#rubyeyedghcsts

The fact of the matter is whether or not Astarion is ashamed of himself, Cazador will always be ashamed of him. Nothing he can do will ever be enough. He can never be subservient enough, debase himself enough. Nothing is enough. He himself will never be enough, perhaps for anyone. Still, he looked up quickly, doing his best to try and formulate a response fast enough to avoid any extra ire. Getting trapped in his thoughts whilst alone with Cazador never boded well. Best be verbal, acknowledge, and do it quick. No matter how painful. "Yes," he murmured, hating that he was actually. He'd done many things while under his master's control, but this...this night? Physically having a reminder of Cazador's control etched into his skin? He would never forget, that was for sure. "Yes, Master."

"Wonderful."

Cazador spoke with a maniacal grin as he concentrated on carving the intricate Infernal runes into his spawn's back. It was a tricky, delicate, and excruciatingly long process. Cazador had already had Astarion laid out on the surgical table in his laboratory for hours, using a sharp and thin blade to carve into his spawn's flesh.

"You should be ashamed, crying out in pain like that." Cazador growled, having to carve a little deeper. He was asserting his influence the best he could to keep Astarion from squirming from under the blade, but the pain was too much that the spawn's body was reacting involuntarily.

"If you continue to squirm and writhe as such, you will ruin the beautiful poetry I am gracing your flesh with." Cazador said, gingerly carving a curve along his spawn's shoulder blade with slow precision. In truth, he wouldn't mind the screams and whimpers so much, they were music to his ears, but he just wanted him to hold still.

"Now remember, students, cantrips may not be the most powefull of spells but they are dangerous, and are still restricted from being used in the hallways. Especially the offensive ones. I don't care how close it is to the winter holidays, there will be no more unauthorized ice skating rinks. Poor Professor Furtono is still recovering from a sprained ankle from last weeks antics. Class dismissed."

Gale watched as his students filed out of the classroom, closing the books on his desk and straightening the stack of parchment, essays written by the students. He could feel the presence in the rafters, those piercing red eyes staring down at him as he cleaned up for the day, preparing to go home.

"I..did....I tried to, yes.." he sulked his head bashfully. "is..is it alright? I followed your mother's recipe as close as I could..."

Gale gave a bemused smile as he looked at the bowl of soup he held in his hands that Astarion had just given to him. It certainly smelled all right, and it didn't look too different from what his mother's usually looked like...

Taking a spoon, he sampled a small bite of the soup, taking a moment to really taste it. After all... Astarion hadn't ever struck him as the cooking type, and he'd made this just for him...

Was it perfect? No. Did it taste good? Yes, perhaps not as good as his mother's cooking, but it was still at least tasty... And Astarion made it for him. That's what was really special.

Interesting, how fate brought people back to one another after so long. He'd always enjoyed Penelope's company, when he could. She tended to not badger him, to allow him to just sit quietly. They'd shared many soft conversations about likes and dislikes over the years, and a shared love of many of the same music pieces. The fact that she had remembered his favorite though? It actually took him aback for a moment. "It's lovely," he murmured. "You remembered..." Nobody remembered what he liked. Nobody really had ever cared. It was...nice.

Penelope smiled as she set her flute back down in her lap, her a sparkle in her reddish-pink eyes. "Of course I remembered, Silly Star." A light chuckle bubbled up from her lips and she tilted her head as she looked at him, smile still there and gentle as ever.

Everybody had been wary of him after that night, the night he took that beautiful bard's life. They tolerated him, that was all, he thought. They feared if they turned him away, he'd come back and kill them all, he was certain.

Maybe he would. He didn't know. He had no idea who or... or what he was, and that was only made more evident by the visit from that strange and disturbing... creature... that visited him after the bard's death.

But everybody was suspicious. Everybody was cautious. Everyone gave him a wide berth and a side glance. Everyone... except Astarion. The vampire had been there, giving him company, staying beside him in battle. He hadn't shunned him, or feared him...

Which was probably why he was standing a few feet from Astarion's tent, clutching onto the red velvety cape that his so-called 'butler' had passed along to him. He didn't think he'd have much use for it, but the effects of the cape... maybe Astarion could put it to good use. And people gave gifts to show appreciation, right?

He appreciated Astarion for not turning away from him.