Astarion raised his eyebrow at the term Ishta had just used to describe him, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. He found he quite liked the idea of being considered a Rogue. However, he hesitated when looking at the hand she was offering to him, his mind racing with uncertainty. Should he shake it? His skin wasn't quite as cold as a corpse—a ridiculous exaggeration fuelled by fictional accounts of Vampires—but his body temperature was still low enough to cause comment, and had on more than one occasion. Given how sharp this Ranger was, Astarion didn't want to add to her growing list of observations about him. He was just thankful the collar of his padded doublet was high enough to cover the fang marks on his neck. He glanced at her face, noting the sincerity in her eyes, and felt a pang of guilt at his hesitation.
Before he could make a decision, a deafening explosion suddenly rocked the chamber, causing both him and Ishta to whip their heads around in alarm toward the source of the blast. The ground trembled beneath their feet, and dust rained down from the ancient stone ceiling.
Gale and Shadowheart came shooting out from the large oak doors at the opposite end of the crypt, their faces contorted in panic as they practically fell over each other in a desperate attempt to escape the wall of fire that was nipping at their heels. Ishta's eyes widened, and without a second thought, she sprinted to help them, her boots echoing against the stone floor.
As Ishta struggled to close the heavy doors behind them, Astarion caught a glimpse of another crypt with a sarcophagus in the centre, completely engulfed in flames. He sniggered to himself as he realized they must have set off a trap meant to dissuade any would-be grave robbers. His amusement was cut short, however, as he saw the tension in Ishta's posture. She must have had the same thought, as she turned on the slightly singed pair with a stern glare, her cheeks flushed with a mix of anger and relief.
"I take it neither of you thought to check for traps before you did whatever you did back there?" Ishta asked through gritted teeth, her voice low and dangerous. Her eyes flashed with a mix of anger and concern, and Astarion could see the tension in her clenched jaw.
Gale ran a hand through his singed hair, his face a mask of chagrin. "I'm afraid that was my doing," he admitted, his voice heavy with regret. He avoided her gaze, clearly embarrassed. "I got a little too engrossed in studying the text on the sarcophagus, and may have nudged something I shouldn't have."
Shadowheart, still catching her breath, shot him a withering look. Her eyes burned with frustration. "A little engrossed? You nearly got us killed!" she snapped.
Ishta, her anger slowly ebbing, let out a sigh and rubbed her temples. Astarion noticed the lines of worry on her forehead. "Alright, let's just be more careful from now on," she said, her voice softening slightly as she added, "And rule number one of crypts and dungeons: There are always traps."
"Duly noted," Gale nodded, looking abashed. "I didn't really get much opportunity to go dungeon delving in the course of my studies. I'm more used to dealing with deterrents of an arcane nature. If that inferno had been a magical trap, I'm certain I would have detected it and saved myself a light roasting."
"No doubt," Astarion sneered sarcastically at the Wizard as he sauntered over to join them.
"What are you doing, Ishta?" Shadowheart suddenly asked, her voice tinged with curiosity and concern.
Astarion turned to see Ishta standing with her hand on the doors leading into the burning crypt. She threw them open, and he took an involuntary step back as the heat from the gouts of flame blasted out, hitting his face like a furnace. Standing silhouetted against the blinding orange and yellow light, with her head tilted tilted to the side, she observed the interior. Swallowing down his initial fear, Astarion walked over and stood beside her, noting the intense scrutiny she was giving the room.
After watching in silence for a few minutes, he figured out that the initial explosion was part of a sequence of events happening continuously. Bolts of flame were being fired from somewhere behind a row of pillars on either side of the sarcophagus, crisscrossing above it. Every tenth pass they would pause as vents in the floor of the room spouted pools of greasy liquid. The firebolts would then resume and sparks falling from them ignited the grease, resulting in a spectacular explosion. Astarion glanced at Ishta and saw her lips moving silently, realizing with some alarm that she was counting out the timing of the chain of events. His alarm grew as he saw her tense up into a crouch, her muscles coiled like springs.
"You're not seriously thinking of running into that, are you?" he uttered in disbelief, his voice barely above a whisper.
The only reply he got came in the form of a low chuckle, before Ishta suddenly bolted forward. Astarion watched in wide-eyed amazement as she sprinted into the crypt room, her movements timed perfectly with the pause in the firebolts. Just as they were about to resume, she reached one of the pillars and slammed her hand down on a button he hadn't noticed until now. Astarion exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding as the flames halted, leaving the room eerily silent.
For a moment, Astarion dared to hope that the danger had passed. Ishta wasted no time, however. She moved to the sarcophagus and, with a grunt of effort, pushed the heavy lid off. The sound of stone scraping against stone echoed through the chamber. Without a second's hesitation, she leaped into the tomb just as the firebolts resumed their deadly dance above her.
Astarion's mind raced. He had seen acts of bravery before, but this was sheer madness. His fingers twitched at his sides, wanting to help somehow, but he knew he would only get in the way. He could only watch, feeling utterly powerless as Ishta remained hidden in the sarcophagus, the flames roaring above her as the grease ignited again. The heat was intense even from where Astarion stood. He couldn't imagine what it was like inside that stone coffin. Time seemed to stretch, each second an eternity.
He saw her head peek out from her hiding place, eyes fixed on the button she had just pressed. The next time the firebolts paused, she moved with lightning speed, drawing her bow and firing an arrow with pinpoint accuracy at the button. The trap halted once more, and Ishta leapt from the sarcophagus, the motion almost graceful in its precision. She sprinted back across the room, clutching something gleaming in her hand. Astarion's astonishment grew as he realized she was holding a golden spear, its surface glinting in the firelight. She reached him just as the firebolts resumed, breathing heavily but with a triumphant glint in her eyes.
"Rule number two: Where there's traps, there's treasure," she panted breathlessly with elation, holding out the spear.
Astarion stared at her, dumfounded, his mouth hanging open slightly. "You're completely insane, aren't you?" he said slowly, struggling to keep the awe out of his voice. His mind raced, trying to comprehend the sheer audacity of her actions.
Ishta chuckled, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead and nodded. "Nutty as a fruitcake," she grinned wildly, her eyes gleaming with exhilaration and a touch of pride.
"I must say, that was an absolutely stunning display of bravery and foolhardiness," Gale remarked, his voice filled with a mix of admiration and disbelief.
"I agree, what exactly did you hope to achieve with that little stunt?" Shadowheart asked, her tone laced with annoyance.
Ishta shrugged and handed her the spear. "Thought you might like a new weapon. It's enchanted, I think," she said, a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "Now, let's go see what delights await us in the next room."
"What were you saying about delights?" Astarion complained, his voice edged with irritation, as another Ray of Frost blast hit the broken wall he and Ishta were hiding behind. Shards of ice and powdered snow rained down on them, the cold biting into their skin. Ishta brushed the frost from her shoulder and gave him a strained smile.
"You don't find undead skeleton scribes delightful?" she teased, raising an eyebrow.
"No, I bloody don't!" Astarion retorted, his eyes narrowing in frustration. "Especially not when they have us pinned down like this."
Ishta sighed, feeling the cold seeping into her bones. Her breath came out in a mist, visible in the frigid air. She risked peeking out from behind her cover, her heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and concern. The skeletal mages her team had awakened while exploring this new chamber in the crypts were relentless, their empty eye sockets seeming to mock her as they prepared another spell.
"They are certainly more formidable than the bandits. Ironic that the dead are better fighters than the living," she commented wryly.
Gale was across the crypt, his hands weaving intricate patterns as he conjured a Fireball. "Keep them off me for just a moment!" he shouted, his voice tinged with strain. Shadowheart was beside him, her newly acquired shield up as she deflected a flurry of icy shards sent their way by a skeletal mage, the force of the impact reverberating through her arm.
Ishta muttered thoughtfully, "There's got to be a way to flank them. We can't stay pinned here forever." She could feel the chill from the icy spells biting into her exposed skin, a stark contrast to the sweat trickling down her back.
Astarion glanced at her, his usual cocky demeanour tempered by the seriousness of their situation. "I'm open to suggestions," he said, his voice strained, the usual confidence giving way to urgency. "But whatever we do, we need to do it fast."
Ishta nodded, her eyes scanning the crypt for any advantage. The ancient stone pillars and scattered debris offered little in the way of cover. "Okay, on my signal, we make a break for that pillar over there," she pointed to a larger stone column a few yards away. "It'll give us better cover and a clearer shot."
"Ready when you are," Astarion replied, gripping his bow tightly, his knuckles white with tension. His eyes darted around, calculating the distance and potential threats.
Taking a deep breath, Ishta counted down, "Three, two, one, go!" They darted from their cover, moving quickly and silently. As they were about to reach the pillar, another Ray of Frost whizzed past them, narrowly missing Astarion's shoulder and impacting the stonework in front of them. The force of the blast sent shards of ice and chunks of stone spraying outward and they both turned to shield their eyes.
As they retreated behind the pillar, Ishta looked down at the fragments of ice embedded in her hands and frowned, blood mixing with the frost. "Okay, I'm getting tired of this," she said through gritted teeth, her voice laced with pain and frustration.
"Oh, are you? I'm so glad to hear that, because I was certain you wanted to draw this fight out for as long as possible," Astarion quipped sarcastically, though there was a hint of concern in his eyes as he glanced at her injuries.
Ishta glared at him, her eyes blazing with determination, and drew her scimitars. "Just cover me, alright?" she said, her voice a mix of irritation and resolve.
"Whatever you say, darling," Astarion replied, his tone light but his expression serious as he nocked another arrow, ready to provide cover fire.
Ishta raised an eyebrow at Astarion. "Call me that again and I'll introduce my boot to your arse," she warned, her eyes narrowing.
Astarion smirked but nodded, his bow at the ready. "Point taken," he said, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes despite the tension of the moment.
With a final glance to ensure Astarion was prepared, Ishta stepped out from behind the pillar, her scimitars gleaming in the dim light. She moved with a dancer's grace, darting towards the skeletal mages with deadly intent. Astarion's arrows flew past her, striking true and disrupting the mages' spells.
As Ishta closed the distance, the skeletal mages turned their attention to her, but it was too late. She slashed through the first, her scimitar cutting through bone with ease. The second mage attempted to cast another spell, but an arrow from Astarion shattered its skull before it could complete the incantation.
Without waiting, Ishta turned and headed toward the other two undead scribes who were still focused on Gale and Shadowheart. She could see Gale's Fireball spell had been interrupted by one of the mages casting Silence. Smiling grimly, she sheathed her scimitars and pulled out her bow again.
"My arrows don't need words..." she murmured, firing at the scribe advancing on Gale. To her surprise, the arrow missed its target and embedded itself in a wooden railing next to the undead.
"They do, however, require that you aim them," Astarion commented with a smirk as he came up beside her and let loose his own arrow, which flew straight and true, hitting the scribe square in the back of it's skull. It didn't stop it's advance though, the lodged arrow bouncing up and down like a bizarre headpiece.
Ishta cursed under her breath, her hands trembling from the cold and the wounds she had sustained. Blood dripped from her fingers, making it hard to maintain a steady grip. "Damn this cold," she growled, flexing her fingers in an attempt to restore some warmth and feeling. Her breath puffed out in misty clouds, each exhale a reminder of the chilling temperature.
"I don't think you're going to have that problem in a moment," Astarion said, his tone suddenly sounding alarmed and urgent. His eyes widened as he looked towards Gale.
"Everybody might want to dive for cover!" Gale's voice rang out, a note of panic clear in his voice.
Ishta and Astarion exchanged glances, their expressions mirroring a mix of urgency and understanding. Without wasting another second, they both sprinted back behind the pillar they had just left.
"Ardē!" Gale's voice echoed through the crypt with a commanding intensity.
The crypt seemed to shudder as a roiling mass of flames exploded in the midst of the skeletons. The sudden surge of heat and light momentarily overpowered the chill, casting eerie shadows against the ancient stone walls. Bones flew in every direction, the skeletons caught in the blast disintegrating into charred fragments. The smell of burnt bone and magic lingered in the air.
As the last of the skeletons fell, the crypt grew silent except for the echo of everyone's breathing. Ishta peeked out from behind the pillar, her eyes scanning the room to ensure there were no more surprises. The once ominous space was now littered with the remains of their enemies, the floor a chaotic jumble of shattered bones and scorch marks.
"Everyone alright?" Gale asked, wiping sweat from his brow as he approached, his usually neat appearance dishevelled.
"Cutting it a little close there, Gale," Ishta commented in amusement, her heart still racing from the narrow escape. "Maybe a bit more warning next time?"
Gale nodded, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. "I'll work on my timing," he replied, his voice tinged with relief.
Ishta glanced around, noticing the exhaustion etched on everyone's faces. It had been a long day for all of them, and she felt a pang of guilt for having dragged them along in the quest to sate her curiosity. The weight of responsibility settled heavily on her shoulders—she didn't enjoy the feeling.
"Well, it was certainly an invigorating way to spend an evening," Astarion remarked, his usual sarcasm back in full force as he shouldered his bow. He stretched his arms, wincing slightly as the tension eased from his muscles. "Shall we see what treasures these old bones were guarding?"
"It had better be something good," Shadowheart complained ruefully, rubbing her shield arm. The strain of battle was evident in her movements, each one slower and more deliberate than usual.
"I'm sorry I roped you into this. If you want to head back to the campsite, then I totally understand," Ishta offered, her eyes meeting Shadowheart's with a mix of regret and gratitude.
Shadowheart sighed, her expression softening slightly. "Well, we've come this far. Might as well see it through," she replied, her tone reassuring despite her weariness.
"Alright, let's see what those scribes were so intent on keeping us from," Ishta smiled with renewed purpose.
"So he has spoken, and so thou standest before me. Right as always."
Astarion nervously eyed the skeletal figure speaking and glanced at Ishta. She had drawn her scimitars the moment this new undead aberration had risen out of the sarcophagus they had found in a hidden room. Her muscles were tense, her eyes narrowed, reflecting the flickering torchlight as it remarked, "What a curious way to awaken."
There was something unnerving about the being that now stood before them, beyond the obvious fact that it was a talking skeleton—something Astarion was all too familiar with. However, this creature seemed a little more put together than his old kennel master. It's gaunt frame was covered in pale-brown, desiccated skin and despite the lack of a nose, the rest of the Undead's facial features were still very much apparent. Astarion found he couldn't look into it's eyes for very long without feeling exceedingly uncomfortable; they seemed to burn right through his skull.
It's outfit was interesting though, an odd mix of long, flowing tattered robes and bandages around it's arms and chest. It's face, arms and parts of it's collarbone were adorned with elaborate gilded strips of metal, giving the creature an almost regal look. Altogether, it created an aura of ancient wisdom that was both intriguing and disturbing.
The Undead's eyes bored into Ishta's and then flickered to the scimitars she was holding. "Dull your weapons as you wish," it intoned solemnly, with a disinterested air, its voice resonating with an unsettling calm.
Ishta slowly moved towards the being, each step deliberate and cautious. She extended one blade, resting the tip lightly against its exposed chest. It didn't flinch in the slightest and seemed completely unbothered by her actions as it informed her, "Fate has not declared mine injury. Therefore, it shall not occur."
Ishta tilted her head to the side, curiosity evident in her eyes. She studied the undead being, and Astarion could practically see her mind racing with questions and theories. Abruptly, she returned her blades to the scabbards on her back, the metallic sound echoing in the crypt.
"A peaceful undead. Interesting. Why aren't you attacking us?" Shadowheart asked, stepping forward with her shield raised, her eyes scrutinizing the skeletal figure with a mixture of wariness and curiosity.
The Undead's eyes never left Ishta's as it answered, "Because that would be senseless." Its voice carried the weight of centuries, each word measured and deliberate, echoing with an ancient wisdom.
Astarion watched Ishta smile slowly at the being, a mix of intrigue and relief washing over her features. He felt a pang of confusion, sensing he was missing something important in this exchange. His hand hovered near his dagger, ready for any sudden movements.
The Undead continued, "Now, I have a question for thee: what is the worth of a single mortal's life?" Its gaze shifted slightly, a ghostly intensity in its sunken eyes that made the air around them feel colder.
"That's quite the question," chimed in Gale, his voice thoughtful yet cautious. He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing with interest and his hand stroking his beard. "Is there a specific reason for it?"
The Undead's calm eyes flickered to the Wizard, and it slowly replied, "Curiosity. Nothing more." It turned it's attention back to Ishta, it's gaze piercing and unwavering. "Now, wilt thou answer my question?"
Ishta nodded cautiously. "Sure, ask away," she said, her voice steady but tinged with curiosity.
Astarion watched the exchange intently, every muscle in his body tensed as he tried to decipher the meaning behind the Undead's question. His hand subtly tightened around the hilt of his dagger.
"So, I ask again: what is the worth of a single mortal life?" the Undead repeated, its tone unwavering, filling the room with a sense of gravity that seemed to seep into Astarion's very bones.
Ishta looked thoughtful as she considered the being's question. Her brow furrowed deeply, and Astarion thought he saw a fleeting look of sadness in her eyes, as if she was recalling a painful memory. The silence stretched, heavy with contemplation, as everyone awaited her response.
"Depends on the mortal," she finally shrugged, her voice carrying a mix of resignation and conviction. "I've known some I would gladly give my life for, and others that aren't even worth the breath it takes to curse them." Her eyes met the Undead's, a spark of defiance mingled with the sadness.
Astarion felt momentarily surprised by her answer. Her words, raw and honest, resonated with some of his own experiences. He glanced at the others, noting their reactions—Gale's contemplative frown, Shadowheart's guarded curiosity.
The Undead seemed to contemplate her answer, its skeletal features unreadable yet somehow conveying a sense of profound thought. It tilted its head slightly, the shadows deepening in its sunken eye.
"I am curious by what standards thou shalt judge," it finally said, a touch of approval in its voice. "Very well. I am satisfied. We have met and I know thy face. We will see each other again at the proper time and place. Farewell."
Astarion quickly stood to one side as the Undead stepped towards and past them all, its movements slow and deliberate. He could feel the cold radiating from the creature, a chill that seemed to pierce his very soul. It walked out of the hidden room and into the main chamber, the sound of its bones echoing in the silence. Astarion waited until it had disappeared out of sight before turning to Ishta with a questioning look. "What was all that about?" he asked, his voice tinged with frustration and curiosity.
"Beats me," Ishta shrugged, trying to mask her own unease. "That was no common, garden variety undead though," she added thoughtfully, her eyes still fixed on the spot where the being had vanished.
"What makes you say that?" Astarion pressed, sensing there was more to her words. He stepped closer, his eyes searching her face for any sign of deceit or hidden knowledge.
In reply, Ishta pulled out one of her scimitars and held it up in front of her, tilting the blade slightly towards him. The metal gleamed ominously in the dim light.
"The Darksilver should have started to burn his flesh the moment it came into contact with his skin," she explained, her voice a mix of wonder and apprehension. "Not many Undead can resist it, and those that can are usually either powerful Liches or have godlike levels of arcane energy."
Astarion's eyes widened, and it took every ounce of willpower he had to keep from flinching and stepping away from the blade held out in front of him. The implications of her words sent a shiver down his spine, and he hoped she attributed any fear in his expression to the encounter they had just had.
"I have the distinct feeling we may be dealing with more than just god 'like' powers," Gale suddenly said, turning away from the sarcophagus he had been examining. He held up an amulet, carved in the likeness of the banner Astarion had observed in the antechamber, and then pushed past Ishta and the rest of the party to exit the room. There was a look of eager excitement on the Wizard's face as he led them out into the larger chamber and over towards the imposing, candlelit statue dominating the back wall.
Astarion stared up at the carved stone figure; a skeletal being wearing robes with gold ornaments and holding a scroll and quill, and his eyes widened. He turned to look at Ishta just as she turned to look at him, an expression of startled disbelief on her face. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead as the reality of their situation dawned on him.
"You don't think he's...," she said slowly, her voice trailing off as she looked at Gale.
"That is a definite possibility," Gale observed thoughtfully, his eyes glancing over to the Undead, who was now roaming around the chamber, making cryptic remarks as it examined the surroundings.
Astarion's mind raced, the fear and excitement mingling in a chaotic whirl. "I think perhaps it's time we left this charming place," he announced cheerfully, a strained smile on his face. "Now that its original occupant seems to be making himself at home again, I wouldn't want to impose on his hospitality."
Ishta nodded fervently. "I agree, let's just grab our supplies and get the hells out of here."
As the band of now very rattled adventurers made their way back through the crypt to gather the looted goods, Astarion couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had settled in his gut. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat, every sound a potential danger. Freedom was all well and good, but the dangers outside the walls of Baldur's Gate were proving to be something of an unpleasant surprise...
"Go to Hell."
Ishta blinked in confusion for a moment as she came up behind Gale, who was staring pensively into the campfire. She tilted her head in bemusement and remarked, "And good evening to you too."
The makeshift camp her group had hastily set up after leaving the ruins was bathed in the warm glow of the central fire, casting flickering shadows on the patchwork tents made from torn sails and tapestries taken from the crypt. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and the faint, soothing sound of the nearby river.
Gale gave a short laugh and turned towards her slightly. "You're a good sport," he said. "'Go to Hell.' An everyday expression—so trivial it's almost meaningless. But we've seen Hell... It's real. And it isn't trivial."
"You sound a tad more dejected than when we first met," Ishta observed, noting the lines of fatigue etched into Gale's face. His eyes, once bright with curiosity and determination, now seemed clouded with a heavy burden.
"Merely contemplating," Gale said, his gaze returning to the fire. The flames danced hypnotically, reflecting off the iron pot hanging over the fire pit, where a meagre stew simmered. The aroma was weak, but it was the best they could manage with their limited supplies.
"What's on your mind, Gale?" Ishta asked, her voice softer now, tinged with genuine concern. She moved closer, feeling the warmth of the fire against the evening chill. Without her armour on, wearing only her linen undershirt and leather trousers, she felt vulnerable and exposed. However, everyone else had changed into more relaxed clothing for the night, so Ishta had reluctantly decided to follow suite; shedding her pauldrons, jerkin and gorget.
"Devils, dragons, mind flayers—they used to be abstracts. Pictures on a piece of paper. What a difference a day makes. Now we have tadpoles slithering through our heads like carnivorous foeti. That's not abstract." Gale turned to face her, his eyes shadowed with worry and exhaustion. His hands trembled slightly as he clenched them into fists.
Ishta sighed, glancing at the edge of the camp where a line of torches blazed, warding off the darkness and whatever might lurk within it. The flickering light created an almost ethereal barrier, casting long, dancing shadows on the surrounding trees.
"Brooding will get us nowhere. Action will," Ishta said firmly, her resolve hardening. She placed a reassuring hand on Gale's shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles. "Let's just focus on getting a good night's sleep. It's been a long day for all of us."
Gale looked into her eyes, his expression softening. "This ballet of flames invites reflection," he murmured wistfully, his gaze flickering to the campfire. Then his tone lightened, and he gave a small, tired smile. "But you're right. Let's be up with the lark—find a healer before the wee one gets hungry."
Ishta shook her head wryly. "Again, I couldn't have put that more repellently myself."
Gale chuckled softly, the sound a rare balm to the evening's tension. "Don't worry," she reassured him, squeezing his shoulder gently. "If there is a cure to be had, I will find it, even if I have to turn all of Faerûn upside down."
Gale's eyes glistened, moved by her words and the fierce determination in her voice. "Thank you, Ishta," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I will be forever grateful you chose to help me—us in our time of need. Few would go to the lengths you have."
Ishta shrugged, feeling slightly uncomfortable with his praise, unused to it as she was. "You don't have to thank me. I couldn't leave you trapped in that portal or abandon any of you to face this problem alone anymore than I could—I don't know... spontaneously stop breathing or something," she said, struggling to find the right words, "It's just the way I am. I act on impulse...not always the best thing at times, as my little fire-trap escapade will attest to," she smiled ruefully.
Gale smiled warmly at her, "Well... all I can say is your impulses were most welcome on this occasion," he assured, bowing his head slightly.
Ishta gave the Wizard an acknowledging nod of farewell in return and then turned to walk away and leave him to his firelight musings.
Spying Astarion kneeling and rummaging through one of the supply bags, she wandered over to him, her curiosity piqued by his solitary activity. He glanced up at her approach, then looked over at Gale. "Your magician seems dour tonight. Must not relish the idea of sprouting tentacles," he remarked, his tone dripping with mockery. However, Ishta could tell Astarion was in something of a subdued mood himself as he added, "Understandable. Can't say I'm a fan either. It's just hard to join in when all of this feels so new."
"All what? You've never slept in the woods before?" she teased, eyeing the ruffles on his white undershirt with curiosity. She hadn't seen a shirt in that style for over a century and wondered just how old he was.
Astarion rose and turned and looked at his tent—a mismatched collection of various fabrics over a lean-to frame of cut saplings with a simple fur and deer-hide bedroll inside. He gave a small sigh. "Well, it's no feather bed, but it'll do, I suppose," he shrugged, a hint of resignation in his voice.
Ishta smiled slightly and folded her arms. "I'm sorry, 'Your Honour', but the undead merchants in the crypt were all out of feather beds."
Astarion snickered in amusement at her use of his former alias. "The night normally means bustling streets, bursting taverns," he said, a sly smile spreading across his face.
Ishta rolled her eyes at his comment but kept silent as he continued, "Curling up in the dirt and resting is... a little novel."
"Well...that's why I gave you a bedroll. So you wouldn't have to sleep in the dirt," she said sarcastically, pointing at his tent. She grinned at the sour look he gave her and shook her head tolerantly.
"When you are out in the wilds, you take what you can get. Compared to some places I've camped, this area is downright luxurious," she informed him, her tone laced with a touch of nostalgia. "I suggest you try to get some rest. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and we need to be fresh. So maybe learn to adapt, lower your expectations, and get used to curling up in the dirt."
Astarion frowned, rubbing his neck where Ishta noticed a small bandage. "I'm in no place to rest yet. Today has been a lot. I need some time to think things through. To process this," he admitted, gesturing vaguely to their surroundings with a weary hand.
Ishta understood what he was referring to and gave him a sympathetic smile. She hadn't had the chance to really stop and think about her own predicament yet...and wasn't sure she wanted to.
Astarion smiled back at her, his expression softer than she'd seen up until now. "You rest. I'll keep watch," he urged, his voice gentle but insistent.
Ishta bit back the reply she wanted to give and kept her face and tone neutral as she said, "Thank you. I'm sure I will rest all the better for that."
He gave her a slightly suspicious glance, but she met his eyes calmly. 'There is no way I'm letting down my guard around a shifty character like you just yet,' she thought to herself. If he suspected her line of thought, Astarion didn't show it. Instead, he gave a little bow and drawled, "The pleasure is all mine. Sweet dreams."
Ishta stared at him for a moment longer before turning away, her thoughts a whirl of worry and determination. The night stretched out before them, fraught with unknown dangers and the promise of a new day. She took a deep breath, hoping that tomorrow would bring the answers they desperately needed. As she walked past Shadowheart's tent, the Cleric approached her from behind and tapped her shoulder.
"What were you two talking about?" she asked, her voice carrying an almost suspicious hint. "You and the pale fellow, I mean."
Ishta looked at her in surprise and replied, "Nothing much, just telling him to try and rest."
"I'd be careful with Astarion if I were you," Shadowheart advised, her eyes narrowing slightly.
Ishta smiled slightly and cocked her head. "You don't trust him? Can't think why," she remarked with sardonic smile.
Shadowheart gave a slight smile back; the two women sharing a moment of understanding before she affirmed, "Trust is a rare currency. Not sure I'd spend it on someone who drew a knife on me moments after I met them."
Ishta chuckled, shaking her head at the memory. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time that's happened to me...and it probably won't be the last," she reminisced, a hint of amused wistfulness in her voice.
Shadowheart stood back slightly and gave Ishta an appraising look. "You seem reliable," she observed, "I think you know how important it is that we find someone who can cure us. Best if we focus on that."
Ishta nodded, her mind already going over their plans for the next day. "Agreed. The sooner we find someone to help us, the better."
Shadowheart looked pleased with her comment and nodded approvingly. "Good. We might even get lucky and find one right away. As I see it, we're overdue some good fortune. Rest well."
"Rest well, Shadowheart," Ishta echoed as she nodded to the Cleric and then made her way over to her own tent.
She sat down heavily on her bedroll and sighed deeply, looking around the campsite at her little band of companions. The events of the day washed over her, and she shivered at the thought of all that had happened to them since waking up on the beach. It had been a long while since Ishta had travelled in company, and the realization that she had somehow ended up being the designated leader of the Nautiloid survivors was slightly disconcerting. She preferred to work alone, with only her own shadow for company. The responsibility of watching over and guiding her newfound allies was something she didn't relish, but perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. Only time would tell.
Exhausted, Ishta lay down on her bedroll, burrowing into the soft fur lining, and closed her eyes. Normally, she would have preferred to sleep, but on this occasion she decided that the semi-awake state of an elven resting trance would be more prudent. The last thought that flashed through her mind as she drifted in to the reverie was, 'Damn...I forgot to ask Shadowheart about that weird box of hers...'