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@kneepressnightmare
slides the man a comb. that's all
"...tchrrr."
That sound of irritation is becoming familiar, probably because the rake is ever so good at coaxing it out of him. He takes it - likely thinking to fling it - before running one of those enormous hands over his own lily-white... locks.
He squints.
What kind of catharsis do you need?
freedom
You've had the weight of the world on your shoulders, haven't you. It's okay to put the burden down, stretch your legs -- everything won't fall apart if you just take a second to breathe. Go for a late night drive with the windows down and the radio up. Howl at the moon. Break something. You earned it.
tagged by: @estarion
What body part are you?
Teeth
To tear, to rip, to eat, to devour. You’ve only barked and attacked your whole life, bitten and torn at the hands that approached you, unable to tell if they were going to feed you or hurt you. Not uncommon for someone who has endured what you have. Sometimes they can turn in on yourself, biting and tearing flesh at every crevice of your being until you can find what’s underneath, to truly know who you are. But you won’t. Teeth always rot and fall out, and when that day comes, you will be weak and defenceless, muzzled and useless. So while you can, look to the cameras and give us a big smile.
Tagged by: @estarion
"I SHALL CRUSH YOUR SPIRIT."
“ if you can catch me. ” his head remains canted sideways from a nearmiss with a broken nose. tearing its jagged way just below that unscathed feature is the shittiest — little miss antelope horns would dub it prettiest — grin. seems the mountain and the blueleaf are equally as unimpressed with one another. “ all right, all right. ” scintillated still, astarion straightens himself back up, palm repositioned atop pommel. he heads the way out the grove, soon towards a winds - brushed wood. “ keep an eye out for traps ～ ” because they will be treading through very tall grass and astarion certainly isn’t going to keep giving callouts. ( in fact, he may very well lead the man into various inconveniences on purpose, if only for revenge ; see how this nameless one fares at ‘dodging’ ! )
They've each got their own uniquely awful smiles, it seems, Astarion's entirely unrepentant and "delightfully" "rakish" smirk weighed against his companion's shockingly well-kept teeth displayed in a grin that might as well be accompanying a warning from the Flaming Fist about disappearances and being considered extremely dangerous. Despite that, there is at least the vague sense of satisfaction with the rogue successfully dodging the apple.
The trek towards camp, though, is another matter entirely. Whether lured in by the fight from earlier or already lying in wait, several goblins have to be dispatched on the way - a task he takes rather too much satisfaction in. Those clothes hide no weapons, but then, they're hardly needed... and Astarion may get a slightly better idea of why the slab's body rebels against him so.
As well as more of that damned laughter.
the man pontificates and astarion hacks a laugh, heel of his palm still riding that pommel. “ you call us weak ? you’re the one missing half a brain. and you look more chewed than that apple. ” every last bit of red is gone. and the maw responsible ? brimming with spotless teeth, wholly intact. this wasn’t some nobody prior to the abduction. one beat for insult to land, another for any fire - backs. then a breath taken in. a lofted brow, a tilted head. a tired, sideways stare. “ .. can you really not recall a single thing ? ”
"Had I known that powdering my face would make me a more credible threat in your eyes..." There is indeed a response, though more physical than the rogue might have expected. That half-eaten apple goes from being held vaguely near his "companion's" mouth to flying through the air directly at Astarion's head.
Another one of those rusty, chest-clearing laughs. "I would still not bother, because you are no threat to me. Think whatever you like about how my circumstances work against my power. If you have such strongly-held opinions on my memory..."
There are the folded arms again. "I will gladly make new ones of crushing you into the dirt." He lets that hang in the air a moment or two, then scoffs and tosses his head. "Now. I tire of this. Show me to your camp, and I may get the measure of your cronies."
soo uptight. there’s nothing for it. prompted, astarion flicks another careless glance in wyll’s direction, shrugging and sounding bored again. “ not very, i’d imagine. ” and good. too many wayward thoughts and opinions in this group anyway ! with regards to lae’zel and her shoulders, though, eyes go rolling. “ you suppose much. ” a smirk splits wide across his mouth ; he brings his wrist down to the pommel of the dagger holstered at that side. the other hand is a fist braced against his cocked hip. “ she’s scrawny. smallest in the camp. will likely be out of armour when you see her later, but i wouldn’t judge based off the cover. laezel’s kind are rare on this plane, so i am not at all surprised to hear that you’re .. unfamiliar. ” his gaze scrapes to the man’s afflicted arm before swiping back up for a cool and unblinking duel with eyes that are somehow just white. “ .. they say, if you ever see a gith, it is the last thing you’ll see. ”
He tuts, shaking out his arm almost as Astarion looks to it. Shreds of violet energy, or just a trick of the light? Regardless, the brute moves on. Walks past a pile of supplies likely prepped to be moved. Makes eye contact with one of the tieflings standing nearby, and plucks an apple from the top of a bushel.
""They" say many things, mostly inconsequential." Crunch. He still isn't looking at the rogue, staring down the witness to his crime. Staring... staring... they make a face and glance away. A single bounce of the shoulders and another low, heartfelt heh.
The Nameless Man takes another bite. "You are rather numerous for all having fallen from the sky-ship so recently. Whatever that was." His chewing slows - trying to remember something, a fragment of a memory barely slipping through his fingers. "It's of no importance. Clearly, you are led by a powerful woman. Even if the rest of you are weak, she will take control and push you towards something worth doing."
his head tosses back at nameless’ brutal assessment of wyll and in that hearty, shoulder – quaking cackle are traces of a man finally beginning to have something resembling a good time. “ spot – on, my friend. ” these two are not friends at all. cannot quit jabbing and sneering at each other. ( à la this very instant, fff .. ) but there’s some kind of understanding here – astarion senses it, low and scraping. for all the hostility, they might actually get on. “ .. honestly, there are only two worth aligning with in this group. you’ve already met my favourite, but there’s also lae’zel. mm .. ” he casts a look about, but there’s no spotting her here. unsurprising. astarion continues on in his conspiratorial way. “ are you at all familiar with gith ? ”
“Do not condescend to me.” It’s near reflexive, a warning rumble that isn’t elaborated on or even especially pointed. He rolls his neck, chortles. Once. Heh. “Look at him. A foolish, performing whelp. How long, I wonder, will I have to suffer his presence.”
From the tone of his voice, he can’t imagine it’ll be long at all. He’ll dive headfirst into a dragon’s maw or something, surely, trying to be one of the storybook heroes he’s heard so much about. The Nameless Man has no more time to even mock him, throwing a dismissive hand in the semi-distant figure’s direction and turning away - only to pause when Astarion mentions some of the other members of this group.
“…no.” The faintest shred of interest. “I suppose she is another broad set of shoulders to cower behind when you must make good on the bargains your mouth has incurred.” A smirk this time. He acknowledges, not without humour, that he will likely fill this role as well, given time.
If it is not beneath him when it happens.
“You will tell me more of this… gith.”
he leans to a column whilst the other wrests the dark fabric over his shoulders in astarion’s peripheral, glancing that way again when prompted and smirking, chin lifted as he inspects the shirt, the hair. his curt nod means yes — he does rather approve of these changes. the two probably don’t look as odd standing in proximity now. “ oh, and no one was made to pay. ” the gossip may recommence with arron out of earshot. an up - nod is given in the direction of wyll a little ways off, surrounded by hyper tiefling children who idolise him. “ that one’s with us. i’m not in the mood to suffer his solemn enthusiasm, so you’ll have to become acquainted later. but, anyway, the ‘healer’. she scratched him, and he - ”
the impulse to snort lowers his chin. astarion clears his throat, fills his chest, dusts off a dustless shoulder, and still cannot manage the next bit without snickering.
“ he swore an oath to her. ”
His arms are folded across his still partially-bare chest once again, a natural resting state that communicates rather loudly the disdain either for Astarion specifically or the surroundings in general. If body language isn't sufficient, the sneer on his face as he turns his attention towards the Blade of the Frontier should cover the rest of the distance.
"Tchrrrr." Disgust flowing freely. He shakes his head, briefly meeting the rogue's eye. "She makes a threat against his life, and still he feels the need to present himself as a rescuing hero. A slow-minded child possessed entirely by the sense of heroism that accompanies the sword in his hand."
Like he isn't possessed by anything himself. The Nameless Man regards Wyll a few moments more, satisfied not getting any closer than he has. He speaks without turning his head. "If you travel with someone as foolish as him, you may not be the most worthless member of your group."
he throws another harsh glance over the arm. this man is a liability. astarion has already written him off, at least. already conjuring his excuses for rakatak. oh, my ! our giant appears to have mislaid himself ! or .. not. “ she came at one of ours with a poison – laden twig. ” stiff mutters, to and back. then there’s the seller and, once again, a need to appear somewhat jovial. “ one massive shirt, please. ” difficult to find amid the crates. the one thing is a dark, long-sleeved affair with fastens and ruches along the shoulder seams. a nobleman’s idea of ‘ casual ’. arron expects a chunk of change, but that’s fine, astarion has already nicked something probably double the value from arron’s stash. he pays the little man.
then flings the shirt at nameless.
“ prosím ťa . . . pre dobro nás všetkých. obleč si to. ”
strangely more fraternal than hostile. whether that’s calculation or anything approaching genuine is anyone’s guess.
if anyone is actively making guesses.
"And paid dearly for her brazenness, I would hope." He doesn't follow gladly, but he does follow, coming to a stop behind Astarion and simply looming in the general direction of the druid shopkeeper. To put the new clothing on, he has to briefly remove the cowl and cloak that seem to be made from the same scrap of fabric. The shirt is... passable. For some reason, despite the rather fancy make, it suits him well.
At least, as well as it can when the sheer breadth of his chest means that closing the thing up is more of a dream than a goal. His stringy hair is also exposed - something the Nameless Man makes an attempt to deal with by slicking it back to his scalp. It... sort of works. Clearly this is a problem that will require more than a simple change of clothes to solve, but... this is already an improvement.
He sneers at Astarion, tugs briefly on the lower hem of the garment, and shakes his head. "It will do. Are you satisfied?"
oh, good — a spectacle as soon as they’re let in ! “ . . old boy’s got a migrane, ” astarion mutters to the bearer of a wicker basket and a curious eye ; charcoal almonds with a blaze of orange - red at the centre. nettie’s mentioned. astarion nods, feigns gratitude for information he already had. waits until the benevolent tiefling has gone before turning a hard scowl onto his nameless burden. “ you seem a little more than weary, my friend. ” he traces the pad of his middle finger over his right brow, seemingly unperturbed by the foreign body still undulating behind it. excited to have made a new friend ? astarion bites back a shudder. throws that hand up flippantly, as though flicking off some erroneous idea. “ but, no, you won’t find anybody who knows a godsdamned thing around here. ”
The rogue gets a terse growl in response, his companion's right hand rolling and flexing its fingers seemingly of its own accord. Nervous twitch? It's hard to associate nervousness with anything this creature does, but it's not out of the question. Bedraggled hair sways as he tosses his head in some semblance of agreement.
"Not that you need trouble yourself with something so far beyond your importance... but controlling this power requires concentration. I do not know what would happen if I were to lose focus, but I do know that I have no desire to find out." And the tadpole's interfering with that. His fingers twitch again, and the snarl warping already-grim features starts to abate.
"I suppose that this "Nettie" has proven as useless as her name would imply." At least he lowers his voice, although that comes with closer proximity.
"Something is the understatement of the fucking century," the barbarian shot back with a grin. She was used to people staring. They always had once she'd shifted from a small, crybaby of a child and right into the tall, gangly teenager she'd been before the scary factor had kicked in. Now, she was a hell-forged force of nature: big, scarred, on fire. A dormant expression that said 'fuck off, pal', despite her actual eagerness to actually chatter until some poor fucker's ears started bleeding and they scrambled for escape.
"Not in this lifetime. Reckon it's the next one I'm unsure about."
The sound that exits him from somewhere deep in his chest could easily be considered a growl. He crosses his arms, jerks his chin upwards in her direction. Not respect, but at the very least acknowledgement. She's a fighter. He can appreciate that. Time will tell whether it's enough.
"Hrrr- perhaps there is a backbone to be found in this group of ingrates after all. Satisfy that which you hunger for, and you will prevail." That's what he's doing - or, what he's trying to do. That twinge in his right arm is moody, and aside from the feeling of bones cracking under his knuckles, he can't yet ascertain what its desire is.
"Until then... do not try my patience."
don’t make her think of fools. “ i deglazed with sherry ” she assures, as though this should somehow instill confidence or make up for how sparse the meat, how finely cut the vegetables, how abundant the gravy and even more abundant the rice. but was that informative, or did she seem pretentious ? like a spoilt rich girl ? she was never rich and hasn’t been spoilt in a long time. “ that’s . . . ” she makes the pause feel natural by rising from her haunches, stuffing lightly balled hands into the front pocket of her smock. baby cow generating space for a greater bovine creature. the bowl looks like a puny hairless bisected coconut in the man’s big hand. “ potato, mushloom, shar - shallot, and parsnip. ” coated in their molten savoury glaze, they all sort of look the same. admittedly ? they pretty much taste that way too.
His eyes narrow, and the bowl is raised. He drains it in one, leaving the actual components in the bowl and scraping them out with the provided spoon. No judgment is passed in his expression, though. In fact, no judgment is passed at all until the bowl is completely empty.
He sets it semi-carelessly on the ground, the wood clattering lightly against gravel, and waves a hand dismissively. "Garbage." Garbage, though, that he had all of, and didn't shy from the taste or texture, either. "Gathered from the surroundings like a foraging animal. Fortunate for you, then, that there is little else at hand."
Which is to say... he recognizes the effort she went to in order to get and cook all of it? What's more, he finished the bowl, and didn't even toss it when he was done this time. Progress. Slightly.
hrpmh !! she does know better — it’s just that yukari doesn’t mind if he’s made a little grumpy by her meddling. he descends once more towards the earth and yukari cocks her head forty degrees, brows on the rise, lips softly askew. “ if only others spent less time making me worry . . . ” when he surfaces from his dip and gazes meet, she’s smiling. he rearranges himself and doesn’t seem like he’s going to resist the wooden spoon produced from the front pocket of her smock so she tries again, tries to nudge that into his grasp along with the steaming bowl. “ . . . it’s rabbit stew. if you hate it, i promise not to pester you again ! ” well, that’s probably a lie. her eyes aren’t only big and brown, they are pleading.
"Heh! Of course you'll have cause to worry when you keep close company with fools. The sooner you realize that their inane ideas and actions are beneath your notice, the happier you will be."
Not that he cares whether she's happy or not, of course. It's only slightly more interesting to him than the whinging of that bearded layabout. His good hand extends and takes the spoon, though more time than would strictly be polite is spent staring into the bowl as if cataloguing the stew's ingredients without so much as bringing it to his lips.
"Rabbit. Easy to misprepare. Though, those who need to eat it rarely care for how it tastes." So too does he take the bowl.
he watches rakatak saunter off, realising a few tragic beats too late that he ought to have bartered, made an offer to take over that ‘whatever’ — let her majesty suffer the old jobbernowl. something itches inside his skull. astarion bites back mounting vexations and quarter - turns to their source. his smirk is tight, barely hinged as he inclines his torso and gestures forth with the airy sweep of his lace - gnawed right hand. “ no tak, tadiaľto, váš pánstvo ～ ” the way back to the grove isn’t a simple line ; it is meandering veins laden with grit, ash and other dross.
those on lookout hesitate when two figures emerge from the outcrop’s flank but one — a bouncy young tiefling woman with dark hair and horns like a mini antelope — recognises astarion, calls and waves down to him a little too enthusiastically.
he sends up a soft wink, the flutter of some raised fingers in return.
she commands her friends to raise the gate.
"Možda te još uvek iskorišćavam, slugo. Idemo." Another harsh laugh, and- the tadpoles finally decide to make themselves known. It could be expected that an ill-looking slab like this has something wrong with him, but the Nameless Man hardly makes it a step and a half before their respective passengers are linking.
It's doubtful that Astarion knows what's being transmitted, but he knows what's being received - unfortunately, that's very little. The need to focus, a heavy twinge in his right arm... and a different kind of hunger than he's used to feeling. Something just as vicious, but a few shades more bitter.
The Nameless Man grunts, in both irritation and surprise. His left hand goes to his temple. "I grow weary of this thing already. There is more than enough to keep my attention without my own mind rebelling against me... tell me, fop, has your leader found someone to remove these blighted tadpoles yet? Or does that also fall to me."
“ my, my ! ” as if he’s hurt. aghast. he isn’t. “ we’re in this together. ” a chiding click of the tongue. red eyes roll hard. nobody spots it. the beach reeks of char and decay and his elbow is braced against the back of his hand as he’s idly checking his nails over again, using the slim white crescent at the tip of his thumb to slide invisible grit away from the middle five times before the two are finally done fawning over each other. or maybe they aren’t done. astarion breaks in again, fast : “ — will you be requiring aught else, my dear ? i promised our nameless friend here that i’d introduce him to a proper shirt. ” when astarion recaptures rakatak’s gaze he rather urgently with his own tries to direct it to the arm. purple - grey. their abductors weren’t the exact shade. but, still. is astarion the only one seeing a connection here ? beyond whatever disgusting thing may or may not be budding between ‘monoliths’ one and two, that is.
Rakatak nods at the assertion that they're currently all they've got - she narrowly avoided a couple of arrows from the tiefling guards manning the wall at the grove, and she has her uncertainties about whether things are going to get any more hospitable.
The slab remarks on her choice in travelling partner, and, gods damn it, she chuckles. "My travelling partners are of use to me. Ensure that you're the same and I may weather your tongue for the sake of your arms." Proof positive that she's picked up on Astarion's motionless gesticulating. She nods to him, then to the other, and turns on her heel to return to... whatever it was she was up to previously.
As Rakatak steps away, the Nameless Man drops some of the affect he was putting on. Crossed arms return to his sides, and while the set of his jaw doesn't slacken, it no longer juts quite so much. He looks back towards Astarion and narrows those milky eyes, right hand twisting and turning seemingly of its own accord. Restless, somehow, despite his outward calm.
"In this together, you say." A second passes, and he smiles. "Heh. It is true that the great must have their attendants. If you are so eager to serve me, then I will grant your wish."
It's unclear how much of that is intended in jest. He certainly thinks he's funny, judging by the hearty (crackling, almost raspy) laugh that follows the bare insinuation of where he thinks Astarion's talents will get him. "Unless it reminds you of how frail you are to see me."
