( 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. )
[ Maybe it shouldn't, what the fuck would Ea know about beauty? She's been chased out of towns for being a tiefling, been called anything from strange to befouled (thanks, Aradin, you fuck) -
(Some thirty-odd years ago, tiny Ea sitting in her tiefling father's lap, with her human dad counting her fingers and toes and making up rhymes. Being called lovely, being loved, being called precious and sweet.)
- it's not all there is to her life, but. She can understand the pain, and the conflict. And most importantly, when a beautiful woman wails and throws herself at her, to cry on her (kind of bony) shoulder, she understands that what might be needed is touch.
So she tuts softly, and brings one hand up to cup Gwenaëlle's shoulder, drawing her in for a hug. ]
Who says? If it matters to you, it matters. [ She turns her head slightly, enough to whisper in Gwenaëlle's ear, ] You can stay there and cry it out.
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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
Date: 2024-07-12 01:38 pm (UTC)(Some thirty-odd years ago, tiny Ea sitting in her tiefling father's lap, with her human dad counting her fingers and toes and making up rhymes. Being called lovely, being loved, being called precious and sweet.)
- it's not all there is to her life, but. She can understand the pain, and the conflict. And most importantly, when a beautiful woman wails and throws herself at her, to cry on her (kind of bony) shoulder, she understands that what might be needed is touch.
So she tuts softly, and brings one hand up to cup Gwenaëlle's shoulder, drawing her in for a hug. ]
Who says? If it matters to you, it matters. [ She turns her head slightly, enough to whisper in Gwenaëlle's ear, ] You can stay there and cry it out.