#sgnals

@sgnals , ylfa & esther , quangl'd into a land of candy ...

electricity crackles and lingers only seconds longer as a wizard is shunted into an unfamiliar world, then the portal closes... and the air becomes still. esther, although not unfamiliar with the concept of a quangle-- yet to have experienced one herself. it was only a matter of time, and she supposes that first-hand experience would ideal for research at the occult society, although inconvenient.

@sgnals asked: “   who hurt you?   ”   from taash to falon

the question is unexpected and causes them to freeze, body stiffening. they can faintly taste the echo of blood in the back of their mouth, feel the old scars stinging as memories that they'd rather not linger on force themselves into the forefront of their mind. a hand moves to rest on their forearm, absently tracing the few scars that were visible from the rolled up sleeves of the outfit that they wore around the lighthouse. it's not a new question. after all, the heavy scars on their face and the ones that poke through the rolled up sleeves tell a story. the ones that decorate the rest of their body and remain hidden at all times beneath their clothing make that story far more obvious.

it’s a shock of blue that finally stops her completely. snagging against downturned, tiresome corners of an equally blue gaze, only difference being the impossibility of hue ; hers softer, duller, a little blurry from years of gathered wetness, while the other color is … harsher. lively, max decides, already abandoning her mostly empty cart for this new thing. slinks towards it, butterfly to bucket, before she actually realizes what it is. hair dye : bombshell blue. oh, she thinks, before awaiting something else, some memory of eyepatches and first mates, dusty pirate hats and that greasy, perfect smell of bacon cutting through twisting limbs, the high pitched screams of delight and faux madness. but what greets her is tiled floor instead, barren, unfilled promises, and a sky of green and gray, and something red.

@sgnals, safi : “ i can see you thinking. ”

arm is already reaching out for a box when safi finds her, voice unabashedly loud in a way max adores, even if it scares her shitless. hand wrenches back to her side, a flurry of autumn cardigan ; long sleeved and too big for her, slinking further down one shoulder when she moves too fast. eyebrows raise, lips part in a revealing ‘o’ shape -- someone who’s definitely been caught red handed … or thinking, as her friend says, all-knowing and all-seeing, an oracle with how she knows max so well. there’s an expectation in those dark, lined eyes and a certain twitch to her lip that means max is more than done for, rooted in place by hands that are already prying her open, nudging around bones and organs to find that sensitive, bruised core. it’s only been a handful of odd months since she’s known safiya, since she’s been here, haunting the hellerton house and caring for students at a measured distance, but somehow they’ve cultivated something already. feels the connection behind her eyes and in her head, in how she smiles involuntarily, always relenting, free time steadily filled with mundane activities like movie nights, grading papers, and mutual grocery shopping. and fear occasionally digs between fingers, where skin and lies web, at the idea that safi might find out more than she should one day, too smart, too observant, for max’s own good. but that’s a problem for future max. right now she’s too pleased by the company to sever it, so instead hands fist around their strings and tug them closer, in a meek, unceremonious way. safi’s better at words and gestures than she is. imagines what she’d write about them or this : how her cart’s a wasteland while safi’s is … somewhere, probably filled to the brim with junk food or notebooks. she isn’t actually sure what safi buys. just hopes it isn’t sour katz, since that’s one of the only things max has bothered hoarding during this quick trip.

Westgate was… different. Mimicking that of the Gate's Lower City but with more crime, fish markets, and an all around hardened populace, where a look from any one sailor could wilt the fainthearted. In submerging himself within Westhavian customs, he had come to understand where Laera developed her toughened skin from her. Sailors were an interesting sort of a people — a group all their own — that had been tempered by the choppy seas. Their wills had been broken against the bows of their great ships, and when they came to dock again in Westgate's Great Port, they're a changed lot.

Astarion is beginning to recognise some of them, and despite his exceptional ability to charm almost anyone, it isn't so with the sailors and the local regulars. Maybe they sense his frustation as his constitution, too, continues to been whittled down from the haggling and playful taunting. As an honourary barmaid at The Dove's Nest, where he might settle disputes with a bloody knife fight, his sharpened retorts are about all he can manage as not to upset his much beloved host.

One such patron, however, has caught his eye — and not because he deems them a worthy target; he has gladly retired from that — but because something, something, is off about this one.