#zevstarion

Zevran: We have been laying low. What do you mean?

Wyll: Is that so? Tell me, why do both of your packs look exceptionally full today? Compared to yesterday, that is.

Astarion: I don't know what you're trying to imply here. They've always looked like that. You know that Zevran has a habit of collecting every piece of trash we come across.

Zevran: Alas, this is true. Don't worry, though. I shall turn over a new leaf from this moment onward. Perhaps some local merchants will assist me in lightening my load, yes?

Wyll: Uh-huh... Are you sure you two haven't been up to any mischief as of late?

Both: Of course not!

Wyll: Right. Then, explain these.

[Wyll pulls out two wanted posters. Astarion and Zevran squint at them.]

Zevran: Why, you can't possibly accuse us of being the culprits behind this. We just got here!

Astarion: Besides, we look nothing like those two handsome devils there.

Wyll: Astarion, you don't even know what you look like.

Astarion: And thank you for reminding me. *sniffles* You know I'm sensitive about that.

[He pulls out a rather elegant, unused handkerchief and dabs at dry eyes.]

Zevran: Yes, Wyll, what a cruel man you are. First, accusing us of such heinous crimes without evidence. Then, taunting our poor, innocent vampire about his looks. Tsk.

[He pats Astarion on the back.]

Zevran: There, there. Perhaps we should leave camp for a while. Go take in the sights to clear our heads for a bit?

Astarion: That sounds lovely. *studies his nails* I mean, unless Wylliam here is willing to compensate me for the irreparable, psychic damage he dealt me.

He is crouched behind a barricade, setting up an ambush, and a thing that looks like an octopus crammed into a snail-shell flies overhead. There are dragons nipping at its flanks. The dragons look small next to the thing, which means it’s roughly the size of a mountain, and also that this situation is far worse than the worst rumours say. There is not a lot of point in running. He is turning from his spot to look for the enemies who must be flooding the road behind him, and then the world turns itself inside out like a dirty sock and he’s unfolded in a case like an upright coffin and a squid-thing is putting a leech into his eye. His eye. He needs his eyes.

It happens like this: he is shaken loose from his cradle as the world inverts again and the air smells of sulphur and blood, and he’s got nothing but himself and a dagger and the hollowing in his skull where the leech is gnawing at him, but he’s alive, and he is not going out without a fight.

It happens like this: he falls, and is caught, and doesn’t die.

The beach is as bright and sunny as the road he should be on, and the flesh of the fallen sky-beast stinks worse than rot in the heat. There’s a girl knocked out on the beach. He steps over her with delicate care. Wherever he is, better to be armed with more knowledge before he chooses sides. He’s against having worms put into his head, and against the terrifying silent-voiced monsters that put them in there. There are cliffs to be climbed, and a magic sigil swirling with hungry-looking activity – he’s not touching that without a mage and a ten-foot pole – and the eyes of another squid-thing to be closed with prejudice. It does something to his mind, first. It doesn’t stick. There’s gore on his boots and it’s not a normal colour.

It happens like this: two pale-haired elves with sharp instincts try to catch each other out, and when Astarion gets his dagger to Zevran’s throat, Zevran has got his at Astarion’s groin.

Stranger: So, you are needing donations for...?

Zevran: For my companion! Is it not obvious how ill he is? Just look at him!

Astarion: Look at me?! What do you— I mean, haha, yes of course. Poor me, always so sick. *fakes a cough*

Zevran, nodding solemnly: It is terminal. An eternal condition, if you will.

Stranger: Uh...

Zevran: He's practically falling apart. Look at the bags under his eyes—

Astarion: Now wait one sec—

Zevran: And don't get me started on his skin! As cold as ice. And pale! So very, very pale. Deathly pale, even.

Astarion: They get it, darling. You can stop now.

Zevran: For the measly price of one gold coin, you could help this elf get a tan!

Astarion: I'm going to strangle you.

Stranger: ???

Zevran: Alas. Sounds like it's time for our backup plan then.

Zevran & Astarion: *pulls out their daggers*

Yeah, I have already proven in my last post that the brainrot is real, but I need these two to interact. So I'll make the content I want to see.

[Next]

...

Astarion: Keep your distance, darling.

Zevran: Excuse me. Are you talking to me, my toothy friend?

Astarion: But of course. Tav might be willing to keep you around for gods know what reason, but I will be keeping a close eye on you from now on.

Zevran: By all means, feel free! I hope you at least enjoy the view.

Astarion: Ha! Oh, I intend to, my dear.

...

Astarion: You know, after that pitiful excuse of a first impression you called an ambush, I was starting to wonder how you've even survived this long.

Zevran: Because of my cunning wit and stunning good looks?

Astarion: Well, yes, there's that, but that's just it, isn't it? It's like—like you remind me of a snake, perhaps. Alluring in its own way, yet oh so dangerous. Hidden, sometimes even in plain sight, yet ready to strike at any moment.

Zevran: Funny, I could say much the same about you, and you even have the fangs to go along with it.

Astarion: Heh, fair enough. Although, if you're ever looking to experience my bite, all you have to do is ask.