[Nothing about it is ideal, their little stint in the Underdark, but then again, what has been ideal from the very start of this new undertaking? This hideously dangerous, constantly more complicated little adventure, a ragtag group of weirdos miscreants with one unfortunate community between them: a tadpole squirming about in their brains.
No, so very little about the situation has been ideal at all. And while there is a certain beauty to this underground expanse—the fascinating glow of the local fungus, he supposes—so much has been worse. One minotaur was awful; three of them was certainly some kind of cosmic joke. And why are there so many dark and yawning chasms just waiting for a wayward traveller to be hurled into?
So, today’s respite at camp is particularly welcome. Astarion has more bruises than he can count, some on places he’d rather not mention (his arse) after being thrown about, but admittedly, at least he never received the brunt of the punishment. And he's certainly had worse at the hands of those far more cruel. He has not much of a reason to complain.
But he's going to complain a little, anyway. Such remarks earn an unamused, tired almost-glower from an exhausted Shadowheart, and the expected tch! from Lae'zel. Gale takes it all in stride, a bit to his annoyance, because that's not quite as much fun. But eventually, his rounds take him to Winter, and he-
Scents blood. He can almost taste it in the air, like fine wine, cloying his senses in the best way possible. And, oh, what a lovely smell. What a lovelier taste -- he'd know by now.]
Need some help?
[He says as he draws closer, enough to earn himself a bit of context. It looks like their local warlock has fussed a bit too much with an injury on his arm, breaking skin, if the crimson warming the material is of any note. He gestures at the other, spreading a hand.]
it's beautiful
weirdosmiscreants with one unfortunate community between them: a tadpole squirming about in their brains.No, so very little about the situation has been ideal at all. And while there is a certain beauty to this underground expanse—the fascinating glow of the local fungus, he supposes—so much has been worse. One minotaur was awful; three of them was certainly some kind of cosmic joke. And why are there so many dark and yawning chasms just waiting for a wayward traveller to be hurled into?
So, today’s respite at camp is particularly welcome. Astarion has more bruises than he can count, some on places he’d rather not mention (his arse) after being thrown about, but admittedly, at least he never received the brunt of the punishment. And he's certainly had worse at the hands of those far more cruel. He has not much of a reason to complain.
But he's going to complain a little, anyway. Such remarks earn an unamused, tired almost-glower from an exhausted Shadowheart, and the expected tch! from Lae'zel. Gale takes it all in stride, a bit to his annoyance, because that's not quite as much fun. But eventually, his rounds take him to Winter, and he-
Scents blood. He can almost taste it in the air, like fine wine, cloying his senses in the best way possible. And, oh, what a lovely smell. What a lovelier taste -- he'd know by now.]
Need some help?
[He says as he draws closer, enough to earn himself a bit of context. It looks like their local warlock has fussed a bit too much with an injury on his arm, breaking skin, if the crimson warming the material is of any note. He gestures at the other, spreading a hand.]
Or just trying to draw me over for fun?