corporeity | PSL — EXSANGUE

[ Astarion probably shouldn't - and wouldn't, under normal circumstances - be wandering around bare-assed in the winter, but Gale's pants are just big enough that Astarion didn't feel like tripping on them en route to his study. Makes the sneaking thing a hair more difficult. And he doesn't mind the potential to throw Gale off-guard with his assets, anyway.

He watches the fire flare in the hearth, warmth prickling up the nape of his neck in response. ]

What gift might that be? [ Astarion flops back onto the sofa behind him, lying on his side and resting his cheek on a lightly curled fist as he watches Gale. Hopefully not an immediate missive to go to the Underdark; he's still too attuned to Cazador's endless orders to expect an actual gift. ]

[ Astarion is a strange one, to be sure. Once again, he reminds Gale of a stray cat, content to take what he likes but unused to being given much. As he falls to the side, Gale’s eyes catch on where the tunic hitches higher on his milky thigh, and he swallows, willing himself to arch a brow. Between last night and now, it’s apparent that Astarion is intentional in his flirtations — though he surely only means to disarm and distract.

Gale crouches before the sofa, levelling with Astarion. ]

[ teasing, ] A token of my affections. [ He raises one hand aloft, hovering to the right of Astarion’s eyes, a ring held between the tips of his fingers. The silver band twists and weaves in the Waterdhavian style, crowned with a red sunstone.

His attention flits between the stone and Astarion’s gaze, checking the shade one final time. ]

Just so. [ Mouth quirking, too pleased. A red that’s burnished auburn in the firelight. Not blood-dark or wine-deep. Warm. Gale curls his fingers inward so the ring falls into the centre of his palm and pulls back so Astarion might better see — and take — his offering. ]

It’s been enchanted with my magic. A personal signature, of sorts, that my tower will recognise. Wear it, and you’ll bypass the wards protecting this place, so you can come and go as you like. [ His smile hooks higher on one side, puckish. ] Mind you, it will have no affect whatsoever on the spells guarding my belongings. Fool me once.

[ Astarion arches a brow at the proffered ring, but can't quite hide the glint of interest in his eyes as the gem catches the firelight. He sits up slightly, delicately taking the ring from Gale's palm and holding it up himself, to examine it properly. ]

Darling, you shouldn't have.

[ There's an insistent voice in the back of his mind that tells him it's unwise to trust jewelry from an archmage - binding spells, all the myriad methods of control one can wield even without being a vampire lord - but a louder one that reacts like a corvid to shiny things, and so he slides it onto his middle finger, spreading his hand and wriggling his fingers.

It is lovely. And it doesn't immediately kill him, or sap the will from his body. His gaze sweeps over Gale for any jewelry of his own, catching on his earring again. Symbol of devotion, the firelight adding warmth to cool silver. ]

Do you have your own to match?

[ His smile widens into an even thing as Astarion accepts his token. In his faintly embroidered waistcoat, Gale dresses a touch less ostentatiously today, though the floral pattern and silver hardware cinch it with flair. Blue and violet hues prevail, as is his preference. Apart from his earring, he wears little jewellery. A signet ring adorns his left hand, alongside a plain band that was once his father’s.

When Astarion slips the ring on his middle finger and asks after a matching set, Gale stutters a breath. He hadn’t thought of the gesture as overly romantic, beyond the game, until confronted with an image he’s only conjured in his most human fantasies, banished to distant memory. A goddess desires nothing of the sort. Not rings or vows or family. Only devotion.

Dutifully, he ignores the blossoming ache that suggests he wants for more than divine favour. ]

Ah, no — [ He clears his throat with a cough into his fist, trying and failing to obscure a splash of colour across his cheeks. ] If I did, people would assume we’d long finished courting. [ A nod at Astarion’s hand. ] They may still, if you wear it like that.

[ It’s intended as a polite note, when he isn’t sure whether Astarion means to unsettle him or remains ignorant of Waterdhavian custom. ]

Edited (shhh) 2024-01-08 01:49 (UTC)

[ They do complement each other, with Astarion in Gale's borrowed tunic - though Astarion imagines he paints a more scandalous picture, having just rolled out of bed (or off the chaise, as it were). Gale still looks the picture of the perfect eligible bachelor, though it occurs to him that they will be making a collaborative effort to take him off the market shortly.

Astarion blinks up at Gale as he reacts, flustered - and it takes him a moment, but he does recall a very married couple seated nearby at the Yawning Portal with rings on their middle fingers. For all that Astarion has honed his seductive technique to a knife's point, he does feel something like heat flare at the tips of his ears at the implication of that level of commitment between them. ]

I see. Well, that's an easy fix.

[ Astarion slips the ring onto his pointer finger, testing the fit. Better. Easier. He sits up properly, then, crossing an ankle over his thigh and fiddling absently with the ring as he studies Gale, the soft lines of his face in the firelight, the flush to his skin. His benefactor, for now; Astarion still doesn't know what to make of his generosity, the mutual benefits notwithstanding.

He spreads his arms across the back of the sofa, with a thoughtful hum. ]

Should we discuss the finer details of our relationship? Or are we going to wing it and see what happens? I'm not bad at improvisation, you know.

[ Interesting, that there are things even Astarion takes seriously. He doesn’t quite know what to make of the brief flicker in his expression, but it’s something. Relief eases the butterflies in Gale’s stomach.

Gale rises to sit beside him, nearer the arm of the sofa than the miles of exposed skin. He leans forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped under his chin. ]

It seems wise to establish a framework. [ a sideways glance, assessing. ] The closer we hew to the truth — within reason — the better. [ waving a hand in Astarion’s direction. ]

Perhaps you’re a visiting acquaintance, a friend of a friend, and we’re only just now realising there might be something between us. [ with a sigh, ] That way, anyone I might have entertained before would have no reason to take offense now.

[ Entertain meant in its loosest sense, here. Gale has hardly made himself available, in the months since Mystra dismissed him. The only courtier he speaks to with any regularity is a clever botanist — and Clara has always seemed more interested in discussing her work than outright flirtation. ]

[ Astarion angles his shoulders toward Gale once he sits down beside him, lips curving as he considers their options. ]

Ah, yes, it was only a matter of time before you succumbed to my myriad charms. My gorgeous hair, my dashing smile... [ Astarion pushes a hand through his curls, flashing his fangs with a glimmer in his eye. ] No one could blame you, really.

[ He drums his fingers on the sofa's plush velvet, considering. ]

Are there any particular suitors I need to watch my back around? Never underestimate the volatility of a jealous noble.

[ lightly — ] Your adaptability.

[ Razzing Astarion while he can for his initial, multi-tactic approach to seduction. Fool, flirt, damsel. Gale cants his head to the side to regard him fully. What are you now?

At the question, he huffs a laugh. ]

Surely not. [ A pause, as he thinks it over again. ] I suppose there are a few regulars on my dance card… [ He snags the inside of his cheek between his teeth, considering. ]

The Reid siblings won’t be terribly pleased that I disappeared at the Melshimber affair. [ Tara already gave him an earful, for that lapse in manners. ] Perhaps… Cressida Roaringhorn. Or Aetios Estelmer, but I’d characterise his interest as sporting. [ Because these things are games, to people of their status. High stakes, for many, but games nonetheless. ] I’m nothing but a passing fancy, made all the more interesting for being disinterested. [ A dismissive wave. ] They’ll have found better suitors by the end of the season.

[ Astarion's lips and brow quirk simultaneously at his adaptability. ]

I know how to play the cards I'm dealt. [ And cheat to pull himself a better hand. Frustrating as it had been in the moment to not have a smoother go, there is a sort of...novelty to having to work for it, with Gale.

Astarion is likely not going to remember those names, but the essence will stick: that there will be competition, and plenty of eyes on them both. ]

I wouldn't undersell yourself. [ A touch more seriously, tipping his head to appraise Gale. ] You did say you are the archmage of Waterdeep, yes? If I were a noble bratling I'd put courting you much higher on my list than Lord Fartsniff who only has mercantile stakes.

[ Astarion’s suggestion that he undervalues himself on the market, so to speak, sends his eyes elsewhere. He thumbs at his earring, an old habit. It may be true that he makes economic sense. A noble bloodline, a valorised position. Not a love match, when his heart (mind body soul) belongs to another, but he has a kindly reputation. One could do worse. ]

If that’s the case — [ turning back, a glint in his eye. ] — then you’ll have to make quite an impression on the competition. [ tongue in cheek now, a tell of the quip to come. ] And maintain it for more than a few minutes.

[ referring to Astarion bolting from the library, naturally. ]

Edited (words) 2024-01-08 23:58 (UTC)

[ Astarion gives him a look, before leaning in close enough to lightly flick Gale's earring, voice low at his ear. ] I distracted you well enough to get what I wanted, didn't I?

[ And then settles back against a pillow and shifts to pleasantly normal, waving a hand dismissively. ] Besides, everyone's always intrigued by a mysterious love interest. I'll be fighting off as many suitors as you, before we know it.

[ Face warm, Gale tenses, unsure whether he’ll ever become accustomed to the way Astarion can lock into another mode so easily. Not quite flirting, this time. An attempt to tip the scales in his favour.

It silences him, for a moment, until their equilibrium returns. ]

You’ll have your chance to prove it by the end of the week. [ Though he doesn’t doubt Astarion could captivate anyone he wanted. Too skilled at this for comfort, in truth. A two-fingered rolling gesture helps him unravel his rejoinder. ]

So, however will I keep your attentions to myself?

[ Astarion asked for a patron, in their eleventh hour bargain. They’ve hardly established what that entails beyond basic provisions and the nebulous idea of protection. ]

Dare I ask what's at the end of the week? [ Baldur's Gate has its fair share of festivals, but Astarion can't quite keep up with the number in Waterdeep - and the nobility likely has parties every other day, just because they can.

Truthfully, Astarion doesn't know what he wants. Or what he needs, beyond absolute necessity. He didn't let himself dream, under Cazador's grasp; and now he has some semblance of freedom, and has no earthly idea what to do with it. ]

Well...you have offered your neck, which is a good start. [ Astarion doesn't lean into Gale's space this time, but he does reach a hand to tuck his hair behind his ear, considerably gentler than the earring flick, cool fingertips brushing the shell of it before he withdraws.

There's almost too much he could ask for, from a man of Gale's power and position. Things he could take, says a quieter voice. Astarion ignores that one, for now, and considers the amount of leverage he has with Gale at present, which isn't much. Best to uphold his end of the bargain and see how life in the tower shapes up, for now. ] I'll get back to you on the rest.

[ It’s like an unlocking, the way Gale eases as Astarion’s touch lingers light, not pushing. The coolness only makes it more real, tangible in a way that little has been for him. It reminds him of the strange moment they shared at the edge of the bath, where Astarion looked almost wanting.

And it passes just the same. ]

As you like. [ In regards to his blood and any other requests. Gale props his elbow on the back of the sofa, hand curled at his jaw. He does wonder when Astarion might ask after his throat. There’s so little written on the nature of spawn, compared to their lords. Knowing Astarion will be educational, if nothing else. ]

As for the weekend, the Silvertors are hosting their annual ball. [ an exhale that’s almost a sigh, mouth smudging across his palm. ] It is a fixed point on the Waterdhavian social calendar, around which betrothals are made and broken. As such, my attendance is not only expected but assured, along with representatives from every other noble house.

[ His focus flashes to Astarion, as if confirming that means he’ll also be in attendance. Hope lifts his features, at the thought of not facing it alone this time. ]

If you’ve need of new attire for the event, I have an open tab at Faefolk’s Finery in the Trade Ward. [ He reaches out to where his shirt has slipped from Astarion’s shoulder, tugging the fabric up and over its slope, knuckles barely brushing his skin. ]

[ While Astarion does have some experience with balls - Cazador hosted his fair share, gruesome as they were - he's far more adept at navigating taverns full of drunk patrons, common folk who mostly won't be missed. The Elfsong was his staple, with enough turnover from travelers and adventurers looking for a night of passion, but seedier establishments would also do. For all that he managed to work the other night's affair, there is a difference between skulking through the shadows and being very visibly, very purposefully on display.

And the way Cazador liked to display his spawn for his guests was a different creature entirely. ]

What a gauntlet we'll have to run. [ More of a gauntlet for Gale, of course, but still. Astarion considers the sort of wealth that will be out that night, the things he could pocket without anyone noticing. Not something he's going to mention to his host, of course.

Gale's touch brings him out of his brief reverie, unused to such casual things; he tips his head like he wants to chase the warmth, until his mind catches up to his body and he offers Gale a soft blink instead, spreading his fingers across the velvet he pulled over his shoulder. ]

I didn't bring much with me from Baldur's Gate, so I certainly won't say no.

[ We, there’s safety in it, despite the uncertainty. Surely it will be easier to demure or evade with…not a partner, but an accomplice, maybe. Provided he can trust Astarion to stay at his side and out of the host’s treasury.

His eyes flit from Astarion’s splayed hand — the sunstone glittering in the light — to his face. Can’t help the smile that blooms, soft and sincere. ]

Then you can scandalise me all you like at the modiste this evening. [ wry, based on Astarion’s showing the prior night. ] In the meantime, my tower is yours, [ wagging a finger, ] though I should warn you things have been known to move around. It can be rather — in tune with its occupants.

[ The nature of a place so imbued with magic, perhaps. ]

Just so long as I won't find myself in a pocket dimension of the Shadowfell for opening the wrong cupboard. [ His curiosity is piqued, honestly, though it's clear Gale will notice sticky fingers around the tower. Waving a hand, ] My master just had an obnoxious penchant for hidden doors. We all knew where they were, so I don't know why he bothered.

[ Astarion rises from the sofa, stretching his arms overhead. ] I'll see you this evening, then. Don't miss me too much.

PSL — EXSANGUE

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