#❛ 𝒗. / dnd �� baldur’s gate.

[bladewarde]

During the journey, there had been moments where it felt as if only she and Astarion walked the breadth of Faerûn. The places they traveled — the complete remoteness of some — felt wholly isolating. They were entirely removed from the sounds of a cityscape, where the views of stone buildings, lining paved streets, were replaced with treelines and shadowed hills. The grandeur of a city is what she found longing for and it was a great relief, then, that the temporary embrace of Astarion's family home lie in wait for the two of them. It was comforting, and more than that, it served as the meeting place between friends. Lae'zel arrived with a determined focus, revealing in the time they shared her mission, and also of her immediate need for supplies.

Laera catches herself staring at Lae'zel, watching her friend browse the shelves with sharpened scrutinity. ❝ Stare any 'arder, and you might break the glass, Lae'zel, ❞ Her tone is teasing, peering over the Githyanki's shoulder to eye what she's looking at. ❝ That'll be another thing you 'ave to pay for, including whatever items you buy. Do you 'ave anything similar to ' break it and buy it ' on K'liir? Do you even 'ave shops on K'liir? ❞

@chmarva / 🛡️

[bladewarde]

The admission is a rare moment of vulnerability for Laera, one she uncharacteristically, and quite easily, reveals to Arlis. She's in good company; confident that whatever words she exchanges with her, and in turn are shared with her, are wholly safe. The irony of that isn't completely lost on her. A memory of what occurred earlier in the day where a goblin arrow struck her in the face teases her fraying nerves that she calms with a steady, silent breath.

Arlis' words resonate with her. The Gate was familiar, relatively unchanging, and being insulated by the Guild was a nice perk to have. But the wilds, rife with its constant danger and a seemingly unending list of people that need saving, has Laera wishing she could go back to when everything wasn't so complicated.

❝ If either of us are smart, I know I won't be complacent with what I 'ave this time around, ❞ Laera mutters, gladly accepting her corner of blanket as she slides closer to Arlis. ❝ I just want to 'ave some sort of control over what's 'appening. Feels like we don't when we're one bad turn away from sprouting tentacles… Or being poisoned by goblin arrows. ❞

@darkgifted / cont.

[bladewarde]

Danger. An instinct sharpened over many close calls and near deaths, Laera keeps her steel in spite of those same feelings telling her to wither. She faces this threat, alone but alert; recalling every lurid detail laid out in a Guild missive of what Orin the Red had wrought with her own bloodied hands. It turns her stomach to think about. Her disgust, however, drives her motivation to uncover answers, if there are any to be had.

❝ Guild members aren't your usual target, Orin. ❞ Laera says, watching the Chosen just as she herself is watched. ❝ People with a name maybe worth removing from the board you play on. Patriars and the like, but Guildmates… Didn't think we were worth Bhaal's time. ❞

In spite of the humour, Laera's expression hardens. Had it not been for her own involvement, another colleague would have been carved to the liking of the Murder Lord. A notion that isn't lost on the fighter as a quiet shudder passes through her. She took Orin's prey.

The cryptic warnings of the hunter that preyed on them haunt her, as do the strategically placed words of Gortash meant to caution them. ❝ What changed? ❞

@murdershaped / plotted!

[bladewarde]

The fight could only end but one way. When opportunity came in the shape of Hapers — emerging from the shadows — albeit their presence wreathed in shadow, they provided a change of course to their otherwise bleak future. The thought of marching into Moonrise so soon after their arrival, though, turned Laera's stomach. Her hardline opinion was voiced, but only once before she allowed herself to be swayed toward the majority. A better alternative than picking a fight with friends…

Her dark eyes stay focused on the corpse of the man-spider, its hulking body crumpled on the ground — a centrepiece amongst its dead comrades — and the first of what Laera knows to be many, many battles. The fighter huffs, a strand of her orange hair flying out of her face as she grumbles her agitations.

Whatever she says is never quite heard by the ears of her bard companion, and she approaches with purposeful intent. ❝ You alright, Vanna? ❞ Laera asks, and despite her attempt to hide it, her voice shakes. She holds her armoured hand out to the tiefling, who sits on a stone, assumingly catching her own breath. ❝ I 'ope our little tiff didn't alert the ghouls 'iding in the shadows. I'd like to make it to safety, 'opefully before we fight something else. ❞

@hellscaress / plotted!

[bladewarde]

Another question posed by Maeve that to Laera, seems to simple. You just do. It's the first thing to cross her mind, and she gives her friend a long, calculated stare; watching her deflate under the somewhat wise words she speaks, but still reeling at having to even made such decision in the first place. She's in a hole: One too steep to simply climb out of, but with enough effort, she could see the surface again.

❝ Why do you think I said give yourself some time? Particularly, away from the both of them. While I think it'd be best to tell them as soon as you return, I think they can take the 'int that your distance means you need space. ❞ Laera leans in, bumping Maeve's side in reassurance. She understands the struggle she finds herself in; Laera can hardly believe she's in the situation she's in at all… Sense isn't so obvious when captive to their own hearts.

Laera sits in relative silence, her hands folded in her lap when asked of her own… relationship. She asks herself the same things -- feeling so completely in love with Astarion -- yet equally as uncertain of what their end will be. ❝ I learn from idiots like you, ❞ Laera replies, half smiling as she fiddles with a buckle on her boot. ❝ I don't expect 'im to ' make me ' a slightly more tolerable person. I should be able to do that on my own, no? ❞ Besides that, she can't quite place what it is about… him. He frustrates her with his playful teasing, yet he effortlessly makes her feel so important. ❝ I don't know… I get the feeling that… 'e's not being 'onest with 'imself. I think I scared 'im when I said I… loved 'im; what 'e says and does aren't the same, but I don't press 'im. Heh, shite, 'e could be using me too, and then we'd both be fools. ❞ Her heart aches just to think about it. ❝ I just want 'im to trust me. Like my fool 'eart trusts 'im. ❞

This has got to be the most insightful Laera has been since the two of them were abducted by the illithid nautiloid — perhaps ever. It's apparent that she's taking Maeve's feelings into account before sharing her opinions. True, she's being honest, firm even, but not hurtful. Maeve can't help but worry about what Laera might have gone through during their time apart to cause her to reflect in such a way, but she's afraid to jinx the fact by mentioning it aloud. ❝ How would I even go about making such a choice ? ❞

Maeve's tight grip around her legs slackens, eyes closing for a moment as she draws in a steady breath. When she opens them, she lifts her head from its resting place atop her knees and looks at Laera. ❝ How do you even know what you want out of a relationship ? ❞ It's a complex question, but it's one she's never been able to answer for herself. After all, Laera had been her only long-term lover and their relationship had amounted to nothing more than several months-long trysts that'd ended in mutual separation. Not that it hadn't meant the world to Maeve, of course, but they were simply two very different people seeking very different things. ❝ What is it about Astarion that leads you to believe he's good for you ? What is it that you want from him, aside from his affections ? Do you think his presence will help you grow as a person or are the two of you not at all serious about one another ? ❞

[bladewarde]

Laera's skepticism is writ across her face in a quirked brow, brown eyes knowing the very signs of fidgeting that she herself possesses. In the days past, Laera hasn't made much of an effort to talk to Eira beyond the usual pleasantry. A nod of acknowledgement, a quiet 'Morning,'; she seems reserved, more so than what's normally expected when a group of strangers are forced to entrust their lives to each other… Laera, however, attempts to make an effort this day.

❝ Your 'air burnt? ❞ The fighter asks, the pitch in her voice revealing her horror and morbid curiosity. She can't quite fathom how something like that could happen, but before she gets too ahead of herself, she poses a question: ❝ Mind if I sit? ❞

Despite asking, Laera doesn't wait for a response. Her movements are stiff, her body aching from the effects of recent combat, and she sits with a small groan. If Laera has something to say, she doesn't immediately respond, her hands wrapping around bent knees as she curiously stares at the subject of their conversation. ❝ …I don't think it's silly. ❞ She points to her own head, her own braids falling out, ❝ It might not look it, but I understand 'ow important a person's 'air can be. I was never allowed to wear mine 'ow I wanted growing up, so… I get it. All that to say, I think it's nice. ❞

@seluniite / cont.

[bladewarde]

Friend or no, neither would be exempt from paying a fee in exchange for her services, no matter how small. The Guild taught her well; proving that there was value in her actions with a worth that could only truly be appreciated in gold. She misses the simplicity of collecting payments on the Guild's behalf, or standing around a stall until the sun slipped beneath the waves. The thought reminds her how in need coin she is, bringing with it an ache to return to home.

Lorelei's question, though, gives her pause. ❝ Neither, if I'm being 'onest… ❞ The fighter takes her seat on a crate they've all been using as a makeshift chair around the fire pit, unbuckling her sword belt from around her waist. ❝ Maybe string? I grew up in a pub; the sailors and deck'ands usually entertained themselves with drinking… and singing. A shanty wouldn't be proper without a fiddle nearby. ❞ Hands tug at the pin holding her braid up as she brings it over her shoulder to unbraid. ❝ Don't take offense, Lorelei, but I can do without singing for a night. ❞

@entwinesfate / cont.

[bladewarde]

❝ you rest your bones, my brave little knight. ❞ / @lancepointe

Laera deflates against Maeve at the suggestion, the thought never once having crossed her conscious in the weeks that had passed. Each day brought on its own kind of Hell; scraping by the on bare minimum and faced with threats more dire than the last, Laera could feel herself wearing impossibly thin. Maeve is perhaps one of few observant enough to witness the invisible weight she shoulders, and the silent toll it's taken on her.

In the tent they've gone back to sharing, Laera holds Maeve's hand close to her chest, tucked under her chin as her dearest friend comforts her in a hug from behind. They don't say much; Laera quietly listening to the breathing of them both as her hair is gently stroked. The act is so simple, yet the intent behind it offers her a moment of comfort she so desperately wants, but can't bring herself to ask for.

That's the amazing thing about Maeve, their relationship. She knows her, knows her heart, like no one else does. ❝ I'm so tired… ❞ Laera finally says, her voice a muffle into the bedroll she lies on; her eyes shut to block out what remaining light the thing fabric of the tent can't filter out. ❝ Not just… fatigued tired, but tired of everything, you know? I ask m'self a lot why we're bothering, why we struggle. It doesn't feel worth it. ❞

[bladewarde]

Laera was absent for the departure of the tieflings in the early morning. Upon her return, to not see any of them remaining except for what they left of their garbage is, admittedly, a very welcome sight. The camp is returned to its calm, and the tiefling that decided to make the space outside her tent his bed vanished as if he were never there. A cursory glance into her tent confirms all of her belongings remain, so she sets to work doing what she can to tidy the space around her.

She's careful picking up half empty bottles, more worried about getting their contents on her than she is being startled. He seems to materialise out of nothing, standing a mere few inches in front of her as she straightens her posture, bottles in hand. ❝ What? ❞ Her tone is harsher than she might intend, but the look on her face assumes that his presence means he wants something from her. Something his next words depend heavily on. The fighter thinks he looks familiar, yet her certainty about the thought is immediately doubted. The amount of wine she drank has her questioning more than just that… In truth, she doesn't ever remember seeing him until this moment.

@vchloras / plotted!

[bladewarde]

❝ perhaps you think that i am something i’m not. ❞ / @wyldshape

His suggestion is more offensive than Laera believes he realises. Everyone they had spoken to talked of Halsin's greatness; his unparalleled skills at all things medicinal and scholarly, that the druids practically begged them to bring him back. To Laera, it sounded like they simply couldn't survive without their peerless leader, and to sweeten the deal, they all but promised his aid. Days had been spent beating the bushes; endangering themselves; facing more goblins than she wanted to… and for what?

She stares at him with cold fury. Despite his stature shadowing hers, she meets him in fearless challenge. ❝ No, maybe your people think you're something you're not. ❞ Laera retorts, her sword still gripped firmly in bloodied hands. ❝ We dragged ourselves through this shite'ole because of what it was said you could do. We didn't arrive at this assumption ourselves. Your people begged us to find you, but I see that if we decided to forget you existed, it wouldn't 'ave made much of a difference in our situation. ❞

[bladewarde]

a kiss to the forehead, meant to soothe. / @lancepointe

Healing was a horrific ordeal, one Laera knew was necessary yet within that, wished it weren't so. The skin of her neck and shoulder were viciously torn, and had it not been for Shadowheart, she might have bled out the morning she was returned to camp. The mending of her wounds brought with it a pain that unlike any Laera had experienced in the past. Even the wounds of battle compared little to the healing. Accelerated healing, in which her skin literally stitched itself back to together, tendons and nerves all, was unnatural.

Her vision went white and when it returned, she could barely breath. Her reaction was much of the same the second day, and only when she's returned to her tent, does she cry. The fury of the pain washes through her in short, agonising intervals; her sobs stifled with her hand as Maeve, always present, strokes her head.

❝ I can't do this again… ❞ She whimpers, choking down a breath, her mouth thick with spit. Maeve soothes her reassuringly, standing vigil over her through midday and into the evening. Exhaustion is the only thing to bring Laera peace, and when she's too tired to stay awake much longer, she feels Maeve press a kiss to her hairline: ' Sleep well, Laer bear. '

[bladewarde]

your lover going to walk away, but you grab them and pull them back in for a kiss before they go. / @vampyrictus

The tollhouse is no longer place of safety. It is a murder-ground, a burial site; marked by sacrilege and condemnation of faith. These are thoughts Laera wrestles with, the slow creep of a twenty-year indoctrination shaming her for yet another affront to justice. It feels so wrong -- abhorrent -- yet, she can't ignore the absolute freedom in scratching out another pawn of Tyr's faith. Freedom, also, from her own rage.

Yet even in liberation, her nerves twist and fray; heart pounding wildly in her ears, wishing to just be gone. Astarion leapt down the basement hatch to retrieve what they collected, and in waiting for him to return, it almost feels as though the walls move inward, as if attempting to expel them both.

She steps outside, shaking hand coming to her throat, feeling her pulse beneath. No sooner does she step outside does Astarion emerge, Tyrran sword slung over his shoulder, along with a sack of valuables. Laera doesn't allow him to go far, pulling him by the sleeve. She looks at him, studying his face and feeling her grip on him tighten all the same. What would she have done without him? ❝ Thank you… for everything, ❞ The words come out in a long, quiet breath, and Astarion meets her gratitude by pulling her to him. Into his side, she holds him, feeling his lips press against the ridge of her brow.

' You're welcome, sweetest, ' He whispers to her, smirking against her hairline and he lets her go, trotting down the steps and heading to the bridge. Laera watches him in silence. She owes so much, and more to him; more than he likely even realises.

[bladewarde]

The jingle of rusted keys and the flat footed approach of of a goblin jailer always means one thing: A fight, and Laera is unwillingly made to fight on the losing side except she's good… Too good. Her prowess with any weapon they give her has thinned out the numbers of wogs the goblin camp owns, and when she sits quietly in her cell, she can hear the little wretches conspiring to force her to fight unarmed. In the buzzing of her mind she challenges them — ' Go on, then! ' — goading them to try as she thinks to conjure fire in her empty hands. Enough flame to burn the temple to the ground and the thieving shites along with it!

Her back is pressed into the corner, the damp of the cell making her skin itch as she stares past slatted bars until a goblin blocks out what little light that filters in. ' Get up! ' The order is harsh, the goblin woman screeching the words behind serrated teeth, and Laera can do nothing but obey. Whenever she finds herself alone with her jailors, the thought crosses her mind to kill them — to choke the life from their small bodies with the chains they bind her hands in — but her pragmatism prevails. If she were to succeed, what then? One goblin is not the horde, and so she refrains.

Her wrists are rubbed raw from the constant binding as she's led along like a dog. Her tunic is stained with old blood, hers and of others; her knuckles are tender and sore; beneath the messiness of her red hair is the face of a woman wanting her revenge.

Laera is resistant, yanking back at the tugging on her wrists. She's quickly told off for it, something about how insufferable she is, and the jailer ruminating on the thought that today might be the day she dies… Wherever they're going, it isn't to the pits, and a sharp turn around corner and into a smaller room is one where she hasn't been, much less seen. The black ball that floats around catches her attention while they cross a rickety bridge that keeps the both of them from falling into a gaping chasm. Her face, spattered with dirt and grime, contorts into disgust as she beholds a drow woman — Minthara — she's heard the name. Hands fall at her front, still bound, and the two seem to be in a silent staring match before Laera speaks: ❝ Your shitestain of a jailer mentioned I die today. I don't suppose you're going to be the one to 'and down the sentence… ❞

@n1ghtwarden / plotted!

[bladewarde]

scares her just by being nice to her.

❝ I'm not afraid of your niceties, ❞ Laera retorts, her response breaking from her mouth in a low growl. Whenever he's around, whenever he speaks to her, her instincts rage against being civil... peaceful. ❝ You are a threat to me, and if not for our shared circumstances, I wouldn't waste another second standing in your company. ❞

[bladewarde]

Dakara. The name passes through her thoughts as she continues to eye him. He isn't some slouch that was merely caught at the wrong time — his ensemble all but says as much. ❝ In this current moment? I'd say incident. ❞ Comes her reply, her smile tight lipped and smug. ❝ You're not really in traveling clothes, and you don't seem fool enough to wear your best garments while walking the road. ❞ Her observation is made with a point she never voices, believing there's a reason Dakara might find himself out on this particular day. ❝ You don't 'ave to say anything if, of course, that's true. Your business is your own. ❞

She could very well leave him as is, continuing on her way without compensation she thought to ask for and without an additional sword arm. It crosses her mind, but Laera is simply too stubborn to walk away; neither are her morals also so lacking that she would leave a wounded fighter to his own. His company thus far has set him on the side of 'potentially enjoyable company'; the few words they've exchanged, and the brief moment she witnessed him engaged in combat lead her to believe an extension of their shared company might not be wholly awful. ❝ I'm going southward, if it matters. My own personal business calls me there. I'm no knight, Dakara, but leaving you as you are wouldn't entirely sit well with me. ❞

"That is still up for some debate." The ranger's quick to respond, mischief flickering in his dark and pale gaze as he watches the woman. Eying the familiar bottle as it's revealed. Now that was something that could lessen his pain. At least enough to stop him from hissing like a feral cat at every uncomfortable move. The manner it's held is taunting. A tease for him to try and grab it. And there it was, the matter of payment, for the help he did not request. Dakara scoffed with a chuckle, "There it is. Give me a bribe and we'll see if I've the means to meet it."

Ashen brow arched at the woman’s words. While he was merely jesting, she did fit many bills, at least in his eyes. Lips curl in a lopsided smile, deepening laugh lines around his mouth and the crows feet at the corner of his eyes. “Could have fooled me. You seem knightley enough.” Leagues more than himself. Taking action in his own interests and lacking respect in battle. Yet he’s seemed to have made his way very well enough. Given the fashion of his armor and the details glimmering along the length of his bloody blade. Down to even the guard and grip. The drow wasn’t short of his worth, but his pockets along the road were thinning. "Wasn't raised with chivalry, Laera.” Corner of lips tugged briefly into a lopsided smirk, “Dakara. Here by choice or incident?”

[bladewarde]

" it's been a long day, hasn't it? my feet hurt with all that walking. " lorelei cannot imagine how carrying that sword and shield around could do laera any favor in that regard, yet she doesn't look nearly as exhausted as she is. what an admirable woman. though, lute in hand, the bard feels offering one of her most renowned services still. " would a little song help to soothe your very own soul, perhaps? and even if you're not tired, i'd appreciate the company. "

Lorelei's voice carries over her shoulder, a few paces behind as the half-elf condemns the very act they find themselves doing. Walking… and to nowhere exciting: Back to camp, although the idea of being able to lie down very soon coaxes Laera to walk slightly faster than she wants. The protest of her thighs ache with every step, her back straining from carrying the weight of her weapons and supplies packs, yet even so, Lorelei makes pleasant company. It's enough to forget the troubles that plague them at every turn.

❝ Almost too long. I'm ready to sleep for the next tenday, ❞ Comes her reply, the barest of smiles pulling at her freckled face, imaging the thought of getting the rest she so desperately craves, and being dead to the world for ten whole days. It sounds exquisite. ❝ Nobody bothering me to 'old their shite; sweet dreams that don't involve worms from 'Ell… Sounds nice, aye? ❞ A chuckle, and she turns to face her companion, auburn brows quirked in playful curiosity. ❝ I don't 'ave to pay do I? Is there a… reluctant friend discount? ❞