocused, unmoored. they'd won, someone says, it's been three days since the fight, says another, and she tries not to touch the wound inside her heart screaming that something is missing. the guilt of death tastes like rotten oranges on her tongue. funny that, when for decades she'd longed for nothing else. not decades, no. days.