( lady gwenaëlle vauquelin is the least charming bard that any of them have met.
this is not to say that she isn't charismatic; she is certainly that, a creature with a magnetic pull, a woman as a whirlpool. it's just— not quite how bards typically operate. a blunt instrument. it sort of seems like she might actually bean someone with her violin, one of these days, and have only to say for herself, maybe they should reassess all of their life choices leading to that moment. the first impression is sort of that of a natural disaster, a thing that happens to people—
this impression lingers, along the road. she can't lie worth a damn but somehow, the particularly aggressive way she pursues her idea of the truth seems to compel and persuade. the way she sleight of hands her own history is a shell game more than deception: so blunt and so forthright in moments that other people might consider awkward or uncomfortable or just private, she's so easy to read, it's hard to imagine that there's anything written anywhere unseen. she is so sincerely, infuriatingly, baldly herself— what could she be hiding?
she's so small, easily six inches shy of ea's own height, and she occupies twice the space with her movement and the curls of her hair and the volume of her voice; it is hard, by design, to see her as vulnerable. she has so little time for vulnerability for anyone above the age of say, fifteen, halfway between impatient and just inarticulate, not unkind but not adept, either,
and she doesn't ask for what she hasn't offered. when the consequences of her fucking actions catch her up in the astral plane and she cannot, despite her best efforts, fend off the greater tadpole—
she doesn't ask for what she hasn't offered. every step had made sense. they needed every edge. she had been willing. it had been her decision. and it's so stupid, it's so stupid, she's the worst kind of fucking idiot, and the smallest, the pettiest, to be sitting as far from the rest of the camp as she can manage with a mirror and to touch where blackened veins raise up on her face and to—
her changed face crumples in her reflection and she is not, exactly, just weeping because the emperor has stolen her beauty.
but she's not not doing that, either—
the sound of footsteps makes her stiffen. she has not, in the interim, become better at lying. she sounds— wet. )
[ It's quite impressive, the amount of bullshit they can pack in one day. For example: finding out that that mysterious dream guardian that everyone's been seeing (in a different disguise, likely, for each of them - in hindsight) is actually illithid, finding out that Orpheus is real (Lae'Zel is still dealing with that one), getting to Rivington to come face to fake-face with a shapeshifter menace, and finally finding their way to Sharess' Caress to be told by a devil that the way to release Orpheus was in his grasp? One day! All in one day!
Come the evening, they've made their way back to camp and it is the same downtrodden and abandoned farm, companions scattered about, someone cooking dinner somewhere.
It's not yet watch time, and frankly speaking Ea isn't sure they're keeping watch this close to the city, but perhaps they should. you know, in hindsight. Still, she steps over a stone and crouches at Gwen's side, wrapping her arms around her knees.
Her strange eyes fixate on the woman, taking in the new features of her face (Astarion made a comment about those dark veins earlier and Ea nearly skewered him). Insight check, reliable talent. ]
You want me to kill him?
[ The Emperor might be listening to every conversation, but Ea has not made her aversion to him a mystery. She is not subtle. Her pettiness and spite have layers. That bitch is on a shitlist. He was there before, but he got moved to the top of it, after essentially forcing Gwen to consume an astral-touched tadpole. He'd tried his luck with Ea, too, but for some reason (luck?) she'd resisted the persuasion. (Turn persuasion against her? Bitch.)
( gwenaëlle is rarely very difficult to read; she hadn't been, when astarion had made that crack, her mouth twisting and the worst part of it, surely the worst, having no clever thing to say back—
she had nearly said several very cruel things, and then pressed her mouth shut and turned away, and she doesn't know how the rest of that conversation had gone because she'd decided she wasn't part of it any more. here and now there's a moment she teeters on where maybe she's only going to do the same thing, shut down and shut out, setting the hand-mirror she's been holding down in the grass (face down in the grass). she doesn't do well with vulnerability, and for someone who is such a mess of raw nerves under the surface, that's not not a problem.
but it doesn't feel like exposure to say, )
I want to fucking tear that thing apart, (very distinctly.
that they can't, yet, is just...
well, that's the situation right now. their situation has changed so many times, and there's so much more in play than they'd known. there's going to be a moment, maybe soon, when they won't need the squid any more. )
Same. [ She's not even tossing a glance over her shoulder to check that the rest whether the group is within hearing range, because she knows they aren't. Gwenaëlle would have just sat here, sniffing miserably and choking on her bitter rage all on her own, she's set up her tent and belongings that far from the others.
But Ea's here. They can just have this conversation among themselves. ]
I am loathe to believe that anyone who forces that tadpole onto an ally truly is looking out for the ally. Explore all our options is all fine and dandy, but that was -
[ Wrong. Non-consensual. Horrible and invasive, and she's incandescent with her anger at the squid.
But she softens for a moment, glancing at the mirror and then at Gwenaëlle. She reaches out, her knuckles brushing under the woman's chin, tipping her face up. There is no flinching away from the sight of the veins, of the semi-transformation. Ea's gaze is serious and solemn and honest. ]
more than the way she has to fight her own wet eyes and wobbling mouth not to crumple again, a mess of just too many feelings for so little a body as is expected to contain them,
it's that she doesn't instantly protest gwenaëlle over the short-form that underlines just how badly she might have needed to hear everything else ea has just said to her. that she doesn't withdraw from the mortifying ordeal of being seen. she doesn't feel beautiful — exquisite, it had said, and she hates the way it had mattered to her, that it had made her reflection feel that much worse. she doesn't feel powerful, or certain of her direction and choices.
they had relied so much on that thing in the artefact. they still rely on it. it feels like quicksand beneath them, and she wishes she cared less about this part of finding that out. that she were braver or better or could laugh it off, I don't care about that,
but for all of her life, she's always had her fucking face. every part of her that hasn't felt like enough, the way she wasn't enough for her mother or her sisters, not enough to hold her father up, not enough for anyone to fill the bottomless hole of her heart full of whimpering love,
at least she's been pretty. at least if she couldn't hold onto anyone she could make them want her, for a while. at least if she can't hold their attention then she can turn their heads. at least she could have a while. at least— )
It shouldn't matter, ( she wails, burying her (awful) face suddenly in ea's shoulder, and she means: I should be more than beautiful, and she's the only fucking person who thinks she isn't. )
He finds her as promised after the rest of their companions have surrendered to either slumber or trance, purposeful to make noise enough to signal his approach. Imagining it fairly unlikely to out-stealth her, he hasn't intended to regardless of the interesting challenge it would have posed. In fact, the less this feels like stalking, the better it remains for both of them. And so he allows his feet to make just enough noise that she will hear him, his darkvision more than enough to see where he's treading even in low light like this.
Their conversation barely a handful of hours earlier had stirred up enough heat in his blood that he's felt on the cusp of arousal ever since. Every time his eyes had wandered to her, he recalls their plans, created out of a shared moment of want. Of desire. She knows what he is but has committed long enough to learn who he is alongside him. What kind of person he has the potential to flourish into now that he can see beyond the blinkers of his creation.
The reluctance to allow such proximity with any carnal desire coursing through him has overridden everything else up until this moment. A leap of faith, somewhat, perhaps for the both of them. Not in any god, but in him.
"Do you still wish to slip away with me?" he's whispering and, though more than one of their companions would be able to hear his question to her, there's no part of him that will continue without agreement or consent.
That this is how it's come to happen, born out of some random conversation (if someone pressed her for who opened the subject, who asked so what about you, do you take control or submit, she would find it difficult to remember now) and ending in the actual acknowledgement that she's interested in him - it doesn't surprise her, honestly.
Ea has always been rather direct and practical when it came to sex. Did she like having it? Yes. Did she enjoy the chase and seduction? Fuck no, she's terrible at it. Her idea of romancing someone is keeping all those desires to herself until they figure their shit out, and then maybe take her top off and ask if they're interested.
Failing that, before the whole Nautiloid and consequences experience, she used to find casual hook-ups the easiest. No demands, no emotional attachments - no bed partners who wanted them, exactly. Some could've easily called her a slut, but those people were usually too busy pointing at the horns and calling her a demon, so.
She is used to the wait. She is used to the wanting, too. The part where she gets what she wants is...new. Truth be told, she doesn't expect him to come to her tend after dark - and it would be fine, totally fine to brush off the funny teasing and cheeky banter as unserious, move on, forget all about it, if that's what he needs.
So when she hears his heavy footsteps (and of course she knows they're his, she knows the walking pattern of every one of her companions), her breath catches in her throat, something like hope (stupid, stupid hope) blooming in her chest. She gets up to her feet from where she was, sprawled on top of her bedroll reading to pass the time, and waits for the moment that the flap of her tent opens.
Come on, come on, come on -
"Yes," is the quick, honest, whispered answer, her eyes meeting his. There's no candles lit in her tent, because she doesn't want to keep track of them as they travel as well, but she has cast Light on the book itself. Open as it is in her hand, it casts a blueish and ethereal sort of glow on her and - when he pokes his head inside - on him. She flashes him a quick smile, and closes the book, tossing it onto her bedroll and stepping closer to him. "Very gladly."
Her keenness is rewarded with the unfurling of a smile, tugging at his lips in a way that doesn't aim to conceal the feeling it provokes. With a metaphorical fist of control clenched tightly around what he must to make this work, he opens another, hand held out palm up in offer. He towers over her, not just in height but the broadness of his shoulders. It makes it necessary for him to duck to keep his head from striking the top of the tent she's pitched.
It leaves him stooping almost comically, even as he tries to maintain some level of secrecy from the rest of their campmates. No doubt at least a few of them are entertained at this very moment by it all.
As he catches her gaze, he can't help but contemplate how beautiful she is, a worthy detail to note and that he allows himself to fully revel in now they have uncovered his longing. From the colour of her skin to the tip of her tail, his desire to acquaint himself with the most minute of details cascades over into his headspace like an avalanche. That she puts her trust in him to know where the line is, he will long attempt to sabotage himself before he lets a lick of his other desires touch her.
She's assuming he knows a place, since she's going to follow. It makes her slightly regret not having splurged to book those rooms atop Elfsong, where the scene of the murder of Stelmane occurred.
Then again, she thinks, maybe they can find a nice place here. There are nice places in Baldur's Gate.
"Kinda miss that farm," she murmurs, referring to the one sprawling ruin on the hilltop before arriving to even Rivington. They'd only rested there for one night, and the aftermath of it had been gruesome - that fight against the githyanki in the astral prism, the bitter taste of allying with the Emperor despite realising every single interaction up until that point truly had been a lie... The farm had been nice.
She'll follow him anyway, not a stranger to the way his gaze wandered, raked over her like heated claws. She likes the way he looks at her. Wants to see how that will change, when there's fewer clothes in the way.
Not that her current campsite ensemble leaves much to the imagination. The top part of it especially, dipped low enough that it leaves her cleavage bare from the middle of her chest is barely disguising the ridges that mark her chest, her arms and her back. She hasn't felt itchy under constraints of scratchy cotton in a while though, and so she's not going to ever give this one up.
Loathe to lead her on too much of hike - they get plenty of walking in during daylight hours - their eventual destination isn't the most luxurious he could have found, but it is a step up from hay bales. As much as, between them, they could likely make it further if they don't dawdle, he doesn't want to drift too far from aid should they need it. Not for any other reason than if Ea needs backup, she has it close at hand. Forward planning seems to be the only way he can possibly allow himself this much.
"It was surprisingly dramatic," he eventually offers as their careful steps take them out of earshot of their companions, his icy eyes flicking to her, his grin one of humour. It had been more than any of them had anticipated, and so the idea of missing the place tickles something, darkly amused.
"I don't think we would make it there and back in time. Though at least there would have been more doors and walls providing privacy." His eyes sweep their surroundings - mostly the tall buildings and cobbled streets - out of habit before he returns to the conversation. The only option immediately available at camp is some kind of chapel, and even that has two points of entry. Hardly easy to find space enough to explore each other without the threat of an audience.
"Assuming you are able to remain quiet in certain circumstances?"
Tav leaned against one of the oversized fungi, idly paring his fingernails with the razored edge of a small dagger. It had been child's play to slip away from camp without anyone else noticing; everyone was caught up in their own miseries to pay much attention to aught else just now. Fine; suited him right down to the ground. Or, under it, rather, given their current location.
But there was no denying the itch that had woken him from another fitful bout of rest; the emptiness within wanted to be filled, and only blood and chaos would sate it. And only briefly, at that. Hence his earlier query to Ea - out of all their companions, she was the least likely to give him any shit about it. And the promise of a firm, filthy fuck at the end of it was twice the incentive.
So he waited, letting the natural sounds of the Underdark fill his pointed ears, singing its sibilant song, only lightly overshadowed by the song of the Soverign. Half-Drow though he'd been told he was (he did remember his "mother" having skin as black as velvet night and hair shining like moonlight), Tav felt absolutely no kinship whatsoever with the "Under Elves" that made their kingdom below the rest of Faerun. He was several inches taller than most elves - save Halsin, dear gods - and carried an elf's lean, lithe form.
Between his blades, magic and Ea's thievery, the poor duergar don't stand a snowball's chance in hell. Any of 'em.
Given her history of taking out whole guilds of thieves (allegedly) and bolting, the fact that Ea Lowkey has a moral code should surprise anyone - especially out of her current companions.
Astarion doesn't know her well enough, but he's already decided that she's some goody-two-shoes for wanting to prevent druids from murdering a child. Shadowheart has kept a lot of secrets close to heart, but she still let a disapproving frown slip when Ea offered to help Lae'Zel. And Lae'Zel...
Well, anyway.
Out of everyone she's been stuck with on this journey, Tav at least doesn't operate under delusions of how Ea is. At her core, she'll circumnavigate rules to suit her, or people she might care about.
This request, from the myconids and from Thula alike, is an easy one to accept; she's good at killing, and at spotting a possible looting and trading opportunity. (Finding the herbalist's lost husband, on the other hand? She'll lend a hand if she spots him, but he's a grown dwarf and should be able to fend for himself down here. Besides, his wife warned her she'd offer no reward for recovering the man, so...)
There comes a point where she slips out of the camp while the others are busy sniping at each other verbally, subtle as a shadow.
To find Tav is not difficult, despite the half-drow inheritance - maybe she has a magnet tucked deep that guides her to where he is.
She's brought both her bow and the daggers, for whatever may come out of this.
"Well, then," is the murmured greeting. "Let me scout ahead so we can see how many people we're dealing with?"
Elven eyes and ears were keen; he spotted her vibrant coloring the moment she appeared over the ridge. Pushing out of his lean and giving Ea a nod of greeting, Tav then snorted softly at her suggestion.
"Does it matter? We're going to kill them all." While he normally did go for as much reconnaissance as possible, sending Astarion and Ea to suss out whatever place they were about to decimate, this time Tav didn't think it very relevant. The two of them together were more than capable of handling a battalion of dark dwarves, should there even be so many congregated in one place.
And if they were, they were fucking idiots, the entire lot.
"But I won't stop you if you're absolutely itching to check." He waved a hand towards the lake's chasm, a faintly indulging smile ghosting around his mouth.
"Magnanimous of you," she drawls in that dry tone of hers (Not a lick of charisma in our magical little rogue, someone snide could say), tucking her daggers into the sheathes on her hips.
"But thank you, very kind." With a wink, she pulls the hood of her cloak up to cover the pastel bright hair (her colouring has always been a nuisance as a young criminal; keeps being one, even as she's gotten older) and dashes on ahead.
Charisma might be her lowest point, and who knows how she's managed to stick with her present company for so long, but the stealth is unparalleled.
Even Astarion doesn't have it this good. Not that she ever feels in competition with Astarion for being two rogues in a group. This is fine.
As she approaches the beach she finds the first rooftop and climbs it, sneaking from one decrepit building to the next, keeping an eye out for the dwarves.
A touch of magic - minor illusion on the beach - brings about five of them out, with orders barked from another three from the building under her to stop dilly-dallying.
She feels confident about her and Tavvarion's odds now.
So she slips away, blend into the shadows, and manifests herself back at his side at the top of the slope.
"Seven are certain, maybe more. I've found a good spot to take them out with arrows. So if the itch is for a confrontation before you rain whatever violence it is on them, let me at least get up there first and be of help watching your back."
She was definitely stealthy, no question. Tav watched Ea melt into the darkness with an amused grin, loosening his scimitars and ghosting to his own hiding place at the cliff's edge. The song eternally playing in his ears was getting louder, now carrying along in a minor key, thirsting. He'd almost waited too long, this time.
But he didn't want anyone else to die by his hands without his own damned knowledge - and he'd never forgive himself for that poor bard's demise, not even if he lived a thousand years. So here they were, ready, willing, and able to do the Underdark a bit of good by proxy; and if they came away a little bit wealthier than before, all the better.
Tav glanced up when Ea emerged beside him once more, automatically working the battle lines in his head based on her report. "Assume two more," he directed curtly. "At least two." Almost by accident, his blades appeared in his hands, both gleaming scimitars nearly trembling in anticipation. He tilted his head, saying then, "Find your spot. Make it a good one. Keep them off my flanks."
'Out of the frying pan and into the fire' is a term he's heard, but this is more like out from under the rock and into the literal shadows. For as much as he's joked about how fitting the Underdark would be for someone of his particular affliction, now that he's got a taste of sunlight again, he misses it. And walking out of that charming underground fortress and into the Shadow-Cursed Lands only comes with a sigh. One that he plays of well, if you ask him, into general annoyance that their travels continue to take them to dismal places. Not just his fleeting sentimentality.
This cult better be exactly where they expect them to be or he's going to have another thing to complain about.
The pain that came with existing in the shadows was unexpected, yet fitting at the same time. Shadowheart earned a few quips and, despite his insinuations otherwise, refused to share her dear goddess' gifts with the group. A 'poor team player' he had called her, and it amused him enough for a couple of minutes.
Torches and cantrips seem to keep the shadows at bay, at least for now, and long enough to set up camp. Finding an area that appeared to be a small outpost or dwelling once upon a time came to be the best choice, with protection on one side and mostly flat surfaces. But Astarion doesn't immediately jump to setting up his own tent. Usually he likes to find a spot with the most sunlight but, well, this makes it all rather the same.
So he stands at the edge of the protective aura of light, dipping his fingers out into the dark mist, allowing the wisps to dance between his digits and sting his skin.
"The irony isn't lost on me, for the record," he says aloud, sensing his dear leader nearby.
Out of the fire, into another fire - lucky her, being resistant to fire damage by factory default. Ea is not a stranger to struggle, running for her life, hiding from some ghosts from her past, but this is the first time the ghost lives in her head and promises to take care of her.
There's something incredibly unsettling about the dream visitor, and while yes, she's hot, Ea doesn't trust it. Pretty people aren't shady by default, but so far in her companions she's about six out of six right.
Out of one fire - the Grymforge, and the bloodshed it saw (some at her hands) - into another one, one that's dark and encroaching and wants to choke out the life from them.
Tomorrow, she decides, once they've actually rested, they're going to go towards that inn that is shedding such a protective light in this place. It might be a bad idea, and it's definitely not the Towers that have the cultists, but she's hoping for more allies before she's forced to get in bed with the Absolutists.
Hard pass.
The first rest is on the outskirts of that dome, with only Shadowheart feeling pepped up enough to put up her tent.
"That you're back in the dark and missing the sun?" Ea asks, coming up to stand next to Astarion. Nervous and restless, she runs her thumb over the hilt of her dagger - a relatively new acquisition from the gith crèche - from the blade to the jewelled tip.
"Not ironic. I think it makes sense. This place is fucking depressing." She pulls a face. "Halsin undersold just how much."
Without checking, she nudges her shoulder against Astarion's. "We'll get you back in the sun again. It's temporary."
Astarion makes a hum of the affirmative. Ea is a rather perceptive little thing—he wasn't sure if anyone else had noticed or really cared. Not that he wants them to care, but he has taken notice of many of the habits of their companions, their methods of idly away the hours and their nightly routines. It's survival, bordering on genuine interest at times. But mostly the former.
"Halsin has a very particular agenda," he says, sounding a little disdainful. Halsin is, admittedly, alright. Even though Astarion had been hoping he would have taken a more brutal route to punishing his disobedient subordinates back at the grove. At least that would have been entertaining to watch. "But I suppose a few shrubs not seeping in necrotic energy would liven the place up a bit."
The same magic that bites at his fingertips. Amusing, given that he's technically undead.
The nudge gets a look—Astarion glances down at her with a slight pout before pulling his hand back into the safety of the circle of light.
"Please, I'm not about to turn maudlin over this." Citation needed. "At least if the fringe benefits from these tadpoles were to suddenly stop, I won't explode into a ball of flames. We'll have to leave that delightful possibility up to some of our other companions."
The fact that two can qualify is...well, that's just the wonderful group of misfits they've collected, isn't it?
She scrunches her nose a little bit. "I assume we're talking about the wizard in the room?" She finds it hard to believe that Mystra - for all that Ea knows magic, she's approached it like a thief would, stealing her best quick fix spells from wizards and bards, rather than the way wizards do - for all her wisdom as goddess of magic, would send a cheese-loving old man to tell Gale to explode himself for the greater good.
Whose greater good, exactly?
"I'd rather live," she mutters under her breath, crossing her arms now. The wizard is not in the room with them, because they're not in a room, but Astarion will get the point. "I'd rather we all live."
And if anything happens to Karlach, she might just have to take a few levels in barbarian herself and set some shit on fire.
She shakes her head, not wanting to turn maudlin either over how grim this place is, although it's not an easy feat. Something about his place feels like touching that glaive from the Grove did. Fills her with sorrow and dread. So, humour it is. "You're simply too pretty to be maudlin, Astarion."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
the baldurian au.
Date: 2024-07-10 10:07 am (UTC)this is not to say that she isn't charismatic; she is certainly that, a creature with a magnetic pull, a woman as a whirlpool. it's just— not quite how bards typically operate. a blunt instrument. it sort of seems like she might actually bean someone with her violin, one of these days, and have only to say for herself, maybe they should reassess all of their life choices leading to that moment. the first impression is sort of that of a natural disaster, a thing that happens to people—
this impression lingers, along the road. she can't lie worth a damn but somehow, the particularly aggressive way she pursues her idea of the truth seems to compel and persuade. the way she sleight of hands her own history is a shell game more than deception: so blunt and so forthright in moments that other people might consider awkward or uncomfortable or just private, she's so easy to read, it's hard to imagine that there's anything written anywhere unseen. she is so sincerely, infuriatingly, baldly herself— what could she be hiding?
she's so small, easily six inches shy of ea's own height, and she occupies twice the space with her movement and the curls of her hair and the volume of her voice; it is hard, by design, to see her as vulnerable. she has so little time for vulnerability for anyone above the age of say, fifteen, halfway between impatient and just inarticulate, not unkind but not adept, either,
and she doesn't ask for what she hasn't offered. when the consequences of her fucking actions catch her up in the astral plane and she cannot, despite her best efforts, fend off the greater tadpole—
she doesn't ask for what she hasn't offered. every step had made sense. they needed every edge. she had been willing. it had been her decision. and it's so stupid, it's so stupid, she's the worst kind of fucking idiot, and the smallest, the pettiest, to be sitting as far from the rest of the camp as she can manage with a mirror and to touch where blackened veins raise up on her face and to—
her changed face crumples in her reflection and she is not, exactly, just weeping because the emperor has stolen her beauty.
but she's not not doing that, either—
the sound of footsteps makes her stiffen. she has not, in the interim, become better at lying. she sounds— wet. )
Is it my watch? I'm— I'll be right there.
no subject
Date: 2024-07-10 03:53 pm (UTC)Come the evening, they've made their way back to camp and it is the same downtrodden and abandoned farm, companions scattered about, someone cooking dinner somewhere.
It's not yet watch time, and frankly speaking Ea isn't sure they're keeping watch this close to the city, but perhaps they should. you know, in hindsight. Still, she steps over a stone and crouches at Gwen's side, wrapping her arms around her knees.
Her strange eyes fixate on the woman, taking in the new features of her face (Astarion made a comment about those dark veins earlier and Ea nearly skewered him). Insight check, reliable talent. ]
You want me to kill him?
[ The Emperor might be listening to every conversation, but Ea has not made her aversion to him a mystery. She is not subtle. Her pettiness and spite have layers. That bitch is on a shitlist. He was there before, but he got moved to the top of it, after essentially forcing Gwen to consume an astral-touched tadpole. He'd tried his luck with Ea, too, but for some reason (luck?) she'd resisted the persuasion. (Turn persuasion against her? Bitch.)
She shuffles closer. ]
Because I really want to kill him.
no subject
Date: 2024-07-11 02:50 am (UTC)she had nearly said several very cruel things, and then pressed her mouth shut and turned away, and she doesn't know how the rest of that conversation had gone because she'd decided she wasn't part of it any more. here and now there's a moment she teeters on where maybe she's only going to do the same thing, shut down and shut out, setting the hand-mirror she's been holding down in the grass (face down in the grass). she doesn't do well with vulnerability, and for someone who is such a mess of raw nerves under the surface, that's not not a problem.
but it doesn't feel like exposure to say, )
I want to fucking tear that thing apart, ( very distinctly.
that they can't, yet, is just...
well, that's the situation right now. their situation has changed so many times, and there's so much more in play than they'd known. there's going to be a moment, maybe soon, when they won't need the squid any more. )
no subject
Date: 2024-07-11 08:57 am (UTC)But Ea's here. They can just have this conversation among themselves. ]
I am loathe to believe that anyone who forces that tadpole onto an ally truly is looking out for the ally. Explore all our options is all fine and dandy, but that was -
[ Wrong. Non-consensual. Horrible and invasive, and she's incandescent with her anger at the squid.
But she softens for a moment, glancing at the mirror and then at Gwenaëlle. She reaches out, her knuckles brushing under the woman's chin, tipping her face up. There is no flinching away from the sight of the veins, of the semi-transformation. Ea's gaze is serious and solemn and honest. ]
You remain beautiful, Gwen.
no subject
Date: 2024-07-12 01:52 am (UTC)more than the way she has to fight her own wet eyes and wobbling mouth not to crumple again, a mess of just too many feelings for so little a body as is expected to contain them,
it's that she doesn't instantly protest gwenaëlle over the short-form that underlines just how badly she might have needed to hear everything else ea has just said to her. that she doesn't withdraw from the mortifying ordeal of being seen. she doesn't feel beautiful — exquisite, it had said, and she hates the way it had mattered to her, that it had made her reflection feel that much worse. she doesn't feel powerful, or certain of her direction and choices.
they had relied so much on that thing in the artefact. they still rely on it. it feels like quicksand beneath them, and she wishes she cared less about this part of finding that out. that she were braver or better or could laugh it off, I don't care about that,
but for all of her life, she's always had her fucking face. every part of her that hasn't felt like enough, the way she wasn't enough for her mother or her sisters, not enough to hold her father up, not enough for anyone to fill the bottomless hole of her heart full of whimpering love,
at least she's been pretty. at least if she couldn't hold onto anyone she could make them want her, for a while. at least if she can't hold their attention then she can turn their heads. at least she could have a while. at least— )
It shouldn't matter, ( she wails, burying her (awful) face suddenly in ea's shoulder, and she means: I should be more than beautiful, and she's the only fucking person who thinks she isn't. )
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2024-08-22 07:43 am (UTC)He finds her as promised after the rest of their companions have surrendered to either slumber or trance, purposeful to make noise enough to signal his approach. Imagining it fairly unlikely to out-stealth her, he hasn't intended to regardless of the interesting challenge it would have posed. In fact, the less this feels like stalking, the better it remains for both of them. And so he allows his feet to make just enough noise that she will hear him, his darkvision more than enough to see where he's treading even in low light like this.
Their conversation barely a handful of hours earlier had stirred up enough heat in his blood that he's felt on the cusp of arousal ever since. Every time his eyes had wandered to her, he recalls their plans, created out of a shared moment of want. Of desire. She knows what he is but has committed long enough to learn who he is alongside him. What kind of person he has the potential to flourish into now that he can see beyond the blinkers of his creation.
The reluctance to allow such proximity with any carnal desire coursing through him has overridden everything else up until this moment. A leap of faith, somewhat, perhaps for the both of them. Not in any god, but in him.
"Do you still wish to slip away with me?" he's whispering and, though more than one of their companions would be able to hear his question to her, there's no part of him that will continue without agreement or consent.
no subject
Date: 2024-08-22 08:32 am (UTC)Ea has always been rather direct and practical when it came to sex. Did she like having it? Yes. Did she enjoy the chase and seduction? Fuck no, she's terrible at it. Her idea of romancing someone is keeping all those desires to herself until they figure their shit out, and then maybe take her top off and ask if they're interested.
Failing that, before the whole Nautiloid and consequences experience, she used to find casual hook-ups the easiest. No demands, no emotional attachments - no bed partners who wanted them, exactly. Some could've easily called her a slut, but those people were usually too busy pointing at the horns and calling her a demon, so.
She is used to the wait. She is used to the wanting, too. The part where she gets what she wants is...new. Truth be told, she doesn't expect him to come to her tend after dark - and it would be fine, totally fine to brush off the funny teasing and cheeky banter as unserious, move on, forget all about it, if that's what he needs.
So when she hears his heavy footsteps (and of course she knows they're his, she knows the walking pattern of every one of her companions), her breath catches in her throat, something like hope (stupid, stupid hope) blooming in her chest. She gets up to her feet from where she was, sprawled on top of her bedroll reading to pass the time, and waits for the moment that the flap of her tent opens.
Come on, come on, come on -
"Yes," is the quick, honest, whispered answer, her eyes meeting his. There's no candles lit in her tent, because she doesn't want to keep track of them as they travel as well, but she has cast Light on the book itself. Open as it is in her hand, it casts a blueish and ethereal sort of glow on her and - when he pokes his head inside - on him. She flashes him a quick smile, and closes the book, tossing it onto her bedroll and stepping closer to him. "Very gladly."
no subject
Date: 2024-08-22 09:33 am (UTC)It leaves him stooping almost comically, even as he tries to maintain some level of secrecy from the rest of their campmates. No doubt at least a few of them are entertained at this very moment by it all.
As he catches her gaze, he can't help but contemplate how beautiful she is, a worthy detail to note and that he allows himself to fully revel in now they have uncovered his longing. From the colour of her skin to the tip of her tail, his desire to acquaint himself with the most minute of details cascades over into his headspace like an avalanche. That she puts her trust in him to know where the line is, he will long attempt to sabotage himself before he lets a lick of his other desires touch her.
"Then follow me."
no subject
Date: 2024-08-22 09:58 am (UTC)Then again, she thinks, maybe they can find a nice place here. There are nice places in Baldur's Gate.
"Kinda miss that farm," she murmurs, referring to the one sprawling ruin on the hilltop before arriving to even Rivington. They'd only rested there for one night, and the aftermath of it had been gruesome - that fight against the githyanki in the astral prism, the bitter taste of allying with the Emperor despite realising every single interaction up until that point truly had been a lie... The farm had been nice.
She'll follow him anyway, not a stranger to the way his gaze wandered, raked over her like heated claws. She likes the way he looks at her. Wants to see how that will change, when there's fewer clothes in the way.
Not that her current campsite ensemble leaves much to the imagination. The top part of it especially, dipped low enough that it leaves her cleavage bare from the middle of her chest is barely disguising the ridges that mark her chest, her arms and her back. She hasn't felt itchy under constraints of scratchy cotton in a while though, and so she's not going to ever give this one up.
no subject
Date: 2024-08-22 01:10 pm (UTC)"It was surprisingly dramatic," he eventually offers as their careful steps take them out of earshot of their companions, his icy eyes flicking to her, his grin one of humour. It had been more than any of them had anticipated, and so the idea of missing the place tickles something, darkly amused.
"I don't think we would make it there and back in time. Though at least there would have been more doors and walls providing privacy." His eyes sweep their surroundings - mostly the tall buildings and cobbled streets - out of habit before he returns to the conversation. The only option immediately available at camp is some kind of chapel, and even that has two points of entry. Hardly easy to find space enough to explore each other without the threat of an audience.
"Assuming you are able to remain quiet in certain circumstances?"
the sex chapel makes a comeback, nice
From:lmfao I have not heard that before but it's spot on
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:comes our? /sighs at self
From:<3
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:one hundred icons of just his mouth, eh? i see you, villain
From:no regrets
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2024-09-08 06:38 pm (UTC)Alright. Do find me, when you're ready. Or if you need someone to drag you to the light, even.
@nibbling
Date: 2024-09-08 06:49 pm (UTC)Are you calling Gale ugly, Astarion?
I don't know, it's the bit of salt and pepper in his hair that has some appeal. Life experience. Or maybe I like dorks.
no subject
Date: 2024-09-11 12:25 am (UTC)[ You know, himself. ]
I can't help you with the rest of your... predilections. [ Dorks??? Gross! ]
no subject
Date: 2024-09-12 08:53 am (UTC)Because we may be onto something if yes.
no subject
Date: 2024-09-14 09:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-09-14 09:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2025-06-03 11:17 pm (UTC)Tav leaned against one of the oversized fungi, idly paring his fingernails with the razored edge of a small dagger. It had been child's play to slip away from camp without anyone else noticing; everyone was caught up in their own miseries to pay much attention to aught else just now. Fine; suited him right down to the ground. Or, under it, rather, given their current location.
But there was no denying the itch that had woken him from another fitful bout of rest; the emptiness within wanted to be filled, and only blood and chaos would sate it. And only briefly, at that. Hence his earlier query to Ea - out of all their companions, she was the least likely to give him any shit about it. And the promise of a firm, filthy fuck at the end of it was twice the incentive.
So he waited, letting the natural sounds of the Underdark fill his pointed ears, singing its sibilant song, only lightly overshadowed by the song of the Soverign. Half-Drow though he'd been told he was (he did remember his "mother" having skin as black as velvet night and hair shining like moonlight), Tav felt absolutely no kinship whatsoever with the "Under Elves" that made their kingdom below the rest of Faerun. He was several inches taller than most elves - save Halsin, dear gods - and carried an elf's lean, lithe form.
Between his blades, magic and Ea's thievery, the poor duergar don't stand a snowball's chance in hell. Any of 'em.
no subject
Date: 2025-06-04 07:43 am (UTC)Astarion doesn't know her well enough, but he's already decided that she's some goody-two-shoes for wanting to prevent druids from murdering a child. Shadowheart has kept a lot of secrets close to heart, but she still let a disapproving frown slip when Ea offered to help Lae'Zel. And Lae'Zel...
Well, anyway.
Out of everyone she's been stuck with on this journey, Tav at least doesn't operate under delusions of how Ea is. At her core, she'll circumnavigate rules to suit her, or people she might care about.
This request, from the myconids and from Thula alike, is an easy one to accept; she's good at killing, and at spotting a possible looting and trading opportunity. (Finding the herbalist's lost husband, on the other hand? She'll lend a hand if she spots him, but he's a grown dwarf and should be able to fend for himself down here. Besides, his wife warned her she'd offer no reward for recovering the man, so...)
There comes a point where she slips out of the camp while the others are busy sniping at each other verbally, subtle as a shadow.
To find Tav is not difficult, despite the half-drow inheritance - maybe she has a magnet tucked deep that guides her to where he is.
She's brought both her bow and the daggers, for whatever may come out of this.
"Well, then," is the murmured greeting. "Let me scout ahead so we can see how many people we're dealing with?"
no subject
Date: 2025-06-04 10:21 pm (UTC)"Does it matter? We're going to kill them all." While he normally did go for as much reconnaissance as possible, sending Astarion and Ea to suss out whatever place they were about to decimate, this time Tav didn't think it very relevant. The two of them together were more than capable of handling a battalion of dark dwarves, should there even be so many congregated in one place.
And if they were, they were fucking idiots, the entire lot.
"But I won't stop you if you're absolutely itching to check." He waved a hand towards the lake's chasm, a faintly indulging smile ghosting around his mouth.
no subject
Date: 2025-06-06 09:54 pm (UTC)"But thank you, very kind." With a wink, she pulls the hood of her cloak up to cover the pastel bright hair (her colouring has always been a nuisance as a young criminal; keeps being one, even as she's gotten older) and dashes on ahead.
Charisma might be her lowest point, and who knows how she's managed to stick with her present company for so long, but the stealth is unparalleled.
Even Astarion doesn't have it this good. Not that she ever feels in competition with Astarion for being two rogues in a group. This is fine.
As she approaches the beach she finds the first rooftop and climbs it, sneaking from one decrepit building to the next, keeping an eye out for the dwarves.
A touch of magic - minor illusion on the beach - brings about five of them out, with orders barked from another three from the building under her to stop dilly-dallying.
She feels confident about her and Tavvarion's odds now.
So she slips away, blend into the shadows, and manifests herself back at his side at the top of the slope.
"Seven are certain, maybe more. I've found a good spot to take them out with arrows. So if the itch is for a confrontation before you rain whatever violence it is on them, let me at least get up there first and be of help watching your back."
holy hells we have POWER again! storm season just SUCKS, ugh
Date: 2025-06-16 10:44 pm (UTC)But he didn't want anyone else to die by his hands without his own damned knowledge - and he'd never forgive himself for that poor bard's demise, not even if he lived a thousand years. So here they were, ready, willing, and able to do the Underdark a bit of good by proxy; and if they came away a little bit wealthier than before, all the better.
Tav glanced up when Ea emerged beside him once more, automatically working the battle lines in his head based on her report. "Assume two more," he directed curtly. "At least two." Almost by accident, his blades appeared in his hands, both gleaming scimitars nearly trembling in anticipation. He tilted his head, saying then, "Find your spot. Make it a good one. Keep them off my flanks."
hey WELCOME BACK!! i will have my fingers crossed for you if storm season's still there
From:dw did not give me this. but TY! and yeah, it'll be storm season until about nov ugh
From:i was away for work for a week so this is a reward
From:❤️🔥
From:🗡️🫀
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2025-11-27 01:00 am (UTC)This cult better be exactly where they expect them to be or he's going to have another thing to complain about.
The pain that came with existing in the shadows was unexpected, yet fitting at the same time. Shadowheart earned a few quips and, despite his insinuations otherwise, refused to share her dear goddess' gifts with the group. A 'poor team player' he had called her, and it amused him enough for a couple of minutes.
Torches and cantrips seem to keep the shadows at bay, at least for now, and long enough to set up camp. Finding an area that appeared to be a small outpost or dwelling once upon a time came to be the best choice, with protection on one side and mostly flat surfaces. But Astarion doesn't immediately jump to setting up his own tent. Usually he likes to find a spot with the most sunlight but, well, this makes it all rather the same.
So he stands at the edge of the protective aura of light, dipping his fingers out into the dark mist, allowing the wisps to dance between his digits and sting his skin.
"The irony isn't lost on me, for the record," he says aloud, sensing his dear leader nearby.
no subject
Date: 2025-11-27 08:38 am (UTC)There's something incredibly unsettling about the dream visitor, and while yes, she's hot, Ea doesn't trust it. Pretty people aren't shady by default, but so far in her companions she's about six out of six right.
Out of one fire - the Grymforge, and the bloodshed it saw (some at her hands) - into another one, one that's dark and encroaching and wants to choke out the life from them.
Tomorrow, she decides, once they've actually rested, they're going to go towards that inn that is shedding such a protective light in this place. It might be a bad idea, and it's definitely not the Towers that have the cultists, but she's hoping for more allies before she's forced to get in bed with the Absolutists.
Hard pass.
The first rest is on the outskirts of that dome, with only Shadowheart feeling pepped up enough to put up her tent.
"That you're back in the dark and missing the sun?" Ea asks, coming up to stand next to Astarion. Nervous and restless, she runs her thumb over the hilt of her dagger - a relatively new acquisition from the gith crèche - from the blade to the jewelled tip.
"Not ironic. I think it makes sense. This place is fucking depressing." She pulls a face. "Halsin undersold just how much."
Without checking, she nudges her shoulder against Astarion's. "We'll get you back in the sun again. It's temporary."
no subject
Date: 2025-11-28 08:29 am (UTC)"Halsin has a very particular agenda," he says, sounding a little disdainful. Halsin is, admittedly, alright. Even though Astarion had been hoping he would have taken a more brutal route to punishing his disobedient subordinates back at the grove. At least that would have been entertaining to watch. "But I suppose a few shrubs not seeping in necrotic energy would liven the place up a bit."
The same magic that bites at his fingertips. Amusing, given that he's technically undead.
The nudge gets a look—Astarion glances down at her with a slight pout before pulling his hand back into the safety of the circle of light.
"Please, I'm not about to turn maudlin over this." Citation needed. "At least if the fringe benefits from these tadpoles were to suddenly stop, I won't explode into a ball of flames. We'll have to leave that delightful possibility up to some of our other companions."
The fact that two can qualify is...well, that's just the wonderful group of misfits they've collected, isn't it?
no subject
Date: 2025-12-01 10:22 pm (UTC)Whose greater good, exactly?
"I'd rather live," she mutters under her breath, crossing her arms now. The wizard is not in the room with them, because they're not in a room, but Astarion will get the point. "I'd rather we all live."
And if anything happens to Karlach, she might just have to take a few levels in barbarian herself and set some shit on fire.
She shakes her head, not wanting to turn maudlin either over how grim this place is, although it's not an easy feat. Something about his place feels like touching that glaive from the Grove did. Fills her with sorrow and dread. So, humour it is. "You're simply too pretty to be maudlin, Astarion."
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:'hey u up', ea lowkey
From:next she'll be like "you got any games on your tadpole"
From:that's actually 'you got any games on your tadpole, boomer'
From:BOOMER...cries...
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From: