She finds her deep in a grove of sussur trees, surrounded by books.
Among the scattered tomes Lae’zel spots a few pilfered from Gale, in addition to bottles of ink, sample vials, and that curious Abeiran orrery of hers. Everything’s spread upon the ground, and the warlock is muttering, writing by the pathetic light of a bio-luminescent flower. Its glow makes her look cold and unfamiliar as it casts gauzy shadows across her features.
Worse still, when Lae’zel comes to stand right behind her, not even taking care to be quiet or hidden, Monserrat does not notice her.
She’s oblivious. In her own world.
Vulnerable.
Lae’zel waits, giving her one final chance to prove she’s not that careless. She’d hate to think so little of her, but the witch surprises her with inconsistency: at times formidable, at times almost laughably naive. A shiver rolls down Lae’zel’s spine. Then she grabs her and lifts her with ease.
Monse lets out a good, startled scream, then laughs and goes limp in her arms. Not even a fight! Lae’zel flips her and pins her against the trunk. She peers into her face with a scowl.
“You’re lucky it was I who found you. Not all who lurk here are as benign.”
“Lae’zel,” Monserrat laughs, and the sound is a high staccato—nerves, or mania? She lets her arms drape over Lae’zel’s shoulders, fingers loosening and letting slip the pen she’d been holding. “A welcome interruption to my work,” she says, and continues in a silky lull, “Ah, but I hope you are not entirely benign in your intentions…”
“I am beginning to suspect this tree saps you of your senses as well as your magic,” Lae’zel seethes. “For what reason do you linger near something that diminishes you?”
“For knowledge, my dear,” Monserrat says, lushly. “We are as giants in its pursuit, no matter the cost to us. To know is the greatest pleasure. The greatest!”
“Tsk’va.”
It’s a foolish ideal, but Monse just laughs again, each sharp tooth a blue pearl in the dim light.
And Lae’zel’s eyes are used to starlight far dimmer than this. She can see Monse clearly, well enough to see the infuriating smirk on her face. And the bite mark on her neck. She lets out a sharp hiss, and leans in quickly to press a kiss against it.
As the tiefling sags against her, Lae’zel nips at the broken skin.
Monse gives of herself with stupid abandon; she relinquishes blood, magic, sanity, even time, and for what? It angers Lae’zel, a simmering resentment she cannot quite name.
There’s something petulant to the feeling, and a strange unease when she sees how her companion carries herself. A small part of Lae’zel’s mind that says,unacceptable. And even quieter voice says, unfair.But what do githyanki care for fairness? Why should anyone care for Monserrat if Monserrat doesn’t care for herself? A vexing question.
Lae’zel sucks at her skin, bruising the already tender bite, but she can’t wipe it away. She can only add something of her own. If Astarion has sense he’ll take it as a warning. Finally, Lae’zel breaks away with a growl.
“Come away from here at once.”
She’d meant to sound commanding, but it somehow just sounds childish.
And Monse is panting softly, having gone quite still with Lae’zel’s teeth on her. She shifts against her, a hand gripping her shoulder. Then she meets Lae’zel’s eyes, with clarity of reason, and she nods.
