Chapter Text
It is a bright, beautiful summer’s morning in the wilderness of the Heartlands. Even Shadowheart, who favors darkness over light, must admit that this lush greenery and fresh air is exactly the kind that a bard or just poetically inclined individual would claim capable of melting any shadow of worry from even the weariest mind.
If only she and her companions had not had so much in their minds as well as on them, as Tav might have put it.
Still, it has been a good morning so far. Tav has told Lae’zel to remain in camp and stand guard, a decision the githyanki clearly resented. Which, of course, made Shadowheart appreciate it all the more. And here she is now, trotting a lovely forest path, blessedly free of the insufferable gith’s company, while Lae’zel is left to stew in camp with the dog. It truly is a lovely day.
“Something pleasant on your mind, darling?”
It takes Shadowheart all her self-discipline not to jerk as Astarion’s voice winds its way silkily into her ear from a point just over her shoulder. Keeping her smile in an iron vice, she turns to face the pale elf.
“Perhaps.” Shadowheart matches his tone effortlessly, mischievous with just a touch of flirtation. “I think I will keep my thoughts to myself, though, unless you have something worthwhile to trade with?”
It is easy, masking her annoyance with banter. In truth, Shadowheart is equally frustrated with Astarion and with herself; him for catching her off guard again and her for letting him. The rogue is always sneaking around like a damn cat, startling people with his sudden appearances, and while Gale has been taking the brunt of Astarion’s attention, Shadowheart is rapidly nearing the end of her patience.
Not that the elf would ever be able to tell given how well she habitually hides her true feelings. Perhaps if he had realized just how irritated she actually is, Astarion would not sound quite as impishly gleeful when he tells her, “Oh, I don’t need to trade, my dear. Picking someone’s brain is no more difficult than picking a lock.”
Quirking an eyebrow, Shadowheart gives him an incredulous glare.
“No no, bear with me.” Touching long, slender fingers to his forehead in imitation of a corny medium doing a fortunetelling, Astarion closes his eyes, waving his other hand in her direction. “You are … enjoying the quiet. The darkness. The isolation from any secular distractions. How am I doing?”
Ears abuzz with the sound of rustling leaves and warbling birds, brilliantly bathed in summer sunlight, and ten paces removed from Tav, Wyll, and Gale at most, Shadowheart narrows her eyes dangerously, smile never faltering in the face of Astarion’s mockery.
Blades out, is it? Well, she is game if he wants to play.
“I am simply enjoying a day’s reprieve from the grumblings of a certain grouchy githyanki,” she informs him cheerfully. “A most agreeable absence. She usually sets my teeth on edge.”
Clicking his tongue in understanding, Astarion nods. “I may have noticed a somewhat … lingering tension between you and Lae’zel,” he allows, giving Shadowheart a sly smile. “Nothing I’m sure the two of you couldn’t work out over a few hours some night when the rest of us have gone to sleep, though.”
“I find her to be perfectly insufferable,” Shadowheart retorts blithely. “Though perhaps not nearly so great a pain in my neck as your attempts to get a rise out of me. Or worse; your flirting.”
He presses spread fingers to his chest as if hurt by her words, eyes widening dramatically with feigned indignation. “Darling, I’m just making conversation,” Astarion assures her with an easy, practiced smile. “If I was attempting to flirt with you, I would be bringing you flowers rather than merely comparing you to one.”
“Would you now?” she demands playfully. “Then pray tell, Astarion; what bloom would you have brought me? A bleeding heart?”
He scoffs, waving a pale hand dismissively towards the vanguard of their little group. “Please. Our fearless leader is all the bloody bleeding heart we need. I was thinking a classic like roses.”
“How original, much like your previous pickup line,” she teases, tone as light as her steps. “It’s a good thing you aren’t trying to seduce me. You would be biting off more than you could chew.”
Astarion smirks at that, raising an eyebrow suggestively. “Consider yourself a handful, do you?”
“And a delightful one at that,” Shadowheart confirms without a shred of humility. “But considering what’s at stake, it would seem unwise to let ourselves be distracted by matters of lust ... Lest the goblins around these parts unexpectedly get the drop on us and kill us in cold blood.”
His ruby eyes narrow ever so slightly at that. Perhaps he is finally catching on, she thinks, offering the pale elf a beatific smile. Then, Astarion seems to shake off whatever unease her phrasing has caused him, his air and tone as purposefully flippant as ever.
“As if those filthy little beasts could ever sneak up on us.” The rogue makes an exaggerated grimace, scrunching up his regal nose. “We’d be able to sense them approach by smell alone even if they somehow managed to keep quiet and out of sight.”
Shadowheart hums cheerfully in agreement, her eyes following the flight of a goldcrest as the bird flitters from branch to branch above them. “Not that I hold goblins in any higher regard than you,” she grants, “but they do fight tooth and nail.” She goes on, adding the barest pressure to the last word of each sentence now, like prodding at a bruise. “The one with the worg companions was certainly not all bark and no bite. We shouldn’t underestimate their situational deadliness even if their intelligence is less than full-blooded.”
That seems to do it. If the color could drain from Astarion’s face, she is fairly certain that it would at this point. Her smile, equal part congenial and coy, never faltering, Shadowheart watches out of the corner of her eye as her companion’s mask of raffish joviality slips for just a moment, fear flashing across his handsome features like a burst of lightning.
“Hm, quite.” It takes Astarion less than the space of a heartbeat to recover that rakish smile and the carefree lilt of his voice, but Shadowheart feels the tension now coiled in her companion’s shoulders; notices the way his hands deliberately stay well away from the hilts of his daggers. “Well, I should scout ahead then! Make sure we avoid any inadequate ambush the little wretches might have arranged.”
“Very sensible of you.” Shadowheart herself has no problem maintaining the pleasant pitch of her tone or the twinkle in her eyes. After all, her merriment is very much genuine now that she has the upper hand. “Do make sure to go straight for the throat if you come across any scouts. Pathetic though they may be, these bloodthirsty little pests deserve neither pity nor mercy.”
He makes no verbal reply to that, only dips into a theatrical half-bow like a gentleman taking his leave of a lady. Then the rogue is off, flittering away between the trees as soundlessly as the golden-green sunlight filtering through the foliage.
Humming contently to herself, a spring in her step, Shadowheart once more allows herself to enjoy the pleasant surroundings. There is something almost familiar about these woods outside the Blighted Village, something that tugs at feelings deeply buried within the dark soil of her mind. It shimmers at the edge of her consciousness like dappled sunlight; an almost childlike excitement to explore. The scent of wildflowers and the taste of raspberries, the bubbling of a brook …
“’Cold blood’? ‘Tooth and nail’?”
The sound of Gale’s voice drags Shadowheart back to the present, those remnants of recollection slipping back into the void like pebbles lost to the depths of a lightless pond.
“You know, for a cleric of Shar you aren’t exactly being subtle,” the wizard goes on, catching up to fall into step beside Shadowheart.
She shakes her head once before turning it towards him. “That is precisely the point, Gale.” Shadowheart’s tone is light, almost playful. She makes no acknowledgement of his mention of her Dark Lady, since it is not terribly surprising that a man as learned as Gale would recognize the religious emblem adorning her armor. “There is nothing subtle at all about Astarion’s condition, and his insistence on keeping it ‘secret’ is, quite frankly, embarrassing.”
“I see.” There is a touch of skepticism to Gale’s voice, a hint of concern. “So you are going to keep bullying the poor man until either our trusting companions finally catch on or Astarion decides to share his circumstances willingly?”
“I am going to keep bullying him for as long as it remains amusing,” Shadowheart replies sweetly.
Gale’s brows are knitted into a slight frown. “Or until he snaps, and you wind up with a set of fangs in your throat.”
“Please.” She scoffs, unconcerned. “The vampire is delusional, not stupid. He wouldn’t dare.”
“People do desperate things when they are backed into corners. And he has seemed somewhat hangry as of late.”
Shadowheart wonders if Gale is aware that his knuckles are turning white as he grips his staff more tightly. There is something about Gale’s choice of words, his understanding, that almost gives Shadowheart the impression that the wizard’s concern for the vampire stems from more than mere empathy. Identification perhaps?
She shrugs, letting it go. Gale’s secrets are not the ones with which she is presently concerned. “All the more reason Astarion should stop pussyfooting around and just tell us about his ‘special dietary needs’. I’m sure we could find a goblin or bandit for him to snack on.”
This suggestion turns Gale’s little frown into an expression of mild surprise as his eyebrows rise. He seems pleased, almost relieved, to find that Shadowheart is not merely toying with their vampiric companion but rather means to help him.
“He won’t appreciate being pushed,” Gale points out anyway.
“And I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark,” she snipes back. “Well, I do like the dark … But you know what I mean.”
Nodding, Gale glances thoughtfully towards the two figures making up the frontline of their little troupe. Judging by Wyll’s animated gestures, he is either casting a spell or regaling Tav with some tale or other from his past life of adventuring. Considering how aptly the Blade of Frontiers is keeping Tav’s rapt attention, it seems to be the latter.
“I imagine the more heroic members of our merry band might also have some thoughts to spare on the subject of camping with a vampire,” Gale muses. “However, seeing how Tav has yet to react to any of the astoundingly noticeable evidence before us or your increasingly obvious jabs at our pale friend ...”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath while we’re waiting for them to figure it out,” Shadowheart agrees, contemplation filling her gaze as it follows Gale’s. “Though I admit I am rather curious as to why Wyll hasn’t caught on yet.”
“His extensive knowledge of monsters may be working against him,” Gale suggests rationally. “The Blade is blinded by the light, so to speak; unable to fathom a vampire walking freely beneath the sun.”
That makes sense, Shadowheart supposes. But here is an opportunity to take a dig at her least favorite campmate as well, even though said grumpy gith is well out of earshot.
“And what is Lae’zel’s excuse? Apart from her stubbornly singular focus on locating that crèche of hers, of course.”
Chuckling, Gale seems to realize what Shadowheart is doing at once. He does not, however, accept her unspoken encouragement to badmouth Lae’zel. “Our gith friend probably knows too little of this ‘green pebble’ of ours to recognize the signs,” Gale ventures with a little smile. “Obvious though they may be.”
“So our pallid companion remains safe for the time being,” Shadowheart concludes.
“From the blades of our compatriots, yes. Not from your verbal barbs.”
A single silvery note of laughter escapes Shadowheart. It feels good to have someone not only on her side, but who also shares her insight at least in this particular case. She supposes arcane and religious knowledge of the undead does overlap, but it has galled her just a little that so far everyone else have seemed completely blind to the evidence of Astarion’s vampirism.
“You know, Gale,” Shadowheart suggests with a slow smirk, “there is no reason that you should limit yourself to observing my fun.”
“Oh?” The wizard catches on at once as is his wont. It takes him only a moment to consider the offer and reply with a smile of his own. “Well, far be it from me to turn down a lady’s most gracious invitation to join a party! Are there any rules I should observe? Are we limited to puns or are material gags including props like garlic or red wine also acceptable?”
Such a sweet and dorky response. Shadowheart is just about to laugh again when a shadow flickers by out of the corner of her eye a mere moment before Astarion rejoins the party, returned from his reconnaissance. The rogue exchanges a few brief words with Tav and Wyll before throwing a cautious look over his shoulder towards Shadowheart and Gale.
She can almost see the wheels turning behind those crimson eyes as he wonders whether he may have overinterpreted and overreacted to her words before. Leaning in closer to Gale, Shadowheart flashes Astarion a bright smile as she whispers to the wizard:
“Every pun awards a point. Loser forks over their best bottle of wine tonight.”
“Acceptable terms.” Gale grins. “Fair warning though; I have a way with words and a remarkable tolerance for terrible witticisms.”
The sight of them putting their heads together in this manner seems to tip Astarion’s caution into curiosity. Eye narrowing, he lets Tav and Wyll continue on their own before falling into step beside the spellcasters.
“The road to the Sunlit Wetlands is mostly clear ahead,” Astarion informs them primly. “Safe enough for old ladies to travel on their own, it seems, so we should be more than fine.”
“Fang-tastic news!” Gale beams. “This neck of the Wilderness does indeed seem more peaceful than most others. Why, I wouldn’t bat an eye if we were to learn it was safe to travel even in the dead of night.”
She is going to lose this new game badly, isn’t she? As Astarion gives Gale a wary side-eye before hastily rejoining Tav and Wyll, Shadowheart lets out a soft sigh.
“I can see you weren’t lying about those terrible puns,” she concedes. “Underestimating the verbosity of a wizard was my mistake, I suppose.”
“Your mi-stake, surely,” Gale corrects her happily. “Or mist-ake? True vampires can turn into mist, you know. Would that count even though our pale friend remains a mere vampire spawn?”
“You only get points for the puns directed at Astarion.”
“Fair enough. Then that one was for my own amusement.”
“Delightful.” She smiles, gesturing gracefully towards the rest of their companions. “Shall we join the others?”
“Certainly.”