[ Finally, Shadowheart has come to the last rest before she meets her goddess in this ruined temple beneath the Thorm Mausoleum. It's fitting, that she doesn't remember her dreams, if she dreamt at all: only patches of shadow, pockets of inky black swim behind her eyelids as she's pulled from deep sleep.
That's the only thing that feels right, when she wakes. The air itself is wrong, not smelling of dark magic or crumbling stone or even the cloying sphere of SelΓ»nite protection that permeates the Last Light.
And Shadowheart isn't alone. It's Gale she notices, first: impossible not to, when she wakes nearly face-to-face with him, his face peaceful in sleep. She gingerly pushes herself up on her pillow, and a little back to get a better look, though she'll tumble off the edge if she moves too far--because it's not only her and Gale, taking up space in this bed. Just there, Astarion's pale curls on the pillow, his face tucked against the nape of Gale's neck, an arm slung around him in sleep.
The panic that curls in her belly is less to do with her bedmates than the wrongness of the setting. Last she remembers--hazy enough, to be sure--they'd all gone to sleep on their bedrolls by the fire. Shadowheart had been deep in prayer most of last night; did she drink? Does she just not remember?
Her hair is loose, and she wears one of her comfortable linen nightgowns. None of them are nude, but she can't be entirely sure what happened, as her gaze sweeps the room: a strange white powder on the nightstand, accompanied by a fine layer of dust, none of her personal effects readily visible.
With the curtains drawn, Shadowheart doesn't even know how to orient herself in time, until she catches the sliver of dawn light through the gap in them. If this is a test from Lady Shar, she fears she may already be failing. ]
CLOSED β gale & astarion
That's the only thing that feels right, when she wakes. The air itself is wrong, not smelling of dark magic or crumbling stone or even the cloying sphere of SelΓ»nite protection that permeates the Last Light.
And Shadowheart isn't alone. It's Gale she notices, first: impossible not to, when she wakes nearly face-to-face with him, his face peaceful in sleep. She gingerly pushes herself up on her pillow, and a little back to get a better look, though she'll tumble off the edge if she moves too far--because it's not only her and Gale, taking up space in this bed. Just there, Astarion's pale curls on the pillow, his face tucked against the nape of Gale's neck, an arm slung around him in sleep.
The panic that curls in her belly is less to do with her bedmates than the wrongness of the setting. Last she remembers--hazy enough, to be sure--they'd all gone to sleep on their bedrolls by the fire. Shadowheart had been deep in prayer most of last night; did she drink? Does she just not remember?
Her hair is loose, and she wears one of her comfortable linen nightgowns. None of them are nude, but she can't be entirely sure what happened, as her gaze sweeps the room: a strange white powder on the nightstand, accompanied by a fine layer of dust, none of her personal effects readily visible.
With the curtains drawn, Shadowheart doesn't even know how to orient herself in time, until she catches the sliver of dawn light through the gap in them. If this is a test from Lady Shar, she fears she may already be failing. ]