❛ ⸻ 🕸️ ₊ ⊹ @withouthcpe | cont. from here
𝐀𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐒 her own words had been, Dinin's ring with truth. Her stubbornness in this matter borders on the obscene. Pride does not diminish fact: she would be more burden on the road than boon, and even more so in a fight. Even the hand she extends to take the proffered glass aches with the gesture, her grip weak for a precious moment that is almost her undoing. She would lack the dexterity needed for complex spell work, or the strength to swing the light blades never far from her person.
Frustration pounds a dull beat against her temples. Every hour the cult spreads its pestilence ⸻ ( the very same rot she aided in manufacturing ) ⸻ further. Fresh thralls from every corner of Faerûn strengthen the altered elderbrain to an extent likely unreached since the height of the illithid empire itself. The very doom of every thinking creature gluts unchecked by the work of her own hand, and still she is expected to sit and rest ?
"Nothing here befits a woman of my status," she states bitterly, but then lets the comment drop. She will not whine about her fortune in life, nor would he care to hear it. The urge to throw the glass in her hand is nearly overwhelming. Perhaps at Dinin's head, perhaps not. He is merely the closest target.
It is her paranoia that moves her to form a tendril of connection to him. A remedy from his hands could just as likely be a poison. It is natural that he would seek what he has always known, but Iraestra refuses to let that assumption of intent render her blind. Complacency kills as surely as any other weapon. For just as ingrained in the male as it is to listen to his betters, it is just as learned to seek the advantage, always.
She brushes through Dinin's surface thoughts with deft control, seeking the names of the ingredients he means to produce and their purpose each. Surprisingly, he truly means to aid her. Should she be grateful or think him a fool? The larger part of her unquiet comes from the barest hint of sentiment she reads from him. Damningly, a part of her echoes it. There is familiarity in the shape their relationship takes, if she were to admit to homesickness.
"We do not have time to waste on my recovery. Our enemies gather strength while I wallow here. Prepare it," she decides. She will not dissuade the buds of faith he has in her. "I must be well when we enter Moonrise Towers. My face is known there, my word will open many doors," it will be grating to pretend to be just another thrall, but she has practiced the arts of the mind for centuries. Between the power of the prism and her own wiles, she can cloak her intentions from even the most discerning of ' True Souls '. It is Ketheric's vigilant eye that concerns her more.
"You will need me as surely as we need the guide who will lead us deeper into the shadows."
