[ Night falls, and they hit the road again. The Trade Way has already taken them through Liam's Hold, a twee little hamlet with a rustic-but-pleasant inn, and Gillian's Hill, a hamlet so twee that it's lacking an inn entirely, much to Astarion's horror. He's no cartographer, but by his estimation, they must be nearing Daggerford: a farming community of large enough consequence to bolster their ego and little enough consequence make them too big for their britches. It's no Baldur's Gate, but at least it's civilization. All of this trudging through the wilderness and setting up tents is giving Astarion an awful sense of deja vu. He longs to put his feet up and drink a good wine, but hells, a bad wine will do. He could use it.
The defeat of the Netherbrain should have made him happy. With both Cazador and the mind flayers out of the picture, everything that's been hanging over his head has been summarily crushed. There's been a black cloud over him ever since, though, evident in his posture and the dragging way he carries himself. It isn't fair, he thinks, that he has to suffer for their victory. The only other person who could possibly understand is Karlach and, well, she's in the hells, so he imagines she might not be sympathetic to his plight.
The Trade Way is well-traveled, and they've passed caravans who might have taken them to their destination for a fee, but Astarion is twitchy about the possibility of getting stuck in the sunlight. In the best case scenario, everyone in the caravan finds out about his condition. In the worst case scenario, he burns to a crisp. No, it's better for them to travel alone, even if he's starting to rethink his dislike of horses the more his body starts to ache.
Pack thrown over his shoulder and dirt on his favorite shoes, he glances over at Iorveth. ]
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The defeat of the Netherbrain should have made him happy. With both Cazador and the mind flayers out of the picture, everything that's been hanging over his head has been summarily crushed. There's been a black cloud over him ever since, though, evident in his posture and the dragging way he carries himself. It isn't fair, he thinks, that he has to suffer for their victory. The only other person who could possibly understand is Karlach and, well, she's in the hells, so he imagines she might not be sympathetic to his plight.
The Trade Way is well-traveled, and they've passed caravans who might have taken them to their destination for a fee, but Astarion is twitchy about the possibility of getting stuck in the sunlight. In the best case scenario, everyone in the caravan finds out about his condition. In the worst case scenario, he burns to a crisp. No, it's better for them to travel alone, even if he's starting to rethink his dislike of horses the more his body starts to ache.
Pack thrown over his shoulder and dirt on his favorite shoes, he glances over at Iorveth. ]
You're nodding off again.