𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙧

sucking her teeth, shadowheart turns her gaze outward to the rest of the camp. her tent was quite tucked away, and she liked it as much. but occasionally, she yearned to leave her little corner of seclusion. after a moment of hesitation, the cleric swipes her bottle of wine, grabbing a pair of glasses and making her way to the fire. astarion appeared to be busying himself by poking at gale's buttons while lae'zel sharpened her blade. nothing out of the usual ... but bale in particular catches her eye, appearing to be the least rowdy of her companions. so she saunters over.

THESE ARE NOT THE COMPANIONS BALEFIRE WOULD HAVE CHOSEN FOR HIMSELF, at least ... that is what the pulsing ache in his head tells him, whispering in his ear ( alongside the roar of his own blood ) that those beside him were nothing more than bodies for him to strew as he pleased, then toss aside when he was bored. he tries not to listen to it, that demanding, cloying throb in his skull. but as he stares at his hands, kahga's blood long since dried under the nail beds of his finger tips, he finds it harder to do; too reminiscent of the dragonborn's blood coating his palms only nights prior.

" . . . a good idea. " he speaks softly, a sickening tone that makes something in his stomach recoil with nausea. that calling, whatever it was that sceleritas called it . . . it wasn't him despite how it screams that it is, for it couldn't be him— because there was something else in him too, occupying him like a hostel. it about drives him mad, the voices and urges combating each other for control.

if shadowheart could take a look in his head again, as she once had upon the nautiloid, he wouldn't blame her for taking off screaming into the night; bale damn near wishes he could do it himself, but something keeps him anchored here— to this place— to these people— and it's much more than the worm.