[ In the depths of exhaustion, Astarion's voice sounds miles away. A testament to Iorveth's self-control and preternatural paranoia, really, that he stirs at all; a twitch where he's laid himself out on the grass, long limbs trance-limp. He tries to say Astarion's name, but it winds up sounding like slurred nonsense. "'st'rion".
Something smells like death, like blood. The rabbit, presumably. His head feels heavy when he tries to lift it from its perch on Astarion's pack, weighed down by past-future meditations customary to trancing―
―and then, something shifts in the air. The copper stench of blood gets stronger, the still silence of the night disturbed by the swell of male voices made bolder by alcohol. By the time Iorveth sits up, hand flying to his side to find his bow, it's too late: two human soldiers have already crept behind Astarion and closed their dirty hands around him, meaty palms and fingers closed around each of his wrists, trying to wrench them behind his back.
"Special delivery sounds about right," one of them sneers. His voice is layered and thick, the same northern accent as Henselt's. "Brought us right to the prize." ]
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Something smells like death, like blood. The rabbit, presumably. His head feels heavy when he tries to lift it from its perch on Astarion's pack, weighed down by past-future meditations customary to trancing―
―and then, something shifts in the air. The copper stench of blood gets stronger, the still silence of the night disturbed by the swell of male voices made bolder by alcohol. By the time Iorveth sits up, hand flying to his side to find his bow, it's too late: two human soldiers have already crept behind Astarion and closed their dirty hands around him, meaty palms and fingers closed around each of his wrists, trying to wrench them behind his back.
"Special delivery sounds about right," one of them sneers. His voice is layered and thick, the same northern accent as Henselt's. "Brought us right to the prize." ]