#commaless

       ❝ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐭, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 and leave me to dance by myself! ❞ jester ignores the fact that this is a recurring theme. her friends sit at the nearby table, many of them deep in their cups and engaged in their own conversations as she slams her boot heels along to the tavern bard’s slightly off-kilter tune. it’s some kind of ditty with silly words and plenty of innuendo; she throws around her smile freely as she does a  jig to its beat. with a palm held out to her friend, jester shakes her head and grabs nott’s free hand, pulling her up and out. 

     Molly had come close, on many occasions, to feeling like his heart was going to explode out of his chest. The sight of Nott’s small figure slumping wordlessly, so suddenly, no warning at ALL, in the uncharted and unsafe realm of the Archmage’s Bane was like a nightmare he couldn’t shake out of. The way she hit the floor was not unlike the first time Mollymauk ever had to see his friend, fuck’s sake she was barely an acquaintance back then, hit the dirty ground at the hands of a large snarling gnoll. In that moment, he had been ‘spared’- was that the right way to put it?- of dealing with the aftermath for following right behind her.

     But in that moment, Nott, the Brave, his Nott, was dead.

     He wasn’t sure how much time had passed between that moment and now, when he snaps out of it with Nott trying to get his attention for something. Molly blinks, turning tired scarlet eyes to his smaller friend. He raises an eyebrow.

       if anyone had asked, the woman had been sitting there at the bar all night. no one could say when she had arrived, she just was.

       the air around her seems warmer, somehow. more spring-like. comforting, in a way. perhaps even a floral hint in the air, if someone is paying attention. persephone pulls a long drink from her cup and sighs contentedly.

THERE'S A SOFT RINGING in his ears, high-pitched and monotonous. Cold, bloodied fingers dig into scarred arms, dirty nails scratching and scraping at the skin. Trent's gaze burns itself in the back of Caleb's mind.

He thinks he might be sick.

He doesn't know if he's thinking at all.

Half-formed thoughts flicker through his mind, already gone before he processes them. This is dangerous. What they are doing — what are they doing, right now? He can barely keep track of where they are as the Nein gently guides him along.

He feels a small hand curl around his own, and his gaze drops down to look at the goblin woman who's helping hold him together. Nott helps — she's always helped, she's always...

Caleb doesn't understand why they're still here. Why they're helping him. They finally make it to their lodgings for the night, and before he knows what is going on, they've all gathered in one room instead of splitting into the several different ones, and are beginning to set up for the night.

Part of Caleb knows they're doing it for him, but most of Caleb isn't there to acknowledge it. His grip on Nott's hand tightens ever so slightly, instinctive and void of any true intent.

Especially you, Bren.

@commaless​ cast message:   just holds his hand. squeezes it tight.

               when he watches a man die by fire, even if not of his own hand, he reaches for nott’s hand afterwards when it’s safe and his ability to protect his little friend is no longer dependent on the availability of his hands---she doesn’t know why he needs it, but she holds the hand all the same. when he breaks down in front of the nein for the first time, can’t control the flood of memories soon enough to give him time to hide from it, he waits until the attention has moved to other things and there’s a sky and clear air around them and reaches for her again---she knows a little bit why he needs it that time, as much as mollymauk or beauregard, as much as having an understanding that he’s not okay even if his mouth is capable of forming the claim.

                  after he tells her everything  ( well, everything that matters, everything he needs to tell to someone ),  she reaches for his hand often, and he for hers. no longer just as a gesture of being an unit or out of safety and security, but out of comfort---it’s casual, except when it’s anything but, and it’s common. he responds to it without thinking about it, is able to not have his thoughts be distracted by it when he doesn’t want to;  it becomes familiar, easy as breathing, a comforting little pressure around his hand when he needs it, or when it just feels right.

                  as they walk out from the castle, she reaches for him---this time, she knows everything about why the hand in hers feels cold, why sweat pools beneath his hair and cloak, why his eyes look up to people when talked to but still seems to make no contact, even when he is staring right at them---and he feels her grip around his hand... acknowledges it, more like, and the thing in his brain that’s allowing him to take steps ahead and repeat words from a chamber of eighteen-year-old memories tarnished with blood tells him to respond to it---his fingers curl around nott’s. it’s cold, emotionless, weightless;  something automated trying to be a human.

                  ( but his eyes do glance down, head turning just slightly;  for a moment, he simply stares, too much emotion loaded in his eyes as opposed to too little, expression as if trying to decide if it should be a broken  ‘ sorry ’  or  ‘ thank you ’  that follows it.

          with every knock on the door, kiri is running excitedly there to answer it. part of her knows the might nein do very important things, and have to travel- but she can always stay hopeful. when the same routine finds its way into her day, kiri of course rushes to the door to answer, smiling brightly.

          and she's meet by the sight of an old friend.

          kiri practically squawks, lunging forward without a second thought to hug onto the familiar NOTT THE BRAVE, crying out in tweets and burbles. she hugs the goblin woman for a long time before leaning back, still smiling.