#relentlessgrief

>. Somewhere between the platforms of the subway stations, Binary had completely forgotten how she even ended up around this part of town. The houses were rather small and quaint, far nicer by the usual Gotham standard she usually experienced in the Narrows. Maybe it was something in her subconcious mind that pulled her further and further away, cold and shivering hands tucked into her thick jacket making her seek out some sort of mental warmth.

~. Scoffing, the double personality stared at the Father in disbelief. To have the guts not only speak to him like that, but also make demands -- It was unbelieveable.

"You make it sound like we're forcing her to stay with us. We are not. She is sticking around by her own free will -- Because both you and I both know we wouldn't be any better than Heckland if we did."

Such accusations only made them more agitated - but they didn't touch the Father again. Only stood a mere inch from his face with hands locked behind their back, both eyes - dark and yellow - staring him down where they had him cornered in the dark hallway of his church.

"It's sort of ironic thinking that we were going to tell you the same thing. " The two rolled their eyes. " She's clearly been putting the wrong priorities first after she started running off here..."

It only took a good stakeout to see where she was heading off to -- and right now, Bob and Bub was outside making sure she wasn't coming in here before Harvey had concluded their imprompt meeting with the priest.

"...Never thought she'd go see you of all people. What makes you so fuckin' special to her, huh...?".~

unprompted / aka steffu is trying to give grace a heart attack via connor

>. "---... Alistair...~"

The reality?

He’s just nervous and doesn’t know how to say hi.

She had grown used to stares since her unceremonious arrival in this strange land, a Gerudo a foreign sight to, seemingly, everyone she met. Unsurprising, she supposed, when she had never heard utterance of the land of Faerûn or Baldur's Gate or the Sword Coast, all names used liberally and with comfort among her camp mates. In truth, she grew used to it long before arriving in the realm. Whether in lust or hatred, she tended to command attention when she walked into a room outside of her desert home...whether she wanted it or not.

Still, when Nabooru caught sight of those empty sockets pinned upon her person--or she assumed they were--from across the expanse of the patch of dirt they called a temporary home, his demeanor gave her pause. Still as stone, she half-wondered if he was conscious at all or in...some kind of meditative state? Even when she looked over, he did not glance away as most did. Though, more baffling still, his posture and stillness almost felt...unsettlingly threatening, though she could not imagine why. Since joining the camp, she found no issue with Connor. Curiosity, certainly, but she had yet to find a chance to really speak with him, let alone insult him in some way.

Perhaps he caught her staring a few moments too long while she considered him. Sure, she was used to skeletal beings wandering around, but...well, Stalfos did not tend to be quite so competent or well-spoken.

She fluffed her pillow one more time and rose to her feet, striding with purpose toward his tent. She halted a foot in front of him, hands on her hips and a borderline crooked smile on her painted lips.

" Everything alright, Connor? " she asked, tilting her head slightly. " Excuse the pun, but you look like you've seen a ghost? One that maybe made you particularly angry? "

Serenei looked at him, eyes narrowing just slightly, the dim light catching the faint red flecks in her irises. Connor’s skeletal grin didn’t change, and part of her wanted to roll her eyes—but part of her… didn’t. Slender hands moved over the mortar and pestle, crushing fleshwort and cassil with steady, deliberate presses. The scrape of stone against stone was almost conversational, keeping rhythm with her words.

“Well, obviously I am.” Astarion’s tenor was flippant, almost cavalier, as if the idea of rubbing salt into an open wound amused him. Never mind the fact that the ‘wound’ in question belonged to a skeleton. The vampire made no effort to soften his words. Why should he? It wasn’t as though the creature had feelings.

Or so he told himself.

“But we have other differences too,” Astarion continued, voice laced with blatant malice. Crimson eyes appraised the skeleton from skull to phalanges, curiosity peaking. He’d seen it before, the way even a spear through the ribcage didn’t seem to faze the thing. Bone shattered and reformed, yet still...

Astarion half-wondered if holy damage would finally get the job done.