#weavewilled

you can have some of mine.

it took all of his willpower not to jump on him the moment he made the offer. the vampire was practically drooling at the thought of it, but he forced himself to show some composure. he was not an animal. "Gale," astarion blurted out between excited heaves of his chest. he was talking to him, but he wasn't properly looking at him. crimson eyes were locked onto his throat. all sounds around them had muffled out in favor of the steadily beating heart within gale's chest; he could hear it. he could hear his pulse, nearly hear the blood in his veins carry along. "You- You're a very good friend," he commented. relax, relax. "The Shadow Cursed Lands have proven to be no hunting ground for the likes of me- Everything is... undead or... full of venom. Or just smell rancid."

never would he willingly go this long without something to eat. he would be no good to anyone at all here soon. "If you don't want me on your neck, I can drink from your wrist as well. Although it'll take longer. I can't... get much of a mouthful from there. But it's your completely your call. You sweet, generous man."

the weave spins around them in a haze, a misty fog settling in the valleys of mountains. their lessons in the weave continue when there are spare moments as the nights fall around them. magic flowing from gale's aura as he manifests the weave in a visible, palpable sensation. and now, with enough guidance and determination, the space bends to midge's own influence. a different flavor than the precise manipulations and conjurations that the wizard draws upon as easily as breathing. where gale's magic shimmers and shines, midge's is a shadowy mist. playful, mischievous, eager to tumble and roll around in the conjured space.

with eyes closed and heart and mind open, midge lets her body flow with the magic. she can feel everything. she can feel the light, the dark, the heat and the cold. she can feel the ethereal plane, so finely overlapping with their own. and with an airy inhale — she can feel gale. she can feel him, rather than see him. feel the silhouette of him in the flow of the magic around them, like a beacon of light as much as a safe harbor to anchor.

" i want, " she exhales, eyes still closed as she lets her mind open and reach for his. she imagines them close — not in body, but in mind, each inch of them hovering over the other with the temptation of contact, but never quite closing the distance.

" you, " comes the breathy reveal, the anticipation of the gap between them closing. shadowy magic grows around them, around gale, mixing with the pearlescent fog. and suddenly, all at once, the shadows thicken in density. it presses to the center of gale's back, his shoulders, his legs, urging his body to draw toward hers. and perhaps her own feet carry her a step toward him, for when she opens her eyes, the violet light gleaming from them as a candle in the darkness, their breaths share a space, her tail undulating to curl around his leg.

the tressym is what first caught the demigod’s attention, the flawless creature drawing her further into this quaint little campsite. it isn’t just the two - legged mortals who indulge in carnal desires, felines are quite capable as well. she has been swept up in this most joyous of moments, to see ketheric thorm finally slain and the moonmaiden’s offspring liberated after a century. so many mortals to bless with her kiss, so many to preen and cherish, each filled with such divine, potent desires. oh, how sharess has missed her rendezvouses in faerûn. it’s been ages since she’s been back, not too keen on how many sharran cultists lurk around every corner as of late ( the sharran here, though, given what she sacrificed to free her good friend dame aylin from her prison, she is worthy of sharess’ blessing ) — she’s done well to stay away. but this is a moment to celebrate, for the nightsong has relinquished, and who better to celebrate with than the deity who created festhalls in the first place?

` my, my, you are quite the eye - catcher, ` sharess coos, her voice as gentle as a cat’s purr, as she approaches the tressym, admiring every inch, especially those majestic wings. ah, what an absolutely perfect specimen. she’s so taken with the tressym that she almost doesn’t notice the mortal man standing close by. but when she does, she really does. golden cat eyes gleam with intrigue, long, dark, wavy hair falls neatly down to the small of her back. her curvy figure is wrapped with loose and flowing sheer, beige fabrics, intricately braided throughout, her arms and hands decorated with gold and luxurious gemstones, ` and so are you. `

I have lost the meme. ( I think the dark urge got to it first !! )

where the slight ever-present crease between her brows usually signified various levels of annoyance, it seemed to have been fueled by something entirely different now. was it perhaps pain, that carved the eladrin's noble features now? hard to find the answer behind the shining veil of feywild in her eyes... but the shift in air and nature around them spoke volumes, where koranthin's face remained impassive.

even gale could surely feel the way the chaos of wild magic nipped at the woman, how the breeze around them turned bitterly cold, as if the eladrin could step into a different plane of existence any moment. hiding from the gravity of gale's implication.