verbrannt | you don't talk to no one, don't you look at nothin'

Prior to the public exposure and deposing of Trent Ikithon, Astrid had moved quickly to scour all of his secret spaces of anything hidden and rare. Most were incidental to the crimes for which he would be ostensibly punished for, but still immeasurably too valuable to lose to the Martinet, or the Crown, or anyone else who might confiscate such important items. There were secrets she knew that they didn't, and it would stay that way, so far as she was concerned.

That her old master was still permitted continued breath grated against her very soul each day, almost more so than when she had still been under his dominion. She had been so close. So very, very close, and then denied the one thing she had dared to truly imagine for years and years and years. She imagines it, still.

It was no surprise when she was offered his seat in the wake of his deposing. Part of her still couldn't help the bitter thought that it was given out of pity, in light of the abuse. It fueled her rage, even though every step she had taken for the past dozen or more years had been to achieve this very thing. Comparatively smaller acts consoled her temporarily - destroying the mundane things about her that reminded her of his presence, emptying his tower of anything useful and razing it to the ground. And finally, once the Cobalt Soul had gotten the evidence they needed, doing the same to that place far outside the city where they and others had suffered. It burned for days.

It has only been some months since then. She spends her time equally between the generous office gifted by the Martinet and her own quiet property. Eadwulf still constantly at her side, officially as an aide and personal guard, though technically free to do as he wishes. That is their agreement.

The days are cooling, now. The air crisp and clear with an endlessly blue sky. Apple harvests and autumn festivals liven the city and its outskirts. Her high office has a balcony overlooking much of it below, the doors open and a fire burning nearby as she sits at her desk, writing furiously in a journal. There's a knock at the door, and in the pause before it opens the book disappears into a tear in the air with a flourish of her hand. She pulls a different piece of paper closer instead, and calls in a clear, commanding voice.

"Enter."

The chamberlain enters and bows formally. "Begging your pardon, ma'am, but you have a visitor: Mr. Widogast."

Across the room, her jaw tightens imperceptibly.

"Show him in."

It doesn't come as a surprise to him that Astrid apparently hasn't chosen to take up residence in Trent's former tower in the Candles. That place is full of bad memories for all of them, and the shadow of its former occupant still lingers, though the man himself moulders his few remaining years away in a cell.

The office he is led to is modest only when compared to the arcane ostentatiousness of the rest of the Cerberus Assembly. Astrid is well aware of what the trappings of power look like, and as the Assembly's newest blood and its first (hopefully only) to come from the Volstrucker program, Astrid needs such things to secure influence and maintain her new position. Still, there is a certain practicality to it, an austere severity that is more purely Astrid, and speaks of her former position. That is useful, too. She is dangerous, and every reminder of that helps.

For all that he has never been entirely certain of Astrid's intentions since they first saw one another again, Caleb is not worried about his own safety--not even now, when he knows full well that she must still be angry with him. He can't blame her. He too has spent years thinking of the ways he would kill Trent Ikithon if he could. Being robbed of that catharsis, even if it is for a practical reason, is painful. He feels the ache of it still. But there was no way that this victory would ever be entirely satisfactory, no matter the outcome.

Caleb is dressed plainly as ever, a little scruff on his cheeks and his hair pulled back, and though it isn't shabby, his coat has seen better days. It had been clear to him that Astrid's staff did not expect her to grant admittance to such an unassuming man, let alone so quickly. The look of surprise on the chamberlain's face when he'd informed him that the Archmage would see him immediately had given him a moment's satisfaction.

Their eyes meet the moment he steps into the room, of course. He offers her a smile first, in a tense silence that lasts only seconds, but seems slower as his mind tracks each one. He had hoped perhaps he would find Wulf here as well, but the room is empty--seemingly, at least--but for the two of them. Still, this works.

"Thank you for seeing me," he says, respectful of her new position despite their familiarity. He slips into Zemnian right away. "My congratulations are overdue, but still, you have them." The door closes behind him as he steps further into the room, halfway to her desk. He doesn't look anywhere but at her as his mouth thins in a rueful smile. "It was always meant to be you sitting there."

It's been weeks since they last saw each other at her last appearance for their former master's trial. Astrid knows the further aspirations that Caleb and Beauregard had for the entire assembly; they hadn't been shy about their goals in the wake of that day in the Blooming Grove. Both she and Wulf had been particular in their testimony, and the other two had known it as well. There were still things she wanted to accomplish, and none that would happen if any of them gave Ludinus reason to doubt her more than he already might. His offering of the position to her was assuredly a calculated move.

Even if she was his second choice. Just as she had been Trent's.

The comment grates more than it might have if he were dead.

Her expression does not change. There is no particular hint of affection or warmth in it, her thoughts and emotions hidden behind a carefully blank gaze.

"Yes, it was. Despite anyone else's wishes." It's perhaps more barbed than intended. She doesn't care.

Astrid laces her fingers together, hands folding over the paperwork on her desk as she looks at Caleb expectantly.

"What do you want?"

He feels that barb as little more than a graze. There is no sting in it for him. What bothers him more is her unhappiness. He has to remind himself that her feelings aren't his problem anymore.

Still, he cares. Which is unwise, but somehow feels inevitable. There is no timeline, he thinks, in which his heart doesn't ache when he looks at Astrid Beck.

Caleb's hands fold together in front of him with a soft creak of worn leather from his fingerless gloves. Her expression gives very little away, even to someone trained to read such things--even to someone who once knew her every tell. It doesn't stop Caleb from looking, even as she ushers them right to business. No cheers, Bren for him any longer. It's...better that way, probably. To know where they stand going forward.

"I'm leaving to go north again very soon," he says. Of course she'll know north means Eiselcross means Aeor, if not precisely what ruin. "I thought I would offer you a first look at what my colleague and I uncover there in exchange for your resources in the continued study of our findings."

In truth, this is only part of it. He doesn't know if he'll be able to speak the rest today.

At the mention of going north, Astrid stiffens immediately. She moves to her feet suddenly, a brief wave of her hand and her eyes flash briefly as she turns a full circle about the room. Her wards are impeccable, but with the likes of the other members of the Cerberus Assembly, she can never be too careful.

Finally after a few moments, she walks around the edge of her desk and perches on it, perfect and neat. It would seem an overly casual position if not for the newly sharpened intensity of her gaze. She crosses her arms over her chest, chin tilting upward. The marred skin of the scar licking like flames up the side of her throat more apparent, now.

"Your colleague," Astrid repeats with careful emphasis. "I assume the same one we encountered when we first gave you our testimony?"

The drow?

Astrid's casting--See Invisibility, surely--is momentarily surprising. Does she not trust the security of her own office, or does she not trust him? It's silly even to wonder, honestly. The latter is far more likely. But Caleb has nothing to hide, and so he remains still, allowing her caution and waiting for her to settle again. When he follows the tilt of her chin, his gaze lingers naturally on the burn scar beneath in roughly the shape of his own hand. The twang of guilt he feels is familiar, but he reminds himself not to dwell.

"The same one, yes. His knowledge about what we may uncover is second to none."

Of course she would be aware of who he plans to meet there. A week spent together at the Blooming Grove had been unintentionally revealing for all parties involved. But the more he can avoid talking about Essek the better, for a multitude of reasons.

It's a mixture of both, but primarily the former. Here in the tower offices of the Assembly, Astrid feels a watchful eye always, regardless of whether or not it is really there. With as much power as the position brings, it also comes with a leash tied directly to the Martinet, and she is not about to grow complacent. Ever. It is how she survived so far.

She stares Caleb down, memories of the handful of days spent in close quarters for the first time in more than a decade winding through her mind. The connections between him and the drow had been unmistakable for someone who was always watching others carefully. Yet for as easy as it was to spot, understanding her own feelings have proven much more difficult. For as much as she tries to tell herself that Bren...Caleb...is not her concern unless he is on her doorstep, it is harder to truly detach.

"How fortunate." Her voice is just a shade drier than neutral. "That you happened to make such a connection. But I am surprised you would so willingly offer what you find to me, knowing that such knowledge would be difficult to contain once shared."

[ A Soiree of Sorts ]

Long term infiltration is rarely the sort of assignment she's given; volstrucker tend to be a much more...acute solution to problems. But on occasion, a more delicate, covert hand is required. Expediency is always best, regardless, though gaining the required trust and access to certain people and certain information does not always happen quickly. Especially when rooting out possible traitors to the empire.

A masquerade ball is an opportunity that begs seizing upon, and surely the host would have to expect some degree of espionage to be taking place under their noses; perhaps that in and of itself was the goal, though there is no way to be sure. More than one person will take advantage of the base requirement of showing up as something other than what one usually is.

Astrid has long been trained on social events such as this. Slipping into a persona is as easy as whispering the spell that conjures her subtle disguise. The ring on her middle finger heats briefly, the magic sliding up her skin in a familiar tingle as things shift into place. Her hair lengthens, evening to a symmetrical cut that ends just beneath her chin; the scars on her face and neck smooth away and vanish, as though they'd never been there at all; her eyes shift, changing to a bright, piercing blue. Other features change subtly as well, just to be different enough, to confuse the memory of whatever target she happens to land on tonight.

A gown of simple black, high in the neck and low in the back, long sleeved and the modest skirt reaching down to the floor is paired with an un-ornate black feathered mask. One other ring accompanies her other hand.

It isn't long into the night when Astrid spies one of her memorized candidates. She approaches slowly, nearly like a cat sauntering up half disinterestedly to its prey, and offers an elegantly fluted glass filled with sparkling wine.

"I hope you'll forgive the interruption - you appeared a little thirsty."

[ Another Life, Perhaps ]

The exact moment when it happened is still more haze than memory. One minute, a battle - pain and blood and barely conscious - the next, a flash of light, a tearing darkness and a rush of magic, abruptly ended by the sudden impact of the ground. The wheat grasses of the field had managed to cushion her somewhat, but not enough to keep the air from being forced out of her lungs. She gasped, felt dizzy, and then -- true darkness.

She wasn't dead; an hour of wandering after waking in the cold pre-dawn brought her shivering to a small farmstead. There was no guessing where in the whole of Exandria she might be now; well - a few guesses, but still entirely possible that she had been shunted off of Wildemount altogether. The enforced nap hadn't helped her wounds much at all; one brief healing spell before her sudden banishment had stopped the worst of them from bleeding, but threatened to reopen at any further strenuous exertion.

It is only desperation that drives her decision to go to the door, half collapsing against it, and knocking.

Lark pushes her hair back and sighs as she looks skyward. They'll hit time for the final harvest sooner than later and she is praying for a quiet winter. There's time yet, she won't wish for it sooner. But she wishes it all the same.

And she finds herself hoping that Astrid stays. She's been well enough to help around the little farm and Lark's been watching her wounds, but she's healing up. It's been nice having the company. She leaves the field behind and grabs the basket she'd brought with her. She'd gone through the kitchen garden before coming this far to pick what she could.

She balances the basket against her hip, leaving one hand free to take her hair down as she goes.

It's been weeks by now. By now, she should have returned. Though it had taken longer than usual to regain the use of her magic (a terrifying realization, one that lingers unsettlingly in her mind still), she could have easily transported herself home even after three days of being in Lark's care. But Astrid had lingered, deciding to allow herself more time to heal before she considered returning home again, to at least not reveal just precisely how weakened she had become.

A week stretched to two. Then three. Then six.

Now, two months later, they've formed a routine around one another. It surprises her how good the long days of manual labor feel afterward. At first her injuries had prevented her from lifting the heavy water bucket to haul to trough for Larke's single oxen, bruising her pride somewhat. But as she recovered and gained further strength, it became easier and easier. Gathering vegetables, scything wheat - much of it was not entirely unfamiliar, digging back into memories she'd long ago meant to abandon. Lark both reminded and instructed her with gentle patience, and Astrid listened and learned with the rapt attention of a lifelong student.

They orbited one another carefully at first; Astrid had been prickly and especially reticent in those early days, but soon found Lark's presence a balm of a different sort. Her cleverness manifested in a multitude of ways that had nothing to do with magic or spells, but fascinated Astrid just the same. She knew every facet and feature of her home and the land it sat on, every creature's manner and needs, and how to care for all of it. She faced problems and frustrations with focused determination, sinking her hands and her teeth into their solutions.

Astrid often found herself watching her at a distance when she could, just tracking her movements, the soft falls of her hair, her expressions of concentration. She once tried to ignore the way the bare slope of her neck made her heart beat a little faster. She doesn't try anymore.

She pauses in her own work, basket full and threatening to spill, and watches the way the wind picks up Lark's dark hair, tossing it gently about her shoulders. It's soft, she knows from the handful of times she's offered to braid it for her. Another skill she'd once left behind in another life.

Astrid glances to the horizon, watching the approaching dark clouds heralding a storm, before closing the distance between them.

"A storm is coming," she cautions quietly. "We should move the animals in before it hits."

At first, Lark had been utterly preoccupied with Astrid's health. But it was also very difficult not to notice her bright eyes, her beautiful hands. There's something--intense about her. Intense in a way that leaves Lark a bit flustered if she thinks about it too long. And it makes her wonder where this woman came from and who she was before she turned up here.

She turns her attention toward the horizon with a concerned look.

"It's been threatening all day, I didn't want to put them in too soon. But you're right. Let's get them in, then I can get started on dinner. We can put the baskets at the kitchen door."

Lark smiles as she tucks her hair back. She peers at Astrid and immediately feels ridiculous for the blush that threatens. She makes herself turn away toward the house to put the basket down. If they get rained on, there's no harm done. As she heads toward the field, she starts hiking up her skirts, tucking the hem into her apron as she goes. Between the two of them, it shouldn't take long.

Astrid follows Lark's lead - as she usually has. This is her home, after all. But for as much of her life as she's taken orders, been under someone else's direction, this feels different. Lark doesn't hold her here, out of obligation or a sense of duty or the drive of her own ambition. Astrid is here, simply, because this is where she chooses to be.

The reason behind why is still something she avoids considering.

They manage to corral the animals just before the downpour hits. They run the short distance from barn to kitchen, rain dappling their clothing and making their skin slick. Astrid looks down at their clasped hands, wondering when it had happened, as they catch their breath just over the threshold.

"It seems we made it just in time," she quips lightly, a hint of a smile working to her lips. She lifts her other hand to carefully move a lock of damp hair stuck to Lark's brow away from her face, whispering the word of a familiar spell. Prestidigitation thrums warmly over them both, lifting away spots of rain and mud.

She doesn't remember grabbing Astrid's hand as they raced across the yard, but she has it, and she doesn't let go even once they're out of the rain. Lark leans against the archway of the door, breathless and smiling.

"Our timing is impeccable," she agrees. She gets quiet as Astrid strokes back a lock of wet hair. She recognizes the words of the spell, one that Astrid's used before, and she finds herself blushing as it does its work.

"That still seems like cheating," she says softly. It's actually terribly convenient, but also removes the need for either of them to strip out of wet clothes. Not--not that she was--oh that's a thought that is just running away with her. She lifts her gaze to meet Astrid's again, suddenly shy and not uncertain but this is... new. Lark might have shared passing glances on market days before, but she's never thought about it beyond that.

Her thumb strokes over Astrid's hand. She should let go, shouldn't she?

In her time here, she has only used a handful of spells. Cantrips, mainly, like this one and Mending, and the occasional other. There have been plenty of times when spells could have been more useful, but - Lark's comment brings back a large part of the reason why she hadn't.

Astrid feels a faint flush of her own then, though the feeling that comes with it is tinged with shame. Using magic has only ever made her feel pride before, yet in this place, it almost feels wrong, as though through its connection to the terrible truth that it could somehow taint her.

The soft touch at the back of her hand sends a different kind of prickling over her skin. Astrid drops her grasp then, hiding a shiver that crawls up her back with the movement as she turns to gather her basket once more.

"Sorry," she mutters, moving to bring it into the kitchen to sort through what they've gathered. "I'll help you with dinner."

She misses Astrid's hand the moment she lets go. Lark makes herself grab her own basket but she feels like she's moving through a dream as a thought takes over. She leaves the basket on the nearest table so her hands are free when she catches up to Astrid. She nearly runs into the other woman when she turns and--

Lark kisses her. It's not quite her best work, if only because she hadn't expected Astrid to move again. But she's been wanting this for days... weeks, if she's honest. And then her senses catch up to her. She gasps and steps back, the blush in her cheeks deepening.

"I'm sorry," she breathes, eyes wide. "I--"

She isn't even sure what to say.

The kiss in that moment is wholly unexpected. She nearly loses her balance as Lark seems to half crash into her, pushing her back against the table. It is over before Astrid can recognize it happening, suddenly blinking at Lark's furiously blushing face.

Her pulse is rapid beneath her skin as several sensations and thoughts and memories come crashing into her at once. The choice to stay away hasn't absolved her of the ache in her chest for Eadwulf, and somehow just this one, sweet kiss has now set the pain of Bren's absence alight and bright once again. Never in her life has she been so long without both of them. Not since it started to matter.

She misses them, deeply. And in front of her is this beautiful, gentle woman, who took her in and has asked for nothing in return, truly. Who somehow seems blissfully untouched by so many of the evils the world had to offer, who has bestowed, for what feels like the first time in decades, a sense of peace in her heart.

And oh, gods, has she just craved someone to be close to for these last many weeks.

Astrid is silent as she finally recovers, swallowing hard before her face sets with an unreserved determination. She steps forward, easily taking the ground that Lark had surrendered, and reaches for her. Her dark hair is soft where her fingers thread through, curling one hand at the back of her neck and the other to her cheek to hold her. And kisses her, full, and long, and unwavering.

Lark's eyes nearly close as Astrid's fingers stroke into her hair. The kiss she gives is far more confident, more deliberate, and Lark feels herself melting into it as the tension of her uncertainty fades. Her hand slides up along Astrid's arm to hold her shoulder as the other arm slides around her.

She can feel her heart pounding and this kiss makes her realize just how long it's been since she kissed... anyone. Since anyone held her like this. When they finally part, Lark feels breathless and suddenly shy, aware of everywhere their bodies meet. There's another apology on the tip of her tongue but she manages to hold it back this time. She doesn't think Astrid would have kissed her like that if she were very upset in the first place.

Her fingers curl, lightly holding Astrid's shirt.

They part, and silence hangs thinly in the air between them. They fit together better than Astrid might have imagined it, if she had before (and perhaps she has, once or twice, and dismissed those thoughts immediately). Her lips hover over Lark's wait for her to change her mind. But when nothing further comes, when they just hold each other there and listen to the sound of breath and heartbeats instead, she descends again.

Lark is soft and pliable as Astrid easily deepens the next kiss. Her tongue licks past her lips, delving greedily into her mouth. Without realizing she's started to shift them both back, angling Lark toward the wall. Another kiss, and another, as rain hisses against the thatched roof and dampens the world outside. Astrid presses into her, taking as much as she can as the familiar heat of arousal floods into her body. More and more and more, she wants whatever Lark seems willing to offer.

She doesn't ever want to stop kissing this woman. Lark loses herself in it, eyes closed as she focuses far more on the press of Astrid's lips and the thrill of her tongue as it brushes against her own.

Lark lets the other woman maneuver her however she likes, she knows the layout of the cottage well. Still, she makes a soft, startled sound when her back hits the wall. A blush blossoms in her cheeks and she wets her lips like she might still taste Astrid there. She's afraid to say anything, not wanting to break this moment. She wants this too much. She wants to give Astrid everything and the heat sinking through her only makes her certain.

"I--"

I want you or I want this or--anything. But she can't quite put the words together.

"Better than I imagined," she admits softly, and Lark tries not to feel mortified by the confession. She possibly could have said that better.

Even as she corners Lark against the wall, Astrid continues pressing her advance until their bodies are flush. It's been a time longer than she cares to remember since she has done this with another woman; with anyone but Eadwulf, really. Such assignments that might have once required it have been given to others better suited for espionage. Lark's smaller and softer frame is a revelation unto itself, and Astrid finally lets her hands begin their wandering as her lips trail down her lovely neck. How often she had caught herself staring at the slope of it, the graceful curve of her shoulder or soft hollow of collar bones? More than she would admit.

She allows herself a smile against flushed skin, teeth grazing lightly over the pulse.

"I've many more ways to expand your imagination...if you'll allow me."

Lark closes her eyes and she can't help the sigh that escapes her as Astrid traces the line of her neck with her lips. The gentle brush of teeth sends a spark of excitement right through her and her hands tighten briefly where she's holding on to the other woman.

"Yes," she breathes. Lark is intensely aware of all the places their bodies meet, the effort Astrid has put into making sure that there is almost no space between them. Can she fell the way Lark's heart is pounding this close? She turns her head, nose brushing against Astrid's cheek.

"I--I think I'd like that."

"Good." Lips find lips again, and Astrid easily and eagerly takes the lead. Her hands slide over Lark's form, feeling the curves of her body, mapping out the easiest way to remove her clothing. One pauses on one full breast, massaging through the linen in her palm. Ten different options for the things she most wants are considered and sorted and some discarded in a matter of seconds.

Then, seemingly abruptly, she pulls back, with a final nip on a kiss-swollen, lower lip.

"Go sit on the bed."

Lark takes a sharp breath as Astrid's hand grips and caresses her breast, sharply excited by the touch itself and the way the fabric drags against her skin. Her lips are still parted when Astrid breaks the kiss, offering that sharp little nip at the end.

It takes a moment for the words to actually sink in. Right. They are up against a wall and there are probably better places to do... whatever they are about to do. Lark's hands slide over Astrid's arm and her side as she pulls away, reluctant to let the other woman go.

She has just a moment to clear her head as she slips away into the bedroom, and as she sits on the edge of the bed she wonders if she should, maybe, undress a bit. But maybe that would be assuming too much? Lark squirms just a bit, thighs pressing briefly together in an attempt to get a moment of relief. Then she stills and lets herself enjoy the fact that her lips still sort of tingle from the last kiss.

Once her mind catches up with the rest of her, Lark rolls her eyes at herself and at least reaches back to untie the garden apron she's wearing.

A quick, half-dressed tryst has its time and place, but not for the first encounter, so far as Astrid is concerned. They'd only just come in from their chores, clothing half damp, boots muddy, bits of plant material clinging to skirts. No.

As Lark leaves, Astrid closes the front door and locks it, hastily bundling away their baskets before undoing her own apron and unlacing her boots. The socks she stuffs into the boots, her feet settling on the cool stone floor before she finally goes to join Lark in the bedroom. She stops only for a moment over the threshold, taking her in. Long dark hair falling in gentle waves, the swell of her lips, freshly kissed, the bright anticipation in her eyes and the rise and fall of her chest...she's entirely different than anyone she's known intimately, and yet her mind tries picking out bits and pieces that remind her of her beloved Bren and Wulf.

No, she thinks. Lark should only ever exist outside of those thoughts.

Astrid steps forward, hooks a finger under that sweet chin and tilts her upward. The kiss this time is less forceful, but never lacking in heat. Another kiss, and another, before she kneels on the floor between Lark's knees, and begins to unlace her boots. she shifts her skirts away, one hand sliding up underneath the curve of her calf before pulling the shoe free, and setting it aside with the stocking. Lips follow again, first to her knee, then just slightly above, at the inside of her thigh, as her hands massage down the leg. After a few moments, she repeats her attentions to the other leg.

Lark smiles when Astrid appears in the doorway, and she takes the momentary pause to admire her. She's different from anyone Lark's known with her short hair and her sharp eyes and the mystery of the tattoos on her arms, and Lark realizes she quite likes that.

She tips her head up more to lean into the kiss, spurred by the heat it sends through her. Lark is also very quickly deciding that she likes the way Astrid touches her, even if they've really only kissed. They'll haunt her dreams, she knows it.

Her blush deepens as Astrid knees, mostly because it's in that moment that Lark realizes she never took off her damned boots. She tries to hold back an apology as Astrid moves her skirts, though. Instead, she watches as nimble fingers pluck the laces free and she cannot help the little hitch of her breath as warm lips press against her skin. Oh. Soft lips part and there is undeniable warmth in her gaze as Astrid repeats herself with the other leg. She tries not to move when she feels the other woman's warm breath against her thigh, but the muscles still jump beneath the kiss Astrid presses there.

"Thank you," she murmurs when she finally finds her voice again. "I really ought to have taken those off sooner."

"You were distracted," Astrid quips lowly. Her lips trail a little farther upward along the soft skin of Lark's thigh. The temptation to bite is strong, as is the desire to just take her entirely with her mouth now. This close, the scent of her arousal is unmistakable, and Astrid feels a responding throbbing between her own legs. Gods, it's been months.

She surfaces again, rising up onto both knees now, bringing her perfectly to chest-height. Swift fingers make quick work of Larke's bodice, her eyes flicking upward to watch her watch. This could be done more quickly if they wished, but Astrid suspects she is not the only one who has gone without for a long time. Laces loosen, and her shirt opens enough for her hands to slide underneath, seeking soft skin and sweet, plump breasts.

"Have you been with a woman?"

"Just a little," she agrees with a laugh that sounds more strained than she means it to. Lark takes a deeper breath as Astrid rises and she keeps her eyes, vivid and green, on the other woman as those wonderfully dexterous hands go after her bodice. There's that faint rush of sensation as it comes loose and she swears the color in her face deepens as a warm hand slips beneath fabric to slide over her breast.

She shrugs out of the bodice, leaving it where it falls as she scoots a little closer to the edge of the bed. It is deliriously thrilling to feel Astrid between her legs.

"No," she admits. "I've been with men, though." She's definitely been with men, she isn't entirely a novice at this. And she's thought of women, but that hardly gives her the same experience beyond knowing her own body.

An almost bemused smile curls on her lips. "Well, as I said: allow me to broaden your imagination, hm?"

Blouse sufficiently loosened, Astrid tugs the wide neckline off one shoulder, and lower, finally, to expose one breast. The sight of this sweet young woman, eager and flushed and willing, sends another heated wave of arousal through her own body. Another flash of memory.

She cups Larke gently in her palm, fingertips rolling and fondling until the dusty pink nipple hardens. With a heated flash of her eyes, her mouth descends, and takes her in to take up the work of her fingers with her tongue and teeth instead.

Her heart is already beating faster and she feels an answering throb between her legs as Astrid strokes and squeezes and pinches until she has what she wants. But it isn't until Astrid's mouth replaces her fingers that Lark reaches for her.

She makes a sweet sound, almost a whimper, and her fingers sink into Astrid's hair, holding it back as her teeth and tongue tease her. Even after living and working like this most of her life, Lark still has soft curves, and more of them are revealed as she lets the wide neck of her blouse slide off the other shoulder.

Lark has to remind herself to stop trying to move closer: she'll run out of bed and she doesn't really want to knock both of them to the floor because she can't manage to sit still.

That little sound is what spurs her on, sucking and tonguing and nibbling at that sweet little nub. Lark is surprisingly reticent thus far otherwise, so Astrid resolves to find more ways to pull noises from her; she has plenty of ideas, yet.

She pauses just enough to push the shirt upward, up and off Lark completely. Dark hair tousles downward over her bared chest, lovely breasts on full display. Astrid wastes no time in resuming giving them her full attention with her hands and her mouth, placing hungry kisses between them, over them, fingertips stroking suggestively low on her stomach. She sucks the other nipple to full attention, moaning greedily to feel it respond against her tongue. More kisses, burying her face amidst the softness there before finally setting her teeth against the sweet curve of one breast, and sucks a dark mark into warm skin.

Lark helps get her blouse off and manages not to get tangled in it. Her legs tighten on either side of Astrid and her fingers stroke back into her shorter hair as she takes her other nipple. Every knead and stroke of her hands makes it feel more impossible to stay still and she can't help the moan that escapes her as Astrid's mouth moves to suck a bruise onto her breast.

"Astrid," she gasps out, but rather than saying anything else, Lark's hands move to try and relieve Astrid of her clothes. She tries not to be impatient with the lace holding Astrid's bodice closed and she manages to get it loose without getting in Astrid's way. Her fingers tug and pluck until the lace is gone completely. Her hands slide beneath the other woman's blouse, over her shoulders and down her back as far as Lark can reach. And in doing so, she pushes herself against Astrid's mouth.

Lark pushes at her clothes, her hands slipping beneath to touch skin, and Astrid nearly arches away on reflex; there are more scars on her body, more than than the ones Lark sees every day, and there's a moment where she nearly stops her.

The desire thrumming through her body quickly overrides any hesitation. It's nothing worse than what she's already seen on her face, or her neck, or the tattoos on her arms. Lark knows better than to ask by now, and the eagerness she feels in her only spurs her forward.

Astrid does pull back, but only enough to get back to her feet and push Lark back onto the bed. She stalks after her, shedding bodice and blouse and even her skirt, pulled hastily up over her head. Lark's dark hair is a beautiful spread across pale sheets, and Astrid curls a hand in it, leans in to capture her lips with her own again.

"You're beautiful," she purrs between kisses, pressing a knee between Lark's legs. "You're so beautiful, and I want to taste your sweet cunt."

Lark doesn't ask about the scars, but neither does she treat them like something to avoid unless Astrid asks her to.

She laughs breathlessly as she's pushed onto the bed. Lark moves higher along the mattress, her eyes still intent on Astrid as the other woman gets out of her clothes. She's still smiling when she's pulled into a kiss. Her hands caress over Astrid's cheeks and down her neck and she breathes in sharply as Astrid's knee pushes between her legs. The promise of pressure makes her ache and she thinks she'd rub herself off against Astrid's leg if that's what she wanted.

"Please," she murmurs, voice warmer and heavier as arousal floods her. Even as Astrid makes that declaration, Lark leans closer to press a kiss between Astrid's breasts as she hovers over her.

For a brief moment, the tender touch flashes another memory to the front of her mind, so strong and visceral that Astrid nearly turns to look for someone else behind her. Her chest clenches for the space of a heartbeat before the pain passes; it's been well over a decade since it's ever been more than one person with her like this.

She fights the memory back once more, grinding her knee against the heat between Lark's legs and tugging a little at her hair just to feel the tension in it. Her other hand is already shifting skirts out of the way, already too impatient to find the ties or clasps to loosen them and instead trailing fingertips along a soft, inner thigh. Gods, when was the last time she had gotten to do this?

Her hand eventually replaces her knee, exploring, rubbing, watching and listening hungrily for the sounds loosed from Lark's pretty lips. She should have done this weeks ago.

Not all powerful wizards of the Dwendalian Empire are members of the Cerberus Assembly. Yennefer of Vengerberg is one of those exceptions, her presence especially notable for her typical reclusiveness. Her chafing at the Assembly's authority had been long enough ago that the majority of those she'd disliked most are now dead. Though it isn't immediately obvious, as her ears are more or less the typical round human shape, Yennefer has elf blood, which is at least part of the reason she is able to look like this after more than a century of life.

She dresses to her usual preference of sleek and intimidating in a floor-length gown in her typical colors (or lack thereof), the skirt a shimmering black fabric that clings to her shape and the top a bodice of slashed black and white velvet with capped sleeves, though very little of her arms are actually visible with the black silk gloves she wears that climb well above her elbow. A capelet of smooth black wolf's fur covers her shoulders. But the most luxurious thing she wears by far is her arcane focus, the diamond-studded shar-shaped choker at her neck, framed by the capelet and the square neckline of her bodice, though she is absent any other jewelry but the simple silver studs in her ears. Her hair is loose, glossy jet-black waves brushed away from her face to tumble over her shoulders. Her mask--ironically--is also made of dark feathers, but it and the smoky makeup around her eyes serve to bring out their striking violet color.

Despite--or perhaps in part because--she tends to keep to her own business, Yennefer could be considered a bit of a loose cannon, and especially worth keeping an eye on if she's bothering to appear at a party like this. The assumption that she must be here for a reason is, of course, a correct one.

Her gaze flickers to Astrid at her approach, neither interested nor dismissive. She accepts the drink with a hum, holding it delicately between two fingers without raising it to drink. No obligatory politeness here. "How courteous. And here I thought you were going to suggest that one of us should change." Her painted lips curl up at one corner with amusement.

Edited (one...typo...) 2021-10-02 01:32 (UTC)

Yennefer's reputation undoubtedly precedes her; that she's so openly attending is notable in and of itself. Approaching her, therefore, is nearly as good as announcing that Astrid has ulterior motives, but there's no getting around that point. What matters now is ensure that she can craft a clever enough puzzle about herself to prevent Yennefer from seeing through her entirely. It is a game they might both enjoy, to a point.

She sips delicately from her own glass, hands neatly manicured but unadorned other than the rings.

"Hardly," Astrid responds, tongue faintly tracing her own lips. "Why should one woman diminish herself at the request of another, or anyone? Especially when she clearly understands the meaning of taste."

Tonight's masquerade ball isn't much different from any other, if you ask the hostess. People milling about under the thin veil of secrecy, though anyone with an eye for detail can figure out who's who with very little trouble. Married couples committing adultery in separate, shadowed corners; dignitaries trying and failing not to talk about work. And, of course, eligible bachelors from across Exandria vying for the hand of the wealthy, widowed hostess.

She looks resplendent this evening, as she always does; a long black-and-gold gown dripping with feathers hugs her every curve, the high collar showcasing the elaborate updo that had taken her handmaiden Portia hours to arrange. A winged mask tops the whole thing off. And behind the mask...

Boredom. Her crimson eyes slide from left to right, hands joined politely in front of her, the movement of her gaze stilling only once she realizes she's being approached. By a woman, and an unfamiliar one. Interesting; she thought she had memorized the entire guest list. But it's no matter. A prim smile comes to the Countess's lips as she accepts the flute with a nod of thanks.

"I can always count on my guests to keep me well-hydrated," she remarks wryly, lifting the glass to take a drink. "If this keeps up, I shall be quite under the weather tomorrow."

Astrid, of course, has certainly done her homework on their host. Countess Satrinava's parties are well known, and most certainly intentional venues for more covert purposes. Dark corners and back room deals, hidden trysts; quite a bit would be for sale, tonight, for the right buyer and the right price.

The only show of amusement is hidden beneath her own mask, a quirk of an eyebrow. Instead she shrugs elegantly, taking a light sip.

"You would be, were you not the experienced host that you are." Surely she has long perfected the ways of discreetly disposing of excess drinks, especially from particularly determined patrons.

"An astute observation." The glass hovers near Nadia's wine-red lips, a small smile curling up the corners of her mouth. "I admit the plants receive a bit more watering than they strictly ought to."

The countess cocks her head slightly to one side, her curiosity piqued. "I don't think I've ever seen you at one of these parties."

"No," Astrid responds easily, shrugging elegantly. "You haven't. I'm here on behalf of my employer, Imogen de Barbarac, the cloth merchant from Nicodranas. She's taken ill but sends her regret and her regards."

She turns again, the pose accentuating certain lines and curves as she catches the Countess' eye. "And me."

"Oh," The countess says softly, recognizing the name and duly noting the absence, come to think of it. She's about to open her mouth to express her regret at dear Imogen's absence, when the mystery woman goes on, looking Nadia so boldly in the eye, and tilting her head just so.

It isn't easy to ruffle her feathers, but Nadia does blink several times as the weight of those two words settles over her. Then, her mouth curves into a rueful smile.

"In my homeland, it is a freely accepted practice, so long as both parties are willing. Here, they are much less open-minded about such affairs." She's choosing her words carefully, her tone perfectly demure. "I should hate to sully your reputation." Unless you wished it, is the unspoken end of that sentence.

Astrid is pleased to find this particular rumor verified; it's gratifying that her research and risk have paid off. Or, seemingly have, at least. Best not to celebrate too early. There's plenty of opportunity yet for something to derail the whole thing.

She takes another sip, slowly licking her lips before speaking again. "I do not have such a renown reputation that it would matter. As for willing -" Her eyes flicker openly up and down the Countess' form. "I should rather consider it a privilege."

The last part is perhaps even a little bit true.

Nadia can't help the way her eye is drawn to the woman's lips and the tempting swipe of her tongue across them; she can feel her body responding to what's on offer. She's sorely tempted to take this lovely young thing back to her chambers straightaway, but it's far too early in the evening to excuse herself from her duties as hostess...

The countess raises a finger to tap against her full lower lip, still slightly smiling.

"Well, then. If you linger at the top of that staircase—" Her finger points across the ballroom toward a white marble staircase. "—near the stroke of midnight, you may catch me on the way to my chambers."

So far, so good.

"Understood, my Lady," Astrid replies demurely, completing the response with a perfect curtsey even in her long dress. "I shall be honored."

Instead of taking the customary step backward before turning, Astrid twists away slowly, giving the Countess plenty of time to notice wide, open diamond at the back of the dress, revealing smooth, bare skin all the way down to the tapered V at the small of her back. She drifts away, melting into the crowd to pass time collecting other information over the next few hours.

A minute before midnight, she ascends the grand staircase up the side, keeping to the back as she awaits for the Countess' own ascension.

The ensuing hours are excruciatingly long; Nadia finds her eye flickering to the great clock at the head of the room with alarming frequency, and she drinks perhaps a little more than is strictly necessary. Hoping that each ensuing glass of her favored Golden Goose, imported directly from Marquet, will make the time pass a little more quickly. But there are many dull conversations and awkward dances to endure before she is to receive her gift from the esteemed Lady de Barbarac.

Eventually, though, the hour grows suitably late that she excuses herself from her present company, begging off to nurse one of the headaches she is well-known to suffer from. Despite her excuses, though, and despite the wine, Nadia's head is sharp as anything as she ascends the grand marble staircase that leads to her wing of the palace. Her late husband the Count had a taste for extravagance that was only matched by Nadia's own, and it shows in the decor.

She's announced less by her footsteps, muffled in her satin slippers, and more by the soft rustling of feathers over marble. Her fingers skim the polished brass handrail as her eyes swivel left to right behind her feathered mask. And at last they alight on the slim figure in the shadows; her wine-red lips split into a brilliant smile.

"I see you haven't run off before we could reconvene." She sounds delighted.

"I hate to leave before a job is completed, my Lady." Astrid steps silently from the shadows, chin tilted upward to assess the Countess' condition. Certainly more intoxicated than when they had met earlier, which meant this might go along more easily than she anticipated.

"And I meant it when I said it will be an honor." It doesn't matter, in truth, but if certain rumors were true, she was at the very least in for an enjoyable evening. It would be hard to complain about that aspect, later on. There were far worse things.

Astrid lets Nadia lead the way, following behind with a sharp eye to the path for quick memorization. She makes mental notes of the doors they pass that look promising for later.

The Countess' chambers are...extravagant. The word feels like an understatement, truthfully, and she can't help but pause a little bit in wonder. It's a good cover - giving herself time to note windows and other possible exits.

As she allows her gaze to come back to Nadia, she begins to slowly peel off her gloves.

"Do you have any preferences, my lady?"

Indeed, her crimson eyes—often whispered-about and assumed to be a product of some magical glamour—are a little unfocused behind her mask, but she's certainly not stumbling drunk or anywhere near approaching it. But her body language has relaxed from their earlier encounter, the elegant line of her shoulders less tense and formal as she leads Astrid to her chambers. She doesn't say another word until the door is closed behind them, at which point she pulls her feathered mask off to reveal her face properly at last.

The question makes her smirk, setting the mask on her vanity table and turning toward her companion with hunger plain on her face. The flash of skin she'd gotten as Astrid had turned away from her earlier has haunted her all evening.

"Mm, a few. First I would like to know what I should call you."

She doesn't particularly care if it's her real name or not, but having a name to use makes everything a little easier.

Edited (now with correct formatting!) 2021-10-11 05:49 (UTC)

Astrid doesn't remove her mask quite yet, taking her time with the gloves, loosening each finger slowly before peeling one hand free. Her hands are small but elegant, not quite dainty, but certainly capable.

"You may call me Eléa, my lady," she answers neutrally, tugging at the fingertips of the other glove. "Or whatever you wish to call me, for the duration that I am in your service tonight."

Perhaps it is too much the obvious ploy to use her teeth to pull the second glove free, but somehow she feels that Nadia would rather enjoy the obvious flirtation. Leaning just a little over the line of the act is sometimes what makes it more convincing, after all.

Much in the way that she turns, ostensibly to set the gloves on a nearby table, while also conveniently giving the Countess another view of her back. Astrid glances at her surreptitiously to ensure that she is watching, before lifting both hands to carefully loosen the tie of the mask behind her head, being sure to arch into the movement and give even more length to the curve of her spine.

As Astrid undresses, Nadia is content to perch at her vanity, slowly pulling pins from her hair while she enjoys the show. The smooth expanse of skin revealed by this young lady's dress is certainly mouthwatering; Nadia wants to press her lips to every inch.

"Eléa will do nicely." It's elegant and airy, reminding Nadia of the Elven tongues. It suits her, even if it isn't her real name. Five, six, seven pins and those yards of pink-violet hair go tumbling down her shoulders. Nadia's fingers shake through the tresses, sighing as the tension on her scalp is relieved.

She rises, still wearing that magnificent feathered gown, and crosses to where Astrid is removing her mask. Gently, her fingertip traces the exposed length of her spine, her voice approaching one ear as the other hand takes the mask from Astrid's hand and sets it aside.

"As for my other preferences...I am a very busy woman. I spend my days making important decisions. When it comes to me leisure time...I prefer to allow someone else to take the lead. Do you understand?"

you don't talk to no one, don't you look at nothin'

become the master

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For the Ladies

another life

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soiree, of course

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