[ While the world turns, slowly, and surely, and while the contents of the shelf crash and shatter around Astarion, dousing him in stale preservative fluid－
－the hag attacks his mind. Visions of experiences both lived and imagined, projected with alarming clarity. The more Astarion chooses to engage with them, the more he acknowledges the visions to be his reality instead of something induced, the more he'll feel something of himself slipping away: anything from something slighter, like a dulling of his hearing, to something more dire, like entire handfuls of memories and recollections gone missing. It's the hag trying to make good on her promise, to enclose as much of Astarion's soul into her bag as she can.
Meanwhile, Iorveth scrabbles towards Astarion, kicking aside broken trinkets and soggy books to crouch by Astarion's side, swallowing down waves of what he knows is genuine fear to heft the prone body up from the fluid-slick floor, palm to his face, gently trying to rouse him with taps. ]
Astarion. [ He's dripping blood onto Astarion's shirt; Iorveth barely registers it, sick with worry as he is. More tapping ensues, accompanied by insistent jostling. ] Astarion. Wake up.
[ (The hag bides her time in the Ethereal Plane, knowing she only has one more hop left tonight. She'll have to make it count.) ]
no subject
－the hag attacks his mind. Visions of experiences both lived and imagined, projected with alarming clarity. The more Astarion chooses to engage with them, the more he acknowledges the visions to be his reality instead of something induced, the more he'll feel something of himself slipping away: anything from something slighter, like a dulling of his hearing, to something more dire, like entire handfuls of memories and recollections gone missing. It's the hag trying to make good on her promise, to enclose as much of Astarion's soul into her bag as she can.
Meanwhile, Iorveth scrabbles towards Astarion, kicking aside broken trinkets and soggy books to crouch by Astarion's side, swallowing down waves of what he knows is genuine fear to heft the prone body up from the fluid-slick floor, palm to his face, gently trying to rouse him with taps. ]
Astarion. [ He's dripping blood onto Astarion's shirt; Iorveth barely registers it, sick with worry as he is. More tapping ensues, accompanied by insistent jostling. ] Astarion. Wake up.
[ (The hag bides her time in the Ethereal Plane, knowing she only has one more hop left tonight. She'll have to make it count.) ]