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.

@osculumabmor / @baldursgte