thirsted | SALTBURNT

that is kind of you.

i am content with any time and any place. i have little else to do here.

[ He types out and deletes a couple of answers. Don't tell anyone I'm capable of it, first. Perhaps you're a good influence, second. Finally: ]

Oh, nothing of the sort.

That makes two of us. I'll come collect you, shall I? Or at least come meet you.

[ Which he does in a matter of a few minutes — only as long as it takes for him to gather a few things into a pack, parchment and a basic set of implements meant for illustration, then make his way through the mansion — arriving at her door in his usual (relative) good spirits.

Accompanying a knock: ]

Yoo-hoo, little love. Shall we while away a few hours?

[ Lauralae can almost scent him when he arrives, and she is pushing herself up even as he lifts his hand to knock. Her fingers, gloved as ever, reach out to tug it open, and her head tilts as she gazes up at him. With her height as she is, she has to tilt her head to look upon him properly, and her expression might be considered warm.

Not quite a smile, but close enough that he will know he is welcomed here. ]

A few hours at least. I would enjoy that.

[ Her fingers flex absently, an unconscious motion. ]

Would you have it here, or out in the gardens?

[ Not quite a smile, but he sees it for what it is — his expression becomes softer in turn. He needn't perform, with her. At least, not as much as he feels he must with the rest of the house. As for her question, his eyes catch on that brief twitch of her hands, making the answer fairly self-evident. ]

Shall we go out to the gardens, my dear?

[ He steps aside to leave her room to exit, adjusting the set of his pack on his shoulder as he does. (A tote bag, really, not a pack such as he's familiar with — and one blessedly free from any branding.) ]

It's a sunny day — it'd be a shame to waste it.

[ There is fondness in her for Astarion, not just because they are from the same world. He has been nothing but kind and charming to her - many people here have been so, there's no denying that - but there's something about him that makes her want to spend more time with him. Perhaps this place is having more of an influence upon her than she first imagined. ]

I would like that.

[ She's not unused to the sun, but it still feels strange to have it directly on her skin. Shutting the door behind her, checking her bag for her own items, checking that her gloves are in place and pinned to her dress, she nods and begins to walk beside him without hesitation. ]

Have you been well? No problems?

[ One might think it natural for an elf to find solace in the company of another, but Astarion knows better: shared race means little, if anything at all, in the end. What matters is shared spirit, in whatever form might be applicable. And, even if they haven't really spoken of it out loud, there's some strange thread holding them together, an intimate familiarity with loneliness that forms a ribbon between them.

Granted, if such a thing — if anything — weighs on him, Astarion makes no show of it. His step is light as they pass through the manor's halls on their way to the grounds, a slight smile on his features as he looks sidelong as his companion. ]

Well enough, by the standards of this place.

[ A thought occurs to him, as punctuated by a feigned gasp and a leap of his eyebrows. ]

Actually, something has happened that might be of interest to you — not a problem, per se, but— do you recall that pumpkin hunt? My prize was a dear little chicken. I'd have brought her with me, but it— well, she has a bit of an aversion to sunlight.

[ The truth of the matter is this: being an elf is something that Lauralae disdains rather than celebrates, and had she approached Astarion, and he had made merit of it, she might well have dismissed him entirely. It is the fact that he has been kind, that there is some burn of consciousness that makes her think they share something similar that has made her wish for his company in earnest. He is good, she thinks, in a way she cannot name, and that pleases her.

They understand one another, without the need to voice it. That is pleasant. ]

That does depend on the nature of the mansion, does it not? So many games to play, and no means to escape.

[ Not that she minds too much. The encounters she has had - with men and women - have been good, and the exploration has been fun, if not overwhelming at times.

Lifting her head, she watches Astarion for a moment before something twitches on her lip, and she leans a little closer, curious, almost childishly so. ]

A... Vampiric chicken? Is that what they gifted you?

[ That he has kept mostly to himself — that the intimacy this place encourages is something he has deliberately shunned — is something Astarion keeps to himself. It's not that he expects much interrogation as to why (he expects that I'm just not interested would be a sufficient explanation for most), but, well. It's his own business, isn't it? It's the first time he's had the latitude to make such a choice for himself, to keep a secret, to be untouched.

So he nods, at what Lauralae says — after all, he understands why others might indulge — allowing the conversation to move smoothly on. She's right, in essence. That this place offers him a sort of freedom isn't a benefit that's been lost on him.

She leans in, and so does he, as though they were sharing a secret, the pattern of his breath breaking into a laugh. ]

She even drinks blood, [ he whispers, eyes widening in mock scandal, before straightening up. ] In other words, yes, a vampiric chicken. [ A pause, then, ] I'd be more annoyed by the choice, but ... she isn't particularly demanding, beyond needing to be fed. Perhaps I've grown soft, due to our shared nature, though I can't imagine who would have turned her.

Would you like to meet her?

So is the nature of the creatures.

[ Lauralae does not seem offended by the notion of it, at least; only curious, her eyes flickering a little. Blood is a familiar companion to her, the taste of it warm and friendly on her tongue, an old kin that she had never been able to leave behind. It is not necessary for her survival, but she does not shun it either, content to drown herself in whatever she is given.

Blood is a part of her, in a sense both literal and less so.

Tilting her head up, she watches him for a moment before her lips curl, a proper smile at least. It's slight, a small slash on her mouth, but it remains all the same. ]

I would like to meet her. I might give her blood, if she is of need of it. I would not mind.

[ She's fed vampires before, and she would do it again. ]

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