[Normally, he’d revel in the fact that others were delegated the heavy lifting in the battle, and he’d just sit back and be healed — but there’s something stubborn flaring in him, a part of him that feels utterly frustrated that Winter’s going to run off and continue the battle (because of course he is). Especially after viewing that trickle of red ribboning down the man’s nostril, how his complexion has paled two shades lighter. That spell must have taken its toll, at least by whatever means his patron burdens him with one.
He tries to retort but it seems as though the warlock’s already made up his mind, and even as Astarion tries to rise to his feet, Shadowheart is giving him the most disapproving glare, and her hand presses down on his shoulder as though to guarantee that he doesn’t rise back up. Their exchange is terse, with the vampire making a snide remark, but the reality soon makes it clear: she’s not going to let him back into the fight so easily, either.
At least she washes her healing magic over him to make the pain stop, the bleeding halt, and torn flesh slowly knit itself back in the worst places it was cut into.
And by the time she’s done, and Astarion feels as though he might just be able to wring out a second wind from himself, the battle’s nearly done. The spectator is on its last legs — or eyestalks, as it were. It’s sluggish, it’s struggling, though it did a fair amount of damage in its rage. The unpetrified Drow, having turned against their party while under the monster’s thrall, now lie dead and sprawled across the cavern floor. And when Karlach deals the last blow, ending the life of the spectator with furious finality, Astarion is already trying to slowly walk his way across the “battlefield” to where he had last dropped his bow.]
So glad that went well.
[Sarcasm. They’re all alive, at least. But he feels like a cat with its fur rubbed in the wrong direction, vaguely annoyed for reasons that he probably isn't turning over in his mind at the moment.]
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He tries to retort but it seems as though the warlock’s already made up his mind, and even as Astarion tries to rise to his feet, Shadowheart is giving him the most disapproving glare, and her hand presses down on his shoulder as though to guarantee that he doesn’t rise back up. Their exchange is terse, with the vampire making a snide remark, but the reality soon makes it clear: she’s not going to let him back into the fight so easily, either.
At least she washes her healing magic over him to make the pain stop, the bleeding halt, and torn flesh slowly knit itself back in the worst places it was cut into.
And by the time she’s done, and Astarion feels as though he might just be able to wring out a second wind from himself, the battle’s nearly done. The spectator is on its last legs — or eyestalks, as it were. It’s sluggish, it’s struggling, though it did a fair amount of damage in its rage. The unpetrified Drow, having turned against their party while under the monster’s thrall, now lie dead and sprawled across the cavern floor. And when Karlach deals the last blow, ending the life of the spectator with furious finality, Astarion is already trying to slowly walk his way across the “battlefield” to where he had last dropped his bow.]
So glad that went well.
[Sarcasm. They’re all alive, at least. But he feels like a cat with its fur rubbed in the wrong direction, vaguely annoyed for reasons that he probably isn't turning over in his mind at the moment.]