#vannaspar

Quick and quiet, she and Astarion returned under the guise of surveillance. ' Scouting ahead ', as it were. Goblins and gnolls provided an easy excuse, and as they ventured deeper into the Western Heartlands, caution became married with their survival.

No excuse for the new sword Laera carried; no explanation for the washed clothes. Nothing to say when she winced at the tugging of the stitches she wove through the skin on her chest to close a wound.

Is that blood...?

❝ 'Ey. We're leaving. ❞ Laera's voice is clear, firm, hovering at Vann's back as the decision is made within moments to pack up and head out. The uneasiness she feels surges, pushing it down with a deepening frown as she briefly locks eyes with Vann. She can't meet his gaze for long - fearful, horrified - as if he could divine the newest atrocities sewn by her hands. ❝ Further up the road looks like the mountain pass we're looking for. Better to leave now before it gets dark. ❞

It's words and people like this that make Medraut acutely aware of their own failings. The projection of a persona that people buy into; a persona someone like Vann wears as easily as he wears his paladin pauldrons, as easily as he shoulders that shield to fend off blows in the dungeons they venture into. He makes a fine traveling companion. He's aware of the company he keeps and extra-aware of said company in the belly of the beast--always quick with a spell or a potion or to take a hit or two when Medraut's lance skirts just too far to the left to fell an enemy. And after, he's an even better sport, always ready with an easy smile and stories and a shoulder.

He's the sort of man that makes Medraut feel like a fraud. Even though all they're doing is sitting on two stools, peeling potatoes with their knives together, they can't help but feel jealous of the goodness that he wears like scars--a goodness that she's tried to beat into her body and her morals but seems to evade her at all costs. The silence is nice for a time; this is something Medraut also appreciates about Vann, how easily he settles into the comfort of a lull in the conversation. But eventually, a need for a distraction surfaced. "--How about a friendly competition?" Medraut chances, voice breaking the quietude like a fish skipping on the pond's surface, and they blink at Vann from underneath her too-long bangs (they really have to cut them soon, it's getting in the way of their field of vision), two white irises made luminous by the shape of her bright limbal rings. "Whoever cuts the most potatoes owes the other a gift of some sort. Something small, mind you--like...hmm. I have a whittled chocobo I could give you, if it's of interest?"

Vann's eyes raise from his own potato. That same soft smile. "If I have to lose, I'd rather lose fighting," he jokes back. Medraut's smile presses just a hair further into the corner of her mouth; the jealousy recedes momentarily, pleased they're able to appeal even to someone so kind as Vann. Like this means something. Like she will burn it into her, if she is able.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ❝   where'd you learn a trick like tha' ?   ❞          he nods towards vann and against the wind,     eye shut against the hair that tickles in his eye,     past his lashes.     let yourself learn from others,     and you'll always have what you need.     a load of good it does him now,     as he pushes himself up onto one arm,     his gaze tilted up to regard the man in interest.          ❝   took me off guard,     you did.   ❞

`  ❏ .     STARTER CALL.   ––    𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐. / @vannaspar.

"you look good... for a walking corpse", valentina grins around their glass, their other hand shining with stolen jewelry as they gesture for vann to take a seat. "didn't think you'd come, so i started without you." they sound a few drinks deep... loose & booze-happy. but then again: when does valentina sound sober? they haven't been anything close to it in years. everyone knows it. a running gag of some sort: how terrible it will be for night city, the day they wield a knife sober.

"how nice of you to join us, though. want a drink?" there is no us to speak of, but the pronoun is immediately pushed aside by the appearance of a shadow at their side. as if they spoke it into existence, the bartender is there to drop a new round of cocktails -- the absurd kind, as fruity as they're lethal. probably laced with the bottom-shelf alcohol that no one in their right mind would sip on in the middle of the day.

he offers his hands, a gesture she is, as always, free to accept as she will. now? now, she is drowning, Vannil her only purchase. later, when her mind clears, she'll recognize he'd kept himself between her and her hunter, himself the trusting sacrifice--

but he's here, he's whole, and so is she. there is no cage waiting to reclaim her. there is only the two of them under the wintry sun.

❛ lean into me. it's okay. ❜ any gratitude she's able to muster is muffled by the folds of his scarf. her words matter little; Vann is as content to remain here, wrapped in her embrace as solidly as she is within his. even when her shaking subsides, she remains.

they remain.

that is enough.

Posture is rigid. Unnatural, but it is with good intentions that she approaches Vann. He senses as much, no doubt; open to her presence, inquiring her with genuine acceptance. It sets on her on edge, always does, and in the back her mind, she can't help but feel as though she's deserving of his scorn. Guilt hangs around her for every awful thing said about him — to him — and whether it was sheerly due to necessity, or because he saw something in he she never could, he never denied her his help.

Even so, she has to tell herself things between them have changed; she's changed.

loralei wonders if the words 'i killed my commanding officer, and the man i thought i loved' are carved on her forehead. she sure as hel feels like it. she wonders if any of the others would even understand her. at least, blythe and zola understood what it was like to lose a person that took up so much of her life- of her mind; and of her space, but did anyone else even understand?

"i was just giving my very, very wise and sage advice about guardsmen romances and cautionary tales." she turns on an aquila and faces him-not even skipping a beat; a backwards stride while keeping up the pace with the squad; an easy, charming swagger used as a poker face. her boots clop against the stone pavers of the streets. rhythmic in the way that only the astra militarum can conduct. "are you sayin' that this particular pair of boots fit you, solider?" she raises a eyebrow at him, humor in her voice. a twinkle in her mismatched eyes- that barely covers an anxiety, a genuine fear. that all commanding officers are like him.

she turns back to look forwards, cutting off the view of a mix of expressions that she couldn't show in this place. loralei knows that showing that raw, barely scabbed over wound is a good way to get hurt all over again. "i'm kidding. don't make a face like that, or it'll be stuck that way forever."

her tone may be teasing, but the uncertain, rattled edge to it carries far into the mission, like dark, churning clouds on the horizon of a no man's land.