[ Bosky leaps at the invitation, butting his forehead into the slack of Astarion's fingers — there's no crumb of affection the beast turns away when it's offered, though he has, at least, gotten better at chewing on fingers. (At almost hip-height, nobody had thought the habit particularly reassuring. Save, of course, Laezel.)
Tav smiles. Patient, less and less pink than she'd been in the beginning, when she'd thought Astarion beautiful but strange, like the last bird of its kind. A sweet song, but hard to understand — made for someone, but not her. She follows his line of sight for a moment, taking another cursory glance around. Only campfire smoke, the shudder of wind through trees; she cocks her head, as if truly straining to listen. And then, cheeks bunching upwards, ]
Just you, I think.
[ She likes a tidy camp. Everything has its place. The fire flickers, casting soft shadows over a nearby bedroll, a small quiver of arrows; a bowl of wispweed, a stone mortar and pestle, a scent that still lingers under the edge of her nails. Tav hesitates for half-a-step, the way she does when she has something to say, brows twisting into some unnameable, careful expression. ]
Do you need to eat, before?
[ It feels very terrible, and frequently so, that she can't look after his needs well. None of them ask, beyond those moments when past ghosts start to nip at their heels. But she can hardly offer Astarion anything as easily as an apple: an odd book, perhaps, or a shining, pearlescent comb, but nothing sustains as well as Have you eaten?, and considering what he needs to fulfil that question.
She does try to offer, anyway. Twice a week, like clockwork. ]
me and ladies who have a lot banking on animal imagery 🤝 your fancy lads
Tav smiles. Patient, less and less pink than she'd been in the beginning, when she'd thought Astarion beautiful but strange, like the last bird of its kind. A sweet song, but hard to understand — made for someone, but not her. She follows his line of sight for a moment, taking another cursory glance around. Only campfire smoke, the shudder of wind through trees; she cocks her head, as if truly straining to listen. And then, cheeks bunching upwards, ]
Just you, I think.
[ She likes a tidy camp. Everything has its place. The fire flickers, casting soft shadows over a nearby bedroll, a small quiver of arrows; a bowl of wispweed, a stone mortar and pestle, a scent that still lingers under the edge of her nails. Tav hesitates for half-a-step, the way she does when she has something to say, brows twisting into some unnameable, careful expression. ]
Do you need to eat, before?
[ It feels very terrible, and frequently so, that she can't look after his needs well. None of them ask, beyond those moments when past ghosts start to nip at their heels. But she can hardly offer Astarion anything as easily as an apple: an odd book, perhaps, or a shining, pearlescent comb, but nothing sustains as well as Have you eaten?, and considering what he needs to fulfil that question.
She does try to offer, anyway. Twice a week, like clockwork. ]