𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔢𝔱 𝔤𝔦𝔯𝔩,

He notices Sabina intentionally sits away from him when they all huddle around the fire… Tonight though, it's just the two of them; the space remains as it has most other nights. Astarion's fingers drum on his knees, staring at her misshapen form through the bending and arcing of the flame. He smiles at her words, knowing full well she holds no fear of him. They've teased each other for enjoyment — when the civility of their group descends into humour and playfulness — and Astarion knows that Sabina has quite a way with words. Her wit is sharp, almost as sharp as his knives.

sabina has always appreciated her space. while she enjoys physical affection with those she is close with, she avoids it with most others. even though she has become much more acquainted with everyone, including astarion, she still chooses to sit alone.

#KRKWLLS .

"most of the time i'm talking out of my ass. i don't know shit." — @prophetyse.

❛ huh. ❜ he sits with it a long while, his consideration a slowly uncoiling ball of twine in a cluttered mind. first of all, relatable, because he definitely spins yarns in class and hopes none of the kids catch onto the plot holes in the stories — they usually do, smart little rascals that they are. it only serves to make him proud. but the logic catches on a snag and his brows hitch alongside as if they too were pulled tight, head canting with a curious lean to the side. ❛ but isn't that like, your whole schtick ? you know, you're the knower. on account of . . . you knowing things. ❜

she can't help but smile at his reaction. it's the paradox of her existence. she both knows and she doesn't. so much information is stored in her mind - secrets, lies, dreams, memories. but all belonging to someone else. it requires her to interpret, to add the context that is missing in so many cases. so much that she often feels like she is making things up, spouting bullshit. but she isn't and somehow that makes it so much harder.

IT SCARES THE ANIMALS AWAY, the deep, guttural yell he lets out. This deep in the forest, he can only pray to be the only one that heard. Not one for violence, he finds difficulty in letting the out such frustration. Back when he was a wizard, he'd conjure dancing lights and count the lanterns passing by his head. Now, all he has is the company of the ground beneath his feet and the thick trees attempting to mask his tantrum. Heartman kicks at a rock, watching as it flies away from the force, expecting it to hit bark. But as he follows its direction with his eyes, he realizes that he'd struck a person.

"Oh-" With a burning, hot face, he covers his mouth, eyes wide. "I- I apologize- I didn't mean to-" Suddenly shy to show emotion, he seems to shrink away, debating whether to approach and offer to heal any minor wounds or to run and hope his face isn't remembered. "I didn't hurt you, did I? Not that... I think of you so frail as to be harmed by a pebble."

And it wasn't like the pebble was going fast enough to do any damage either but, these days, Heartman is playing things far more cautiously. "Ah, my manners," he brings a hand up, wrapped entirely in cloth from his palm to his forearm, "they call me Heartman."

generally, these woods are empty. only inhabited by the animals, plants, and insects. a glaring contrast to the bustle that is baldur’s gate, she’s always surprised that more people don’t flock to it. grateful for it actually, that there is a quiet place where no one can find her if she doesn’t let them. the deafening yell is a surprise - jolting her out of her own thoughts and eyes searching for the perpetrator. the rational part of her brain tells her to not seek out the stranger in the trees, but the possessive part needs to track down the intruder, scold them for disturbing the tranquility of the space. 

it takes her a moment to even process that she’s been struck. the rock is small, perhaps slightly larger than a marble. she stands there for a moment, eyes blinking before her hand comes to rub at her forehead. the pebble had managed to smack dead center, if it was done on purpose she would say he had perfect aim. there’s no blood or wound, rather only what she thinks is the start of an impressive bruise. she lets him babble at her, a small frown on her face as he does so. “no, it’s fine. just stings a bit.” when she does speak there is no anger in her voice, rather just a quiet befuddlement at the situation. 

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