#griefworn

madness unleashed continued from x

It was halfway through The High Houses of Avernus that the novel almost found its way to the ground under the weight of the half-elf's incriminations, barreling down his way like a barrage of arrows loosed from a dozen bows, each one aimed at the heart of his conscience.

There were storms, forces of nature, and then angry women. In the vampire's view, the only difference between the three of them was that one could only hope to survive the first two, and Astarion never forgot a hurricane waiting to strike.

The petty purse-snatcher in him almost took offence that Shadowheart thought he'd care about such spoils, but as a patron of mistakes, he could see why.

She was so impossibly secretive. So much so that Alaara had tried to pry into her mind right after they'd found themselves on the beach, scrambling for answers. Since then, she'd given Shadowheart space and time to share things about herself at her leisure. But even now, she was reluctant to say much. Shadowheart was a good ally, but at times it was frustrating not to know much about her. But only in the sense that connecting with her on a deep level was more of a challenge than it was with the others.

Maybe that would change. Alaara was sitting by the firelight, penning observations about Wyll and Karlach in her journal when the cleric approached.

"Have you ever written things down for posterity?" she asked. "So that you can remember them forever? I've come to make a habit of writing down things that nobody would think to."

Her question had been a well-meaning one. Morren just wanted to understand.

She seemed to have hit a nerve, however. Morren took a step backwards at Shadowheart's sour expression and harsh words. It must have been in the way she asked, she realised. She was only now coming to realise that no matter if she asked in good faith, her wording could be the difference on whether she was met with openness or hostility.

Rebuked, she hung her head and murmured "I'm sorry." under her breath.

Morren also just couldn't reconcile the memories she had in her head with how everyone else saw wolves. She saw warmth and comradery and a family whereas Shadowheart saw vicious beasts ready to kill at a moments notice. She supposed it was for the best that Esca was missing for the moment because she doubted her new companion would welcome him so close.

Shadowheart’s words cut deep, but Astarion had learned not to crucify someone over that kind of pain. For once, it wasn't about him. The shadows had caught up to her at last, dragging with them the full burden of a thousand fears she’d kept at bay. He bit down on the corner of his lip, a fang worrying the skin as he swallowed his usual snark. Even he could see it— this moment, whatever it was between them, hinged on how he chose to react. She carried the air of someone standing at the edge of a burning bridge, and if she had the strength to deny her goddess, it wasn’t far-fetched she might deny his company next, should he push too far.

So instead, the vampire sat beside her. Quiet, drinking in the darkness as if it were more than just a backdrop. It was part of him, had always been.

“Vicious.” The word slipped out, detached, not meant to wound but to show he hadn’t taken it to heart. A casual acknowledgment of the sting, nothing more. “I mean, I wouldn’t know the first thing about worship— when I prayed to the gods, none of them really answered.”

That much was true. He’d long since given up on the idea that anyone, celestial or otherwise, would raise their head to listen. But now? Now he wondered, just a little, which gods might turn their ears to him if he dared to pray again, now that his path was his own.

“But it seems they answer you at least,” he added, voice softer, reflective. He could feel the depth of her loneliness, the kind that stretched far beyond what anyone in camp, least of all him, could hope to mend. This was not the loneliness of the heart; it was religious. The kind that came from having one’s entire purpose unravelled, leaving nothing behind but the hollow echo of devotion. 

The absence of a deity, he understood, was a void some people couldn’t fill. The absence of life itself.

“I say to hells with it! Try your luck again,” Astarion offered, smirk returning, though this time it was smaller, quieter, like a shadow of who he usually was. “Give it a go if you must… if that’ll make things better. Who knows who might answer your prayers this time?”

“—Sorry to disappoint.”

Logan turns back, tying the last knot to his tent. 

Who are you? I’m nobody. It’s a non-answer, a bloated book filled to the brim with empty, blank pages. It’s the kind of answer that births one of two polarized reactions. The first: an inscrutable curiosity to prod, Logan resistant like a child refusing bedtime. The second: the instinct to keep a wide berth because there is no trust to be had.

Shadowheart—a strange name. Too ominous to be given by loving parents—may be suspicious by nature. He breathes, long, hard, and relenting.

@grief-worn. from here.

the evidence is DAMNING- sleeves streaked with artistic brushstrokes of red, rapier in the firm-knuckled grip of their clawed hand. ulysses blinked and missed the moment they'd felt so indubitably threatened by nothing more than a thorny branch, a transformation of personality so sudden it had roiled and burst from beneath their scaly skin.

now the healer lay dead, and ul can't help but blink SPOTS out of their eyes like the scene might change beneath the scrutiny of their gaze.

. . . regrettably, the evidence of their hastily-made actions remain the same. some of the HOPE they had held over their tentative situation is cored from their chest, a gaping hole where any other individual's heart may lay. how monstrous ulysses' past must be, for them to act so swiftly and mercilessly, and to only remember SNIPPETS of their grotesqueness despite it happening only moments before.

their mouth moves to form the words, but they do not hear them leave their throat, " that never should have happened. " and they remain unsure if they mean their survival on the nautiloid or poor, pathetic nettie's demise.

@fortune-feather @grief-worn