[ It seems as if every place they look for a cure turns up nothing more than a dead end, or another elaborate goose chase. If Shadowheart's patience is strained, she schools herself so she doesn't show it: even if she is (cautiously, slowly) coming to trust Tav, it's always wiser to keep a certain degree of distance.
Some of their company fare better at keeping things arms' length than others. Wyll is determined to be friends, for some reason; Astarion practices lines on her, likely hoping for a midnight nibble.
And then there's Gale. Shadowheart thinks she has the measure of him: eager to please, eager to not be discarded as a liability. She convinces herself she doesn't care, one way or the other, whether he stays or walks himself deep into the Underdark to attempt to meet his end in some noble way. There are moments, though, when she lapses; when her mind takes the weak path, sees the melancholy on his face in the dying firelight, and wonders what she would do if her goddess were to discard her as Gale's did.
Shar would never, she knows. Shadowheart is her child and always walking her path, and empathy for Gale's mistakes would soften her in ways she can't afford.
They've spent the morning in a cave full of traps and smokepowder bombs. Tav doesn't want to make camp yet, early as it is, so they stop for a short rest at the cave mouth, a clear stream flowing through the woods beyond it. It's pretty--could be peaceful, if not for the very real possibility of a goblin ambush.
Gale caught the worst of the shrapnel. The others are searching the cave for food and supplies, now that they've cleared it, while Shadowheart kneels beside Gale at the stream's edge, washing her medicine kit. In the heat of battle, a quick healing spell does plenty, but when it comes to anything that can splinter in the body--at worst, get stuck under the healed skin and fester--it's best to tend to things by hand, if possible.
There's a small piece of metal caught in Gale's brow that requires particular care, blood trickling over his cheekbone, narrowly missing his eye. Shadowheart's brow knits in concentration as she leans close to tweeze it with a delicate hand, smelling Gale's shaving soap beneath blood and smoke. ]
Hold still, unless you want this lodged in your pretty face forever. [ Wryly, as she holds firm fingers to his chin, and eases the metal out.
She'll need to look over his robes, too, where the fabric's been sliced through, but better to start with the face. The wound flows more freely without the metal in it, and Shadowheart dampens a cloth in the stream and presses it to Gale's brow. She doesn't meet his gaze, instead focused on his injury, voice airy, ]
Do you think your goddess is watching us, Gale? Shaking her head as you accept healing from a Sharran?
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cw mild injury description
Some of their company fare better at keeping things arms' length than others. Wyll is determined to be friends, for some reason; Astarion practices lines on her, likely hoping for a midnight nibble.
And then there's Gale. Shadowheart thinks she has the measure of him: eager to please, eager to not be discarded as a liability. She convinces herself she doesn't care, one way or the other, whether he stays or walks himself deep into the Underdark to attempt to meet his end in some noble way. There are moments, though, when she lapses; when her mind takes the weak path, sees the melancholy on his face in the dying firelight, and wonders what she would do if her goddess were to discard her as Gale's did.
Shar would never, she knows. Shadowheart is her child and always walking her path, and empathy for Gale's mistakes would soften her in ways she can't afford.
They've spent the morning in a cave full of traps and smokepowder bombs. Tav doesn't want to make camp yet, early as it is, so they stop for a short rest at the cave mouth, a clear stream flowing through the woods beyond it. It's pretty--could be peaceful, if not for the very real possibility of a goblin ambush.
Gale caught the worst of the shrapnel. The others are searching the cave for food and supplies, now that they've cleared it, while Shadowheart kneels beside Gale at the stream's edge, washing her medicine kit. In the heat of battle, a quick healing spell does plenty, but when it comes to anything that can splinter in the body--at worst, get stuck under the healed skin and fester--it's best to tend to things by hand, if possible.
There's a small piece of metal caught in Gale's brow that requires particular care, blood trickling over his cheekbone, narrowly missing his eye. Shadowheart's brow knits in concentration as she leans close to tweeze it with a delicate hand, smelling Gale's shaving soap beneath blood and smoke. ]
Hold still, unless you want this lodged in your pretty face forever. [ Wryly, as she holds firm fingers to his chin, and eases the metal out.
She'll need to look over his robes, too, where the fabric's been sliced through, but better to start with the face. The wound flows more freely without the metal in it, and Shadowheart dampens a cloth in the stream and presses it to Gale's brow. She doesn't meet his gaze, instead focused on his injury, voice airy, ]
Do you think your goddess is watching us, Gale? Shaking her head as you accept healing from a Sharran?