thirsted | SALTBURNT

I am like to distrust any god, after seeing how our party has suffered in the care of divine hands.

[ Growth. ]

I cannot condone his glib insouciance, yet — I see how his kind may become numbed to the squabbles of humanity, however bloody and cruel. The gods are rarely moved by the agony of those below them. They observe us from too great a remove, I think.

(Though mayhaps I speak too wishfully, in the hope that the one who forsook me could never have been moved by my plight, nor any other, rather than accept the fact of my unworthiness, in her eyes.)

And so, in this instance, I’m inclined to believe he speaks true.

[ There's perhaps more to say, on the topic of gods — the sheer number of prayers he sent, over two centuries, into utter silence and indifference — but it's the last part of the message that stills Astarion's fingers.

If it's him—

No. He'd have said something already. Surely. Or kept it from him, even, to try to protect him.

A moment passes. ]

Will you tell me?

Of course. I trust you, as I trust no other.

[ It doesn’t occur to him to doubt Astarion, no more than it did Mystra, the whole of his life.

And so, ]

He was one of our necromancers. The previous round, he asked the Lady Peony after her killer. She indicated it was a member of the Hearts. He shared this information with Misty Quigley alone, who asked he tell no other.

His information presumably led to her studied performance in the case against Devon.

[ typing as he thinks, putting select pieces together and setting others aside. ]

Peony, whose death Ren suggested came at the hands of one of the girls, with two of them on Hearts.
That does narrow the field considerably.

I'd ask why Set didn't speak up, when the trials began, but I can't claim to know the mind of a god, let alone a dead one.
But Quigley can't be allowed to keep lying.

And if Set saw true ... well.
Setting aside the Yellowjackets of it all, do you believe any others on your team prone to trophyhunting?

Apparently Danny Johnson rather likes his trophies, and his paramours remain in our number, but the connection seems a tad tenuous.

I would rule out: Alia, Ash, Cellar, Iggy, Tim, Lestat, Louis, Paul, Peony, Steve.

There’s more: Those who saw inside the girls’ memories witnessed ritualistic behaviour in which they cut the hair of their dead and pinned it to a figurehead, of sorts. I could not presume to know what they endured, in the wilderness. Unimaginable horrors, to be sure.

And yet it seems you were right, about not assuming their innocence.

For once, I wish I weren't.

[ He reads over the list again, feeling an unhappy twist in his gut as he counts four among them as dead. For a long moment, he types and deletes, stacking up clues and theories before finally deciding to take the bluntest route possible. ]

You believe it to be Mel or Shauna.

The hair wasn't found, last round, even after they searched the girls' things. But someone must have it.

I know Mel to be innocent, just as I know myself to be.

And so only Shauna Shipman remains.

[ one wolf of at least five identified. ]

The accusations will add to their pain, Astarion, when they should have no more of it.

[ It's a sudden, drastic narrowing — every other argument he's heard has been conjecture, whereas this— there's nothing to deny it. ]

And yet we can hardly avoid making the accusation, now.

What do you propose we do?

I don't know. We cannot give the girls warning, as with time at their fingertips and fear in their hearts, they managed to poison Ren.

So it is simply that we must be certain. And kind, if we can be.

[ The tide turns. Astarion watches the wave crest from his place at Gale's side, holding onto his hand until the moment Gale wades into the fray. He stays close — as close as he can, keenly aware of the rising pitch in tempers and his beloved's place in the midst of it all.

Kindness — there's little place for it, in the end, even with the best of intentions, and when Gale is only one part of a larger puzzle.

His fingers slip back into Gale's, when the wizard finally steps away, leading him not away from the fray but at least to its perimeter. This isn't the end of it — can't be, when there's time left before the votes are counted — but it's enough for the moment. ]

[ For Gale, even amidst the heaving throng, the rising voices — there is no other in the room. It is Astarion he finds, always, both when he succeeds in sharpening a point and when he hesitates to land a proverbial blow. The girls’ obvious care for each other, and the resultant pain of the accusation, trouble him more than any argument. Melissa’s exit, in particular, stills him.

But he watches her go, and finds his turmoil eased by something as simple as a hand in his. It will be harder, as the night goes on, but he takes comfort in the one he knows to be true, above all others. ]

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