The sky’s blue fell to a blushing purple upon evening, and later still, velvety darkness swathed overhead. Little light were to be blessed from the stars, however many they were, and the low crackle of the campfire was simultaneously soothing and humbling. Embers danced with uncertain pirouettes, spinning and twirling, high and low, narrowly escaping becoming one with the hungry flame once again.
They’d set up camp. They’d been run ragged by their last encounter, and the air was pregnant with the sorrows of those pained and hurt. No souls of their own were pried from their fleshy forms—the same could not be said for their foes.
Most had subsided for the night. All, aside from Bethanne and Astarion.
Their stations were directly adjacent to one another. He’d been attempting to indulge in some light reading, but seeing her in his periphery stalking about, flexing her bestial muscles and grunting and snorting … well, let’s just say it soured the mood a little. It was distracting.
Red eyes peered over. A soundless sigh, a thud of his book clamping close.
“Dear,” he began as he sauntered on over, a light chuckle tinging the air, a smile curling his lips, “must you insist on retaining this form? Surely it’s more—comfortable otherwise.”
Astarion felt the scorn of his stomach, the burning emptiness that demanded to be filled. But this was a pressing matter. How could he eventually meditate with knowing that this beast might simply succumb to a hunger similar to his, and perhaps go on a massacre? Not that he'd mind trimming this troupe down a little, but it was his hide he was most concerned about.
