[ Astarion wishes they were doing what Damris suspects instead. The knowledge that everything they just went through could very well have been for nothing looms large, and he takes the pack with a heavy sense of dread. He doesn't want to be pessimistic, it's just that everything that's ever happened in his life has taught him to be a cynic. Good things don't just happen to him.
Except one good thing. With the pack in one hand, he reaches out to squeeze Iorveth's again with his other.
He crouches by the strip of sunlight, pack beside him as he rifles through it for the cloaks. They look the same as they had in the hag's den: plain, unassuming. He runs a hand over the black velvet one first, desperately hoping to feel some sort of arcane pulse that would suggest it's the one he's looking for. Nothing. He dons it anyway, tying the strings around his neck. It must look ridiculous; he feels ridiculous, wearing a black velvet cloak like some kind of—
Well, vampire. But a really on-the-nose one.
Slowly, he reaches his hand out, dipping it into the sun's rays. It's warm, and then hot, and then blazing. He can see the skin of his hand scorching, blistering in the sun, but he keeps it there out of some delusional hope that maybe it's a delayed effect, or maybe it'll heal, or maybe—
Finally, he can't take it anymore. The pain is too great. He snatches his hand back into the comfort of darkness. ]
no subject
Except one good thing. With the pack in one hand, he reaches out to squeeze Iorveth's again with his other.
He crouches by the strip of sunlight, pack beside him as he rifles through it for the cloaks. They look the same as they had in the hag's den: plain, unassuming. He runs a hand over the black velvet one first, desperately hoping to feel some sort of arcane pulse that would suggest it's the one he's looking for. Nothing. He dons it anyway, tying the strings around his neck. It must look ridiculous; he feels ridiculous, wearing a black velvet cloak like some kind of—
Well, vampire. But a really on-the-nose one.
Slowly, he reaches his hand out, dipping it into the sun's rays. It's warm, and then hot, and then blazing. He can see the skin of his hand scorching, blistering in the sun, but he keeps it there out of some delusional hope that maybe it's a delayed effect, or maybe it'll heal, or maybe—
Finally, he can't take it anymore. The pain is too great. He snatches his hand back into the comfort of darkness. ]
Fuck. Fuck.