#crookedtouch

"I hope Goblins taste far better than they smell." It is said with an unhidden grimace, and a wrinkle of his nose. Their very, very brief insight to the celebratory rites of goblins is enough for one lifetime, and he is certain no amount of scrubbing will with the smell of their filth from his skin. "We might find need for a rule about feasting on them close to camp."

STARTER CALL. / ACCEPTING / @crookedtouch.

"Is that what the little furrow between your brows is about?"

They have to tease, if only for a moment. It's rare that Astarion makes it so easy, and well, they're not above a little playful opportunism. They do grow a bit more somber by the moment, however, aware that he very well might be bringing this up with a purpose in mind, and it isn't their intention to dismiss him. The opposite, really. Still, try as they might to take even the faintest stab at what this might be about, all possibilities ring back entirely silent.

Astarion can’t see her response – the scrunching up of her nose as Salome briefly pauses in her task – but it exists, still. Like terrible adages about trees falling in the woods. And though it may take her a moment to recover, once her left boot finds adequate footing to push her petite form deeper, she is back to work all the same.

It is that very same leg, tapered close given she is wearing a woolen walking skirt in the deepest shade of indigo, which is currently providing the only glimpse he currently has of her at all. The rest of her body laid flat but askew as it is pushed through the narrow cavern of karst. The sandstone sediment penetrating through everything it touches, down to her very skin.

Yes, fun. That was certainly a choice word for it. He’s not the one in a half collapsed tunnel. But thin fingers finally reach after stretching what feels like miles, latching around the chest laying at its backmost wall. She hopes that whatever it is, that it was worth excavating in the first place.

" why wouldn't i be serious ? " cue a tilt of her head , a blank stare. held tightly to her stomach is a small glass jar with a periwinkle ribbon tied neatly around the neck. inside it , a mind flayer parasite writhes & thrashes. she casts her gaze upon it , & in her eyes shines sincere delight & affection. " i find her quite cute. & i think she'll make a fine pet ! at least , until she starves ... or somebody devours her. "

The inn is a welcome change for several reasons ( not the least of which is the ache slowly removed from their back ), but Arkezet finds the campsite on the outskirts of the city serves its purposes still. Currently, that happens to be as a closed, isolated training range. Minimal risk of collateral damage - that's usually the first precaution that comes to mind when they set upon practice, to call the ancient link to magic within their veins, to hone and shape it by their will. It is like any skill; if they do not work with it frequently, it becomes muddled, maybe even dangerous, when they need it most. This is a preventative measure, as much as it is a way to pass the time.

Arkezet isn't expecting that tonight, of all nights, will be the one in which someone accepts the offer to train together, but they appreciate the opportunity nonetheless, especially given their companion's skill set. His uncanny speed and reflexes are qualities they go against the least, and that's before accounting for the wickedly sharp blades.