#tskinva

[alurlssrinbled]

That wasn't an answer. Lae'zel's trust in this 'device' was built on blind faith alone. Faenethra needed facts, strong evidence that the cure they're going to be risking their necks for will actually work. After all, they've tried to resolve the issue. Every lead was a dead end. Even Halsin with his knowledge and experience in healing told them that the tadpole couldn't be removed. If the parasite in their brains was special like this... How could they be sure Lae'zel's solution would work?

Honestly, with what Faenethra has heard about Lae'zel's people and their hatred towards illithid creatures, she wouldn't be surprised if the 'device' simply killed the host. Their lives mean nothing to the Githyanki. What's to stop them from just killing the parasite and host while they're at it?

" I'm not someone who can just put blind faith in something without evidence to support it, " the drow countered with a deadpan tone. But what did it matter? There was not a single ounce of hesitation in Lae'zel's gaze. She believed in the crèche with every fiber of her being. Faenethra could never understand these religious sorts... How can you put such faith in a device you have never witnessed??

She sighed, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. They've all been through a lot to save the Emerald Grove and the tiefling refugees traveling through... All this time, they've been delaying Lae'zel's own goal. She supposed they owed it to her to at least try this crèche. " We'll start searching tomorrow, then, " she relented. Faenethra then lowered her hand from her face, her pale lavender gaze set on the woman before her. " But if for whatever reason this doesn't work... We'll need to keep going. We can't afford to stay and try to find another solution in a crèche. " Faenethra couldn't afford it... She still needed to find her sister.

❛ A githyanki crèche does not dabble in false hopes, nor entertain failures, ❜ she begins, her voice low and weighted with conviction. ❛ I do not need to see it with my own eyes to know that it works—our zaith’isks, our purifiers, have been perfected over eons. It is the single most efficient means to cleanse this ghaik infection. ❜

She straightens, her chin lifting with pride as she speaks of the zaith’isk, the word itself rolling off her tongue like the name of a revered weapon. There is no room for uncertainty in her tone, no wavering in her gaze. Lae’zel is not here to convince; she is here to declare.

❛ It is the right of every warrior among us, should they fall victim to the ghaik’s foul plague, to be purified at the hands of a ghustil. They do not fail. We do not fail. ❜ Her hand clenches briefly over the hilt of her weapon, as if gripping the truth itself, binding it to her in steel and sinew. ❛ The zaith’isk is a precision tool, purging parasites with swift and uncompromising efficacy. ❜

She studies Faenethra for a breath, her eyes gleaming with something dark and ardent, a near-religious fervor that pulses beneath her stoic mask. ❛ Perhaps this concept eludes you, istik—that we do not ‘hope’ for the crèche’s mercy. We expect it. The ghaik infestation is not a trial but a weakness to be culled, a blight to be excised like rot from a wound. I will reach the crèche and be made whole. And if you possess even a fragment of wisdom, you will follow. ❜

She has spoken the truth, as she knows it, and any doubt cast upon it is as empty and irrelevant as the air around her. In her mind, there is only the unbreakable certainty of her people, the rigid, unshakable bedrock of Vlaakith’s teachings. There is a crèche, gleaming like a beacon across the planes, a sanctuary of purity where the weak are culled and the worthy cleansed.

[iron-hearts-ablaze]

@tskinva

strong woman x strong woman

[silvertiefling]

SHE’S CERTAIN IN ANOTHER LIFE HER AND LAE’ZEL ARE DEFINITELY FUCKING. There’s absolutely no way that in one universe or another that they haven’t gotten down and dirty because Katya is by far too charmed by the Githyanki’s way with brazen yet eloquent words. Every threat slips off her lips like a dangerous promise that sends a shiver down Katya’s spine and she can’t help but grin.

“ All I heard from that is that ya think I’m pretty, ” she purred, teasing some more as she wiped her bloodied hands off on her shredded pants. 

They were more like long shorts at this point, but that made them more comfortable. Katya would prefer no clothing at all if she could get away with it, but alas, not everyone was so free of society’s gaze as she was as a feral beast.

“ Aw, c’mon, not even a lil nibble? Loads of people would pay to have me give them a bite,” she cooed, unable to help herself as she barked out another laughter, stretching her arms above her head as she started looting the bodies for anything valuable.

Some of their companions seemed less fond of doing so - but Katya had no qualms about digging around dead bodies ( and maybe sneaking a snack for later ). The dead has no use for their treasure, or their limbs.

Lae’zel scowls, irritation flashing in her ochre eyes as Katya’s cackling grates against her nerves. The sound rips through the quiet aftermath of battle, lingering in the blood-scented air like an unwanted specter. She resists the urge to clamp a hand over her ears, grimacing instead. The audacity of this istik to mock her—she who is a blade of Vlaakith, honed and perfected through countless trials.

❛ Soft? ❜ Lae’zel spits, the word venomous as it leaves her tongue. Her gaze sharpens, narrowing on Katya with a glare that could curdle blood. ❛ I am never soft. I should have your head and add it to my collection for even suggesting such a thing. ❜ Her fingers twitch reflexively toward her blade, a gesture of unspoken threat, though the weapon stays sheathed. ❛ But you continue to prove yourself useful, ❜ she concedes with a sneer, lips curling in distaste. ❛ Should there come a day when you are not, I trust you will make a pretty trophy. ❜

For all her coarse manner, the tiefling is no ordinary istik. Lae’zel has seen her tear through enemies with a savagery that borders on the unhinged, a raw brutality that only a creature with claws and fangs would favor over steel. It’s a style of combat that amuses and repulses Lae’zel in equal measure—a feral creature parading as something civilized.

When Katya makes her crude jest about her peculiar hunger, Lae’zel’s expression remains stony, taking the words at face value. She knows the taste of flesh from her own teeth, after all; githyanki are not squeamish about such matters. But the thought of those sharp fangs turned toward her? That, she will not abide.

❛ Eat whatever you wish, so long as you keep those canines away from me, ❜ she snaps, eyes hard and unyielding. She gestures dismissively toward the blood-splattered bodies strewn about them, corpses piled like offerings to some dark, silent god. ❛ The ghaik’s parasite may bind us, but it does not make us kin. Stay to your own side of the campfire, and perhaps I will let you keep those fangs in your mouth rather than pried from your skull. ❜

[palespawn]

“  i'll have you know, i am capable of the unfrivolous from time to time, ” and in stating as much, perhaps, proves her point. astarion's smile settles. he has no intention of losing a limb should he continue to provoke her anger. and she was so easy to provoke. “  believe me, i won't be holding my breath. ”

he disregards her disgust amidst his own entertainment. she was so utterly stubborn and abrasive― and while he was sure to tread her waters carefully, he couldn't help but find her fascinating in her own right.

“  mmm, i mean, i wouldn't say no. there's not a soul around that doesn't like a little praise from time to time. deny it all you want. ”

@palespawn sent: ❛ do you mean to give me another one of your stoic nods? ❜

Ochre eyes narrow, studying Astarion with the same unyielding focus she would give an enemy across a bloodstained battlefield. A trace of impatience flickers beneath her gaze, and she speaks with the razor-sharp precision of a soldier accustomed to orders rather than banter.

❛ A nod is a nod. It is your own frivolous mind that deems it ‘stoic.’❜ Her tone is cold as the Astral Sea, ❛ When I deem your words worthy of more, you will know it. ❜

She straightens, chin lifting in defiance, the wiry muscles in her arms coiled like a drawn bow. ❛ Should I offer you a grin each time you prattle, like some fawning istik eager for praise? ❜ Her expression twists with disgust.

[demonwebs]

his spindly fingers brush against his bony sternum . ❝ of course not ... ❞ well - he doesn't actually know what any of those words mean , but outright denial felt like the right move . ❝ why , do i look like someone who'd try to seduce you ? ❞ leaning close , he flashes her those sharp teeth like the vague mimicry of a smile , wide and amused , hungry because it is always hungry . the words taste cloying-sweet and velvety as they drag on the back of his tongue , begging to be believed in the way a wolf who knocks at your door dressed as sheep does . ❝ anyways ... if you don't take it - ❞ those unflinching red eyes stay fixated on the gith , burning , glittering like jewels . his head lolls . ❝ ... i'll just have to keep bringing you dead things . ❞ it's easier to indulge him lest he starts dropping bigger things whose rotting doesn't smell nearly as pleasant , no ?

❝ it is ... beautiful , isn't it ? ❞ vhaal'krin rolls his shoulders as he chimes , seemingly adjusting back into his own body , recoiling some , his tone light and seemingly casual , caught in a rare , quiet moment of introspection . ❝ funny ... how things insist on growing amidst the wreckage in this - sunny land . ❞ that lingering sentiment leaves vestiges of both cold disdain and a begrudging admiration in the air .

❝ anyways , i don't know ... ❞ his tone feels lighter , more airy as it flutters aimlessly out of his lungs with a puff of breath , his chin cushioning against his palm as the drow leans on his elbow , his lids growing significantly heavier . ❝ it's pretty , and all prickly around the edges ... i went to touch it and it bruised me , ❞ he presses the bruised forefinger to his tongue , soothing the small puncture wound . ❝ ... rather reminded me of you . ❞

@demonwebs sent: "this is a 'white rose'. it's- for you... a peace offering. alright- a temporary peace offering, but... still. just... just so you know though, you shouldn't eat it, okay? because you'll get sick and... the thorns really hurt your mouth." he looks up at her. "you know- you know- i've heard- so i've heard! i've heard it from... people... um... who have... done- stuff... like this- not me! not me- i've never... done that- it was... other people- shadowheart."

Lae’zel stares down at the rose in Vhaal’krin’s outstretched hand, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. The flower is an odd gift—frivolous and utterly unfit for a warrior. Its delicate white petals look soft, fragile, like some weak creature begging for mercy. Disgusting. Her lips curl in disdain. Among her people, gifts are sharpened blades or offers of strength, not . . . this. The drow’s gaze dances, shifting uneasily, as he stumbles over his words—fumbling, trying to disguise his intent with a clumsy explanation of “peace offerings” and “temporary truces.”

She reaches out, her movements sharp, deliberate, and takes the rose from his hand. The soft stem bends slightly under her grip, and one of the thorns pricks her skin. The faintest drop of blood wells on her finger, crimson against her yellowish-green skin. She ignores the sting, holding the rose up between them as if examining a weapon of curious make.

❛ Do you see me as some feeble istik—some k’chakhi who would be seduced by the promise of beauty that serves no purpose? ❜ She spits the words like venom, complete with a scowl.

Yet, there is something oddly compelling about the rose, about the delicate way it contrasts against her rough, battle-worn hands. She would never admit it aloud, but the stark whiteness of the petals, the vulnerability of it, feels like a quiet act of defiance in a world stained with blood and war.

[alurlssrinbled]

Irritation flares beneath the skin, Faenethra having to quite literally bite her own tongue to prevent from shooting back a quick insult. She could hardly stand Lae'zel... So harsh, so cruel, and so focused on deeming others as weak. Faenethra wasn't anything like that, right..?? Was this how others felt to be around her?? Maybe her sister was right about her needing to lighten up a little...

"We haven't turned yet," the drow reminded her, words sharp and spoken with barely restrained irritation towards the other woman. Faenethra hardly knew anything about illithid creatures, but other members of their 'party' seemed to. And from what she has gathered, it is unheard of for this "ceremorphosis" to take so long.

Still, she agreed with the Githyanki. Faenethra couldn't afford to waste any more time. She needed to be rid of this infection before it could turn her... Otherwise, she would never be able to find Verathandi and make sure she's safe.

"And I wasn't here for chatter," she continued. Vera always said people are more willing to help when you're kind to them... So Faenethra was doing her damnedest to keep herself from kicking Lae'zel out of their camp since she was so very confident in her skills alone. She slowly exhaled to calm her rising anger towards the other's gall. "I came here to talk about the crèche. You're so certain there will be a way to remove the tadpoles once we're inside. How does it work? Have you ever seen it be done?" At this point, with all of the hurdles they've come across... Faenethra doubted this solution would be that easy.

@alurlssrinbled liked for a starter !

Lae’zel’s posture is taut, every line of her wiry frame brimming with restless impatience. She resents the necessity of rest, resents that she is still here, squandering her strength alongside these soft-bodied istiks, their minds unfocused, their purpose divided. The rustle of footsteps behind her pulls her from her reverie, but she does not look up. Instead, she lets the silence stretch, brittle as an overstretched bowstring, until at last, she speaks.

❛ You waste precious resting time coming to . . . chit-chat, ❜ she says, the foreign word spat out as if it leaves a bitter taste on her tongue. Her ochre eyes cut toward the intruder, sharp and scornful beneath the shadowed ridges of her brow. ❛ I have no desire to bandy words with an istik, ❜ she continues, low and cold, voice a blade drawn slow from its sheath. ❛ Tomorrow, we will locate a crèche. It is our only hope if we do not wish to become ghaik—mind flayers. ❜ Her lip curls as she says it, the thought of such a transformation twisting her stomach with revulsion. The thought of anyone among them being so corrupted. And yet, these others . . . they likely do not even understand the enormity of what lies before them. The horror that waits in every pulse of the parasite beneath their skin.

❛ If tomorrow comes and we’ve made no progress, I will proceed without you. ❜ She says it with a dark, steely finality, as if the decision has already been made in her mind. As if their lives, their very existence, hang by a thread she holds and might sever without a moment’s thought. ❛ You should count yourself fortunate I remain here at all. Were it not for my duty to eradicate these ghaik, I would have left you to whatever fate you deserve. ❜ Fortunate that Lae’zel—she, who wields Vlaakith’s will, she, whose blade is honed for conquest and cleansing—is still here, lending her strength to these frail, wayward souls.

❛ And without me . . . ❜ Her voice lowers, dropping to a razor-sharp murmur. ❛ You will certainly meet a gruesome fate. ❜

[silvertiefling]

Katya thinks she has broken one of her sharp tiefling claws in the skull of one of the raiders - not surprising with how poorly she took care of the things, but it was still annoying. Still the first thing she noticed when the fight was over and she was sure there were no more enemies. After all, being covered in blood and viscera was hardly a new thing to her and she could always bathe it all off later.

But when she heard Lae’zel’s increasingly familiar voice grate on her ears, she couldn’t help and turn her head, grinning lazily, fangs exposed.

“ Adequate? Aw, you’re gettin’ all soft on me - ” she cooed, just to tease the Githyanki as she pretended to be shy before cackling.

But the words felt a little true, after all, it wasn’t often words of ( what could be considered ) praise could be pried from the Gith’s lips. It was something they shared - harsh words and zero nice ones. Clearly neither were raised politely. 

And then Lae’zel steps closer, confident eyes on her as she gets closer than she realizes to the truth of Katya’s fighting style.

Katya is always all teeth and claws, more animal than person in a fight - though she keeps her werewolf attributes hidden to keep the temporary peace for now, she still has no problem getting down and dirty. She has weapons, yes, but it’s not the same to use a weapon as it is to use bare hands to pry a life out of some poor body.

And yeah, maybe Katya wants a little snack. She’s starving.

“ Ah, well, maybe I got peckish? Little warriors like us gotta eat too - ” she laughed and shrugged, playing it off as a joke - and what a joke cannibalism was! Truly their group was an odd little mismatch of weirdos.

@silvertiefling liked for a starter !

The corpses of the raiders lie scattered across the damp earth, twisted and broken like discarded playthings. Lae’zel stands amidst the carnage, her sword dripping with blood that paints her armor in dark splatters. She breathes in the sharp tang of iron and sweat, savoring the sting of it in her lungs, as if the scent alone could cleanse her of this wretched ghaik parasite lodged within her skull. She casts a glance toward her companion. Lae’zel had expected little from her, at first. A tavern wench—hardly the makings of a true warrior. And yet, the way Katya had torn through their enemies had been . . . surprising.

❛ Adequate, ❜ Lae’zel says, though the word feels almost too generous on her tongue. She narrows her ochre eyes, her gaze traveling over Katya as if assessing a freshly forged blade, searching for cracks. ❛ More than adequate, perhaps. You do not flinch from bloodshed. You dive into it, teeth bared like a rabid beast. ❜

She steps closer, lowering her sword but keeping her stance guarded.

❛ For a moment, I could swear it looked as though you were trying to consume them, ❜ she adds, her voice edged with a faint note of disdain wrapped in begrudging approval. The idea of acknowledging any istik as worthy grates against her very core. Yet here stands Katya, spattered in gore, unshaken, looking more at home in the aftermath of carnage than Lae’zel would have thought possible for someone not of the kith.