#osculumabmor

She's so pretty, with her pink hair and her sweet face. Pretty, pretty Grier, on whom Nan had hung her world view. It was only natural that she seek Grier out when she got like this. Nan's base urges overcame her, a vicious cracking of bones turning her into a beast worthy of the name Bhaalspawn. She'd prowled around camp, seeking out anyone who could be slaughtered, but the only bodies she found were allies, necessary for the fight ahead. Once they defeated the Netherbrain, they would be little more than fodder, but for now, it left her frustrated. Restless. Unsatisfied.

okay here are BOTH from grier !!!

ooh i see many bingos in both of these &, to be fair, some of these would change in her warlock verses. she's always an acts of service girlie, but i can see gifts also taking the place of that a bit – as in, you're off the hook for acts of service if you get her enough shiny shit. reliable too isn't as big to her because she has her patron.

managing the money is a surprisingly big one though. she finds it enjoyable to do, & reads it as a slight & lack of trust. which, it well might be, but still. she'll remember that one. they'll just have to fight & make out about that one.

Something isn't right. ❝ Grier. ❞ Laera's approach is sudden, a break in a moment's peace as they move over the Riden Road, temporarily taking a rest before they continue on. ❝ Come with me. We're seeing what's ahead. Need to make sure the road's clear, and I'm afraid if we push poor Gale any 'arder, 'e'll pop. ❞

" hey . you wanna get married ? "

Basil stood at the foot of Grier's bedroll, where she laid out on the ground, arm slung over her face. The sun was setting and was at just the right angle that Basil's back blocked the light enough for the cooled shadow to pull Grier's attention. Then, Basil met her gaze. Her own was set grim and resolute, as she was quite exhausted mentally and physically. But Basil was the type to bare her burdens resolutely. Blood marred the front of her tunic, her own, some of their companions, and some of their enemies; each splatter and stain a different shade of rust to red, a story of the day's long progression.

Basil had spent the last twenty minutes coaxing Astarion into stitches for a gash across his ribs, which he complained and dramatized profusely. As though he were dying even as he preened under the extra attention (she doubted anyone ever cared for his wounds before). It was a strange experience to be cursed and called 'darling' in the same sentence. But Basil's care for him was tempered by the knowledge that there was someone else in camp in need. Someone who had not come to her for help but whom she had seen take a dangerous blow. Grier had barely flinched and barely showed the pain except for the stuck, tense muscle of her jaw. Which flexed on occasion through their journeying that day. Was it stubborn pride that kept her from speaking? Fear of judgement? Or merely, being so unused to asking for help? Basil did not know. She only knew her only obligation.

The campsite is alive with the laughter & chatter of the tieflings that no longer bear the weight of worry on their shoulders. The threat of the goblins is no more, their bodies littering every inch of that Selûnite temple, right along with their leaders. Vile creatures with even worse motives. The promise of a good fight was the only saving grace for enjoying being within the walls of that camp. She still feels as if she’s stained with the blood of them, that goblin guts are still beneath her nails no matter how much she’s scrubbed, that all of this was simply a temporary fix. The tieflings still have a long journey to Baldur’s Gate just as she does & she doesn’t have the spare time to aid them on it. Not with this parasite squirming around behind her eye. All worries for tomorrow morning when the wine has run its course & the weight of everything settles back into her once more. Right now, her stomach is in knots for a different reason entirely. 

The warlock.

Grier is... a surprise.

A welcomed one.

She’s good in combat & fine out of it. Zaelun finds it hard to carry proper conversation around her. A mix of nerves & distraction; it’s hard to be her usual self when her mind has been so entirely focused on helping her people. It doesn’t make it much easier that she feels like a babbling fool amongst people she deems pretty, & Grier is more than that. Zaelun can blame it on the wine & that feeling that comes along after a good battle. Her blood still runs hot & her body itches for another outlet. That has to be how she’s found herself here, tucked away in a secluded spot of the camp with Grier at her side. They’ve been chatting, laughing, eyeing one another. The tiefling thought she was being subtle about it, but Gods, she’s awful at carrying her wine, & Grier is almost close enough for Zaelun to smell the alcohol on her lips.

The beat of her heart picks up as the warlock leans into her space, slowly, her eyes dropping down the bridge of her nose to the curve of her lips. A breath gets caught in Zaelun’s throat from the anticipation & her mouth runs dry, finding herself leaning forward subconsciously to close the space. It’s not like she hasn’t wondered what she might taste like. That particular train of thought gets interrupted by the soft, breathy laugh that expels against her lips just before they meet with Grier’s, & the question that follows makes her stomach drop.

"Did you really think I'd kiss you?"

Zaelun retracts from her space as if she's been shocked by some sort of electricity. It's a sobering question. That heavy beat of her heart is no longer from anticipation, but pure & utter embarrassment. Of course she was being utterly ridiculous. Why would Grier want to kiss someone like her?