essea: (13.)
ɪᴏʀᴠᴇᴛʜ. ([personal profile] essea) wrote 2025-04-16 12:16 pm (UTC)

[ Iorveth shouldn't have eaten before this.

The portal makes him, unmakes him, puts him back together. It's the feeling of having the floor fall out from under his feet, of not knowing where up ends and down begins, the feeling of existence being pulled, pulled, pulled like putty―

―and it all snaps back. Iorveth, Mr. Wood Elf Balance, Mr. Animal Grace, finds himself letting go of Astarion's hand to stumble, foot crossing over foot, center of balance utterly fucked, until he slams against the nearest wall and mirrors Astarion in the retching.

Ugh.
] Wizards, [ he spits, literally. ] Masochists, the lot of them.

[ "I think I'd like to experience what being dematerialized feels like," said no one but spellcasters, ever. Iorveth lurches back onto the balls of his feet, very disgruntled about the whole affair.

Behind him: a strange, crooked two-story building with a sign that reads, in fading antique-gold letters, "Th Slee wal er's Dr am". A sign hangs on the door, "CLOSED", but a shadow keeps darting across the curtained window flanking it. Someone is inside.
]

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