#wicket dirkera

[justcallmefox89]

Gnome Troubles - Chapter Five (Astarion's POV)

Gale gives Astarion something to think about.

There’s something wrong with the gnome.  Astarion has suspected it since that night Wicket offered him blood, and after a tenday of traveling together he’s near certain of it.  Wicket barely sleeps, and when he does he wakes screaming.  The others pretend to not notice the wretched, soul-clenching cries and ignore the hoarseness of his voice in the mornings.  Astarion’s flesh crawls when the screams begin, reminding him of the year he spent entombed at Cazador’s orders.  He cannot imagine what terrors come to torment Wicket in his dreams, and at such moments he feels the barest flash of sympathy for the gnome. 

Wicket’s nighttime habits aren’t the only thing that trouble the vampire.  Astarion isn’t one to begrudge a person their love for fine wines, but Wicket indulges in drink far too often, as if he’s searching for oblivion.  And at times he clutches at his chest as if he’s in great pain.  Astarion would almost swear he’s seen the faintest glow beneath Wicket’s camp shirt, as if there’s something illuminating him from the inside.

Maybe all cleric are just indescribably odd.

Shadowheart is no less strange than the gnome, also choosing to remain aloof and enigmatic, only revealing bits of her past when she’s forced too.  Astarion shakes his head.

No… there is something very, very wrong with Wicket.

Attempting to push the troubling thoughts away, the elf closes his eyes and tilts his face up, allowing the rays from the early morning sun to warm his face.  The rustling of cloth announces another’s presence, and from the creaking of their joints as they sit down next to him Astarion is able to tell that it’s Gale. 

“You seem introspective this morning,” he murmurs, settling his robes about him.

“Just thinking, darling,” Astarion murmurs without opening his eyes.  “Considering all that’s happened to our little group recently.”

“Is there something in particular on your mind?  Or someone, to be more precise?”

The vampire cracks open one eyes and glances over at Gale.  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my dear.”

Gale shrugs nonchalantly.  “It’s hard not to notice how considerate a certain cleric has been towards your particular needs.”

Astarion remains obstinately silent.  Undeniably… in his own coarse, obnoxiously high-handed way, Wicket has taken rather decent care of him.  Making sure he’s fed adequately each day, tending to his wounds with efficient, thorough care while implicitly making sure his hands don’t linger longer than strictly necessary… Astarion can grudgingly admit that Wicket has treated him with more care than he probably deserves, considering his attitude towards the other man.  But for purely practical reasons, he’s sure.  It wouldn’t do to think any differently.

“If this is your poor attempt to convince me that Wicket’s actions are merely altruistic, I will have to insist otherwise,” Astarion protests irritably.

“Kelemvor’s necrobanes are notoriously devoted to their oath,” Gale muses, stroking his beard thoughtfully.  “To have one not only deny his holy mission, but aid in the survival of the very thing he’s sworn to destroy… it makes one wonder what could cause him to defy his god.”

“Given our rather unique circumstances I am of more use to him alive than dead.  That is all.”

Gale arches one eyebrow skeptically.

 “I’ve lived long enough to know that altruism is a farce,” Astarion replies sharply.  “Whatever Wicket has done for me he will expect repayment, I’m sure.  They always do.”

“I think you may be doing him a disservice,” the wizard murmurs. 

Astarion mimics Gale’s earlier shrug, feigning disinterest in his companion’s opinion.  But some infinitesimally small part of him, a bit of him so heavily guarded and locked away he’d nearly forgotten about it, dares to hope that Gale is right.

[justcallmefox89]

Gnome Troubles - Chapter Three (Wicket's POV)

Maybe I overestimated my quarry.  Could be he’s just a fledgling.

I take another sip of whiskey and watch Astarion circle the entire camp for the third time, peering into my tent to see if I’ve materialized since the last time he looked, and then dart off into the woods with a growl of vexation.

Or could be he’s just stupid.

I’m perched on a moderately high branch in an oak tree that overlooks the entire camp.  Certainly not completely hidden from sight, especially from one possessing vampiric gifts.  I continue to sip my whiskey, listening as Astarion crashes about in the woods searching for me and cursing my existence every five steps.  After he’s made his sixth turn around camp I decide it’s time to put the creature out of his misery.

I lean forward on my branch, stretching out my back, wincing as my spine cracks.  “I’m too fucking old for this.”

I wait until he’s close enough to call out to him without waking the others.

“Looking for me?”

His head whips to the left, then the right, as he tries to determine where I am.

“Up here, stupid,” I sigh, disappointed in the quality of this evening’s hunt.  Usually they’re a little more… lively.

“You,” Astarion hisses, red eyes wide and glowing in the velvet darkness of the night.  His tromps through the woods have mussed his usually fastidiously neat appearance; his hair is snarled and dotted with leaves, mud covers his boots and trousers, his shirt sports a new tear in the left sleeve. 

“I was beginning to fear you would never find me, darling,” I tease, mimicking his way of speaking.  “It was amusing to watch you scurry about.  But alas, I fear this is the end of the road.”

The brand on my chest grows warm and pulses in time with the excited beat of my heart.  This is my favorite part of a hunt.  Those moments before a fight, tense with anticipation, the unknown – will I live through this once again or will this be the time I’m finally sent to Kelevmor’s embrace – making my blood course through my veins.  In those few moments I am alive again.  I pull two wooden stakes, crafted specially from weirwood, from the sheaths strapped to my thighs and jump from my perch, landing softly in the dirt in front of Astarion.  Then I attack.

[justcallmefox89]

Astarion: I’m not normally impressed with people of your stature, but you’re stronger than I gave you credit for.

Wicket: *aggressively sharpens a stake* Gettin’ real sick of your shit, Ancunin.

[justcallmefox89]

a random OC ask for you (for wicket): what is your OC's favorite memory?

also: if they were dropped in a random city for a day with a pouch full of gold/relevant currency and no obligations whatsoever, what would they be doing?

Favorite memory? The last festival he attended before he became a cleric of Kelemvor. The music, the dancing, the food, holding the hand of his beloved, the prospect of starting a family... everything was in his grasp and anything felt possible. He had never been happier.

Give this man gold and no obligations and he's searching out the nearest markets/food stalls/restaurants. He'll sample everything he can and then take the fattest nap. As one of Kelemvor's most devoted necrobanes, free time is in short supply and all he wants to do is clear his mind with some simple pleasures.

Thanks for the ask! 😊

[justcallmefox89]

Wicket Dirkera, cleric of Kelemvor.

Wicket is a 358 year old forest gnome. Wicket has seen some shit. Liches? Battled them. Necromancers? Child’s play. The undead? Nothing a little holy water can’t fix. Plagues? He’s got prayers and herbs for that. Last rites? He’s got you covered. Death is this man’s bread and butter.

Mindflayer abduction and tadpole insertion he can handle. Living with Astarion and his open disdain for gnomes is going to be the thing that finally makes him snap.