The clamour of battle falls to the background of Laera's thoughts. A backdrop of carnage — as githyanki, all shrieking and praising Vlaakith, descended on their group. Lae'zel had warned them of what to expect; that none of whom they would find inside would give them quarter. They would not be spared; they would find no reprieve; they would either kill or be killed. Githyanki chanting was mixed with the clatter of their forces mobilising throughout the stronghold. Laera, Astarion and Lae'zel plowed through them with deadly efficacy; a benefit of a year, and more, spent traveling together. Their familiarity with each other's strengths in combat decimated most opposition, until only the Inquisitor remained. Lae'zel was the one to finish the conflict, and whatever morale the githyanki clung to evaporated soon after.
Battle-high still courses hard through Laera's veins, her fingers raw and tingling from the overuse of magic. The metal of the disc she touches feel like nothing beneath her marred fingertips, even as she feels the intricate details of what she thinks to be a pendant. Turning it over in her hands, she reads some kind of inscription. Tir'su, she knows, and that's about all. ❝ What's this say? ❞ Laera asks, a slight tremble in her hands as she passes the disc to Lae'zel, who sits beside her. ❝ …Won't be making much progress going through all this if I keep asking you questions, I know. But I'm curious. ❞
@indomitous / starter call!
