#﹛ ✱ ﹜ ...⠀𝒊𝒄‚⠀／⠀thread reply.

[bladewarde]

Laera's skepticism is writ across her face in a quirked brow, brown eyes knowing the very signs of fidgeting that she herself possesses. In the days past, Laera hasn't made much of an effort to talk to Eira beyond the usual pleasantry. A nod of acknowledgement, a quiet 'Morning,'; she seems reserved, more so than what's normally expected when a group of strangers are forced to entrust their lives to each other… Laera, however, attempts to make an effort this day.

❝ Your 'air burnt? ❞ The fighter asks, the pitch in her voice revealing her horror and morbid curiosity. She can't quite fathom how something like that could happen, but before she gets too ahead of herself, she poses a question: ❝ Mind if I sit? ❞

Despite asking, Laera doesn't wait for a response. Her movements are stiff, her body aching from the effects of recent combat, and she sits with a small groan. If Laera has something to say, she doesn't immediately respond, her hands wrapping around bent knees as she curiously stares at the subject of their conversation. ❝ …I don't think it's silly. ❞ She points to her own head, her own braids falling out, ❝ It might not look it, but I understand 'ow important a person's 'air can be. I was never allowed to wear mine 'ow I wanted growing up, so… I get it. All that to say, I think it's nice. ❞

@seluniite / cont.

[cadeaton]

her demeanor doesn't throw him off, nor does her lingering gaze.⠀the sudden shift from silence to conversation doesn't make him uneasy either.⠀in fact, it does the opposite.⠀she's caught his attention and a part of him is found wishing it never happened, though.⠀( it's easier to be alone. that much is true, yes, but suffering alone is never a good thing. )⠀at the question of his name, he cannot help how a chuckle passes out of his throat.⠀arms cross over his chest.⠀ “ Cade is my name, that's right. Cade Eaton. nice to meet you. ”⠀ a hand would be given if he felt like it, but he doesn't.⠀or maybe he just doesn't want to feel how soft her hands might be.⠀a shake of the head occurs as a more serious expression passes over his features.⠀ “ I'm not tryin' to overanalyze you, I just- ”⠀ a pause ensues as he sinks his teeth down into his lower lip.⠀a sigh occurs as he releases his bottom digit.⠀ “ You shouldn't be out here in the cold. ”⠀ Cade removes the jacket from off of his back before he's sliding it over the woman's shoulders.⠀ “ You're new here. You keep to yourself, but your eyes say somethin' I can't quite make out. Where did you come from? ”

“the look on your face says there’s more on your mind.” // @cadeaton.

normally, she was the one doing the reading. it came with the job. most people didn’t wander into a bar because life was treating them kindly—it was usually the opposite. they came to nurse heartaches, regrets, quiet defeats. maria had long since learned how to recognize the signs. she was good at it, too. a steady presence behind the counter—sometimes a gentle listener, sometimes a guiding voice, and often, just a quiet comfort in the periphery. a kind of light in the thick of other people’s darkness. but tonight felt different. the man across from her had this way of observing hidden parts that made her skin prickle. not in discomfort, but something… adjacent to it. she felt seen. not in that fleeting, flirtatious way she was used to brushing off, but truly SEEN, like someone peeling back the layers she worked so hard to keep intact. and she hated how easily it was happening. a few years into a new life, new state, [ even—smiling through the ruin of everything she once had ] and yet, this stranger, this man with the quiet eyes and sharp perception, was seeing right through the practiced ease of her demeanor. it was unsettling. disarming. still, she played her part, let the rhythm of the moment guide her, even as her heart tightened beneath the surface. “s’that so?” she asked, brow arching with playful defiance as the faintest ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. she slowed the motion of wiping the bar, leaning just a bit closer across the worn wood between them, the cloth in her hand suddenly forgotten. “tell me, cade… that is your name, right?” she teased, voice light but edged with INTRIGUE. “do you always make a habit of overanalyzing strangers, or am i just one of the lucky ones who happened to catch your eye tonight?” it was flirtation, sure. but beneath it [ behind the honeyed tone and effortless charm ] something else flickered. something raw. those soft honey eyes, no matter how cleverly masked, still carried the ache of truths too painful to speak aloud. and though she smiled, it didn’t quite reach the parts of her that mattered.

[bladewarde]

❝ I’m eager to get a move on from ‘ere… I dunno how much longer I can take wanderin’ these hills, but – ❞ She pauses, thumbs tapping together, choosing her words carefully as to avoid sharing too much, ❝ going back to the Gate doesn’t hold as much of a desire for me as it once did. Bein’ away made me realise how little there was actually keepin’ me there. ❞

open; mutuals only.

[cadeaton]

Cade prefers nights in at his home on the ranch.⠀somehow he's been dragged out of his comfort zone by his brothers and friends.⠀the scowl on his mouth is not ignored;⠀his younger brother Rhett often telling him to smile.⠀the comment is followed by laughter from the one having said it, but not by Cade.⠀excusing himself, the man finds himself out of the bar.⠀the stars shine in the night sky as he exhales a breath.⠀and then, someone's presence makes his eyes blink to where she stands.⠀a shake of the head occurs.⠀ “ nah, don't worry about it. ”⠀ a shrug is given.⠀ “ smoking doesn't bother me, as long as it's not inside my house or anywhere near my child. ”

SC// @cadeaton

she’d  almost  convinced  herself  she  could  relax.  movement  was  good  for  the  soul,  she  heard.  something  new,  something  fun  with  friends,  and  bless  them  for  existing  inside  the  frame  of  society  when  she  stood  on  the  edge.  witness  to  joy  as  they  all  held  out  their  hands  to  welcome  her  in.  but  it  was  too  crowded,  too  rowdy,  too  inside  her  own  skin,  and  no  ounce  of  whisky  could  keep  her  from  watching  every  exit.  she  excused  herself  into  the  night,  taking  in  fresh  air  with  nowhere  to  go  so  she  indulges  in  a  rarity.  the  first  inhale  of  smoke  catches  not  alone,  hold  it  together, and  she  exhales  smoke  far  from  him.  ❛  shit,  sorry.  ❜  offending  cigarette  held  out  and  away.  ❛  that's  how  often  i  smoke,  forgot  decorum.  ❜

[bladewarde]

Laera listens with genuine interest as Lae'zel recounts life on K'liir and the very things that made it a home to her. Throughout their journey and with such fondness, Lae'zel would often speak on the trainings she endured; the lectures she sharpened her mind with; and the cutthroat nature of what it meant to survive as one among many within the crèche. There were several nights where the githyanki would entertain her many curiosities, and together, they'd sit in the opening of her pitched tent, surrounded by stuffed mountings and the trappings of a warrior, weaving tales of might and mettle. Laera notices it then, as Lae'zel speaks — the reverence she holds for her home wrapped around the words she speaks — and in response, the fighter smiles.

Quiet, she listens, her gaze traveling from Lae'zel's to the bottle she so pointedly fumes at. ❝ You pay the 500 for the surprise! Don't you know? ❞ Her shoulder connects with Lae'zel's in a gentle nudge, backing away to look at the shelves herself as she marvels at the reasoning behind such absurdity. ❝ Drink a potion worth 500 gold and become the strongest person in Faerûn for a day… or endure 'aving your insides knot around your spine. ❞

The thought makes her grimace, and Laera is quietly relieved to see the mystery potion put back on its shelf. Behind Lae'zel, she follows, tempted to purchase any one of the odd potions, tomes, or questionable stones, but given the lowly state of her shared coinpurse with Astarion, she refrains. ❝ On K'liir, do you ever run out of things like materials or food? You talk of K'liir like it never experiences 'ardship; like everything you could ever want is already there. It sounds… nice, other than the brutalistic upbringing you endured. ❞ Laera believes she knows Lae'zel well enough as not to offend with her words. In fact, the ruthlessness of githyanki upbringing was something the warrior credited for her many prowesses; merely surviving through the many trials of githyanki childhood was a strength unto itself. ❝ Do you think once Vlaakith is gone… githyanki will lighten their touch a wee bit? On everyone, I mean. ❞

you don’t believe in luck but you are compelled to think fate permitted you some semblance of good fortune after your streak of failures since living on toril. the indescribable delight in your chest bleeding into a grin–long-lost for two months–like a bear emerging from its den after a decade of hibernation ; however, it's more sentimental than that, like something lost had been found. you were quick to recount your ventures to the couple and equally eager to invite them out on your errands. of course, astarion's vampiric dilemma still posed an issue, so laera gladly tags along with you the next morning, acting you as a tour guide of sorts through the upper city, the part of baldur's gate you have yet to visit for yourself.

in your hand rests a bottle full of swamp green liquid. an ordinary bottle with no label : no sharp edges, no ornamentation protruding from its glass sides — simply a cork top, a smooth transparent exterior, and a sign saying 'surprise potion for 500gp.' what kind of substance is this? consumables of similar visages filter through your memory palace... only to come up naught.

laera's joke pries you from this mystery. head turning to verify her presence and not some stranger breathing down your neck. her curious question captivates you, if anything to distract you from this horrendously coloured drink. although your gaze turns to blankly examining over-familiar features of the object in your hand, you’re processing her question — vague recollections coming to you, slowly, of what your crèche even had.

“ k’liir is no city, laera... ” an answer most obvious. k'liir is a crèche, a hatchery, a training ground. you’ve mentioned this before, no? bemused, you continue : “ much like astarion's residence is no shop. everything and nothing is shared on k’liir. books and slates in the library, training dummies in the training rooms are shared. weapons and armor only designated and sometimes chosen by the hatchlings when they start training. take another’s weapon or armor and, well, [ a fond, sly smile ], your possessions are no longer yours. i suppose there is a policy similar to "break it and buy it" : if you destroy a training dummy, you make a new one. ”

you lift up the potion for your friend to see. “ this is a load of horseshite — 500 gold pieces for a mystery potion?! who’d be stupid enough to buy this rubbish? ” one last deserving scowl. fingers gingerly return the product to its rightful place – on the shelf. “ concoct your own brew of unidentified ingredients and be liable for your own ill fortune. ” and one last comment.

holding tightly to your person is a cloth bag. what sounds like glass inside lightly clinks together becoming more pronounced as you walk to the next aisle.