A cardinal glimpse across the battlefield showed Halsin’s fur caked in blood and some poor sod's head crushed beneath one of those colossal paws, Karlach halving another two bodies in a single fell cleave, and Lorelei struggling to keep up as usual.
There were greater things in his orbit than some bard with a gift for mistakes.
Or so Astarion told himself. Yet to every deadly blow fended off on successful manoeuvres was another flurry of jabs his own body suffered due to somebody else’s monumental fuck ups. A poignant reminder, the byproduct of a tactical error which had the spawn’s lips lined with blood and his nose trickling with it.
Perhaps the fault had been his own, after all, for still keeping that damn ring around his finger the same way Lorelei managed to keep that ragtag bunch tied to her fucking hamstring; miraculously. But they needed her still.
Because Cazador wasn’t eating dirt just yet and Astarion lacked the charisma to bring everyone together for that fork in the road.
Minutes bled into hours and the battlefield counted bodies like sheep. One practised half-pirouette from the darkness’ recesses dodged him both a stray arrow and a blinded swing all at once, and the rogue emerged with a swift slash past the defences of sorcerer and ranger alike. A deadly kiss of dual wielded daggers which tore right through the carotid arteries of both men. Their bodies added to the pile.
Wiping his blade clean with a sweep of the tongue, Astarion got a load of what remained of their cosy encampment within the Shadow Cursed Lands' dreadful embrace. Eyes first scanned their surroundings. Zeroed in on the commotion taking place around the body of a lover– former lover – who shouldn’t have been downed before he was. Such was the nature of True love’s caress: fates entwined. With an ornament of that calibre weighing like a ton of bricks on his ring finger still, the pale elf was brought to confusion before his eyes could catch up with his thoughts.
It would seem a little negotiation with Withers was in order. But why... Where?
And just as gold called to him like the siren's song, Astarion's gaze was pulled towards the glimmer of silver rolling down Lorelei's cleavage, branding itself into the dirt. Pretty little idiot had removed it mid-battle- but to what end exactly? And while her body breathed its last in the arms of another, the rogue had already counted his coin to barter her back to life. Scratch her name off the scroll of the dead and right back into his rightful arms.
"What in the sweet hells were you thinking, removing that ring? We were just fine!"
He should have dropped her to the ground right where he stood. Would have, had the woman's looks been a little less worse for wear just then, but Astarion didn't think Lorelei above taking enough fall damage from such minimal height to kill her again if he did.
Spending any more gold on stupidity was sacrilege.
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