[ The journey back north feels a little like trying to put on a skin that Iorveth's already shed; it adheres well enough to the general outline of him, but there are obvious places where he's outgrown it, causing it to bend and pucker awkwardly whenever he does something he hadn't known to do when he'd been wearing it before. Primarily, it's the company he's keeping that makes the Woodland Fox in him pace awkwardly in its skin― a thing he decidedly didn't have before the whole "got kidnapped by psychic squidmen" thing― but there's also the not-so-insignificant secondary reason for Iorveth's out-of-body experience, which is―
―a half-terminated yawn, grit between pressed-together molars. ]
Hardly.
[ Or, in other words: he hasn't tranced in four days. Five? He decided to stop counting after they left the last watercolor village (one of many) lining the Trade Way. It's not like Astarion has asked Iorveth to do this, the business of losing sleep to travel and spend idle time with him before the traitorous sun resumes its smug perch on the world's zenith, but the important thing is that Iorveth has been insane enough to take it upon himself to do so.
Mostly, Iorveth just hates the thought of Astarion curled up in darkness doing nothing while he trances. In the same way that Iorveth isn't wearing his foxskin as well as he'd like, he has a feeling that Astarion won't wear his nocturnal mantle again as easily as he'd used to; a terrible thing, to have to adjust to being oneself again.
Anyway. All of this to say that Iorveth looks like shit. What else is new. ]
I want us to reach the next town before daybreak. [ He isn't slurring, thank you very much. One foot in front of the other, he keeps his posture straight with the sheer force of his obstinacy. His profile looks even sharper in moonlight. ] There's not much in the way of shelter between here and our destination.
We'll need to move quickly.
[ More to himself than anything else. It hasn't been ideal, consigning Astarion to caves and heavy-tarp tents while the sun is high; not for the actual journey, which isn't on any time schedule, but for morale. ]
no subject
―a half-terminated yawn, grit between pressed-together molars. ]
Hardly.
[ Or, in other words: he hasn't tranced in four days. Five? He decided to stop counting after they left the last watercolor village (one of many) lining the Trade Way. It's not like Astarion has asked Iorveth to do this, the business of losing sleep to travel and spend idle time with him before the traitorous sun resumes its smug perch on the world's zenith, but the important thing is that Iorveth has been insane enough to take it upon himself to do so.
Mostly, Iorveth just hates the thought of Astarion curled up in darkness doing nothing while he trances. In the same way that Iorveth isn't wearing his foxskin as well as he'd like, he has a feeling that Astarion won't wear his nocturnal mantle again as easily as he'd used to; a terrible thing, to have to adjust to being oneself again.
Anyway. All of this to say that Iorveth looks like shit. What else is new. ]
I want us to reach the next town before daybreak. [ He isn't slurring, thank you very much. One foot in front of the other, he keeps his posture straight with the sheer force of his obstinacy. His profile looks even sharper in moonlight. ] There's not much in the way of shelter between here and our destination.
We'll need to move quickly.
[ More to himself than anything else. It hasn't been ideal, consigning Astarion to caves and heavy-tarp tents while the sun is high; not for the actual journey, which isn't on any time schedule, but for morale. ]