#��� pairing ‹ softersinned ☽

[rangersav]

@softersinned ; " i'm open to suggestions " // things my friends' muses have said

"Okay, but are you really?" Maverick questions, foot tapping nervously as he sits atop the crate in front of his tent. He's seen many gruesome scenes throughout the years, from his time serving Daggerford's militia to later hunting bounties across the Swordcoast, the ranger hardly blinks an eye when it comes to blood and death -- but this? Alfira's lifeless form sprawled on the ground, her once vibrant flesh now a canvas of gruesome injuries, with blood-soaked entrails spilling from her torn stomach. Gods, the thought alone is enough for a wave of nausea to wash over him. Stori had admitted her guilt rather quick, citing certain dark urges and a loss of memory, but is it enough for the ranger to accept?

"'Cause, from what I can recall, you haven't been real eager to take many of my suggestions. Like, y'know, don't pet the owlbear cub, or don't try to make friends with the gnolls." He retrieves an apple from his pack and unsheathes the small knife at his side, deftly carving away at the fruit's skin, desperate for something to do with his hands. "If you're askin' for suggestions on how to keep that bloodlust of yours at bay -- well, I've got a few ideas, but I don't wanna end up with my guts spillin' out next to Gale's tent if you don't like 'em."

[rangersav]

The campsite is alive with music, laughter, and merriment—a symphony of sounds that fills the air with an infectious, hopeful spirit, breathing life into the weary souls who have fought tirelessly in the past months. Even Maverick, who might be the most stringent, the most uptight out of all of their fellow companions, finds himself completely at ease.

A decent cup of wine stays steady in his hand, and he nurses it slowly throughout the night. He's not much of a drinker, having watched his dear father deteriorate at the lip of a bottle in the last years of his life, but he allows the celebrating Tieflings to refill it for him once or twice, succumbing to the rhythm of the evening and momentarily escaping the confines of his normally racing thoughts.

From a distance, Maverick observes her, his gaze drawn to her figure amidst the joyful chaos of children's laughter—all of it Stori's doing. There's a steady distance he maintains, yet every now and then, he finds himself stealing glances in her direction, an awestruck grin accompanying his gaze. It's strange, sweet, and almost a bit disturbing how someone, whose cravings for flesh and blood surpasses even that of a simple vampire, can display such empathy, such compassion for these kids. Ones who have endured unimaginable trauma, scars that will likely linger for years to come. Yet, in this fleeting moment, they are afforded a reprieve from their hardships, enveloped in the simple pleasures of song and play, basking in the innocence of childhood.

As he looks on at her, amidst the revelry, he realizes how far his feelings for her have come; once full of utter disbelief, confusion, horror, they've now molded into something different, something unrecognizable—something more.

Maverick is standing by the shore, overlooking the water when she approaches him, and he looks over at her with a warm smile. "And here comes the life of the party." The vampire is beaming, radiating so much joy, and it only adds to the ever-present ethereal beauty she exudes. "Well, I'm having an even better time now." He admits, letting a moment pass between them as he keeps her gaze.

Sweet thing. She's called him that consistently for some time now, and yet it never fails to cause a pinkish hue to spread across his cheek. "That's part of it, yes," Maverick nods, turning his body to face her more head on. "It's just—it's nice to see everyone so happy, so fucking hopeful. Us, the kids...you, most of all." Because even for all of her energy, all of the wide smiles and playful looks, there's a radiance about her right now that's undeniable. Intoxicating.

"I thought the kids would try to stab me with one of those wooden swords if I even tried to pull you away, but I've been meaning to—wanting to—steal a moment with you. Alone." He takes another small step forward, closing a bit of distance between them though making no move to initiate contact, peering down at her with those piercing blue hues. "I was thinking—a walk? The skies are clear, stars are out..." Maverick is a gentleman at heart, and though something deep within his belly stirs with anticipation, he's not one to be presumptuous. Even if Stori is.

@rangersav / plotted starter.

The sound of laughter and song rings throughout camp with a vividness that leaves her wondering if perhaps she's not so empty as she thought. One of the tiefling children—Umi, she thinks, but it's a lot of names to keep track of—had settled in at her side nearly an hour ago and has been sleeping there since, nestling into her like a child with his mother, and Stori is almost reluctant to let him go when his parents come to collect him. His mother is all profuse thanks as his father scoops him up, and Stori doesn't know how to tell them that the simple act of a child trusting the monster stalking the dark he fears to keep him safe while he sleeps has done something irreparable to whatever's left of her heart, if there's anything there at all.

She's stiff and aching when she finally stands, having kept herself utterly still, not even daring to breathe, while the child slept. She'd imagined that the evening would die down, but it seems to be finding its second wind: about half the party's original guests have wandered off to get what sleep they can and those remaining have thrown themselves even more into the celebration.

She catches sight of Mav. He's been watching her on and off throughout the night, a smile at his lips as he saw how the children flocked to her, while they played Monster and Slayer with wooden swords and she died increasingly creative deaths to the immense satisfaction of her tiny heroes.

(That smile, small and soft and sweet, is doing something to whatever's left of her heart, too.)

He doesn't hear her approach over the din of music and chatter, or perhaps he simply wants to make her come to him, a bottle of mead in hand. "It's quite a party," she says, rather pleasantly, as though she's here for small talk and not to soothe the craving that builds in her every time she looks at him, thinks about him, hears him, smells him on the air. "You seem like you're having a good time."

And she's smiling, actually smiling; there's laughter in her voice, too, the joyful kind rather than the sort that accompanies a joke at someone's expense, most often her own. Her hair is down, still mussed from when three of the children decided to strike the Dread Beast at once and simply threw themselves at her when she pretended not to expect it.

"I don't think I've ever seen you so at ease, sweet thing. What is it that's got you so peaceful? Is it just our victory, or—?"

[rangersav]

[ LEVER ]: the sender, wanting to sit next to the receiver, places a hand on their shoulder to ease themselves to the space beside them.

@softersinned

The fire exudes a warm glow in the middle of the camp, a nice reprieve from the bitter night sky that stretches overtop of them. There are no stars here in the Underdark, and while gazing at constellations has never been one of Maverick's favored past times, he can't help but miss the way they twinkle amongst the inky blackness that he so often comes across in his travels. For ranger who specializes in capturing his foes unseen, swiftly and ruthlessly from the shadows, he doesn't feel particularly secure here, which is why he's opted to take watch while the rest of his companions get some much needed rest.

Apparently he's not the only one whose opted to stay awake however, judging by the hand that's suddenly pressed against his shoulder. Instinctively, his own palm flies up to rest atop of it, eyes flickering towards the figure whose decided to join him. "Can't sleep?" Maverick asks, watching as Stori uses his shoulder as leverage, seating herself beside him. "I'd ask if your worried about another minotaur wanderin' into camp, but I have a feeling you'd just ask 'em to pitch a tent and join the party." A tired smile tugs at his cheeks, and he extends a mug of warm, poorly brewed coffee in her direction. "Kinda tastes like dirt, but it's doin' the job."

[rangersav]

Something between them has shifted—and for a man whose keen eye has been his shield and livelihood for over a decade, one who can discern nuances in the most shadowy depths, he finds himself at a complete loss for whatever stirs within him. Pure anticipation, but not like the kind he finds by looming the dark corners of an urban alleyway, awaiting his mark. No, this is different, this is primal.

The heady aroma of honey intertwined with a subtle bergamot permeates his nostrils as Stori steps closer, breathing in a hint of iron and wine—it's utterly intoxicating. His mind becomes a blank canvas, his thoughts consumed by the sensation of her hand delicately guiding his jaw, his fingertips grazing the tender, scarred skin of her wrist. She's dangerous, proven to be unpredictable, deadly—and yet he becomes sure right then and there that he must have a death wish, because as her fangs catch the faint glimmer in the low light, all he can think is; sink into me.

He's so close to her now, so close that he's sure she can feel the tickling of his breath at her navel, and it takes everything in him not to vehemently inhale her scent as if it were his last breath. Crimson eyes bore into him even as his grip on her wrist is detached, allowing her, trusting her to guide his hand where she pleases—she won't hurt him, she'll make sure he's okay—but still, his gaze remains constant, not wanting to veer far from the sudden overwhelming feeling of security.

You certainly are lovely on your knees, you know. That's when the next realization hits, the anticipation melding into something akin to desire, arousal. He's aware of the tales surrounding vampires and their bewitching allure, rumored to enchant their prey before they go in for the kill, and yet here he is, still with blood, still kneeling. "I—" Maverick begins, his voice catching in his throat as a flush of shyness tinges his cheeks. With a sense of urgency, he averts his gaze, seeking solace in the scar, if only to hide the sheepish expression on his face—as if she doesn't already possess the uncanny ability to see straight through him. "Stranger things've happened." The ranger finally manages to sputter out, looking once more

"How can you know there's no decency to speak of when you don't have your memories? When you know nothing of your past?" He can't help but question, perhaps a bold assertion given the murderous urges that got them here in the first place. A soft, somewhat lighthearted smirk tugs at the very corner of his lips. "You ain't gonna to hurt me. Not right now, at least." Maverick is certain, has to be, otherwise he'll need to remove himself from this very moment—and by the gods, he doesn't want to.

Lips part ever so slightly as her thumb brushes against his lower lip, resisting the urge to press his tongue forward, to taste her. "I suppose I'd rather have you watching my back than the alternative," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. Maverick's breathing becomes audible, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest betraying the calm expression he wears as lithe hands cup his cheek— but it's the request that quickens his heartbeat, leaving his mouth dry and the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

Gods, but he's only a man.

With a subtle nod, his hands instinctively find the hem of the trousers pooled at her feet, lightly pinching the soft fabric. His gaze remains steady, intense, unwavering, as he slowly lifts the garment up around her ankles, past her calves, her knees. The tips of his fingers trace a tantalizing path over her thighs, her skin ice cold beneath his touch, and with a gentle sweep, the waistband passes over her hips, his thumbs grazing the curve of her ass in a fleeting caress. Once they're on, as requested, he finds himself resting his hands on either side of her waist for a brief moment before returning them to his side.

"That—that should be all." Maverick clears his throat, a heavy sigh escaping him as he attempts to collect his bearings. "I just need you to promise me again. That you'll be honest with me when these urges start resurfacing." He allows his expression to soften, eyes imploring her—begging her—to agree once more. "Please?"

She notes everything, every change, every shift, no matter how small: his eyes widen and his face colors a lovely and deep red and his breathing changes. Less than an hour ago he was, understandably, frightened of her, and now, he stares up at her from his knees, leans into her touch. Oh, she might be damaged, but so is he, and Stori feels a sudden, strange desire to look after him, take care of him, protect that soft heart if he's going to keep putting it in danger.

It's equal parts amusement and this strange affection that nudges her to continue. Her hand still around his jaw, she lifts his head further, steps just a little closer to him. The scrape of calloused fingers against the soft underside of her wrist nearly makes her shiver. For a moment she indulges in the fantasy of tipping his head to the side and sinking to her knees as well and biting him, drinking him in, devouring that warmth to take it into herself, but she allows herself only the fantasy, even as her lips part just enough for the glint of her teeth to be visible, fangs scraping against her lower lip as she rolls it into her mouth for a moment.

Her free hand moves, fingers slipping beneath his to gently detach him from her wrist, and she guides his hand instead to the inside of her thigh, eyes on his as she does, watching for any signs of unease or discomfort or anything less than enthusiastic cooperation, grip loose enough that he can move away whenever he'd like. "Mortification of the flesh," she explains. "Loviatar certainly makes sense." And her lips quirk upward, and she raises an eyebrow, looking endeared as she does. "You certainly are lovely on your knees, you know. These scars feel different, as well. You're welcome to see for yourself, if you'd like. Who knows when you'll next get to examine vampire healing and anatomy without risk?"

And he is lovely. She wouldn't have expected to find him so appetizing, all things considered. He's pretty enough to catch her attention, for sure, but his rigid sense of morality, of justice, leaves little room for debating the nuances of acceptable murder. But now, watching him stare up at her with those beautiful, unblinking eyes, she has to wonder if she'd written him off too soon.

"I'm afraid I have no decency to speak of, sweet thing, but your dedication to preserving my honor is—touching." And it is. There's honest sincerity in her voice, now. "And you may have been doing this for some time, now, but you still found yourself alone in your tent with a vampire. One with a penchant for murder, no less." She moves her hand just enough to brush her thumb over his lower lip. "You can protect whatever scraps of decency you can find in me, if you're really so inclined, and I suppose I'll just have to keep you in one piece to do it, won't I?

"Unless, of course, you're opposed to my concern. I wouldn't dream of overstepping." She shifts her hold on him so that she has both her hands cupped against his face, chin still raised towards her so she can direct him to look at her, one of her thumbs still tracing an idle line back and forth along the curve of his lower lip. "Though I suppose I'm overstepping now, aren't I? Staying for longer than I've been invited. Do me a favor, sweet thing, and pull the trousers back up? Unless there's anything else you'd like to see."

Not that she expects more from him than this. Lingering hands, perhaps, as he brushes past her thighs or her ass, but nothing more, though she's always enjoyed a surprise. But it's his interest that's captivated her: his willingness to obey, his desire to be directed, his responsiveness to her touch, her command. She wants to consume him and leave nothing behind. She wants to shield him from anything else that might try.

[rangersav]

It strikes him in that moment how utterly unphased she is. The scars remain in spite of the memories lost, and while the revelation that her supposed assailant aimed for her kidneys isn't particularly shocking, he can't help but marvel at her nonchalance, as if something deep within her knows that she'd become accustomed to such pain. Furthermore, the mere suggestion that she might have provoked such abusecauses him to vehemently shake his head.

"Whoever did this to you was born of depravity, of wickedness, not justice," he muses aloud, grappling with the incomprehensibility of such cruelty within his own moral framework. "I've encountered countless young lasses over the years, some nice, others not, and I assure you that none of 'them 'em would've deserved this kind of savegery." Maverick doesn't consider himself an angry person-- though initially driven by vengeance, his motivations are propelled by the desire to help people, to rid Faerun of the corrupt, of the dishonorable. Once again, he repeats, "this is not how good people seek justice."

Deep in contemplation, his thoughts swirl like a tempest, anger simmering within him at the mere notion of these vicious acts being perpetrated against her. However, it's in this turmoil that a stark distinction emerges, separating Stori from the violent urges that threaten to consume her. When their tadpoles connected, Maverick sensed the overwhelming remorse that clung to her mind and body, an insatiable regret echoing at the memory of the harm she had inflicted upon poor Alfira. His gaze fixates on the scars that tell tales of assailants form lives past and present. Yet, amid these haunting marks, Maverick finds himself unable fathom that those responsible for such atrocities could harbor even a semblance of that same penitence.

Thoughts are interrupted then by the sudden removal of her trousers, the rest of her body in display for him—and only him, he realizes—and while he's not surprised by her brazenness, he continue to be baffled by her unpredictability. His throat goes dry, and he swallows thickly in order to return some moisture to his palate, allowing Stori to guide his hand over her thigh. The silvery scar almost seems to twinkle under the soft light at his finger tips, and he can't help but marvel in its horror — and its beauty — brows crinkled.

"What, like, self-flagellation?" He suggested, shaking his head as he carefully inspects the area, attempting not to allow his eyes to linger on any of the more exposed curves of flesh that were typically under cloth. "You were punishing yourself, for — for something." Religion isn't his most studied subject, but a few possibilities cross his mind. "Illmater, maybe. Loviatar. The gods worshipped in my home town were far more...forgiving than some others. I'm afraid beyond that, I'm not very familiar." Shame grips him for a brief moment, frustrated that he can't be more knowledgeable, that he can't offer the answers she most desperately needs. Perhaps he's being a bit harsh, but for someone who puts so much of his self-worth into helping others, into being good, it doesn't even scratch the surface.

"Considering the rate in which vampires heal, I'd wager that's a pretty good guess." He affirms softly, continuing to examine the barbed scar — but then two slender fingers slide beneath his bearded chin, coaxing his head upward until his eyes lock with hers. The air thickens with anticipation as her hand brushes through his soft curls, the contact making his gaze soften, his lips part slightly he lets out an unsteady exhale. He can't look away, mesmerized by the a small gesture—by her— and regardless of if he understands the feeling or not, he doesn't even try.

"I'm merely a man of decency," he says softly, unblinking, almost as if doing so would break the invisible threat that pulls taught between them in that moment. "That's all." But he's been told this before, that he has a soft heart, one that's easily prone to being broken—and yet he's never willing to shy away from it. He finds himself instinctively leaning into her touch, even as her hand travels lower, gently taking his chin instead. Gods, he's touch starved, months on the road doing little to quell that soft heart of his.

A humorous scoff escapes him then, and he gives a slight shake of his head. "If I recall correctly, you left me no choice in the matter. Someone needs to maintain your decency, don't they?" He's teasing now, but his tone is still hushed, tender. Maverick's own hand reaches up, calloused fingers delicately wrapping around her wrist yet making no move to pull her grip away. "I've been on my own since I was a young man, watched out for myself just fine," he explained. "You needn't concern yourself."

His embarrassment prompts a laugh—Stori obeys, follows him into his tent, though she's shaking her head as she does. She refrains from teasing, and she sits when he does, pleasant and even polite in her restraint. Her hair is still gathered over one shoulder, and she lays the discarded clothing across her lap; she swears she feels something in the air change in the moment before he sees her scar, as if it grows colder, somehow, with the weight of his surprise.

Perhaps it's a sign of just how damaged she is already, that the revelation that someone stabbed her, aiming for her kidneys, doesn't much shock her. "Hm." The sound, noncommittal and even a little bored, is all she can manage, and she pulls the bodice back on, turning to face him as she laces it up again, deft fingers moving quickly to feed the laces through the eyelets. "To be honest, I'm more concerned about whatever prompted someone to vivisect me, but I get the impression that I was either a very unfortunate girl, or that I was... well. Eminently stab-able, I suppose. Nobody vivisects you because you're a nice young lady."

She is a ruin; her memory is as fractured as her body has no doubt been plenty of times in the past, and she seems to be determined to make her suffering everyone else's problem, whether or not she consciously allows it. Stori finishes lacing up the bodice but doesn't bother to tie it; instead, she stands, ignoring her own earlier comment, and she slips her thumbs under the waistband of her trousers. "I wish I knew how old I was when I was turned. If these scars were obtained before that happened—well, I must have been young, right? And far be it from me to downplay how stab-able I was or continue to be, but I have to hope that I at least was an adult when I got these scars. No child deserves that, no matter how dreadful."

It escapes her notice that she's suggesting that she did deserve it, mostly because she doesn't particularly care: to deserve or not deserve doesn't matter. All that matters is what's done. She pushes the trousers down over her hips, her ass, to fall and pool around her ankles, and she reaches for his hand to guide it near enough the scar on her thigh that he'll be able to see it from the light of his spell. "Look at the difference. This scar, it almost looks... painted on, sometimes." White, almost silvery, scar tissue, mapping thin lines at an angle she tries not to think about. "The only explanation I can muster up is that this must have happened after I was turned."

Her hand falls from his wrist, and she smooths her thumb over her thigh. "It goes all the way around. Looks like chain links." Three rows of chain links, to be precise, and the angle suggests that she tightened the chain around herself. "Must have been religious, but whatever faith I adhered to, clearly, it didn't stick. I think that's the end of it, besides my wrists and ankles, but they're not particularly interesting. They're the same, though. Thinner, paler. And my guess is that the scars would only have formed after repeated or long-term trauma to the skin; otherwise, I'd have healed too quickly for scar tissue, right?"

For a long moment, Stori watches him as she stands over him; she needs no time to adjust to the dark and she sees everything, from the dismay in his face at the proof of such violence to the light blush that colors his cheeks at being left at eye level with her naked thigh. The clever thing for him to do would be to kill her. Wait until she slept and drive a stake through her heart, leave her to rot. Cleave the head from her shoulders. Something, anything to protect the others, to protect himself—she is many things but she is not kind or gentle enough to have endeared herself yet to everyone with anything more than superficial ties and affection. Astarion might be her closest friend among them all, and a part of their mutual respect for one another is their shared willingness to survive at all costs.

It's a trait he clearly doesn't share. Under other circumstances, when she cared less about what happened to him and even liked him less, she'd find it distasteful—or, if she allowed herself to enjoy the concern, she'd have thanked him for it with a sharp kiss and spread legs. Instead, she moves her hand from her own thigh to tap two fingers lightly under his chin, to tilt his head back and draw his gaze up to meet hers; with a sudden surge of warmth for him she pushes her hand almost tenderly through his hair, fingers catching in the mess of his curls. "You're a treasure to be so sorry for it, sweet thing," she murmurs. "You have a soft heart. It's a good thing, so long as you can keep it safe. Worry about yourself more, hm?" Her hand falls from his hair, and she takes his chin gently in her hand. "I am, clearly, hard to kill. I'll be fine. But taking murderous girls you barely know back to your tent is rarely a good idea—who's watching out for you?"

[rangersav]

"No, I'm saying that because you get this odd little twinkle in your eye whenever you're up to something," he tosses back, a soft smile twitching at the corner of his mouth as she laughs—it's not an entirely unpleasant sound, and at the very least it means she's not about to fly into a murderous rage. "If it starts makin' you feel like you might wanna tear one of our limbs off and eat it for dessert, then yeah." Maverick knows he's asking her of a lot on theory, but really his demands could have been far worse. Furthermore, he could have opted to cut her down altogether, noting that it'd be the simplest, quickest option to their issue, to her issue— but that simply isn't Maverick.

Corruption festers deep within the spawn, threatening to be the harbinger of her downfall, their downfall, unless they intervene. Maverick has never fancied himself a killer, and he's not inclined to become one now—not unless it becomes absolutely necessary. As she boldly begins to undo her bodice, the ranger awkwardly clears his throat. "You don't have to completely—" Yet, Stori has always been shamelessly unabashed in other regards; why would nudity be any different? Still, as she holds it against her, a wave of relief washes over him—not because of the lack of clothing itself, but rather the projection of his own embarrassment if he were in her shoes.

"Not the tadpole," he answers simply, lips pressing together in an apologetic manner. "When we're in each other's heads, we're in each other's bodies. Unless you somehow connected with someone who was there, watchin' you do all that," he gives a loose wave of his hand over in the direction of the mutilated corpse, "I don't see how that would work." To be fair, they don't know how any of this shit worked, but it's safe to assume that if she's the only companion having these issues, this is all entirely on her.

Deep blue hues trail over the first scar along her torso, head tilting slightly as he listens. "Definitely practiced. I wonder — you must have been sedated, given a paralytic, maybe..." Maverick trails off, shaking his head in disbelief as he pondered the possibilities, all of which were mere speculation, of course — and then dear gods, the bodice is completely off, and his eyes widen slightly even as she's turning away from him. Maverick is no prude, he's seen his fair share of women, but only behind closed doors and in very specific, private, situations.

Hells, he can already hear Astarion's mocking words in his ears now. The ranger's gaze darts around camp, and he reaches forward to lightly grasp Stori's arm. "Come on," Maverick mumbles, ducking inside of his tent and quickly pulling her along with him, "you might not care about having an audience, but..." The thought goes unfinished as he draws the tarp down to give them some privacy, sitting on the ground opposite of her.

"Okay, show me." Maverick clears his throat, her back now towards him. He mumbles a low incantation, and swirls of magic light dance onto his fingertips, which he holds up to the jagged scar in question as he inspects it. "What the..." His head shakes in disbelief, jaw clenching as a sense of anger courses through him — not at Stori, not at what she's done, but at the fact that someone had done this to her. Multiple people, most likely. For a man who so strongly believes in justice, whose always determined to see it through, he knows inherently that this isn't it, regardless of who Stori really is or what she's done.

Maverick can barely hear her over the sound of his own racing thoughts, gaze still boring intently into that damned wound -- healed, yes, but the brutality of which isn't lessened by the smoothness of the knife or the angle they were going for. He lets out a shaky breath, using the hand that isn't enchanted by the light to smooth his thumb over her marred skin. "They were aimin' for your kidneys." Is all he's able to muster, before he allows his eyes to drop. "Stori, I — gods, whatever has happened to you...I'm sorry."

"You're just saying because I won that hand." It's the first real laugh she's managed all night; the sound is bright, warm, and entirely at odds with the rest of her. "That's an extensive list. Should I alert you when I need to relieve myself as well?" But despite the sarcasm in her tone, Stori is nodding; she's really in no position to turn down help, not now. Her hand settles over her throat again, fingers covering the scar there, and she tries to banish the sudden self-consciousness at the idea of showing him the further marks on her body. There are myriad, some more concerning than others, and it's not a problem with nakedness―she has little modesty to speak of now, wonders if she's ever had any―but the unease of letting anyone know where she was weak once, even if she's no longer weak now.

After a beat she lowers her hand from her throat, and she works at the laces of the bodice she wears. "With more experiences, I'll be able to determine a pattern, but no, nothing for certain. It's hard to tell when something is standard hunger and when it's a desire to kill for killing's sake, but I've been trying to note anything that I can that might be useful." She pauses, then clears her throat. "I don't know that I'd have been able to identify what happened to me that night if Alfira hadn't been dead at my feet as proof. I question every dreamless sleep I've had, now.

"And there are times that it―this sounds mad, but―it feels almost as if I am outside my body, watching it. I do all of the things I would choose to do, but I feel as though I am not in control of my limbs, or my tongue." Her lips quirk into a suddenly self-conscious smile, and she clears her throat again. "That's not simply the tadpole, by any chance, is it?" And then, as if to distract from the sudden flush of nervousness that sweeps through her at the thought of just how much worse things are than she knew, she finishes loosening her laces. With a tug, she pulls the lacing free; she winds it around one hand so as to not lose it before she moves the bodice to hang open against her.

"There's this one." The scar is visible when she's in her camp clothes, though not the extent: it begins just below her clavicle and trails down the center of her chest, around her navel, to end above her pubic bone. "My guess would be a practiced hand made this one very intentionally―straight, careful line, no wavering, no insecurity. Like a surgeon's hand." And she pulls the bodice off entirely and sweeps her hair over her shoulder, turning around to show him her back, utterly unbothered by her new nakedness. "That one feels like a stab wound. I can't tell how big the blade would be just from feeling it, but my guess is a smooth blade, and that it healed quickly after. See?" She casts him a small smile over her bare shoulder. "Knowledge without experience. It's a fucking nightmare."

And her voice quiets. "I can feel the scar on my face, but I don't know what it looks like. There's another on my thigh―looks like it came from a chain, somehow. And then my ankles and wrists, like I was shackled." She shifts her eyes away from him now, falling silent for a moment before she speaks again; this time, her voice is near normal, but forced. "Some of the scars look different. The ones on my thigh and my ankles, they're fainter. Almost silvery. But the one on my chest, that looks like a normal scar. Well." She pauses. "Like a human's scar. I have to wonder if that tells me anything about the timeline of when I got them―if some happened before I was sired. If you have any insight, please, share it―and if you want me stripped down entirely so you can get a look at everything, you should probably buy me a drink first, at the very least. Or stop accusing me of cheating at cards, even when you're right."

[rangersav]

His head feels like it's spinning, and it's not only due to the remnants of violent imagery that still permeating the very depths of his mind -- gods, he's unsure if he'll ever be able to overcome the visage of himself being torn limb from limb, something that's certainly going to make an appearance over the coming nights as he tosses and turns in his tent. Alas, while he's been inside Stori's mind for mere seconds, if that, she's destined to dwell there for a lifetime. She must grapple with these primal urges, navigating this territory without memory or precedent to guide her, lacking the understanding of who she is and what these urges signify, not only for herself but for all involved.

Moments earlier, skepticism and distress had clouded his mind, leaving him to question his resolve, pondering his place in the party and if he was willing to risk not only his life, but his sanity for a woman capable of such unfathomable horrors, such unbridled carnage. But now? Gods above, Maverick finds himself wishing he were more selfish, more inclined to save his own skin rather than lay it on the line for someone who could effortlessly tear him apart. Yet, as she speaks, a wave of empathy washes over him, replacing any trace of resentment with profound pity and compassion.

"What I saw -- what I felt just now -- it just suddenly comes over you, no warning?" Maverick asks, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and his forefinger. "Nothing specifically seems to trigger it that you can pinpoint?" He's sure she's already explained it to him, but considering the staggering amount of new, terrifying information, Maverick is just happy he hasn't completely lost his shit.

The mention of possibly having her throat slit at one point has him taking in a sharp inhale. "Hells." He shakes his head, somewhat glad there won't be any potential for that violent imagery to invade his brain, his senses 'cause of that damn tadpole. "Well, I can't imagine this was something that you did to yourself. Someone must have done it to you." That much is certain, if nothing else.

"You said you have a scar on your back. Do you -- would you want me to take a look?" He asks, brows raised. "I've seen my fair share of scars, wounds...I could see if I can identity what kinda weapon was used." The last thing he wants to do is push Stori -- and not only because there's a small part of him that fears retaliation, lucid or not. "It ain't much, but it might give you one answer. One out of a million."

A snort falls from his lips then. "Had a feeling you weren't an honest cardplayer." At least he isn't totally useless when it comes to reading people. "Okay, okay. I know you haven't lied about this, I felt it." Maverick assures, holding her gaze steady. "But if this is gonna work, I need you to keep me in the fuckin' loop. Even if it don't seem relevant, even if you're just a little fuckin' hungry or your stomach's a little queasy, if there's a sneeze that just won't fuckin' come out -- I need to know everything that's going on with you." He pauses, letting his words settle over her. "Make sense?"

She sees the exact moment he feels it: not the hunger, or the desire, but the fear. Stori offers him a wan smile, pushing her hair out of her face.

"I don't know. I don't know anything." She'd tried to explain it, that awful, exhausting morning after, but she says it again, more tired than agitated. "When I woke up on the nautiloid, I remembered my name. That was all. I don't know how old I am. I don't know who turned me, or when, or why. I don't know if I have family still alive, or if there's anyone in the city looking for me, or if I'm from the city at all. I don't know what I look like. It's all gone. Everything is gone. I didn't even realize what I am until Astarion said something."

The hunger had been so painful she could barely stand, when she came to on the beach. "The first time it stopped hurting was when I fed. You have an idea now of how chaotic it is. I thought the point of it all was the blood. I don't even know if Stori is really my name—I think so, but I don't know for sure. Why would I imagine it was anything else? If it faded when I fed, and all I knew that was wrong with me—" Here, she rolls her eyes, as if to indicate her disdain for the idea that her vampirism is inherently wrong. "—was that I'm undead, why would I imagine it was anything else? I think it gets worse if I go without, but like I said, with how often we have to kill or be killed, it's not as if we've had all that much time to experiment. And sometimes it just happens. Like what you just felt. I don't remember ever blacking out before, but if I hadn't seen Alfira's body, I'm not sure I'd have realized I blacked out at all."

It's useless, but it's all she has. "As for the scar, I haven't the faintest idea. I've had nightmares of having my throat slit, so I'd imagine that's it." (Blood bubbling, pouring down her front. Worse than the drowning dreams, though less frequent.) "I don't know where any scars came from. I have one on my back that I can feel, and I'd guess it's a stab wound, but I don't know for certain. I can identify the plants in the tattoos, but I couldn't tell you why I got them. I understand Elvish but don't know where I learned it, or what other languages I know. I can stitch a wound, identify bones by name, but I don't know the source of my own scars. Knowledge, I have, but my experiences, they're gone."

Stori's chuckle is humorless, but present. She can at least pretend to have a sense of humor about it. "That's all the honesty I have to offer, sweet thing. I'm a liar and I was absolutely cheating at cards that time Wyll accused me of it, but you lot are quite literally the only people I know and the only allies I have. I haven't lied about this."

[rangersav]

Thick brows furrow, and he stands. "You didn't know?" Again, his words born of confusion and not pure accusation. For all the ranger's talk of truth and justice, he's not the type to make assumptions or form opinions based on pure impulse. Perhaps it is naive of him, a human -- not of the supernatural persuasion, simply a boring ol' human with some magic but nothing to 'other' him within the confines of Faerun -- to wonder how a large lapse in memory can excuse such gnawing desires? Hell, if he's hit in the head that second by a falling rock and wakes up with murderous urges, Maverick can't imagine he'd think it's normal.

Then again, nothing about their situation is normal. And it's painful.

"No, but I like to think the only people we've killed deserved their fate." Whether or not that's true, it's something that Maverick has to believe. That he's always had to believe. Stori touches the scar on her throat, one he hasn't really taken note of until now -- stupidly so, given he's known about her vampire heritage so to speak-- and he finds himself taking a bold step forward. "May I --" Maverick leans in slightly to get a closer look at the mark, his hand tentatively brushing away a lock of curly hair that lies against it, thumb smoothing over the jagged skin. He's never seen anything like it, not in all his years as a bounty hunter -- then again, that never extended much to monsters, just criminals. For a moment, he wonders if this has any connection to her urges. "Even this, you can't remember how it happened?" He asks, gaze flitting between the scar and Stori's gaze. "Not at all?"

Her request to connect their tadpoles has him removing his hand, a scoff falling from his lips. Since the beginning, Maverick has been averse to using that wretched thing, figuring the less they had to do with them and their powers, the better. "Absolutely not, there's no --"

A sudden surge of agony and queasiness floods his senses with relentless force, akin to a torrent bursting through an obstructed dam. Their minds intertwine and he beholds a gruesome visage of himself, fragmented and mutilated, akin to a torn manuscript soaked in crimson. Sensations of primal instinct surge within him, an insatiable hunger for flesh, an unrelenting thirst for bloodshed and carnage, fueled by a desperate longing, an unquenchable yearning that knows no bounds--

Then it's over, just as quickly as it came. Maverick stumbles back, clutching his stomach. "By the hells --" His breathing is ragged, his heart beating at a mile a minute. "You can't control it." If he had any inclination to think Stori was lying before, all of it's washed away in that moment. And while that desire for death, for destruction was palpable, so was the fear that accompanied it. He felt it.

"What -- what do you need from me here, Stori?" Maverick asks once he's calmed, able to form full sentences. "These...urges. Do they get worse the longer you go without killing? Does it even matter?" He lets out a breath, rubbing at his eye with the base of his palm. "If any of this even has the slightest fuckin' chance of working, I need honesty. S'much as you can give me."

"Because I didn't know."

It sounds insane. She knows it does. But what else is there but the truth? "I have no memory. No context. No understanding of whatever circumstances made me. I thought it was just—hunger. Normal hunger. Well." She lets out a humorless chuckle. "Normal for a vampire spawn. I assumed I simply enjoyed the hunt." (And the kill.) As far as she knew, she acted on instinct, assumed it came of her siring. Feared it came from something worse—and without thinking she reaches up, touches her fingers to the scar on her throat. "And it was—this desire to kill, to fight, and we fought, and we killed. It's not as though we've been pacifists since we all found each other."

Stori's hand falls to her side. "For what it's worth, it's beyond what I thought I was capable of, as well," she says, tone a bit gentler than she'd like. She wants to be angry, but who could blame anyone for their fear? Their caution? Their judgment? It's the safe thing, the smart thing. (So why in the hells are they still traveling with her?) "It's not how I hunt. It's not how I fight. Go on, then—you've a tadpole, same as I. Use it. Poke around, and see if you can find something I can't." It's an offer made out of frustration; in truth, the idea of anyone searching her mind makes her feel ill, but she's running out of options, and the well of her knowledge, her experience, has long since run dry.

(Pretty thing. Wretched thing. Could rip him apart. Could break those lovely bones and—)

She swallows, closes her eyes; she's sick, she's tired, and when she speaks, her voice is just a touch more ragged than she'd care to confess. "It comes in waves." Like a sickness. Like a curse. "And it's gotten worse." It's why she's made a habit of setting up her own tent farther away from the others', setting traps for herself that will at the very least cause enough noise to wake someone. Her eyes open and she clears her throat, but her tone doesn't become any less uneasy. "I have no trouble with killing. Sometimes, it's necessary. But I cannot bear to lose control of myself. If I'm going to murder someone, I'd rather be aware of it, and put it to better use. Poor girl did nothing to deserve that—and," she adds, raising an eyebrow, "as irritating as you all can be, neither have you. If you struggle to believe in my intentions, then you can at least believe that I'm dreadfully controlling, can't you? We have been travelling together for months, after all."

[rangersav]

He's not typically this short with others, particularly not with his fellow travelers, regardless of any clashes in personality. Maverick is ingrained with a predisposition to always see the good in others -- excluding his contracts -- a value instilled by his beloved mother during his formative years, and one that's extended to even Stori with all of her oddities, as it were. Alas, his biting words are not borne of ill will but rather of fear, because while he's seen a lot of shit in his career, this little display is borne of exceptionally uncharted territory.

The apple's skin lobs of easily with a few practiced strokes of the blade, eyes purposefully avoiding her crimson gaze -- which, given their circumstances, appears more unsettling than usual, even despite the eccentric beauty that befalls her. "If this -- this bloodlust of yours is so uncontrollable, it hardly matters if I believe you or I don't." Maverick points out with the shake of his head. Even if her murderous urges are unintentional, it doesn't make any of them safer -- in fact, the opposite might very well be true. Sheathing his pairing knife, the ranger carelessly tosses the apple back into his open pack, another wave of nausea suddenly washing over him. Gods, between tadpoles and mindflayers, and now this?

"I think if my guts end up anywhere but safe inside my body, it'll definitely be your business." Maverick lets out an exasperated sigh, eyes finally lifting to meet Stori's. "Why didn't you say anything earlier? Before it got this far?" It's a naive question, sure, but Maverick isn't exactly practiced in these types of situations, and it's making him question his own nose. "I just -- we've been travelin' together for months, 'nd yeah you've always been real offbeat, but...this is beyond what I thought you were fuckin' capable of."

She doesn't flinch. She'd like to flinch, but she doesn't; it feels like a low blow but she can hardly blame him for taking it. (She is many things but she is, at least, consistent: it's a blow she'd take without hesitation, and so she can hardly blame anyone else for seeing the value in it.) Instead, Stori rolls her lower lip between her teeth, and she tries not to think about it. Repression is a girl's best friend.

(Blood under her fingernails in her hair in her teeth she is stained redredredredred and the sweet little bard is in pieces at her feet, a portrait of brutality. The blood is dripping down her chin the blood is warm between her fingers the blood is everywhere and she craves it craves it kill kill KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL—)

She takes in a breath she doesn't need and she shrugs one shoulder, as if to indicate a lack of particular concern. "If you haven't found reason enough to believe me by now, or at least to be able to tell when I'm lying, then I'm afraid I can't do much else. Far be it from me to make demands on time or ideas you aren't willing to share." And in her defense, the owlbear cub was sweet, and still sleeps next to her, and if he wanted her to be nice then why isn't it good enough to start with gnolls, miserable and friendless little monstrosities that they are? "And for what it's worth, what you and your guts do near Gale's tent is none of my business." She forces a quicksilver smile that doesn't meet her eyes. "Wouldn't dream of interfering."