Daughter of Blood

"We're definitely friends," he continued, twisting his fingers together as he looked for a way to clear her confusion without further making her think he wasn't interested in her. "So you know what? Let's just forget I said anything. I - Well, I didn't really mean it, and both of us are clearly not interested in going anywhere so there's no need at all to worry."

Maybe it wasn't fair to put that weight on him. Nan didn't mean to pressure Alistair into thinking he was all she had but -- well. In all honesty, he sort of was. True, she had Corpsegrinder, and the ribbon hanging from one horn brought some sense of comfort she couldn't quite place, but nobody else was nice enough -- or maybe dumb enough -- to be so kind to a person like her.

the choice seems to surprise Celia, albeit solely through the quirk of her brow and a flicker of a smile across her lips; she offers neither complaint nor gesture that might suggest any discontent. the novel is returned easily to its place, her gaze shifting only briefly to ensure its security before returning to Nan.

"As you wish." Celia does not yet open the book, instead shifting her weight to make some space between the pair of them - and reaching behind herself to withdraw a straw-filled pillow to offer the tiefling. "make yourself comfortable, then... I will find a suitable place to begin."

"I like your voice," she mutters, not wanting to interrupt but unable to keep from saying something entirely. "You're real good at reading." As Celia reads on, Nan seems to settle more into her body, resting her chin on her knees and curling her tail around herself. Her pointed ears angle subtly, attentively in Celia's direction, eager to catch every syllable.

She is in the middle of adding some herbs to the stew Gale had started when she's suddenly scooped up into the air. She lets out an undignified squeak and scrambles to grab onto Nan.

Celia does not look up at Nan's approach, attention focused on the constellations by which she had used to navigate with a faint smile upon her lips. only when she asks of the flower's origin does Celia turn to catch Nan's eye, head tilting slightly with some unspoken amusement.

"It was in the vicinity of Moonrise Towers - discarded by Balthazar, it seemed..." perhaps the disgusting undead man had meant to produce something far more heinous, fueled by fertilizer composed of his enemies, but Celia would be damned before she let such a beauty be lost without appreciation.

"I hoped you would enjoy it more than he did."

"I would. I mean, I do." It's easy to forget sometimes that Celia is not a purely practical woman. She keeps poetry books in her stash and entertains Nan's ridiculous ideas. And most recently, she paused to collect a flower from Moonrise in amidst all the hell and urgency biting at their heels. "It's beautiful." It was. A beautiful butter-yellow flower, bright as the sun amidst such colorless gloom.

she watches the mock swing with quiet amusement, seeming to consider the proposed name for just a moment before shaking her head.

"That is hardly a name to be spread by the criers... We can workshop it; surely there is a catchier title for our little venture." Though she knows Nan would likely suggest something silly, Celia is willing to tolerate the options; if it meant she continued to smile so carefree, unburdened by the troubles Celia could see occasionally brewing behind the tiefling's eyes, she might have tolerated far more.

'I'll work out a few ideas," she says with a grin. Indeed, half of them were going to be silly, though a few genuine guesses would make their way into the list as well. If it made Celia laugh, all the better for it. "You figure out what we'd charge, yeah? Fifty gold for an ogre, seventy-five if you want us to bring back its head. Something like that." Nan was still unsure of how to calculate the value of anything in terms of gold, but she was slowly getting better. At least she'd suggested more than a hot meal or two.

“It’s fine.” He assured. “And let’s face it, if you were going to you probably would have done it already — a defenceless, lonely traveller wandering around like an idiot in the middle of nowhere? I was easy pickings.” For all she had unsettled him to begin with, the way he saw it he was fortunate that Nan had found him first and not someone far worse.

"Hey, don't sell yourself short," she countered. "You're pretty, too." And it was nice that he didn't fear her. Something in her subconscious was relieved to be on even footing with a stranger like this, though said footing felt as stable as that of a newborn deer. Navigating social situations was not and likely never would be in her wheelhouse.

"I'm sure," he answered with that same certainty, and he reached out to take one of her hands so that he could pat it reassuringly. He'd had plenty of time to reconsider at this point. "I mean, I already said it, and I tend to not like taking things back - call it a character flaw. But I do mean it, because that's what friends do."

But ever since meeting Alistair, she'd grown more and more of something resembling a conscience, telling her what was right and wrong and how to proceed. And it was getting harder not to tell him what was going on in her head. "If we're gonna stick together, there's somethin' you should know about me."

Maybe he would end up taking it back anyway when he found out the truth. Maybe he'd run in fear or decide she was a threat to exterminate. For his own safety, he should know. For her own peace of mind -- if that peace even existed -- he deserved to know.

"You know how I don't remember anything about my past?" Her voice had grown quiet, even more hesitant than before. "All the holes in my head, they're not empty. They're..." She cleared her throat, flexed her free hand open and closed. "They're filled with ... I mean. I try not to listen to it outside of a fight, but I always want to ..."

Just say it. Just say it.

grier  is  almost  surprised  at  nan's  solution.  a  funeral.  how  sweet,  she'd  likely  have  gone  for  something  more  practical,  such  as  burning  the  body  on  the  spot  [  though  not  everyone  could  summon  hellfire  at  will  ]  and  all  that  would  be  left  is  burnt  ground.  she  would  find  a  lie  for  it.but  when  grier  looks  up,  she  can  tell  nan  truly  is  sorry  for  killing  the  poor  bard.

❝  it's  your  call.  ❞  the  warlock  says  flatly  but  offers  the  other  a  smile  for  encouragement.  nan  is  already  looking  for  the  shovel  and  she  decides  to  help  —  floating  the  object  to  the  tiefling  with  a  few  motions  of  her  hands  —  then  she  turns  her  back.  ❝  i  will  let  the  others  know.  see  if  anyone's  feeling  like  paying  their  respect.  don't  worry.  i'll  come  back,  but  without  pitchforks  to  kill  you.  ❞  not  sure  if  the  joke  will  land  when  she  is  so  distressed,  but  grier  is  gone  before  she  can  hear  the  reply.

How could she have done this? To Alfira of all people -- sweet, brave, determined Alfira who only wanted to help people. It's enough to make Nan hate herself, and she's fighting the urge to lash out at herself as she answers with a nod, "I think that'll be fine. I think, um. I think I've never been to a funeral before anyway." Nothing comes to mind. She thinks about saying a few words, maybe having a drink in Alfira's honor, but it feels wrong for the situation somehow. A ceremony, though... that'd probably be alright.

"Um, Grier?" She fidgets with the shovel, eyes on the ground. "Thank you. For, uh. Knowing what to do." A pause, and she adds quickly, "And for not sending me away. Dunno if I'm safe to be around anymore, but, you know. I don't want to be alone. Don't think I'm very good at being alone."

Astarion's eyes flickered nervously under Nan's unwavering stare, his confident facade cracking ever so slightly. "My... favourite food, you ask?" he repeated, his brow furrowing as if searching for an answer in the void of dark sky above them. He swallowed hard, then, with a forced casualness, blurted out, "--Well, I suppose I must confess... I do have a rather..." he rolled his wrist as he pretended to search for the correct term to use. "--refined palate, one could say..." his tone dipped just enough to suggest something far more sinister, yet he left the meaning of it deliciously vague. "--but I'm curious to see if our wizard's cooking skills extend beyond his raw ambition, a-ha!" he added hastily, eager to divert Nan's attention away from his own secrets. "Now, another one for you, my dear -- something I've been dying to know..." An open, fangy smile appeared.

Her thoughts turned inwards at his question. Nan hadn't ever considered it before, having been too focused on her own memories to think about someone else's. "Dunno. Something nice, though, I think. First time Wyll killed a demon maybe, or first time Karlach went into a rage." She paused, and brightened. "Or maybe the first time Gale ate a proper fancy cake. I don't remember ever doin' something like that myself." She paused, considering, then laughed again.

He doesn't gag around it. And then she's lifting him up and there is a slight sting. It's like being scratched by a cat, and he moans softly, dark purple gaze holding Nan's. No fear. He's not afraid of her. He can feel his own cock stirring and he's not entirely sure why. It's not a particularly sexy situation. At least not yet. But her attention is pointed. And all for him. And he can see her cock throbbing and he knows exactly where this is going. He should scream for help. He couldn't, even if he wanted to, but also he doesn't. He won't turn her away, not if she needs him.

His tail wraps around one of her arms, and he swallows hard, breathing through his nose. "Is this what you need?" He asks, as soon as he's able, his voice thick and husky. He doesn't expect she can answer, not really, but he wants to be certain he is helping and not hurting. Even like this, he cares for her. Trusts her. Wants her to be okay. Even when he's at her mercy. His hands moved to stroke one of her arms, sliding up the flesh, which doesn't feel awful. He wasn't sure why he was expecting, perhaps some alien texture to match the way she looks but Nan's skin is warm and not repellent.

But then he touches her, his tail around one arm, hands on her leathery skin. She lets him down onto his own two feet again, admiring how the moonlight shines on his freshly-shed blood. It's intoxicating. She bends her head and licks at one of the small wounds, before sliding her tongue up and under his shirt, feeling for his muscles, the ridges on his ribcage. One of her fangs catches on his shirt, starting to rip it off.

She pauses, just for a moment, yellow eyes burning as they look into Feanor's. Let me, she seems to say. Let me... Though it's hard for her to figure out what exactly she wants permission for, what with all the possibilities swimming in her mind. Her jaws open like a blooming flower, rows and rows of teeth on proud display, but she does not bite. Not yet, at least. Not yet.

Oh, he mentions her plenty, right along with his Lord Puck. He never stops gabbing about them, about how sharp their teeth are, how delightful their cries of triumph will be when they rip their little lamb to shreds. He was never their butler, after all.

Iago watches her twitch and pace impassively, but doesn't catch themselves in time to keep from flinching when Nan turns to them. She's still worked up, dangerous.

"Admittedly, I try not listen to much of what he says. He normally just laments how I am better off dead," Iago answers plainly. Honest, if a bit simplified. "Not exactly the kind of individual I try to familiarize myself with."

They worry the blood is too enticing, that they shouldn't be such a tease when one of their kin is so close, but it's dribbling down their chin, now, staining their collar. Iago moves further back in the dirt, feeling tiny beneath her but going on anyway. They only ever dig their own grave deeper.

"I hate him," Iago spits, wiping at the red trickle on their lip. "More than anything. I hate him and every ounce of blood in me that he can claim." They want to kill him, but they can't, so they can at least find satisfaction in keeping his favorite toys away from him.

"And you- Nan, you're someone. I've spoken to you more in this short time than I have in all the years I've known you. You're alive, out here, you're- you're real, do you understand?" They aren't sure they're making any sense. They're feeling a bit dizzy while the words spill out of them, "He will never be happy. He doesn't want any of us, he wants a doll, disposable and replaceable when it breaks. At least this way, here- You- We can be someone for a little longer."

She looms down closer and they feel their heart jump. There is a well-deserved hatred in her eyes, but her voice is small. Hurt. Iago briefly considers offering up their braid for her to strangle them with.

"I was afraid," Iago answers her, barely a squeak.

And therein lies the monster Bhaal made of this one. Their kin, he forged into weapons sustained only by never-ending slaughter, bathing them in blood and gore. Iago, he designated fodder from birth, filling their tiny heart with fear until there was nothing left. Their monstrosity is not a flashy, tangible thing of violent outbursts and gnawing hunger. Rather, it is the ugly, overstayed survival of a weak, defenseless thing left with only cheap moves and cruel games. But it is a creature of Bhaal's making much the same.

"Then somewhere along the line, it became easier. To care, I mean. Not just to pretend, but to really... feel something. About you. And the others. And strangers, even, whom I've never even bothered to pretend for, really, but find myself thinking about them so much more these days-" Rambling. "I am not a good person, Nan, but I- I like the person I'm trying to become."

Their next words come after a pause and are nearing a hysteric sort of amusement at their own wreckage, "And I've done such a poor job thus far that I have no doubt you'll think that another lie! I know I would."

It's all too easy to let her hurt warp back into that simmering rage. It's pathetic, the way they grovel. Every inch of her wants to give them exactly what Iago's blood desires, what her own blood burns to do. Kill them -- make it slow, make it hurt, make them drown in pain before the light leaves their watery, weepy eyes. Nan settles for stomping forward, gripping Iago's shirt and hoisting them up until their toes barely scrape the ground.

"Afraid." She scoffs. "You, afraid. I bet you are. You bruise like a fucking peach, and your bones break like paper." But looking into their eyes too long starts to hurt, and Nan lets out a snarl as she throws Iago to the ground again. "You like Puck, fucker? If I cut off your head, will it grow back?" It won't. She knows it won't. She settles for slipping a boot under their ribs and pushing them over.

"You say you care about me, eh? Name somethin' about me. Tell me one fuckin' thing about me you learned." Her boot finds their hand next, heel pressed into their palm just enough to hurt and get the message across. Answer wrong, and she'd grind her heel in until every bone was dust. It wasn't a fair question; Nan barely knew herself, much less expected someone else to remember something about her, and even if Iago was paying attention, that doesn't mean they care. Just meant they aren't completely blind.