In the cold sobriety of morning, trepidation sits heavy in the pit of Gale's stomach. While he'd rather not look his loneliness so clearly in the eye, there's no denying the desperate, hopeful interest he'd felt when Astarion had issued that easy invitation. The warmth of the previous night's flirtation wasn't just the flush of wine. But he's embarrassed by it all the same.
That said, to simply drop the subject would cowardice. No: he's due for a visit to Baldur's Gate regardless, so best to manage expectations in person. He can politely explain that even with the orb stabilized, the day won, he's no longer the sort of man to just jump into bed with someone. Only. When he tries to rehearse the gentle let-down it rings false. Astarion isn't some stranger. Even when they'd travelled together there had been — something, maybe.
Suffice to say he hasn't really made his mind up, but he bathes and picks out some well-cut robes and trims his beard as if he's going out to a function, packs a small bag and kisses Tara's fluffy little head and teleports himself the leagues south necessary to call in on his vampire friend, wherever Astarion is staying these days. Does not, as it happens, end up in any sort of demiplane, erotic or otherwise.
For all that he'd issued the invitation, Astarion doesn't wholly believe Gale will take him up on it. There was no small part of him that did just want to see what would happen if Gale did attempt a teleport, especially after learning about that wonderfully lecherous little realm a bunch of presumably unsatiated wizards had created. Gods, the stories one could tell about that place alone! But the truth of the matter is that he had, albeit more subtly, propositioned Gale a few times in the past. Mostly in jest, he told himself, but he never did fully acknowledge the little pangs of disappointment when the hits didn't land. They had enough to deal with at the time anyway. It was probably for the best.
Still, when the opportunity presented itself, he couldn't exactly pass it up. The point was made this time around. Though Astarion anticipates some sort of apology for the wizard's drunken conduct within a few days or simply a non-acknowledgment the next time they speak. More of the same, really. He knows he can brush it off with equal forced disinterest and move on, as he always does. Because he can choose to do that now. (And saying "no" has only made the times he wants to say "yes" so much more important.)
Baldur's Gate has been his home for centuries, but for it to feel truly free again is still something of a novel thing. He's yet to fully put down roots almost as if he's afraid they will fall through his fingers. For now, what coin he makes from the contracts he takes—or the pockets he pilfers—goes to inn rooms. Nice ones, too. Or as nice as he can reasonably weigh. Because he deserves nice things and has quite a bit of time to make up for.
The current room is one he's been in for nearly a month. It's far enough away from Cazador's Manor that it feels like a fresh start, with a view of the eastern city when eh can open the windows at night. A room all to himself, something wholly his. Where no one else can enter unless he invites them. Which is what makes the telltale sounds and the scent of magic prying apart the air a little surprising.
Astarion looks up from where he's leaning over a short desk, brows raised nearly to his hairline as the swirl of purple emerges just a few feet away from his bed.
Gale came?
"Well..." He straightens, expression smoothing out. "Look what the cat dragged in. Or—what was it, 'tressym'?"
"I left Tara at home, actually," Gale says, brushing off his robes unnecessarily. Not out of fear for her safety (really, she's a summon, even if Astarion did the worst thing possible she would only be popping back to the Feywilds until he called her back) but because regardless of how this goes it is definitely not suitable for her furry little ears.
She, and probably Gale's mother, would scold him for not doing this in a way that started with a knock at the door. Terribly impolite, but teleporting to the city and trying to find Astarion would take so much more effort. Easier to scry and jump. Besides, he had an invitation, of a sort.
"Hello," he says at least, even though that's also unecessary. Astarion looks — wonderful would be an understatement. The juxtaposition of his stunning beauty and the mundanely of whatever he's doing is particularly affecting. Gale drags his eyes away to look around. "These are nice rooms." Are they in the Upper City? The Elfsong had been a welcome relief after so long on the road, but it was hardly the kind of luxury Gale was used to. "I do hope I'm not intruding, I felt any further conversation should be had in person."
Robes that, Astarion notices, are a cut above the fare he had gotten used to see Gale about in when they were unwittingly adventuring. It's easy enough to chalk it up to the fact that they can all now live as they wish, for the most part. And he had pegged Gale early on for a man of more expensive tastes, even if sometimes his sense of fashion would indicate otherwise. (Nice fabrics and poor execution, tsk.)
"Hello," he says back in almost a purr, audibly amused, remarkably patient for once. Gale has deigned this visit, after all, and he's curious to see the lead the other man takes. Thought he comment on the room does properly pat his ego.
"Of course they are." Astarion looks around. "I have exquisite taste and I deserve nothing less." The warmth of the wood and the drapery closed tight over the windows——some even with pins——all give an aura of modest opulence. There are larger rooms and even suites available, but Astarion is making due with a bedroom, a small sitting area, and a private bath. But his attention returns back to Gale when the matter at hand is broached.
Ah, so this is about last night. Theory two out of the window.
"Oh?" He guards the bit of anticipation he feels in his gut with a smile. "Well, I did very generously invite you into my bed last night, though your landing his a bit off."
He nods to said bed. A few feet to the right would have done nicely.
"So you did." Gale takes a step towards the bed, and then another, apparently choosing to correct his aim after the fact. He sits at the foot of it, perched on the edge, mattress dipping beneath his weight. Maybe a response in and of itself.
As much as he's doing his best to seem confident, there's visible nerves in his linked fingers twisting at each other, the hint of a ruddy flush starting to creep back into his cheeks and around the back of his neck, answering a question about blushing that Astarion had asked and he never actually answered.
"We have established my experience with this is primarily theoretical, outside of some schoolboy fumbling and — communing with divinity." By all the hells, this is absolutely not what he rehearsed. But curiosity is as much his sin as pride — and he isn't at all immune to Astarion's charms. "But I have read extensively on the subject, so perhaps I will surprise you. If you're still, interested, that is."
To Gale's credit, Astarion isn't actually expecting him to sit, which immediately piques his interest. Turning to face the other man fully, he raises a brow just so. Gale is fidgeting in that way he's seen the wizard do several times before, albeit in different settings. A nervous energy he can't shake off that usually culminates in an onslaught of words that Astarion is somewhat prone to tuning out.
But not now, not like this. Not when he can practically smell Gale's blood rise to the surface with a blush blooming across his skin.
Oh. It hadn't been just a drunken dalliance. Gale has been...considering. Now isn't that a lovely little surprise?
Of course, the way that Gale goes about it is painfully clinical. Astarion cocks his head to the side, not bothering to hide the amused twist of his lips.
"Oh darling, you've already surprised me," he says as he takes one step forward. And then the next, like a cat slowly walking towards its prey. Or maybe more like a bowl of cream, offered up so plainly, without any of the fuss and need to pounce.
But he would very much like to pounce.
"And here I thought you might be getting cold feet..." He stops once he's right in front of the wizard, their knees almost touching. "I'm not interested in theories—but if you need a practical demonstration, I would be happy to oblige."
If he's honest with himself, and he tries to be a little more moreso these days, what he would like is to court Astarion properly before agreeing to this. But he suspects those attentions would not be welcome. The best he can hope for is to hold his interest beyond just the novelty and first night appeal of being deflowered (not that he's — but it is the dynamic, at play, isn't it? As careworn and long in the tooth as he is, for this he's as much the ingenue as he was his actual first times.)
Gale looks up, regarding the pale elf standing over him, the predatory gaze like lightning down his spine. Unlinks his worriers hands and leans back on one, freeing up his lap. Touches Astarion's thigh with the other, hand warm through the fabric of his trousers. An innocent enough touch, but his pulse picks up like he just palmed Astarion's cock. Certainly he's thinking about it.
"I trust you know your own mind," he says, meeting Astarion's gaze with the biggest wettest brown cow gaze. "So I won't ask if you're certain." Gale's barely bloody certain, of two minds about everything that's lead him here, logical thought versus more prurient drives. And yet, because he's read too many books and because he cares too much: "But — I shall do whatever you ask of me, Astarion, and that includes stop or leave."
The gentle touch is a silent encouragement, one that coaxes Astarion forward to close that distance until their knees to hit. He's always rather liked Gale's hands, having seen them put to practical and magical use—whether it be watching him turn the pages of an old forgotten tome, deftly chop parsley for some savory stew for the others, or his fingers dancing through tactile memory of an incantation, they are nice hands. Ones he would rather they move other places, but this is a start.
I trust you know your own mind.
He does. Now he does and he can allow his whims and wants to manifest. It's been a while since he could confidently say that this offer was his, this choice is his, and he's enjoying the journey. Of watching the way Gale looks up at him with those impossibly brown eyes and a mix of trepidation and excitement. Astarion doesn't feel the need to pull back in himself, not now. Not to dull the world and go through the motions of seduction.
No...not when Gale says things he probably doesn't realize Astarion has been wanting to hear for far too long—
...and that includes stop or leave.
Astarion pauses, a bit of the suave confidence he so naturally exudes wavering despite himself. Gods...more treasured words couldn't be uttered.
He quickly shoves the awe down into the warmth that blooms in his belly, determined to regain what he feels is control of the situation. Feelings certainly aren't those, even though he is genuinely appreciative of the care Gale is already showing. Astarion wants to pretend it isn't necessary, but, oh how it really is.
He's all motion after that pause—hoping it didn't last too long for the other man to take notice—and instead settles kneels onto the bed, settling himself onto Gale's lap quite comfortably.
"—is kind...of you. But I'm sure that won't be necessary." He swallows, pulling a smirk back together. Astarion lazily rests his forearms on Gale's shoulders, like this is all just a normal chat for the two of them. But his voice drops a little lower and softer all the same. "I don't think you'll want to stop, Gale Dekarios."
Unfortunately for Astarion, he has all of Gale's formidable attention right now. It's the buzzing combination of nerves and anticipation and barely-latent perfectionism, and that fixated scrutiny is taking note of every slight movement, every beat in the conversation, every micro-expression.
More fortunately for Astarion, Gale's ability to process that momentary flicker of vulnerability, let alone respond to it, is far less acute. Besides, he's busy fathoming the sudden weight of an elf draping into his lap. His palm slides up the outside of Astarion's thigh, over his hip, maps out the dip of his lovely waist, and pauses at the edge of his ribs as if a little lost.
He clears his throat. "I don't think so either. I would, though," Gale says instead of leaning into the flirtation — clarity is important, he'd hate for his desire to result in any kind of overstepping, of course he'd stop. That this puzzled insistence has any route to Astarion's heart is irrelevant; he knows a little about Astarion's past, but wouldn't expect it to make him fragile. It's not naivety, either, he has no such delusions about most people's character in that regard, he simply— it's important. The principle of the thing. His are so rarely this immutable.
But! He can absolutely let it go and behave like a normal person. If a low, warm, "May I kiss you, please?" counts as normal. The please is manners, of course, but there's a thread of genuine need in there that speaks to the possibility of begging.
If Astarion had expected Gale to make a house call, he would have dressed for the occasion—namely, something more easy to disassemble. As it stands, the fabric of his stereotypically form-fitting trousers stretch taut and tight against him. His waist is cinched thanks to a well-tailored vest, nicer than what he had been able to wear on their adventures together, over a looser shirt with billowing sleeves. He undoes the buttons at his cuffs behind Gale's head in preparation for what's to come.
The affirmation is...kind, as he'd said. Almost sweet, though Astarion is unwilling to fully give the other man credit for good intentions, even if he doesn't believe Gale has any to the contrary. No, he chalks it up to nervousness, which is endearing in its own way and suits him just fine. There's an image he's conjured up of the wizard and his (presumed) lack of skill, so it's easy to make assumptions.
Assumptions that only seem to cement themselves when Gale asks to kiss him. The request comes with no small amount of heat, but it's a request all the same. Not a demand, not an expectation.
Astarion could get used to this. (A dangerous thought that is.)
He lets his fingers play with the ends of Gale's hair, just ghosting over his shoulders, as he allows the thrill of permission shoot through his own veins. Angling his head to the side, Astarion brings their lips closer, but not quite touching. Just enough to allow an exhale wash over the wizard's mouth.
"You may...since you asked so nicely." But he'll let Gale do the honors. As a reward.
Permission resolves into a brush of lips, close-mouthed and sandalwood-scented and very nearly chaste, and then before Astarion can think for a second that Gale's being coy he takes a second, firmer kiss, tilting his head to press Astarion's mouth open and delving curiously deeper.
His tongue grazes over Astarion's fangs and he shivers with the sharp threat of them. His blood, racing, is no longer acidic with Netherese taint; there were times on the road to Baldur's Gate where he'd been preoccupied with these same fangs. He'd been scared, to discover a vampire in their midst, and that fear had blurred into a different kind of fixation. And then slowly, Astarion had become more than just a vampire spawn to him, in every sense — but apparently the fascination with the bite still lingers.
Enough that Gale's hands are suddenly far less chaste as well, squeezing Astarion's waist and then sliding down to the back of those too-tight trousers to cup his ass, a hard tug pulling him further into Gale's robe-clothed lap. Is he still nervous? Yes. But Gale has always found it easier to cover the low murmur of lack of confidence with assertive skill. One can't always be a gentleman.
Astarion is fully prepared to jump to further conclusions, albeit mostly in amusement, but Gale puts them on pause. He allows his eyes to fall shut and welcomes Gale's tongue into his mouth like an expected guest, not terribly surprised his teeth are the first thing the wizard goes for. The allure of mixing danger with pleasure is far more widespread than one might assume, and knowing Gale's penchant for putting himself in troubling situations, this feels almost a given.
Still, the shiver is a little bolster to his ego, because he wants Gale to want it. Wants Gale to want him, even if it's just for a day. And it's a want he can smell with each heartbeat, bumping Gale's blood close to the surface of his skin. What would Gale think if he knew? That the scent of his blood is almost more tantalizing than the touch of his lips? Would it heighten his desire?
Astarion gives a hum of approval when Gale pulls him forward and wiggles a bit himself, happily pressing them together, chest to chest. He slides a hand up the back of the other man's head, threading his fingers through brunette strands until his nails can lightly tease his scalp. Astarion's free hand cups Gale's neck, thumb hovering above his main artery, feeling his pulse.
He moves his lips against Gale's, building a languid and practiced pace to build with intensity kiss after kiss. His own lips are a bit chapped, tickled by the hair on Gale's upper lip and chin. When was the last time he kissed someone with a beard? Their dear Tav had been wholly barren.
Oh, sure, Halsin can hear the distant chatter of Harpers and Flaming Fist as they go about their business within the chilly glow of Selunite magic that protects this place, if he listens closely, but his mind is thousands of miles away, and so those ambient sounds don't register. Within the camp, things are largely quiet, his companions off in their own tents, resting after a long, difficult fight. His heart seizes hard with guilt every time he thinks about it, how hard they fought, for him, for these lands he once called home, for... for Thaniel.
Thaniel, who is not whole, but is blessedly alive, is sleeping deeply on Halsin's bedroll in his own tent, praise Silvanus. Halsin has been going through the motions ever since he stumbled out of the Shadowfell with that tiny body in his arms, as if in a daze, performing his duties. Thaniel needed to be seen to, but he is uninjured, physically. There is little that can be done for him until they find his other half. His companions need him far more, and deserve it too, for what Halsin asked of them was massive, and he knows it. His gratitude could fill an ocean.
Shadowheart, he knows, had done as much healing as she possibly could after the battle, even though she expended so much energy fighting alongside them, and she was likely resting now. Halsin picks up the slack with the warm, gentle and dutiful hands of a healer, finishing the closing of the worst of Karlach's wounds, tending to Lae'zel's after her. Gale declined his attentions, having stayed at the back during the fighting, and Wyll only needed a couple of the ruby-red healing potions from Halsin's satchel. There is only one companion he has not seen, a few hours after the battle concluded, one who deserves to be taken care of just as much as the others, though who might not accept it as readily.
"Astarion?" Halsin calls quietly as he approaches the burgundy tent, not wanting to disturb the others but wanting to announce his presence all the same in case it is unwanted. "Are you awake?" He could be tracing; time has little meaning in this place, where the sun doesn't rise and the moon cuts through only here at Last Light.
It was a long fight, and one that Astarion had made a few comments about to Wyll in the duration. He has no qualms with engaging in violence, finding it be one of the few enjoyable ways he makes himself useful to this strange and growing group of unlikely adventurers. But he does prefer to be directed in ways that he feels are useful to himself. What does rescuing this supposed nature spirit do for him? Absolutely nothing.
But Wyll wills it, not only for Halsin's sake, but once again for the greater good. Gods Below, as used to as he is at this point to the man's penchant for heroics, it can be tiring. They would be making better progress if he didn't need to get involved in everyone's business. At least Astarion's business should be taking greater priority, which namely means getting to Moonrise faster and seeing if this cult is even worthy of taking over.
Forced to bide his time, Astarion plays his part. He makes quick worth of the wraiths and is rewarded with nothing but continuing hunger pains even as they return to camp. The injuries he sustained—expected as he is often in close combat with their quarry—aren't dire, at least. A part of him is miffed when Shadowheart focuses first on the 'child', though it doesn't stop him from watching from a distance for a little while.
To think, something so small could be linked to all that's happened here...this land, frozen in death.
"Hm. I might run away too," he mumbles to himself before finally retiring to his own tent.
No one comes by, not for a while. Astarion wants to say that it's better that way given that he's fairly certain he's upset Wyll (again), Shadowheart will be busy for the foreseeable future, Gale is already likely off doing his wizardly preparations for the following day, Lae'zel is a poor conversationalist at the best of times, Halsin is still a bit of an engima and likely going to be taken with his little 'friend' for a while, and Karlach—well, he might admit that he genuinely likes her and wants to allow her some rest. Maybe. But he doesn't need them to nurse his wounds. He's done that alone for centuries. Even healed a few.
Nursing said wounds apparently means drinking alone in his tent, which is better than any salve in his opinion. It's not the same as blood, but he wants the feeling of something in his stomach.
He's a few cups in when he first hears motion and then a voice he would not have expected from outside. Astarion pauses, squinting at the flap like it's about to turn in on itself like a joke.
"...Yes," he finally calls back dubiously, mostly just thrown. But his follow-up is decidedly more suspicious. "What is it?"
Halsin knows he should have come sooner. He wants to see to all of these companions, these people who took him in and have given him so much already, and give them half the care he has felt sitting at their campfire. Astarion, despite his prickliness and his obvious distaste for their task, still fought out there fiercely to keep Halsin's and Thaniel's escape back to the material plane safe and sound. No matter his reasons, no matter his intentions, his actions mean something.
While Halsin was not there to witness the battle, was instead in the cold grip of the Shadowfell prying Thaniel from his bonds, he saw the aftermath of it. The undead-turned-dead-again littering the field by the water. Scores of them, more than he even thought to expect, else his warning may have been more dire. He knows in his heart that things would have looked much, much worse if it weren't for Astarion's quick mind and fast hands.
He exhales softly in something like relief when he hears Astarion's voice call back from inside his tent, and Halsin's shoulders relax, slumping gently as he approaches. The suspicion in Astarion's question doesn't bother the druid a lick, because he knows his own intentions are simple and sincere.
"I came to see if you needed further healing. I apologize for not coming by sooner, but I saved some spells for you, should you want them." He has enough magic left to patch one more companion, and some balsam leftover from his forage in the mountain pass if it comes to that.
To Astarion, the moment feels tense. He's not used to visitors given the fact that Wyll had turned him down way back after liberating the tieflings and saving the grove. His space is wholly his own—something that he still isn't fully used to and thusly guards with an intensity that might seem extreme to the others. There's an inherent desire to claim it and protect it, lest someone or something try to take it away from him and remind him that he owns nothing, not even himself.
But it's an urge he shoves down quickly. Halsin, for all he has haunted the camp for weeks, has been largely unobtrusive. Astarion has questioned his presence several times, but not balked at it. If someone stays out of his business, then he will stay out of theirs. Unless it's terribly funny.
Wyll has taken more annoying guests on board.
(Gods, why Volo?)
Halsin speaks softly, even apologies for things Astarion didn't think needed apologizing. Well, maybe they did because he does deserve attention and tends to get all mopey when he doesn't get it, but he didn't exactly expect it from this man. It's unprecedented. So there's a quiet moment where Astarion considers what the true intent here is, since everyone should always have a secondary motive, until he concedes he doesn't know enough about Halsin to make a good guess.
Putting his glass down, he pushes himself to his feet to pull open the flap of his tent. Sure enough, the druid is there with even a few potion bottles clear in hand. What should be read as generosity, Astarion frowns a little, eyeing the other man from head to toe. Astarion has cleaned himself up a bit, having changed into his more comfortable outfit, though the lacerations on his hands and wrists are still visible. A bit of his own blood splatter tinges the tips of his hair and near his earlobes, with lack of being able to see his reflection to account for. He figures he will try to see if there's a proper way to bathe in the Inn sometime later.
"What, are you finished with your little quarry so soon?" The idea of someone saving a spell slot for him is...unexpected. "I'm surprised you've left his side at all."
It's true enough that he and Astarion have had little reason to cross paths, outside of the usual small interactions that come along with traveling in the same group and camping in the same areas. The vampire spawn seems to appreciate his space and a certain level of distance from the others, and Halsin had tried to keep himself from being too obtrusive to people who already saved his life once. He had kept some lonely distance himself at first, actually, observing. Trying to find where he would fit in with these adventurers most seamlessly.
Maybe he still does not fit in with the others, who are bound in a way he cannot imagine by the mindflayer tadpoles in their heads, but it feels like he needs to step up and try anyway.
The tent flap opens, and Astarion frowns out at him from the doorway. Halsin is not blatant about it, but nor does he try to hide the way he looks the man over from his spot a few feet from the rug that covers the ground in front of Astarion's tent. Looks like he has changed, made an attempt at cleaning himself up, though Halsin can still smell the metallic tang of blood on him. The lacerations on his hands and wrists have not healed themselves yet. Halsin knows that vampires, even spawn, have some degree of natural regeneration, so this seems important, but he cannot yet place why.
"Thaniel is safe here in camp, and for the moment, there is little I can do for him." It's true that there is a small part of him that does not want to leave the nature spirit's side while he is vulnerable, but- Halsin trusts his allies. "Better to spend my energy healing those I can."
Assessing hazel eyes flicker down to the cuts on Astarion's arms, then back up to his face (and does he seem a little paler than usual, or is it the chilly white glow of the inn's magic barrier that casts across his features?) "May I?"
That Halsin has actually kept a respectable distance and not crowded the entrance (and notably, the escape route) to his tent gives Astarion a bit of an unconscious reassurance. His shoulders relax by a degree, even as he can tell he's being taken stock of. Which is expected, given the supposed purpose of the other elf's late night visit.
He does take the opportunity to cast a quick glance around the camp. Most have retired, undoubtedly worn out from the battle and basking in the relative safety under the Inn's protective dome. No need for someone to stand watch when there are Harpers about, or so they assume. But his gaze settles back on Halsin as he listens and then considers, eyes narrowing a bit like a cat.
Resigned though he was to brood alone in his tent, he does need healing. And slinking back out to pester Shadowheart or, Gods, seeing if Gale has a scroll handy would be a blow to his pride that he won't risk. He'd rather just wear long sleeves. But Halsin...hm.
"I suppose if you won't let this be." Yes, make it seem like Astarion is somehow doing the other man a favor and not the other way around. Like there's an insistence here rather than a gentle offer. Astarion needs it for his own sense of pride or maybe simply his reputation, even if no one else is awake to witness it.
He steps out fully, letting the flap to his tent fall shut. Inviting someone in is still a privilege he's reserving. A border he feels privileged to draw. He extends his forearms towards the druid, the most obvious areas of injury.
"Those things can be surprisingly vicious. A shame you had to miss all the fun."
As if Halsin didn't have hands full in the Shadowfell.
'I suppose', Astarion says, in the somewhat haughty and exasperated tone of a man doing someone else a favor, and not an injured person accepting help from a healer. It only makes Halsin smile, tinged with a sort of relief that he does not have to feign, that creases the corners of his eyes in a way that just projects warmth.
"Thank you." Halsin has very little ego to speak of, and none to dispense with right now. Let them consider this a favor to the druid, then. It isn't so far off the mark - it will help him sleep better knowing that all his companions have been taken care of as much as they can be. That's good enough.
Astarion steps out of his tent, and Halsin takes it as permission to approach, content to stand with him in front of it. Reaching out with work-roughened hands, he settles Astarion's cool, pale ones atop his own open palms, easily snatched back if he needs to. In a low voice, he incants, "Te curo" and watches the warm, golden light of Silvaus's gift seep into the spawn's skin, knitting his lacerations back together.
"I have no doubt," he responds, as the magic works, voice heavy with guilt. "I saw the battlefield after, and Karlach's wounds. Bites from shadow mastiffs. They had already begun to necrotize, but she is recovering nicely now." Which was part of what had taken him so long to make the rounds. With a breath, he shifts his magic subtly, seeking out any further injuries on Astarion, any maladies. It might be easier to get his answers straight from the patient, though.
"Forgive me, but... you seem a little paler than usual. Are you alright?"
It is always interesting watching healing magic at work. Being an elf himself he has a natural inclination towards magic, having also chosen to specialize with more spells as he has grown in is abilities a rogue. But this is a different sort of magic from a connection to something deeper, something...alive. Something far apart from what he's become.
That healing magic works on him at all is still a bit of a wonder. It had helped earlier on when Astarion needed to feign mortality as not to cause suspicion amongst the others, but now it's a simple matter of practicality—it means he can be healed just like everyone else. At least for now.
The cuts on his arm knit stitch back together cleanly, leaving behind smooth, unmarred skin. Just as would be expected. Astarion turns his wrists over as if inspecting the other man's work—he might as well be given this it he first time he has accepted healing from Halsin.
The mention of Karlach does pull Astarion's attention from himself, gaze snapping upwards to Halsin's face at first and then darting to Karlach's tent. 'She is recovering nicely now.' Good, that's good. Even better then Astarion doesn't need to ask and make it seem like he cares a bit, even though it's probably obvious at this point he tends to give Karlach more leeway than most. She just has that kind of effect on people.
"Nasty things," he says instead, his lips curling upwards a bit. "It's howl alone sent Gale running for a stint." Which Astarion will definitely bring up to the wizard later, just to rub it in. Can't let the man think he did a decent job just because he lobbed a few spells around from a safe distance. (As if Astarion doesn't find himself doing similarly with a bow from time to time.)
The comment on his complexion actually pulls a somewhat muted laugh. Astarion tilts his head to the side as he regards the taller man. What an interesting observation to make, he'd have to have really been paying attention, wouldn't he? He supposes Halsin has spent enough time simply watching the camp to have taken stock before getting properly involved. And really, who wouldn't want to look at Astarion?
"Paler than usual? Are you sure you haven't just caught my good side in the moonlight?" He tucks a curl behind one of his long ears for effect.
It's still a bit novel that his healing works on a vampire spawn. Halsin has to chalk a lot of this group's oddities up to the tadpoles in their heads, but he finds it fascinating in a scholarly sort of way. While he would never presume to study his companions, he has a growing collection of quiet observations filing themselves away in the back of his mind. He adds to that collection the way Astarion's eyes dart toward the direction of Karlach's tent, and the corners of Halsin's mouth turn up for just a tick. He understands the feeling; she certainly has that kind of effect on people. Her positivity even in the face of so much darkness has bolstered Halsin from time to time.
"Extremely nasty. But you all fought well." Even Gale, he will insist, but that really isn't the point right now. The point is Astarion, and ensuring Halsin has done everything he can for him before he takes his leave. The other doesn't seem to get angry at him for the comment, and so Halsin lets himself look a bit closer, though he doesn't move closer. He's seen Astarion in many kinds of light, from torchlight to sunlight to starlight to this cold moonlight, and he doesn't think his observations are off.
Halsin chuckles at the response he gives. "Perhaps." Though he does not think he's wrong. "Have you fed recently?" Not tonight, obviously. The others would be too exhausted after the fight to offer any blood. There is no hunting to speak of in these cursed lands, he realizes that, but surely his companions are helping Astarion?
It is nice hearing that he's done a good job. For as much as Astarion plies for praise in other areas, it's usually because he's directly asking for it. Knowing he's useful is good. It solidifies his position in the group that does feel nebulous at times when he's been idle for too long. Being useful because he's good at killing is a nice change of pace. This is a role he will happily lean into.
But Halsin, for what Astarion has observed himself, doesn't mince words when he doesn't need to. Sure, his attentions are usually more about 'balance' and all that nonsense, but he feels reasonably confident if he thought Astarion should stuff it, he would say as much. (And he would be right to, even if Astarion would have no short amount of arguments to the contrary.)
He doesn't preen, though. Not like he tends to when he's complimented on his appearance. Because that he expects.
What he doesn't expect is for the druid to ask if he's fed. Astarion's smile dims a few degrees, a little shocked as he narrows his eyes, before it all washes with a dramatic sigh. He really hadn't expect anyone to notice, but he will gladly take an opportunity to complain.
"It's not as if there's anything to hunt out here," he says as he makes a sweeping gesture of the area around them—the campgrounds and the wilderness beyond the veil. It's dismal. "What's left is either dead or narcotizing, which doesn't suit my palette."
Halsin has a high opinion of all of them, honestly, which certainly includes Astarion. How can he not, when they collectively saved him from dying in a rank goblin's cell? The vampire spawn complains a lot, certainly, and puts on dramatic airs for the smallest inconveniences, but- he is reliable when it counts. Like today, fighting off hordes of shadowy undead, to protect the portal that was Halsin and Thaniel's lifeline back out of the Shadowfell. Saving his life again, in a way.
The druid's expression creases in a frown when he sees the way Astarion's changes, small shifts to something like resignation, and then the sort of dramatic sigh he expects. He talks only about there being nothing appetizing to hunt, and doesn't mention any of their other companions offering blood, even in small amounts. He would, though, if they had ever offered it, Halsin thinks. It isn't something he'd keep a secret, surely?
"So, not recently," he confirms, a statement more than a question. They've been within the encompassing darkness of the Shadow Cursed Lands for several days now, the mountain pass long behind them. That explains the slight peakishness he thought he saw in Astarion's complexion, subtle enough that only a healer would pick up on it. Halsin doesn't bother to hide the thoughts that practically flicker over his scarred face, concern, thoughtfulness, finally a decisiveness, as he nods once.
"I have blood to spare, and I believe one more spell in me tonight, Oakfather willing."
It goes without saying, but Astarion repeats it. Because it does feel a little satisfying to give voice to his frustrations, his hunger.
"Not recently, no. Not since the Underdark, and even that wasn't without trial and error."
All because of his attempts to honor Wyll's request. It had all started with a simple experiment, really, the desire to see if Cazador's hold on him was well and truly broken. The desire to drink from something bigger, something human had certainly been tantalizing as his hunger grew, but Astarion knew it was a pipe dream. At least the Blade of Frontiers hasn't regulated him to feeding off stray vermin and insects only, although that was a decent portion of his fare in parts of the Underdark. There were strange creatures down there and after meeting those sentient mushrooms, he wasn't always sure what classified as a thinking being or not.
Restrictive as it may seem, it's still better than Cazador. He can still remember how that boar had tasted...so rich and almost fatty. Gods! He had never felt so full until the bear. The entire bear. Astarion hadn't felt hunger for at least a week after that.
Astarion has gotten too used to feeding regularly on the road proper. But he knows hunger. And knows that no matter how deep the pangs get, he can endure for much longer than he'd like without. He's sure the Cultists keep some warbound beasties about, if not for image alone then war.
"It's not like I make it a habit of slinking about the camp eyeing our companions, if that's what you're thinking."
He feels the need to clarify, unnecessarily. Because he has definitely done that...if at least to just fancy his options. And then Halsin surprises him again.
Astarion takes a step back as if he'd been pushed, eyes widening and his almost lazy disdain for his circumstances washing aside in one go. He couldn't have heard the other man correctly...could he? Astarion's eyes dart back and forth across Halsin's face, trying to catch a flash of any bluff and finding none. But his brain can't keep up.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
That said, to simply drop the subject would cowardice. No: he's due for a visit to Baldur's Gate regardless, so best to manage expectations in person. He can politely explain that even with the orb stabilized, the day won, he's no longer the sort of man to just jump into bed with someone. Only. When he tries to rehearse the gentle let-down it rings false. Astarion isn't some stranger. Even when they'd travelled together there had been — something, maybe.
Suffice to say he hasn't really made his mind up, but he bathes and picks out some well-cut robes and trims his beard as if he's going out to a function, packs a small bag and kisses Tara's fluffy little head and teleports himself the leagues south necessary to call in on his vampire friend, wherever Astarion is staying these days. Does not, as it happens, end up in any sort of demiplane, erotic or otherwise.
no subject
Still, when the opportunity presented itself, he couldn't exactly pass it up. The point was made this time around. Though Astarion anticipates some sort of apology for the wizard's drunken conduct within a few days or simply a non-acknowledgment the next time they speak. More of the same, really. He knows he can brush it off with equal forced disinterest and move on, as he always does. Because he can choose to do that now. (And saying "no" has only made the times he wants to say "yes" so much more important.)
Baldur's Gate has been his home for centuries, but for it to feel truly free again is still something of a novel thing. He's yet to fully put down roots almost as if he's afraid they will fall through his fingers. For now, what coin he makes from the contracts he takes—or the pockets he pilfers—goes to inn rooms. Nice ones, too. Or as nice as he can reasonably weigh. Because he deserves nice things and has quite a bit of time to make up for.
The current room is one he's been in for nearly a month. It's far enough away from Cazador's Manor that it feels like a fresh start, with a view of the eastern city when eh can open the windows at night. A room all to himself, something wholly his. Where no one else can enter unless he invites them. Which is what makes the telltale sounds and the scent of magic prying apart the air a little surprising.
Astarion looks up from where he's leaning over a short desk, brows raised nearly to his hairline as the swirl of purple emerges just a few feet away from his bed.
Gale came?
"Well..." He straightens, expression smoothing out. "Look what the cat dragged in. Or—what was it, 'tressym'?"
no subject
She, and probably Gale's mother, would scold him for not doing this in a way that started with a knock at the door. Terribly impolite, but teleporting to the city and trying to find Astarion would take so much more effort. Easier to scry and jump. Besides, he had an invitation, of a sort.
"Hello," he says at least, even though that's also unecessary. Astarion looks — wonderful would be an understatement. The juxtaposition of his stunning beauty and the mundanely of whatever he's doing is particularly affecting. Gale drags his eyes away to look around. "These are nice rooms." Are they in the Upper City? The Elfsong had been a welcome relief after so long on the road, but it was hardly the kind of luxury Gale was used to. "I do hope I'm not intruding, I felt any further conversation should be had in person."
no subject
"Hello," he says back in almost a purr, audibly amused, remarkably patient for once. Gale has deigned this visit, after all, and he's curious to see the lead the other man takes. Thought he comment on the room does properly pat his ego.
"Of course they are." Astarion looks around. "I have exquisite taste and I deserve nothing less." The warmth of the wood and the drapery closed tight over the windows——some even with pins——all give an aura of modest opulence. There are larger rooms and even suites available, but Astarion is making due with a bedroom, a small sitting area, and a private bath. But his attention returns back to Gale when the matter at hand is broached.
Ah, so this is about last night. Theory two out of the window.
"Oh?" He guards the bit of anticipation he feels in his gut with a smile. "Well, I did very generously invite you into my bed last night, though your landing his a bit off."
He nods to said bed. A few feet to the right would have done nicely.
"What can I do for you?"
no subject
As much as he's doing his best to seem confident, there's visible nerves in his linked fingers twisting at each other, the hint of a ruddy flush starting to creep back into his cheeks and around the back of his neck, answering a question about blushing that Astarion had asked and he never actually answered.
"We have established my experience with this is primarily theoretical, outside of some schoolboy fumbling and — communing with divinity." By all the hells, this is absolutely not what he rehearsed. But curiosity is as much his sin as pride — and he isn't at all immune to Astarion's charms. "But I have read extensively on the subject, so perhaps I will surprise you. If you're still, interested, that is."
no subject
But not now, not like this. Not when he can practically smell Gale's blood rise to the surface with a blush blooming across his skin.
Oh. It hadn't been just a drunken dalliance. Gale has been...considering. Now isn't that a lovely little surprise?
Of course, the way that Gale goes about it is painfully clinical. Astarion cocks his head to the side, not bothering to hide the amused twist of his lips.
"Oh darling, you've already surprised me," he says as he takes one step forward. And then the next, like a cat slowly walking towards its prey. Or maybe more like a bowl of cream, offered up so plainly, without any of the fuss and need to pounce.
But he would very much like to pounce.
"And here I thought you might be getting cold feet..." He stops once he's right in front of the wizard, their knees almost touching. "I'm not interested in theories—but if you need a practical demonstration, I would be happy to oblige."
no subject
Gale looks up, regarding the pale elf standing over him, the predatory gaze like lightning down his spine. Unlinks his worriers hands and leans back on one, freeing up his lap. Touches Astarion's thigh with the other, hand warm through the fabric of his trousers. An innocent enough touch, but his pulse picks up like he just palmed Astarion's cock. Certainly he's thinking about it.
"I trust you know your own mind," he says, meeting Astarion's gaze with the biggest wettest brown cow gaze. "So I won't ask if you're certain." Gale's barely bloody certain, of two minds about everything that's lead him here, logical thought versus more prurient drives. And yet, because he's read too many books and because he cares too much: "But — I shall do whatever you ask of me, Astarion, and that includes stop or leave."
1/2 sorry tl;dr feelings
I trust you know your own mind.
He does. Now he does and he can allow his whims and wants to manifest. It's been a while since he could confidently say that this offer was his, this choice is his, and he's enjoying the journey. Of watching the way Gale looks up at him with those impossibly brown eyes and a mix of trepidation and excitement. Astarion doesn't feel the need to pull back in himself, not now. Not to dull the world and go through the motions of seduction.
No...not when Gale says things he probably doesn't realize Astarion has been wanting to hear for far too long—
...and that includes stop or leave.
Astarion pauses, a bit of the suave confidence he so naturally exudes wavering despite himself. Gods...more treasured words couldn't be uttered.
"That—..."
no subject
He's all motion after that pause—hoping it didn't last too long for the other man to take notice—and instead settles kneels onto the bed, settling himself onto Gale's lap quite comfortably.
"—is kind...of you. But I'm sure that won't be necessary." He swallows, pulling a smirk back together. Astarion lazily rests his forearms on Gale's shoulders, like this is all just a normal chat for the two of them. But his voice drops a little lower and softer all the same. "I don't think you'll want to stop, Gale Dekarios."
no subject
More fortunately for Astarion, Gale's ability to process that momentary flicker of vulnerability, let alone respond to it, is far less acute. Besides, he's busy fathoming the sudden weight of an elf draping into his lap. His palm slides up the outside of Astarion's thigh, over his hip, maps out the dip of his lovely waist, and pauses at the edge of his ribs as if a little lost.
He clears his throat. "I don't think so either. I would, though," Gale says instead of leaning into the flirtation — clarity is important, he'd hate for his desire to result in any kind of overstepping, of course he'd stop. That this puzzled insistence has any route to Astarion's heart is irrelevant; he knows a little about Astarion's past, but wouldn't expect it to make him fragile. It's not naivety, either, he has no such delusions about most people's character in that regard, he simply— it's important. The principle of the thing. His are so rarely this immutable.
But! He can absolutely let it go and behave like a normal person. If a low, warm, "May I kiss you, please?" counts as normal. The please is manners, of course, but there's a thread of genuine need in there that speaks to the possibility of begging.
no subject
The affirmation is...kind, as he'd said. Almost sweet, though Astarion is unwilling to fully give the other man credit for good intentions, even if he doesn't believe Gale has any to the contrary. No, he chalks it up to nervousness, which is endearing in its own way and suits him just fine. There's an image he's conjured up of the wizard and his (presumed) lack of skill, so it's easy to make assumptions.
Assumptions that only seem to cement themselves when Gale asks to kiss him. The request comes with no small amount of heat, but it's a request all the same. Not a demand, not an expectation.
Astarion could get used to this. (A dangerous thought that is.)
He lets his fingers play with the ends of Gale's hair, just ghosting over his shoulders, as he allows the thrill of permission shoot through his own veins. Angling his head to the side, Astarion brings their lips closer, but not quite touching. Just enough to allow an exhale wash over the wizard's mouth.
"You may...since you asked so nicely." But he'll let Gale do the honors. As a reward.
no subject
His tongue grazes over Astarion's fangs and he shivers with the sharp threat of them. His blood, racing, is no longer acidic with Netherese taint; there were times on the road to Baldur's Gate where he'd been preoccupied with these same fangs. He'd been scared, to discover a vampire in their midst, and that fear had blurred into a different kind of fixation. And then slowly, Astarion had become more than just a vampire spawn to him, in every sense — but apparently the fascination with the bite still lingers.
Enough that Gale's hands are suddenly far less chaste as well, squeezing Astarion's waist and then sliding down to the back of those too-tight trousers to cup his ass, a hard tug pulling him further into Gale's robe-clothed lap. Is he still nervous? Yes. But Gale has always found it easier to cover the low murmur of lack of confidence with assertive skill. One can't always be a gentleman.
no subject
Still, the shiver is a little bolster to his ego, because he wants Gale to want it. Wants Gale to want him, even if it's just for a day. And it's a want he can smell with each heartbeat, bumping Gale's blood close to the surface of his skin. What would Gale think if he knew? That the scent of his blood is almost more tantalizing than the touch of his lips? Would it heighten his desire?
Astarion gives a hum of approval when Gale pulls him forward and wiggles a bit himself, happily pressing them together, chest to chest. He slides a hand up the back of the other man's head, threading his fingers through brunette strands until his nails can lightly tease his scalp. Astarion's free hand cups Gale's neck, thumb hovering above his main artery, feeling his pulse.
He moves his lips against Gale's, building a languid and practiced pace to build with intensity kiss after kiss. His own lips are a bit chapped, tickled by the hair on Gale's upper lip and chin. When was the last time he kissed someone with a beard? Their dear Tav had been wholly barren.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
pointing....
pointing! ... well i ruined it
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
Oh, sure, Halsin can hear the distant chatter of Harpers and Flaming Fist as they go about their business within the chilly glow of Selunite magic that protects this place, if he listens closely, but his mind is thousands of miles away, and so those ambient sounds don't register. Within the camp, things are largely quiet, his companions off in their own tents, resting after a long, difficult fight. His heart seizes hard with guilt every time he thinks about it, how hard they fought, for him, for these lands he once called home, for... for Thaniel.
Thaniel, who is not whole, but is blessedly alive, is sleeping deeply on Halsin's bedroll in his own tent, praise Silvanus. Halsin has been going through the motions ever since he stumbled out of the Shadowfell with that tiny body in his arms, as if in a daze, performing his duties. Thaniel needed to be seen to, but he is uninjured, physically. There is little that can be done for him until they find his other half. His companions need him far more, and deserve it too, for what Halsin asked of them was massive, and he knows it. His gratitude could fill an ocean.
Shadowheart, he knows, had done as much healing as she possibly could after the battle, even though she expended so much energy fighting alongside them, and she was likely resting now. Halsin picks up the slack with the warm, gentle and dutiful hands of a healer, finishing the closing of the worst of Karlach's wounds, tending to Lae'zel's after her. Gale declined his attentions, having stayed at the back during the fighting, and Wyll only needed a couple of the ruby-red healing potions from Halsin's satchel. There is only one companion he has not seen, a few hours after the battle concluded, one who deserves to be taken care of just as much as the others, though who might not accept it as readily.
"Astarion?" Halsin calls quietly as he approaches the burgundy tent, not wanting to disturb the others but wanting to announce his presence all the same in case it is unwanted. "Are you awake?" He could be tracing; time has little meaning in this place, where the sun doesn't rise and the moon cuts through only here at Last Light.
no subject
But Wyll wills it, not only for Halsin's sake, but once again for the greater good. Gods Below, as used to as he is at this point to the man's penchant for heroics, it can be tiring. They would be making better progress if he didn't need to get involved in everyone's business. At least Astarion's business should be taking greater priority, which namely means getting to Moonrise faster and seeing if this cult is even worthy of taking over.
Forced to bide his time, Astarion plays his part. He makes quick worth of the wraiths and is rewarded with nothing but continuing hunger pains even as they return to camp. The injuries he sustained—expected as he is often in close combat with their quarry—aren't dire, at least. A part of him is miffed when Shadowheart focuses first on the 'child', though it doesn't stop him from watching from a distance for a little while.
To think, something so small could be linked to all that's happened here...this land, frozen in death.
"Hm. I might run away too," he mumbles to himself before finally retiring to his own tent.
No one comes by, not for a while. Astarion wants to say that it's better that way given that he's fairly certain he's upset Wyll (again), Shadowheart will be busy for the foreseeable future, Gale is already likely off doing his wizardly preparations for the following day, Lae'zel is a poor conversationalist at the best of times, Halsin is still a bit of an engima and likely going to be taken with his little 'friend' for a while, and Karlach—well, he might admit that he genuinely likes her and wants to allow her some rest. Maybe. But he doesn't need them to nurse his wounds. He's done that alone for centuries. Even healed a few.
Nursing said wounds apparently means drinking alone in his tent, which is better than any salve in his opinion. It's not the same as blood, but he wants the feeling of something in his stomach.
He's a few cups in when he first hears motion and then a voice he would not have expected from outside. Astarion pauses, squinting at the flap like it's about to turn in on itself like a joke.
"...Yes," he finally calls back dubiously, mostly just thrown. But his follow-up is decidedly more suspicious. "What is it?"
no subject
While Halsin was not there to witness the battle, was instead in the cold grip of the Shadowfell prying Thaniel from his bonds, he saw the aftermath of it. The undead-turned-dead-again littering the field by the water. Scores of them, more than he even thought to expect, else his warning may have been more dire. He knows in his heart that things would have looked much, much worse if it weren't for Astarion's quick mind and fast hands.
He exhales softly in something like relief when he hears Astarion's voice call back from inside his tent, and Halsin's shoulders relax, slumping gently as he approaches. The suspicion in Astarion's question doesn't bother the druid a lick, because he knows his own intentions are simple and sincere.
"I came to see if you needed further healing. I apologize for not coming by sooner, but I saved some spells for you, should you want them." He has enough magic left to patch one more companion, and some balsam leftover from his forage in the mountain pass if it comes to that.
no subject
But it's an urge he shoves down quickly. Halsin, for all he has haunted the camp for weeks, has been largely unobtrusive. Astarion has questioned his presence several times, but not balked at it. If someone stays out of his business, then he will stay out of theirs. Unless it's terribly funny.
Wyll has taken more annoying guests on board.
(Gods, why Volo?)
Halsin speaks softly, even apologies for things Astarion didn't think needed apologizing. Well, maybe they did because he does deserve attention and tends to get all mopey when he doesn't get it, but he didn't exactly expect it from this man. It's unprecedented. So there's a quiet moment where Astarion considers what the true intent here is, since everyone should always have a secondary motive, until he concedes he doesn't know enough about Halsin to make a good guess.
Putting his glass down, he pushes himself to his feet to pull open the flap of his tent. Sure enough, the druid is there with even a few potion bottles clear in hand. What should be read as generosity, Astarion frowns a little, eyeing the other man from head to toe. Astarion has cleaned himself up a bit, having changed into his more comfortable outfit, though the lacerations on his hands and wrists are still visible. A bit of his own blood splatter tinges the tips of his hair and near his earlobes, with lack of being able to see his reflection to account for. He figures he will try to see if there's a proper way to bathe in the Inn sometime later.
"What, are you finished with your little quarry so soon?" The idea of someone saving a spell slot for him is...unexpected. "I'm surprised you've left his side at all."
no subject
Maybe he still does not fit in with the others, who are bound in a way he cannot imagine by the mindflayer tadpoles in their heads, but it feels like he needs to step up and try anyway.
The tent flap opens, and Astarion frowns out at him from the doorway. Halsin is not blatant about it, but nor does he try to hide the way he looks the man over from his spot a few feet from the rug that covers the ground in front of Astarion's tent. Looks like he has changed, made an attempt at cleaning himself up, though Halsin can still smell the metallic tang of blood on him. The lacerations on his hands and wrists have not healed themselves yet. Halsin knows that vampires, even spawn, have some degree of natural regeneration, so this seems important, but he cannot yet place why.
"Thaniel is safe here in camp, and for the moment, there is little I can do for him." It's true that there is a small part of him that does not want to leave the nature spirit's side while he is vulnerable, but- Halsin trusts his allies. "Better to spend my energy healing those I can."
Assessing hazel eyes flicker down to the cuts on Astarion's arms, then back up to his face (and does he seem a little paler than usual, or is it the chilly white glow of the inn's magic barrier that casts across his features?) "May I?"
no subject
He does take the opportunity to cast a quick glance around the camp. Most have retired, undoubtedly worn out from the battle and basking in the relative safety under the Inn's protective dome. No need for someone to stand watch when there are Harpers about, or so they assume. But his gaze settles back on Halsin as he listens and then considers, eyes narrowing a bit like a cat.
Resigned though he was to brood alone in his tent, he does need healing. And slinking back out to pester Shadowheart or, Gods, seeing if Gale has a scroll handy would be a blow to his pride that he won't risk. He'd rather just wear long sleeves. But Halsin...hm.
"I suppose if you won't let this be." Yes, make it seem like Astarion is somehow doing the other man a favor and not the other way around. Like there's an insistence here rather than a gentle offer. Astarion needs it for his own sense of pride or maybe simply his reputation, even if no one else is awake to witness it.
He steps out fully, letting the flap to his tent fall shut. Inviting someone in is still a privilege he's reserving. A border he feels privileged to draw. He extends his forearms towards the druid, the most obvious areas of injury.
"Those things can be surprisingly vicious. A shame you had to miss all the fun."
As if Halsin didn't have hands full in the Shadowfell.
no subject
"Thank you." Halsin has very little ego to speak of, and none to dispense with right now. Let them consider this a favor to the druid, then. It isn't so far off the mark - it will help him sleep better knowing that all his companions have been taken care of as much as they can be. That's good enough.
Astarion steps out of his tent, and Halsin takes it as permission to approach, content to stand with him in front of it. Reaching out with work-roughened hands, he settles Astarion's cool, pale ones atop his own open palms, easily snatched back if he needs to. In a low voice, he incants, "Te curo" and watches the warm, golden light of Silvaus's gift seep into the spawn's skin, knitting his lacerations back together.
"I have no doubt," he responds, as the magic works, voice heavy with guilt. "I saw the battlefield after, and Karlach's wounds. Bites from shadow mastiffs. They had already begun to necrotize, but she is recovering nicely now." Which was part of what had taken him so long to make the rounds. With a breath, he shifts his magic subtly, seeking out any further injuries on Astarion, any maladies. It might be easier to get his answers straight from the patient, though.
"Forgive me, but... you seem a little paler than usual. Are you alright?"
no subject
That healing magic works on him at all is still a bit of a wonder. It had helped earlier on when Astarion needed to feign mortality as not to cause suspicion amongst the others, but now it's a simple matter of practicality—it means he can be healed just like everyone else. At least for now.
The cuts on his arm knit stitch back together cleanly, leaving behind smooth, unmarred skin. Just as would be expected. Astarion turns his wrists over as if inspecting the other man's work—he might as well be given this it he first time he has accepted healing from Halsin.
The mention of Karlach does pull Astarion's attention from himself, gaze snapping upwards to Halsin's face at first and then darting to Karlach's tent. 'She is recovering nicely now.' Good, that's good. Even better then Astarion doesn't need to ask and make it seem like he cares a bit, even though it's probably obvious at this point he tends to give Karlach more leeway than most. She just has that kind of effect on people.
"Nasty things," he says instead, his lips curling upwards a bit. "It's howl alone sent Gale running for a stint." Which Astarion will definitely bring up to the wizard later, just to rub it in. Can't let the man think he did a decent job just because he lobbed a few spells around from a safe distance. (As if Astarion doesn't find himself doing similarly with a bow from time to time.)
The comment on his complexion actually pulls a somewhat muted laugh. Astarion tilts his head to the side as he regards the taller man. What an interesting observation to make, he'd have to have really been paying attention, wouldn't he? He supposes Halsin has spent enough time simply watching the camp to have taken stock before getting properly involved. And really, who wouldn't want to look at Astarion?
"Paler than usual? Are you sure you haven't just caught my good side in the moonlight?" He tucks a curl behind one of his long ears for effect.
no subject
"Extremely nasty. But you all fought well." Even Gale, he will insist, but that really isn't the point right now. The point is Astarion, and ensuring Halsin has done everything he can for him before he takes his leave. The other doesn't seem to get angry at him for the comment, and so Halsin lets himself look a bit closer, though he doesn't move closer. He's seen Astarion in many kinds of light, from torchlight to sunlight to starlight to this cold moonlight, and he doesn't think his observations are off.
Halsin chuckles at the response he gives. "Perhaps." Though he does not think he's wrong. "Have you fed recently?" Not tonight, obviously. The others would be too exhausted after the fight to offer any blood. There is no hunting to speak of in these cursed lands, he realizes that, but surely his companions are helping Astarion?
no subject
But Halsin, for what Astarion has observed himself, doesn't mince words when he doesn't need to. Sure, his attentions are usually more about 'balance' and all that nonsense, but he feels reasonably confident if he thought Astarion should stuff it, he would say as much. (And he would be right to, even if Astarion would have no short amount of arguments to the contrary.)
He doesn't preen, though. Not like he tends to when he's complimented on his appearance. Because that he expects.
What he doesn't expect is for the druid to ask if he's fed. Astarion's smile dims a few degrees, a little shocked as he narrows his eyes, before it all washes with a dramatic sigh. He really hadn't expect anyone to notice, but he will gladly take an opportunity to complain.
"It's not as if there's anything to hunt out here," he says as he makes a sweeping gesture of the area around them—the campgrounds and the wilderness beyond the veil. It's dismal. "What's left is either dead or narcotizing, which doesn't suit my palette."
no subject
The druid's expression creases in a frown when he sees the way Astarion's changes, small shifts to something like resignation, and then the sort of dramatic sigh he expects. He talks only about there being nothing appetizing to hunt, and doesn't mention any of their other companions offering blood, even in small amounts. He would, though, if they had ever offered it, Halsin thinks. It isn't something he'd keep a secret, surely?
"So, not recently," he confirms, a statement more than a question. They've been within the encompassing darkness of the Shadow Cursed Lands for several days now, the mountain pass long behind them. That explains the slight peakishness he thought he saw in Astarion's complexion, subtle enough that only a healer would pick up on it. Halsin doesn't bother to hide the thoughts that practically flicker over his scarred face, concern, thoughtfulness, finally a decisiveness, as he nods once.
"I have blood to spare, and I believe one more spell in me tonight, Oakfather willing."
no subject
"Not recently, no. Not since the Underdark, and even that wasn't without trial and error."
All because of his attempts to honor Wyll's request. It had all started with a simple experiment, really, the desire to see if Cazador's hold on him was well and truly broken. The desire to drink from something bigger, something human had certainly been tantalizing as his hunger grew, but Astarion knew it was a pipe dream. At least the Blade of Frontiers hasn't regulated him to feeding off stray vermin and insects only, although that was a decent portion of his fare in parts of the Underdark. There were strange creatures down there and after meeting those sentient mushrooms, he wasn't always sure what classified as a thinking being or not.
Restrictive as it may seem, it's still better than Cazador. He can still remember how that boar had tasted...so rich and almost fatty. Gods! He had never felt so full until the bear. The entire bear. Astarion hadn't felt hunger for at least a week after that.
Astarion has gotten too used to feeding regularly on the road proper. But he knows hunger. And knows that no matter how deep the pangs get, he can endure for much longer than he'd like without. He's sure the Cultists keep some warbound beasties about, if not for image alone then war.
"It's not like I make it a habit of slinking about the camp eyeing our companions, if that's what you're thinking."
He feels the need to clarify, unnecessarily. Because he has definitely done that...if at least to just fancy his options. And then Halsin surprises him again.
Astarion takes a step back as if he'd been pushed, eyes widening and his almost lazy disdain for his circumstances washing aside in one go. He couldn't have heard the other man correctly...could he? Astarion's eyes dart back and forth across Halsin's face, trying to catch a flash of any bluff and finding none. But his brain can't keep up.
"You...want—no, you'll let me feed?"
A beat.
"From you? Just like that?"
There's absolutely no way.
"You're joking."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)