TEST DRIVE MEME 004

[rubimods]

⚰︎ ⍢ ⌲ ⍚ TEST DRIVE MEME:

Welcome to RUBILYKSKOYE — a dark, horror-smut game where player choices will drive a mod-run storyline about the world and its NPCs. This test drive meme provides a medley of prompts evoking the game's general tone.

THESE THREADS CAN BE GAME CANON if both players are accepted into the game and agree to it. However, if players who'd prefer to start fresh are welcome to reuse these prompts in their own personal logs upon acceptance into the communities. Note: the universal test drive arrival prompt will not be repeated on the coming event log, but players are welcome to reuse the prompt.

CONTENT WARNINGS for this game include: monsters, body horror, dub-con, non-con, religion, blood/violence, and marking/branding, loss of autonomy/self, and mental influences. This log additionally has warnings for: spiders, animated skeletons, aphrodisiac effects, exhibitionism/voyeurism, bdsm, kink negotiation, knifeplay, potential dismemberment.

If you have QUESTIONS about the test drive prompts, please ask HERE. Questions about the game itself or the general setting should be directed to the FAQ.

FAQ ✧ SETTING ✧ CALENDAR ✧ RESERVES ✧ APPLICATIONS

IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE

The chirping of partridges in the treetops rouses you. Light barely filters through the canopy, just enough to suggest daylight. By the time it reaches the forest floor, the light has taken on a sickly green. You lie amongst the frost-covered mosses and ferns, the frozen soil cold and just a little damp on your bare skin.

Wherever you were before this moment, whatever you were doing or wearing, when you awaken in this forest, you find yourself naked and helpless as the day you were born. As you sit up and get your bearings, aside from a brief wave of disoriented nausea, you seem to be no worse for wear than you last remember.

You seem to be alone. The gnarled oaks and moss suggest no sign of civilization or sentient life. Just flickers of movement from curious squirrels or brave lizards emerging from a temporary retreat from the wintry weather. With your feet under you, and you'll find the wood is filled with berry bushes and nut trees, though much of the fruit has been picked clean. The freshwater stream that runs north-south, populated by both poisonous toads and delicious crawdads, is running actively despite the growing chill.

wildlife encounters

The longer you hike, the more unsettling sights await you: animal remains, some partially stripped of their flesh or discarded entrails left exposed to the cold. As you continue on your way, you might even swear you catch a glimpse of what appears to be a fully-formed skeletal creature observing you from a distance. Surely, that’s just your mind playing tricks on you... These creatures may be unsettling, but they show no signs of aggression to folks who keep their distance.

In the forest, you may run into others with stories just like yours. Some may have already formed clumsy nudist groups, others may still be processing their confusion, with no memory of how they got here. Now is a good time to overcome any hang-ups you have about modesty; it's going to be a long hike, and the weather isn't quite amenable to your lack of.

Turn your back to the darker, shadowy parts of the forest and eventually the glow of manmade lights and the curve of a dirt road may come into view. At the edge of the wood, you'll find a town surrounded by a fifty-foot wall of beige stone. The only entrance is an iron gate positioned on the southern edge. When you arrive, the gate is already open, welcoming people inside.

This quaint, historic town of five-thousand has cobbled street and signs lit by gas lamp. Wooden shutters protect otherwise open-air windows on the buildings, which are all under three stories with gabled roofs. A number of businesses hug the main street — a clockmaker, a cobbler, a grocer — while residential homes sprawl outwards towards the wall. At the far end of the main street, visible about a mile to the north now that the trees and the enormous wall is out of the way, sits a castle with three towers.

When you enter, the streets are full of people, but despite any efforts on your part to hide or make excuses, they don't seem offended by your nakedness. Even families with children don't gawk or look twice. Those determined to find proper clothing regardless will find that modern clothing stores aren't available — the closest this town has is a tailor's shop and a stand in the central marketplace selling scarves and blankets.

breaking and entering

If you intend to have your character break into someone's house or yard to steal some of their clean laundry, please review the info about game laws on the FAQ and give the mods a heads up HERE.

SETTING: CRIME

Fortunately, the people of the town are very generous! Anyone who ask the locals will be directed to the boarding house for both clothes and a place to stay. Accessible through an embellished iron garden gate and obscured by hanging plants, trees, and vines, beyond an overgrown yard in the residential sprawl of the town is a bright-red door, which opens to a spacious cottage of several stories. It's already full of people who appeared in the village just as you did today.

Tonight, a few of the townspeople will help out with the new arrivals. They stock the kitchen and prepare a communal dinner of parsnips, pheasant, and squash. During dinner, they (and those outsiders who've already begun to settle) sit down at the enormous wooden dining room table and help orient the newcomers and answer their questions.

finding roommates

Don't spend too much time in the dining room going for seconds, though. You'll want to claim a bedroom quickly because each one only has two full-size beds, and there aren't enough spaces for everyone. The last people upstairs will need to double up to squeeze in. Roommates will not be mod-assigned; players should coordinate directly with one another to determine their living arrangements.

Get a good night's rest. By the light of day, locals will help get the new arrivals set up on the coal stove with breakfast. You may notice they're dressed in a way you would almost call normal — at least, in a manner befitting 19th century Eastern Europe. As you find your way around town to get your bearings, folks are eager to help you find a place to apply your skills so you can contribute to your new home.

writer's block?

If you're struggling to pick a way to engage the prompts, try: naked hiking, acquiring clothing or other inventory items, asking questions at dinner/orientation, or staking your claim on a bedroom!

RECUMITA

The festival fills the streets with dancing locals and all the stuffs of a street market. Despite the challenges posed by the snow-in-summer, farmers are grateful to announce that the situation is not as dire as initially feared. As a result, the harvest festival of Recūmita becomes a celebration of unity and gratitude to their fellow townspeople for salvaging an almost-frozen harvest, the Duchess' magic for protecting and reviving it, and the 'Void-Touched' who braved the Void to strengthen her.

Over the weekend, all regular work is put on hold, except for the necessary festival preparations. The streets come alive with vibrant stalls and stands, offering a wide array of delectable treats and refreshing beverages. From barrels of beer and cups of kvas to mouthwatering roasted meats, delightful squash-based dishes like pumpkin latkes, honey-glazed brussel sprouts on skewers, hot borscht in both pork and vegetarian variations, and tantalizing mushrooms stuffed with leeks, cranberries, and bryndza cheese, there is an abundance of flavors to indulge in.

The first day of the festival transforms the streets into a bustling night market, where shopkeepers organize an assortment of carnival-style games. Test your strength in arm-wrestling contests or challenge your pain tolerance in contests where individuals whip each other to determine who yields first, whether to pain or pleasure. In one corner, Terry's Rubean student sets up an unsanctioned fighting tournament, while in another area, a path of hot coals awaits the daring souls who wish to traverse it. Instead of traditional pie-throwing stands, knife-throwing stands attract participants who willingly become targets.

Enthusiastic Rubeans, particularly those involved in integrating the Void-touched, take it upon themselves to enhance the festivities. They recruit local participants and willing Void-touched individuals to partake in an impromptu stage performance, with no need for rehearsals. Come as you are and join the spectacle! Once the performance begins, the passion and excitement behind their efforts become truly evident, as all the performances call for explicitly sexual or violent acts to be performed together.

writer's block?

If you're struggling to pick a way to engage the prompts, try entering the fighting rings, watching or joining a live sex performance, or eating some aphro food (deliberately or otherwise)!

the fathomless dark

At the outer edges of the forest, shadows grow long and the air grows thick. Though the sun never grows warm red-gold with sunset, the wood darkens. Birdsong is replaced by the click of mandibles and the skitter of many legs. Anyone who ventures out this way will soon find it difficult to see before them, even in the middle of the day — eventually, even the brightest magical light source or darkvision cannot stretch further than a few inches.

In the void, the air feels heavy, as if it were not air at all but some more solid mass. Almost like liquid-smoke, it presses down upon you. Slowing your movements. Characters who push too far into the void may stop being able to move at all, and find themselves given over to insanity if they collapse, unable to draw themselves out. This is just one of many dangers.

Monsters thrive this far out. Huge, blood-red spiders the size of hunting dogs drop from the treetops. In addition to their venomous bite, which contains a fast-acting paralytic, these creatures are clever: they attempt to use their webbing to entangle any trespassers, binding limbs together or to trees. If you're unfortunate to become fully cocooned, you don't have long before this forest will be the last thing you see.

In addition to the spiders, you may come across the sharp-toothed furred yetis that emerged during the snowstorm, still looking for a meal. Each one hunts alone, a fifteen-foot-tall shambling creature that drips black ooze and super-chills the air around it until your skin feels tight and icy. If it gets the drop on you, you're likely to be its dinner. It has emerged from a long summer hibernation to enjoy the colder weather, and it's starving.

FAQ: DEATH RULES

Those who seem lucky enough not to run afoul of the monsters here are in for a worse fate. The void can play tricks on your senses. As madness sets in and you lose all sense of direction, you may also lose control of your body — what is that steers your hands to turn against your friends? Why does it sound like your own voice whispering?

In the fog, you may also hear the voices of those familiar to you — people you know from the town, or people whom you know with almost perfect certainty aren't here. these figments may recreate unhappy memories or force trespassers to hallucinate their worst nightmares. Nothing is as it seems in the void, and when you swing at these figments, desperate to silence them, it might not be a figment at all, but a friend in the flesh trying to help you. By the time you see their true face, it could be too late to stop yourself.

writer's block?

If you're struggling to pick a way to engage the prompts, try fighting a monster, hallucinating your worst nightmares, and/or attacking a friend or stranger!

HIDING INSIDE EACH OF US

Uh oh spaghetti-os.

The marks worn by all residents of Rubilykskoye aren't just cool body art, as it turns out. The town is full of rumors, whispered in shadows and over candles of a starving creature hiding in the dark corners of your chest. Feed your inner beast, they say, before it finds a way to feed itself.

FAQ: MONSTER CURSES & TIMELINES

Alas, its emergence is inevitable — sooner or later, the horrible things that happen here pile up and make someone repulsed by the idea of human contact. Someone holds themselves back, bites their tongue, or simply does not believe the stories. Today, for one reason or another, that creature is coming out. Someone hasn't been keeping it sated.

Symptoms escalate over weeks, from monstrous irritability to full-blown body horror transformation, where people physically shed their human forms and evolve into the monsters this place made them. Once a person becomes something more (or less) than human there's only one way to go back — sate the beast.

someone else transforms

Rubilykskoye's performance troupe is thrown into a state of panic as they make a shocking discovery: Vyanchaslav, their unofficial manager and conductor, has vanished without a trace! Vyanchaslav plays a crucial role in the troupe, overseeing small inter-troupe matters and having the final say on casting and rehearsal time. He is known for his reliability, making his sudden disappearance all the more perplexing, especially right before a major event.

The last time anyone saw Vyanchaslav was in their usual rehearsal space, just before a crucial run-through of their upcoming performance. His absence during that rehearsal was highly unusual, and it left the troupe members worried and confused. They are now frantically trying to piece together what might have happened to him.

As they search for Vyanchaslav, they notice a faint sound lingering in the air – the distant whine of a fiddle. However, there is something unsettling about it. As they follow the source of the sound, the room grows darker, and an eerie chill runs down their spines. Those who draw close enough to properly hear Vyanchaslav's song will feel inclined to dance themselves til their feet bleed, til their lungs give out. That is, provided they don't cut a devil's bargain with him first, selling something else to the devil in exchange for their freedom.

(There are other monsters lurking in every townsperson — feel free to invent your own npc monsters and scenarios!)

you waited too long

At first, as you hide yourself from your darker impulses, a subtle itch develops under your skin. An irritability that makes you snap at the person who bumps into you on the stairs because all those fleeting emotions that you've been repressing bubble to the surface. Every dark thought you've had about being here, all the fears of never getting home, of being surrounded by ticking time bombs, the anxiety of wondering who you might hurt or what relationships you might betray by doing what you have to do. The anger. Oh, the anger.

Maybe you shut yourself in your room or run into the woods to hide away, but there's only so much you can do to deny the itch that grows into hunger like a spark catching and growing to wildfire. Someone comes to check on you. That knock on the door or crunch of leaves in the wood that fills you with dread at what you might do and hope that you will be sated.

As claws and fangs and scales and spines and fur grow and your body transforms with a sickening crunch of bones and peeling of skin, so do your appetites. If you won't sate them, you'll lose yourself to your beastly impulses sooner or later, mauling friends and taking your fill. Is it better or worse if only your claws get inside of them?

RULES: CONTENT WARNINGS

Comments

[clawandfang]

[ Astarion gets to witness the unusual sight of a wolf visibly rolling its eyes, not at all deterred by his half-hearted threat. Human or elf or whatever this creature is, the condescension is all too familiar - what is it about these furless, flat-faced races, thin-skinned and weak, but somehow all too eager to sneer down upon what they consider little more than a talking animal. ]

And what will you hunt, undead filth?

[ The growl comes rumbling forth from deep within his chest, and Khoriya is already loping forward, tail up, ruff and mane bristling in threat as he tenses to spring. Even lost in a world beyond his wildest imaginations, Khoriya is still a soldier, a beast of duty who follows stark and unyielding line of thought: what threat does this aberration of nature pose to the innocent? ]

[thepigisdead]

Excuse me, I may be many many things but filth is not one of them, [he snarls right back--oh. Oh shit, it's coming closer.

Astarion has the good sense to launch himself backwards, but he lacks two things at the moment: his usual effortless coordination and open space. His back hits the stable wall and he curses. This really is the worst possible time for him to try to evade a bloody werewolf or whatever the hells he's looking at.

He isn't as fast as he should be. He's so damned weak. So is there any point in trying to get away? He stares at the wolf-creature and in the dark he has the same eyeshine as any other nocturnal creature. Hells. Hells.]

I don't want to do this.

[Somehow that feels like the most pathetic thing he's managed to say since waking up in the sun. But that is all he says before throwing himself forward. If he can't run, then he'll try to make it bleed.]

[clawandfang]

[ Khoriya half expects the pale elf-thing to come apart at the seams, as risen corpses are wont- to reveal the ghastly, hateful amalgamation of dead souls shedding borrowed flesh. But no, he merely lashes out like a cornered animal - and a clumsy one at that, none of the coordination of a true hunter. Or at least, not a good one.

Astarion can claw or bite or gouge - even if his attack draws blood, Khoriya pays it no mind at all. Agile for a hulking beast, he feints to one side before lunging forward, intent on bringing his opponent down and pinning him prone with sheer overwhelming force of strength and brute ferocity. ]

[thepigisdead]

[He can't resist the force of that weight. He isn't sure he wants to. Astarion's back hits the ground and he grunts with the impact. But now there is a body above him, warm and vital and gods--he said he didn't want to do this. He doesn't (yes he does). But he has no intention of dying, either.

Instinct takes over and Astarion lunges forward, needing very little effort to effectively bite somewhere - anywhere. The neck would be preferable even with all that damned fur but he'll go for a leg (arm?) if it's more convenient. The pathetic, heady rush he feels at the taste of blood - somehow sharper, better than that of the meager rodent he'd settled for, almost makes him moan.]

[clawandfang]

[ Against his vicious strength and bulk, the elf-thing struggles like a broke-winged bird. Pathetic indeed, Khoriya thinks. And perhaps that's what stays his rending jaws - the single poisonous drop of pity that wells up within him, weakness rooting itself like brambles in his chest.

And then Astarion bites him.

The attack, he expects to brush off, but the piercing fangs and draw of blood catch him off guard. The bestial growl that fills the stables sends the horses into a panic, frightened whinnying and stamping all around them as Khoriya snarls and then clamps his jaws down around Astarion's neck - bruising and drawing blood, but stopping just short of crushing his throat.

Hands. Better to have hands if he intends to draw this out. Khoriya is not in the habit of playing with his prey; it would be easier, simpler if he killed the undead creature and washed his hands of it all. But this pale elf is nothing like what he's encountered before, and his fear tastes closer to that of a living thing than the grasping, naked malice of the lingering dead.

The transformation takes no longer than a few breaths, and his jaws do not relent as the wolf's form shifts, cracking bone and pulsing flesh, reshaped into something closer to a man - or at least, something in-between, shaggy furred shoulders and heavy muscle, powerful clawed hands, though the wolfish head and snout remain. Naked, of course, half straddling the elf to keep him pinned down. His words come out muffled against skin, hot breath and barely constrained violence. ]

What are you? I won't ask again.

[thepigisdead]

[The taste of blood is--different. Astarion doesn't know if it's because of what this thing is or if it's because he's a sentient creature or--he doesn't know, but gods, he wants more.

He can't help the cry that rises in his throat when the wolf bites him back. That's... almost a first. He's been bitten by prey before, especially larger things, but this stops short of tearing him open. The sound of cracking bones threatens to make bile rise in his throat and he realizes the creature - man? - above him is changing. He's still pinned to the ground, but he isn't helpless.]

Hungry, [he snarls. He gave his warning, didn't he? He didn't not want to do this. But he will.

Astarion wedges a hand between the wolf's lower jaw and his skin and he shoves hard. Whatever freedom he gets, he takes, and he lunges forward. He bites down hard. Fur won't keep him from breaking skin, he's hunted too many animals to be deterred by that. He feels lightheaded when the taste hits his tongue again and he tries not to lose himself. It's a more deliberate bite this time, more calculated despite the danger to himself. Gods, it's good. He holds tightly to the wolf above him wherever he can, but he is utterly distracted by the rush of vitality and the taste.]

[clawandfang]

[ Khoriya has been bitten before, but it had always been a matter of fang against fang, grappling and snapping for dominance against a fellow worg. Never before has he been made prey to feed another.

His first surprised thought is that it does not hurt as much as he expected. There is hardly any pain, a sliver of cold that sinks beneath his skin before giving way to a strange numbness, only the press of soft lips and sucking mouth against his neck giving way to a frisson of unfamiliar soothing sensation. Almost... pleasurable.

And then shock fades away to cold, measured fury as Khoriya reaches up to fist a clawed hand in that tumble of white hair and yank back, heedless of the fangs buried in his flesh, slamming the pale elf back down against the straw-covered floor with the full force of his strength. ]

So this is what you meant by hunting.

[ Said in a flat growl, utterly without intonation. Perhaps he should have pieced it together sooner - the rat's limp body, the blood smeared upon pale lips. Of course, some snarling, hateful part of him thinks, the greedy dead can only feed off the living. But even there, Khoriya can recognize his own hypocrisy - after all, what is a wolf but a fellow devourer of flesh and blood? ]

[thepigisdead]

[He should be grateful when he feels that hand in his hair, yanking his head back. He should be grateful that he's been kept from doing this terrible thing that he wants to do. Astarion's vision swims as he's slammed back to the ground. He lays there, bloody lips parted as he pants.]

You'll--you'll notice that I was quite content with my rat before you stepped in, [he hisses, the strain in his voice from pain or frustration or both. He doesn't fight the body pinning him down. Whatever euphoria he feels with even a mouthful of that blood is mitigated by his rather precarious situation.]

You asked what I was... I'm--[There's no shame in fully admitting it, is there? And yet somehow identifying himself as vampire spawn in a place where, perhaps, no one knows the difference somehow feels like admitting defeat. Maybe it will save him. Maybe it won't.]

Vampire spawn, [he says between gritted teeth. It stings that he's gone through the awful effort of feeding on vermin to avoid doing anything worse and now he's being throttled for it. Never mind that he's just bitten this fellow. That was provoked.]

[clawandfang]

[ There's no change whatsoever to Khoriya's flat expression, but ragged ears flick sidelong in confusion. Her considers a moment whether revealing his ignorance would betray weakness, but there is so much he is ignorant of here. ]

What does that mean?

[ A deep inhale, followed by a whuffing breath, a wet nose trailing along the sharp line of Astarion's jaw. A flick of wet tongue, tasting his skin as Khoriya squints as if looking for something - an untidy seam, whether stitched by necromancer's hands or slipshod patches of flesh melded together by black magic. But there is only smooth, pale skin, scarred like any ordinary creature's might be. ]

You stink of undeath, but you are like no half-rotted corpse-flesh construct I have ever seen.

[thepigisdead]

Hells, is that necessary? [he protests as the wolf licks his face. His skin tastes of soap and a mix of herbs - not unpleasant, but certainly an attempt to mask his scent - but there is nothing there to suggest he is anything but what he appears to be. No stitches, no strange parts fit together, nothing falling off or decaying. He doesn't smell dead--but not living, either. Not in the way most things should be.

The crude investigation distracts him from the original question and, despite being pinned down by this lummox of a canine-man, he once again manages to look affronted at the accusation that he stinks. Insult to injury is enough to get him shoving his knee up into whatever soft part is closest.]

Why thank you for noticing I'm not a bloody corpse. And I don't want to hear you complaining about my scent when I'm trapped here under a few hundred pounds of unwashed dog.

[Astarion sighs and stares up at the slatted roof of the stable, apparently resigned to his fate.]

Do you not have vampires where you come from? I need blood. And I have spent the better part of a week avoiding sinking my teeth into anything that could talk, so thank you for ruining that for me. [His voice is sharp, bitter. He'll be thinking about this for days now and he's already been walking on a knife's edge.]

[clawandfang]

No. Where I come from, there are only the clinging dead, and the living who stitch their hungry souls into stolen bodies and set them loose to feast.

[ As far as Khoriya knows, at least. He takes the knee to his gut with a low grunt, though Astarion may as well be shoving at a stone wall for all the good it does. A black lip curls back at being called a dog, but Khoriya's slow and sniffy examination continues for a minute longer, whiskered muzzle brushing over Astarion's brow as he deliberates, ears flicking in thought.

The taste of soap upon his tongue, of clean herbs and garden sills... an ordinary enough smell, as he might scent upon any thinking creature going about an ordinary day. As this... vampire, as he names himself... might be.

The corner of Khoriya's mouth twitches in displeasure at the thought, and he draws back slightly, tail giving an uncertain flip. Had he truly misjudged so poorly? ]

Hmph. Why bother? Why hunt vermin instead of bigger prey?

[ From the eager way the elf-thing had sunk his fangs into Khoriya's neck, he certainly didn't seem content with a mere rat. ]

[thepigisdead]

How easy for you, [he growls. Astarion shoves at the muzzle above him as the wolf sniffs at his face and his hair. Really, it was humiliating before and this is prolonging that experience.

The question earns a barked, bitter laugh and Astarion makes a much more dedicated effort to getting out from under the wolf as he eases back, even if it's only a little. He has already had a long night when he wanted to accomplish one, simple thing and he has been on the verge of hysteria for the better part of a week as he contemplates the reality of his situation. This feels like a breaking point, and he cannot allow that.]

Because, as you can readily see, I'm in no condition to hunt anything that can properly fight back. The next biggest thing I have any chance of killing would be livestock, and given the conditions here, I think people would notice if their pigs and goats turned up exsanguinated.

[He looks at the abandoned rat and the congealing blood around it. He could probably find some dregs in there if he tried, but he will not lick it off the floor. Gods, not again. Astarion takes a deeper breath and lets it go in a short huff.]

And now I'll need to find something else, since I'm quite sure this tussle has scared off anything smart enough to run.

[He can't hear the familiar movement of rodents through straw or along rafters.]

[clawandfang]

I mean the humans and their ilk. Certainly, there's no lack of blood to be found there - nor bodies that won't be missed.

[ Spoken in an implacable growl, heedless of the ragged wild edge to the pale elf's voice, bordering upon panic. Is it only a matter of strength then, that keeps this undead thing from hunting freely?

Khoriya has no love for humans, certainly, would be the first to deny any such thing - but a few of the ones here had been. Kind. To him. Against all reason and good sense.

And so he would not set loose a predator among their midst. It seems the least he could do. ]

[thepigisdead]

Humans start dying and then people turn up with wooden stakes and pitchforks and torches, and I have very few places to escape to should I manage to turn this whole town against me. So no, I think not.

[He could ask for volunteers. He wouldn't even need to take a lot. But he can still hear Cazador's voice in his head (even here, gods, he'll never be free will he?): thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures. Astarion's always wondered about that one. When he had a lot of time to think, he'd consider that even vermin have minds. They didn't just do things. Rats, in particular, he'd found to be quite intelligent. But it was always clear what Cazador meant in that first commandment.]

It would help, [he admits.] But secrecy is how I've survived this long. And unless you plan to defend me against would-be heroes, I sincerely hope you'll not interrupt my meager hunting in the future.

[The wolf's blood is still rich on his tongue, so much more vibrant than the little creatures he's sated himself with before. How long will it take him to forget it? How long will he want it in the mean time?]

[clawandfang]

[ In those words, Khoriya has the answer to his question unasked. Even with the dark aroma of death lingering upon him, this is a thinking creature with his own mind, fears, and thoughts toward the future. He exhales slowly, stoic expression masking the pang of self reproach as he sits back, and then rises to his feet, easing the suffocatingly heavy bulk of his body off Astarion to loom over him instead. ]

I suppose I may have misjudged you. [ Is this an apology? It's about as close to one as Khoriya can muster up, too-prideful worg that he is.

Still... his tail gives a irritated swish at the thought... it does not seem like quite enough for what he had put the other man through. A long, ominous pause, before he adds: ]

...If it would even the scales between us. [ His words come stiff and with an oddly formal cadence. Khoriya does not like to be wrong, but he likes even less to leave his debts unsettled. ] Just this once, I will allow you to drink of me.

[thepigisdead]

[Astarion sits up as soon as he can and scoots back further to put distance between them, even as the wolf looms over him. Hard not to at that size, he imagines. He's already thinking of other places he might hunt - there are granaries here and other storehouses that will surely have pests--He looks at his attacker and blinks.]

Really?

[He eyes the wolf, clearly trying to decide if this is some sort of trick. But the longer he looks, the more he notices the reticence that has less to do with the offer and possibly more to do with the wolf feeling badly for how he's behaved. Well, far be it from him to keep someone from making amends.]

All right... best you get comfortable, then. It will be easier if you're not looming over me and if I'm not on my toes to reach you. [That, and whatever light-headedness occurs with his feeding won't make the wolf wobble and fall over if he's already on the ground.

Astarion waits for the wolf to settle himself and moves closer. He wipes the blood away from his mouth, self-conscious of the way it looks even if he is about to indulge in more.]

I'll take just enough to clear my head, [he promises.]

[clawandfang]

[ Astarion's suggestion earns a faint scoff - this from a wolf that's never 'gotten comfortable' once in his life. Khoriya simply crouches down to bring his face to eye-level, though the taut line of his shoulders and stiff brush of tail give away that he is not quite as ease with the offer of his own blood as he might pretend to be.

Even so, he will not go back on his word. ]

Take what you need.

[ Big as he is, and well-confident in his own strength, Khoriya doesn't really expect the elf to be able to hurt him in any real way. He does expect to be bitten on the wrist or arm - an impersonal, dispassionate touch with appropriate distance, but doesn't think to ask. ]

cw: vampirism, description of blood loss

[thepigisdead]

Not a drop more than I need, [he promises. If the big wolf wanted a choice, he should have asked. Astarion steps closer.]

I did offer to let you sit, [he says lightly. But that is all he says before his fingers curl in the wolf's fur and the hungry, pale thing that was pinned down moments ago finds what he wants on the beast's throat. As before, a sharp stab of cold accompanies the bite, followed by a soothing numbness. Astarion exhales heavily, blissfully, and hold tighter to his willing victim.

Gods, it's easy to fall into the rush of vitality and just as easy to forget that he will need to stop himself. This is nothing like the haphazard and impulsive bite before: this is intentional. As with any blood loss, if he's not stopped the light-headed wooziness will get worse and the numbness will spread. He's meant to be paying attention. He promised not a drop more than he needed--but he's been so damn hungry.]

[clawandfang]

[ Khoriya goes as still as stone as Astarion leans in close, quashing the instinctive urge to bristle at the approach of something whose very nature twangs discordant notes against his own. He had agreed to this, he repeats to himself, drawing in a long, slow breath. He had agreed to this.

This time, he is braced for the icy chill that accompanies the fanged bite, the numbness that radiates from the wound. But the unfamiliar sensation of calm catches him off guard, and despite dulling any lingering pain, the soothing warmth provokes a deep growl that threatens to escape gritted teeth.

Quiet now, Khoriya tells the panicking inner animal, even as his hands ball into fists, blunt claws digging deep furrows into his palms, feeling the heavy thump-thump of his own heart as his blood is drained from his body. Saying nothing as Astarion drinks and drinks, the heat leeched from his body to leave nothing but a sluggish chill, followed by a woozy light-headedness not unlike that of overindulging in drink. Drawing in a long, slow breath, Khoriya suddenly finds himself leaning heavily against the pale elf, shoulders slumping and ears dropping in deep weariness. ]

[thepigisdead]

[He should pay better attention - what happens next is really Astarion's fault. Lost in the taste and the strength in the blood that fills his mouth, he fails to notice how much he's taking until a couple hundred pounds of extra weight starts leaning into him. Oh no.]

Shit.

[That's all he manages before his own meager strength gives out. With a grunt and a few curses, Astarion collapses under the wolf's weight and finds himself pinned beneath the great beast for the second time tonight.]

Gods damn it get off. [He pushes ineffectually at the wolf's shoulder. He's still breathing so Astarion isn't worried that he's killed him, and the wound is already clotting so there's no risk of bleeding out.]

[clawandfang]

[ The light-headedness catches up to him all at once, and Khoriya lets out a startled boof of sound as his knees give out and he half falls, half collapses onto the elf.

For a moment, he simply lays there on the straw-strewn stable floor, catching his breath... until he feels the feeble shove of hands against his shoulders and turns his head to level Astarion as indignant a look as only a dog can manage. ]

You could have warned me.

[ His heart is pounding in his chest, in sharp contrast to the sluggishness in his veins. With a grunt, Khoriya tries to push himself up to his elbows... and only ends up slumping over half on top of Astarion. Finally, he rolls over, ending up flat on his back with a hiss. The defensive inner beast is bristling and cringing in equals parts, anticipating an attack, snarling at any potential threat, but the exhaustion has settled into his bones and Khoriya finds that he needs a moment, maybe two, to find the strength to rise again. ]

[thepigisdead]

I did! [he insists.] I recall telling you to get comfortable. And reminding you that I offered to let you sit.

[Which is due diligence on his part, thank you. Astarion grunts when the wolf slumps half over him before finally managing to roll over. He stays right where he is, looking up, again, at the slats of the roof. He's going to start picturing this whenever he closes his eyes this rate.]

Were you under the impression that blood loss was going to be a walk in the park? By the sheer number of scars I can see I assumed you knew better.

[Astarion huffs a breath. There is no further attack, though, no attempt to take advantage of a weakened creature. He feels better, and now that he isn't being crushed he can fully appreciate the rush of energy. The difference is--well. Night and day.

He stays quiet for a little while, listening to the wolf beside him breathing. Then:]

Thank you.

[clawandfang]

[ Khoriya exhales a contemptuous huff of his own, ungracious in his weakness and admittance of his own hubris. ]

...Don't. I have no need of your thanks.

[ Inhale. Exhale. Before he finally levers himself up on his elbows with a harsh grunt, sitting up on the stable floor. ]

And now we can call our business quits, you and I.

[thepigisdead]

[Astarion rolls his eyes, but he doesn't protest being brushed off. With a sigh he rolls onto his knees and gets up with a little more grace than he had before. He moves differently: more fluid, more at ease. Once he's up, he uses the hem of his sleeve to wipe whatever blood lingers around his mouth. He's always been careful not to spill too much, but sometimes it can't be helped.]

Have it your way, darling. Now that I've had a little pick-me-up, I need to find larger game.

[clawandfang]

[ Darling??? Khoriya's stoic gaze acquires an uncomprehending squint before he turns his head away with a shake of fur and braid, clearly dismissive. ]

Do not give me cause to regret letting you go.