[ Meanwhile, Astarion slinks off to find suitable prey. It should be easy; he's done it a million times over, even if the outcome wasn't the same. Find someone on their own, someone who looks like their judgment might be impaired, and lure them away to their doom. He finds a very drunk tiefling girl with garlands of flowers hanging off of her horns, the perfect victim. As he sidles up to her, she giggles and asks where his costume is. A moment later, she's stringing some garlands around his neck, and he can't find it in himself to sink his teeth into her.
A nearby man wolf-whistles at her, his face red with drink as he shouts out obscenities. The tiefling girl's blue skin turns purple and she responds with a crude hand gesture. "Bitch," the man grumbles under his (undoubtedly smelly) breath.
Not filet mignon, but it's a cow he wouldn't mind slaughtering. He claps a hand on the man's back, leaning in to say, ] Women, am I right?
[ It's not long after that he emerges from an alley, decidedly more disheveled than he was when he went into it. He's sweating a bit, both from the adrenaline of attacking a man where anyone could see and from the exertion of it all. His chosen victim hadn't exactly been small, and he'd put up a decent fight both before and after his untimely death. Trying to drag his corpse around had been a challenge. Finally, Astarion had to give up and hide him under some trash. If he's lucky, it'll take a few days before the corpse smell starts to attract anyone.
Bedraggled but not injured, he makes his way back Iorveth's direction, a spring in his step as he wipes remnants of blood from the corner of his mouth. (He'd been very careful not to stain Gale's shirt with it. The less he does to make motormouth Gale an accomplice, the better.) The world always seems a little brighter with fresh blood in his mouth, the sounds a little sweeter. Perhaps this is how it always is for the living.
Iorveth braiding a little girl's hair is possibly the most twee thing he's ever seen, but he surprisingly doesn't feel disgusted. It's sweet, really. Makes him think about who Iorveth would be if not for his misery. Maybe he really would have a little brat running around, like Astarion had snarked about.
The elven girl startles as he approaches. "Are you all right, mister?" she asks, genuine concern in her voice. "You look pale... and, um, sweaty." ]
Dewy, [ he corrects, annoyed, as he wipes at his brow with the back of his hand. To Iorveth, he says, pointedly, ] I had no idea you were so keen on children.
no subject
A nearby man wolf-whistles at her, his face red with drink as he shouts out obscenities. The tiefling girl's blue skin turns purple and she responds with a crude hand gesture. "Bitch," the man grumbles under his (undoubtedly smelly) breath.
Not filet mignon, but it's a cow he wouldn't mind slaughtering. He claps a hand on the man's back, leaning in to say, ] Women, am I right?
[ It's not long after that he emerges from an alley, decidedly more disheveled than he was when he went into it. He's sweating a bit, both from the adrenaline of attacking a man where anyone could see and from the exertion of it all. His chosen victim hadn't exactly been small, and he'd put up a decent fight both before and after his untimely death. Trying to drag his corpse around had been a challenge. Finally, Astarion had to give up and hide him under some trash. If he's lucky, it'll take a few days before the corpse smell starts to attract anyone.
Bedraggled but not injured, he makes his way back Iorveth's direction, a spring in his step as he wipes remnants of blood from the corner of his mouth. (He'd been very careful not to stain Gale's shirt with it. The less he does to make motormouth Gale an accomplice, the better.) The world always seems a little brighter with fresh blood in his mouth, the sounds a little sweeter. Perhaps this is how it always is for the living.
Iorveth braiding a little girl's hair is possibly the most twee thing he's ever seen, but he surprisingly doesn't feel disgusted. It's sweet, really. Makes him think about who Iorveth would be if not for his misery. Maybe he really would have a little brat running around, like Astarion had snarked about.
The elven girl startles as he approaches. "Are you all right, mister?" she asks, genuine concern in her voice. "You look pale... and, um, sweaty." ]
Dewy, [ he corrects, annoyed, as he wipes at his brow with the back of his hand. To Iorveth, he says, pointedly, ] I had no idea you were so keen on children.