When Daan had been first discovered along with... well, most everyone else on that beach, he'd had no problem cracking open the skull of one the dead captives from the ship. A former thrall, or about to be, it doesn't matter; a cadaver is a cadaver, and so when the group had stumbled upon him, his hands were sullied with blood and a tadpole pinched in tweezers.
He's more than a cleric. He's a doctor, he'd informed them, but being able safely extract the tadpoles is a process most unfamiliar and dangerous, one that he would have to study extensively in order to see if he could accomplish anything meaningful in order to help himself and the others. Fortunately, they have leads. Lae'zel's creche, maybe finding their way into the Emerald Grove to locate a healer, something like that.
To be perfectly honest, Daan is dubious that there's going to be a healer that can do much, but maybe they'll get lucky and a solution will just fall into their lap. Doubtful, but not impossible.
For now, there's camp to be had, and Daan is studying the larvae he has contained in a jar. His tent is what one would call an organized mess; books and studying implements, along with a few bottles of spirits he's been quick to gather for himself.
Most unusually, there's a cat with bright yellow eyes and dark fur that's flopped onto his feet. Daan sets the jar down and scowls at the cat, sneering, "You're heavy. Get off." There isn't a lick of affection in his voice for the feline, but then it doesn't seem to listen.
Daan pulls his feet away, annoyed and trying to ignore the creature.
For the first time in two-hundred years, Astarion is free.
... Perhaps not free-free, what with Cazador still being alive and the additional threat of imminent ceramorphosis, but when the majority of one's life has been confined to sucking on rats and following the every order of a mad, evil bastard? He'll take the tadpole in his brain, thank you very much — maybe even throw in one or two more before their ultimate extration if it'll help rid him of Cazador for good.
He's also rather pleased with himself for having the sense to fall in with Daan and his motley crew of fashion disasters. If nothing else Astarion is well aware that he'll need protection if he's to make it out of this alive: he's skilled with daggers, yes, and a menace with a crossbow, but it always helps to have a madwoman in full plate armour on hand to run in and take the hits. Wizards can be useful when buildings need levelling — even if Gale did somehow manage to get stuck in a portal — and while he's obviously suspicious of anyone who calls themself "Shadowheart?" Two clerics are better than one.
And speaking of clerics ...
"Where in the Hells did that come from?"
Daan had seemed the most reasonable of his new companions, and so it had made sense (in Astarion's opinion, anyway) to set up his own tent opposite the doctor's. He'd expected peace, quiet, and perhaps a little further insight into their situation from watching the man conduct his experiments — all that's manifested thus far is a mystery cat with unsettling lamp-like eyes.
Suffice it to say that Astarion doesn't care for it.
"Be a dear and get rid of it, would you? I'd say we have more than enough 'animal companions' tagging along on our little camping trip," he croons, making a flourishing gesture towards his own forehead. The sharpness in those red eyes belies the flirty note of his tone: this is a man who is used to purring his way into the good graces of others, but one who clearly has his own agenda in doing so.
The cat looks up at Astarion with its wide eyes. It almost seems to be... smiling somehow, but it could just be the way cat mouths naturally curl up? In any case, it begins to purr, languidly stretching before sitting down a close as it can to Daan's feet. The cleric in question wrinkles his nose, perhaps in disgust.
Now it's Daan's turn to look at Astarion, his single eye looking the man over. The way he talks could conceivably be one who is used to having honeyed words and weaving his way with people. Is that because he's a magistrate? Idly, Daan wonders if Baron von Dutch knew him, but he isn't keen to ask. No reason to dig up the past, not when this journey is going to be a very, very short one either way.
"Trust me, if it were possible, I would've," Daan responds with a sigh. For him, he sounds detached and tired, with the presentation of being generally unbothered by things around him. "Just try to ignore it. It'll probably leave you alone."
He holds up the jar and frowns at the tadpole inside, trying to think about their situation and how best to proceed. If they're lucky, they have maybe a week at most. It's a shame they're so far from Baldur's Gate as they are; their research potential in the middle of some woods isn't going to help.
Astarion repeats Daan's words back to him with no small hint of scepticism — that flirty manner dropping all together to be replaced with something more sarcastic. He doesn't bother with the pretence when it's clear it isn't going to get him anywhere, and without Cazador breathing down his neck (metaphorically speaking, of course) there's no reason to keep on pushing. Instead, he levels a suspicious look at the cat before snapping his book closed with an audible huff, then turns to toss it back into the open flap of his tent.
... With any luck Daan won't notice the bloodstains and dirt-trails smearing the material.
"What do you mean 'if it were possible?' A swift, sharp boot to the behind should see it off, shouldn't it?"
He's kicked his fair share of cats in his time, after all. The less savory areas of Baldur's Gate are teeming with strays, and Astarion isn't putting his only pair of boots at risk of cat piss. Not now, not ever. Placing a hand on his hip, he watches for a moment as Daan inspects the tadpole before perking up with an idea:
"Say, why not try scaring it off with that thing? See how it reacts to all that ..." He wrinkles his nose, evidently repulsed by the tadpole: "Wriggling."
Fortunately, Daan's attention is drawn a bit more to the tadpole than it is with the contents of Astarion's tent. Which means the elf's annoyance and huffiness is met with an exhaustion narrow of his single eye. (Gale had remarked how easy it is to replace it, Daan responded with a flat interesting never considered it shortly before Gale realized it was better to drop the subject temporarily.)
At the suggestion, he holds out the bottle to the cat. There's a pause as the cat tilts his head to look at the bottle, then he hisses at the contents.
"That's about what I thought," Daan murmurs. He looks up at Astarion. "Not a cat fan? You're in good company for that, but if it's any consolation he's here to bother me. Unless you decide to change that."
It's cryptic, but getting into it just sounds exhausting, and why bother getting into any details at all when their time together will be brief? It seems better to just leave the warning as that, and if Astarion doesn't adhere to it then he'll deal with the consequences.
"Cats are like people, darling. The strays and the weirdos—" he gestures towards the unbothered specimen lounging at Daan's feet, "I could do without. The cats of quality, on the other hand, I could admire all day."
Evidently he does not believe their tag-along to be a 'cat of quality' — whatever that means. Anyway, he isn't going to let himself get too distracted by feline chatter when there's an experiment unfolding beneath his very nose. Daan's furry little friend inspects the bottle before reacting in what even Astarion has to admit is the correct manner: with bared teeth, a wrinkled nose, and a most distrustful hiss.
"At least it isn't lacking for common sense," he mutters disdainfully, before venturing a little closer to Daan and his work. Just one step, then another, soft as anything against the grass — ostensibly to watch him ponder over the tadpole, however he can't deny that some small part of it might be to do with the scent of his skin and all the hot, fresh blood beneath it.
... Dammit all. He's going to need to sneak out of camp tonight, isn't he.
Clearing his throat, Astarion lets an awkward silence hang between them before continuing on:
"Well? Any thoughts on our little parasites thus far?"
It's probably just a trick of the campfire, but the cat's expression almost makes it seem like its smile is all the wider at the way Astarion describes cats as people. But... no, surely it's just an unusual feline, and a mere illusion. Daan, for his part, just quietly scowls; maybe he just isn't an animal person? Difficult to say, for what little he expresses other than disdain for this creature.
Yet, he doesn't seem put off by Astarion sauntering closer to examine him and the larvae both. He holds up the bottle, as if offering the other man to take it and observe.
"I'll admit I haven't made much effort in examining mindflayers and their parasites in the past. Not exactly a common condition to encounter someone with a tadpole, even less an illithid willing to discuss the matter." Daan considers a moment. "When I examined the body on the shore, the brain was still whole. Though maybe the person in question didn't have their tadpole for long, I don't think it's that simple. So, based on just a cursory examination, I suspect that maybe there's something odd about our batch. I'll need to research a bit more to have a better understanding. Maybe the druids have a robust library they're willing to share."
Daan doesn't sound particularly hopeful about that.
Something odd about their batch? Now that is an interesting theory — interesting enough to draw his attention away from the now positively grinning cat — and one that might even hold some water, to boot.
Still. Astarion supposes that there's something to be said for the cleric knowing his limits: after all, even he couldn't argue that the situation they've been thrown into is utterly unprecedented, and he'd rather be travelling with someone willing to put in the work and research than a quack with an overgrown ego. Besides, the fact that Daan is a doctor surely means he'll be invested in continuing his research — which nicely takes care of the fact that Astarion has no inclination towards studying at the best of times.
He should keep Daan on-side. Keep him ... satisfied, if he can, by whatever means necessary, until he's found them all a cure and he can get back to his Cazador problem.
Those are thoughts for later. The conversation turns to the druids and Astarion barks out a lilting laugh:
"Oh, I dare say they'll have some kind of library hidden away among the heaps of fertilizer — but you saw how they treat outsiders. I'd be surprised if that Kagha woman would spare us so much as a cup of water." He waves a hand dismissively, before letting a curling smile settle across his mouth. "Perhaps we ought to try some other method of getting what we want, hm? If we were to slink in one quiet night, keep ourselves to the shadows ..."
Is Daan the goody two-shoes type, or is he willing to play dirty?
There's a thoughtful look on Daan's face at the suggestion. If nothing else, he doesn't look horrified or bothered by the idea, which might make him come off as an unusual brand of cleric -- but then, so is Shadowheart. While Daan wasn't too interested in getting involved in the affairs of the refugees, he had just about snapped at Kagha for nearly harming a child.
If the druids are willing to stand by and let that kind of thing happen, he doesn't have much in the way of guilt in taking what they need to survive. Sure, maybe not all of them are spineless or cruel or both, but it's enough that he doesn't see an issue taking what's needed.
They're the ones in a corner, scrambling to solve their problem. Nobody will come to their rescue in Daan's perception; they'll do what they have to.
"I'm a terrible thief," Daan tells him wryly, a bit of mirth in his tone. "But a decent lookout. Though maybe you wouldn't need one, it'd still be for the best, I think."
As much is evident in the way the tension in his shoulders relaxes a little way; tension that hadn't necessarily been obvious beforehand, but now that it's loosened is easily identifiable for what it was. The thoughtful look, the long moment of consideration — it would seem Daan is a person who understands the value of doing what's best for them, which means their methods may very well be in alignment for the time being.
Good to know.
"Well fortunately for you, my own talents will more than make up for any such deficits you bring — or rather, don't bring to the table," is his arch reply, the smile at his lips turning a shade more smug. For better or for worse, Astarion has always had a knack for getting what he wants, and if Daan has no qualms with stealing from the druids then it seems a viable option to consider.
"And do you know, I can't remember the last time I worked with a lookout," he continues, a bark of that sing-song laughter escaping him. Something stinging turns in his stomach — he's never needed a lookout because he was always too good at stealing those poor wretches back to Cazador — and he learned early on that the people of Baldur's Gate are far more likely to guard their possessions than they are their loved ones.
He pushes the thought away and lets the laughter linger on his lips.
"What fun! Perhaps we should put it to the others on the morrow, hm?"
This is certainly a theatrical man. The little laugh, the smile; what a curious mask to have, Daan thinks to himself. Though, he isn't so unfamiliar with it, to be honest. Not that he expects to be given sincerity in the face of being essentially strangers. None of these people owe that to him, so long as they all agree to cooperate.
So, in this moment, he is keen to ensure their own survival. And he doubts the gith are going to be much help, at least not to their lot.
"Bring back whatever you deem useful. Something is better than nothing." There's a pause. "I doubt the druids have anything, but medical tools would be helpful as well. Though frankly, I'm not anticipating much beyond sticks and stones."
There's a pause as he picks up one of his bottles, giving it a sniff before he's pouring himself a serving in a sad little tin cup he found during their exploration.
"But yes. We'll posit to the others in the morning. Hopefully, they'll see the merit in being pragmatic." Maybe not all of them, but some convincing may need to happen. "In the meanwhile, care for a drink? I don't promise quality out here in the middle of nowhere, but it's... something."
Hells, what he wouldn't give for a real drink. Not a purtid rat alreay tasting of black rot; not a boar, or a badger, or some unfortunate courier's horse; a drink of hot, fresh life-blood from a living, thinking thing. He's hungry enough that the question stalls him for a moment, and red eyes drift almost absently to the apple of Daan's throat before flitting up to his face again.
Get ahold of yourself, you fool.
"I suppose something is usually better than nothing ..."
His reply seems a little sardonic, though, as does the slight face he pulls at the unlabelled drink of dubious origin. Cazador may have fed his spawn on dead vermin but at least his purse was always kept heavy for his seductions: ply them with expensive wine, make them feel like he only had eyes for them, then seduce them all the way back to his master's palace of death.
No.
No.
Cazador is his master no longer ... but that doesn't mean he can't employ the same methods for himself. He lets the frown melt away into something exasperated yet charming:
"But if you feed me a cup of tavern piss you shan't find me quite so amenable to these little ... night-time chats, in future. Understood?"
PERCEPTION CHECK: PASSED As Astarion's eyes flick toward Daan's neck, it doesn't seem as if the cleric notices. Yet, distinctly, the wide-eyed cat by Daan's feet is gazing up, watching unblinkingly. It is as if the cat is observing and processing what Astarion briefly gazes at -- and is thinking on it. Though, again, maybe a trick of the campfire light? Yet, that would be twice now, wouldn't it? Something might really be going on with that feline, but it's hard to place what other than unsettlement.
A soft huff escapes Daan, very close to a laugh but not quite making it. It isn't an unwilling noise, but almost as if he's so tired that he can't quite make it to even a chuckle. Still, he seems amused, and he takes out another cup to fill.
"I have some standards. I can't promise it's top shelf, but it's not all bad. Honey mead. It's... passable, shall we say."
The cup is filled halfway, just in case Astarion's palette is too delicate for the flavor. It isn't horrible, but Daan certainly has had better.
He's also had much, much worse.
"If you hate it, just give it back. I'd hate to waste it, good or bad."
Astarion's own gaze is drawn down as those large, glowing eyes regard him from near Daan's ankles, and an uncomfortable sensation runs through him as the fine hairs at his nape prick up to stand on end. Cats are supposed to be distinguished, elegant creatures — in truth he finds them highly relatable — but there's something off about this one that sets his blood on edge. With any luck the thing will wander off in the night and end up as as a little furry snack.
Fortunately for both of them, Daan pulls his attention back up as he hands him a half-filled cup. Astarion lifts it to his nose for a disdainful sniff, swirls the contents once, twice, before setting it against his lips and taking a small sip.
It's awful, of course, but it isn't Gods-awful. It isn't quite what he wants — his attention passes Daan's throat for a second time but he forces himself not to linger, and instead knocks back another mouthful before pulling a face for posterity.
"... It'll do," he sighs with the long-suffering tone of one doing another a favour, as the warmth of cheap booze and honey spreads across his tongue. "'Hate' would be too strong a word, in any case."
He holds out the cup expectantly, indicating that Daan should go ahead and fill it properly. In the meanwhile he decides to do a little further prying:
"So! These standards of yours ... to what other aspects of your life to they stretch, I wonder? Work? Friends? Lovers?"
For a brief moment, Daan is quiet as he fills up the cup properly this time, all the way to the brim. The bottle is set down after Daan refills his own, and he considers a moment before he has a drink.
"I'm flexible in some respects," he decides to say. "Work, I take it seriously, but I realize I might come off as... unusual, in some regards. Friends, I'm pretty open for. Lovers..."
For a moment, he trails off. It could be less Astarion being nosy but also seeking something specific here. He wouldn't be the first. Might not even be the last, to be honest. Even if he hasn't had that lifestyle in quite sometime.
Anyway. He holds up his hand, holding it out at his leftmost.
"Let me put it this way. The range in pure theoretical. On one end of the spectrum, you have someone like Wyll. Terribly genuine, an idealist, and sometimes adorably naive." His hand moves in a line to end at the rightmost. "At the exact end of the other side, you have Lae'zel. Bloodthirsty, impatient, barely tolerating the rest of us. For personal tastes, I would say... just a notch before Lae'zel, in terms of standards? I like to think that's very lax."
"Nosey? I'm offended, darling. I much prefer to think of it as a healthy interest."
But yes, he's absolutely nosey, and if his expression is anything to go by he seems genuinely amused by Daan's description of his standards. Who'd have thought his tastes would range so widely — Gods, that they would run close to Lae'zel? It's excellent news for him, of course, as it suggests he'd be open enough to a silver-tongued rogue, which is really all Astarion needed to hear.
"How very curious," he all but purrs, before glancing across to the Gith'yanki's tent.
"I'm almost tempted to tell her that she could be in with a shot at you — but I suspect she wouldn't take kindly to any pointers I might offer on toning down her bloodthirsty, impatient side."
A silly, high-pitched chuckle escapes him as he lifts his cup to his lips, before indulging in a long sip of the pilfered mead.
"Although I have to say: I'm a little surprised. I'd thought most clerics would be a bit more ... discerning, in their tastes. Shadowheart, for example."
There's a soft huff before he goes to have his own swig from his cup, his eye trailing toward Lae'zel's tent. "Yes, tell her that and also you might as well tell the sky to stop being blue."
The comment about clerics makes him pause before finishing the contents of his cup.
"Yes, I imagine that would be true for most clerics, so... fiercely devoted to their gods and whatnot." Daan sets his cup down for now and shrugs. "Suffice it to say, I've been in a position more than a few times to expand my tastes. How fortunate the gods are so forgiving of debauchery so long as you do a few prayers and favors."
Yet, there is the slightest hint of distaste in Daan's voice concerning the pantheon. It isn't the mead talking either, for the cleric still seems suitably sober.
"Well, enough on me. And what about you? Specific tastes, or is it a free range?"
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no subject
He's more than a cleric. He's a doctor, he'd informed them, but being able safely extract the tadpoles is a process most unfamiliar and dangerous, one that he would have to study extensively in order to see if he could accomplish anything meaningful in order to help himself and the others. Fortunately, they have leads. Lae'zel's creche, maybe finding their way into the Emerald Grove to locate a healer, something like that.
To be perfectly honest, Daan is dubious that there's going to be a healer that can do much, but maybe they'll get lucky and a solution will just fall into their lap. Doubtful, but not impossible.
For now, there's camp to be had, and Daan is studying the larvae he has contained in a jar. His tent is what one would call an organized mess; books and studying implements, along with a few bottles of spirits he's been quick to gather for himself.
Most unusually, there's a cat with bright yellow eyes and dark fur that's flopped onto his feet. Daan sets the jar down and scowls at the cat, sneering, "You're heavy. Get off." There isn't a lick of affection in his voice for the feline, but then it doesn't seem to listen.
Daan pulls his feet away, annoyed and trying to ignore the creature.
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For the first time in two-hundred years, Astarion is free.
... Perhaps not free-free, what with Cazador still being alive and the additional threat of imminent ceramorphosis, but when the majority of one's life has been confined to sucking on rats and following the every order of a mad, evil bastard? He'll take the tadpole in his brain, thank you very much — maybe even throw in one or two more before their ultimate extration if it'll help rid him of Cazador for good.
He's also rather pleased with himself for having the sense to fall in with Daan and his motley crew of fashion disasters. If nothing else Astarion is well aware that he'll need protection if he's to make it out of this alive: he's skilled with daggers, yes, and a menace with a crossbow, but it always helps to have a madwoman in full plate armour on hand to run in and take the hits. Wizards can be useful when buildings need levelling — even if Gale did somehow manage to get stuck in a portal — and while he's obviously suspicious of anyone who calls themself "Shadowheart?" Two clerics are better than one.
And speaking of clerics ...
"Where in the Hells did that come from?"
Daan had seemed the most reasonable of his new companions, and so it had made sense (in Astarion's opinion, anyway) to set up his own tent opposite the doctor's. He'd expected peace, quiet, and perhaps a little further insight into their situation from watching the man conduct his experiments — all that's manifested thus far is a mystery cat with unsettling lamp-like eyes.
Suffice it to say that Astarion doesn't care for it.
"Be a dear and get rid of it, would you? I'd say we have more than enough 'animal companions' tagging along on our little camping trip," he croons, making a flourishing gesture towards his own forehead. The sharpness in those red eyes belies the flirty note of his tone: this is a man who is used to purring his way into the good graces of others, but one who clearly has his own agenda in doing so.
no subject
Now it's Daan's turn to look at Astarion, his single eye looking the man over. The way he talks could conceivably be one who is used to having honeyed words and weaving his way with people. Is that because he's a magistrate? Idly, Daan wonders if Baron von Dutch knew him, but he isn't keen to ask. No reason to dig up the past, not when this journey is going to be a very, very short one either way.
"Trust me, if it were possible, I would've," Daan responds with a sigh. For him, he sounds detached and tired, with the presentation of being generally unbothered by things around him. "Just try to ignore it. It'll probably leave you alone."
He holds up the jar and frowns at the tadpole inside, trying to think about their situation and how best to proceed. If they're lucky, they have maybe a week at most. It's a shame they're so far from Baldur's Gate as they are; their research potential in the middle of some woods isn't going to help.
no subject
"If it were possible?"
Astarion repeats Daan's words back to him with no small hint of scepticism — that flirty manner dropping all together to be replaced with something more sarcastic. He doesn't bother with the pretence when it's clear it isn't going to get him anywhere, and without Cazador breathing down his neck (metaphorically speaking, of course) there's no reason to keep on pushing. Instead, he levels a suspicious look at the cat before snapping his book closed with an audible huff, then turns to toss it back into the open flap of his tent.
... With any luck Daan won't notice the bloodstains and dirt-trails smearing the material.
"What do you mean 'if it were possible?' A swift, sharp boot to the behind should see it off, shouldn't it?"
He's kicked his fair share of cats in his time, after all. The less savory areas of Baldur's Gate are teeming with strays, and Astarion isn't putting his only pair of boots at risk of cat piss. Not now, not ever. Placing a hand on his hip, he watches for a moment as Daan inspects the tadpole before perking up with an idea:
"Say, why not try scaring it off with that thing? See how it reacts to all that ..." He wrinkles his nose, evidently repulsed by the tadpole: "Wriggling."
no subject
At the suggestion, he holds out the bottle to the cat. There's a pause as the cat tilts his head to look at the bottle, then he hisses at the contents.
"That's about what I thought," Daan murmurs. He looks up at Astarion. "Not a cat fan? You're in good company for that, but if it's any consolation he's here to bother me. Unless you decide to change that."
It's cryptic, but getting into it just sounds exhausting, and why bother getting into any details at all when their time together will be brief? It seems better to just leave the warning as that, and if Astarion doesn't adhere to it then he'll deal with the consequences.
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Astarion just scoffs at the comment.
"Cats are like people, darling. The strays and the weirdos—" he gestures towards the unbothered specimen lounging at Daan's feet, "I could do without. The cats of quality, on the other hand, I could admire all day."
Evidently he does not believe their tag-along to be a 'cat of quality' — whatever that means. Anyway, he isn't going to let himself get too distracted by feline chatter when there's an experiment unfolding beneath his very nose. Daan's furry little friend inspects the bottle before reacting in what even Astarion has to admit is the correct manner: with bared teeth, a wrinkled nose, and a most distrustful hiss.
"At least it isn't lacking for common sense," he mutters disdainfully, before venturing a little closer to Daan and his work. Just one step, then another, soft as anything against the grass — ostensibly to watch him ponder over the tadpole, however he can't deny that some small part of it might be to do with the scent of his skin and all the hot, fresh blood beneath it.
... Dammit all. He's going to need to sneak out of camp tonight, isn't he.
Clearing his throat, Astarion lets an awkward silence hang between them before continuing on:
"Well? Any thoughts on our little parasites thus far?"
no subject
Yet, he doesn't seem put off by Astarion sauntering closer to examine him and the larvae both. He holds up the bottle, as if offering the other man to take it and observe.
"I'll admit I haven't made much effort in examining mindflayers and their parasites in the past. Not exactly a common condition to encounter someone with a tadpole, even less an illithid willing to discuss the matter." Daan considers a moment. "When I examined the body on the shore, the brain was still whole. Though maybe the person in question didn't have their tadpole for long, I don't think it's that simple. So, based on just a cursory examination, I suspect that maybe there's something odd about our batch. I'll need to research a bit more to have a better understanding. Maybe the druids have a robust library they're willing to share."
Daan doesn't sound particularly hopeful about that.
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Something odd about their batch? Now that is an interesting theory — interesting enough to draw his attention away from the now positively grinning cat — and one that might even hold some water, to boot.
Still. Astarion supposes that there's something to be said for the cleric knowing his limits: after all, even he couldn't argue that the situation they've been thrown into is utterly unprecedented, and he'd rather be travelling with someone willing to put in the work and research than a quack with an overgrown ego. Besides, the fact that Daan is a doctor surely means he'll be invested in continuing his research — which nicely takes care of the fact that Astarion has no inclination towards studying at the best of times.
He should keep Daan on-side. Keep him ... satisfied, if he can, by whatever means necessary, until he's found them all a cure and he can get back to his Cazador problem.
Those are thoughts for later. The conversation turns to the druids and Astarion barks out a lilting laugh:
"Oh, I dare say they'll have some kind of library hidden away among the heaps of fertilizer — but you saw how they treat outsiders. I'd be surprised if that Kagha woman would spare us so much as a cup of water." He waves a hand dismissively, before letting a curling smile settle across his mouth. "Perhaps we ought to try some other method of getting what we want, hm? If we were to slink in one quiet night, keep ourselves to the shadows ..."
Is Daan the goody two-shoes type, or is he willing to play dirty?
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If the druids are willing to stand by and let that kind of thing happen, he doesn't have much in the way of guilt in taking what they need to survive. Sure, maybe not all of them are spineless or cruel or both, but it's enough that he doesn't see an issue taking what's needed.
They're the ones in a corner, scrambling to solve their problem. Nobody will come to their rescue in Daan's perception; they'll do what they have to.
"I'm a terrible thief," Daan tells him wryly, a bit of mirth in his tone. "But a decent lookout. Though maybe you wouldn't need one, it'd still be for the best, I think."
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Astarion approves.
As much is evident in the way the tension in his shoulders relaxes a little way; tension that hadn't necessarily been obvious beforehand, but now that it's loosened is easily identifiable for what it was. The thoughtful look, the long moment of consideration — it would seem Daan is a person who understands the value of doing what's best for them, which means their methods may very well be in alignment for the time being.
Good to know.
"Well fortunately for you, my own talents will more than make up for any such deficits you bring — or rather, don't bring to the table," is his arch reply, the smile at his lips turning a shade more smug. For better or for worse, Astarion has always had a knack for getting what he wants, and if Daan has no qualms with stealing from the druids then it seems a viable option to consider.
"And do you know, I can't remember the last time I worked with a lookout," he continues, a bark of that sing-song laughter escaping him. Something stinging turns in his stomach — he's never needed a lookout because he was always too good at stealing those poor wretches back to Cazador — and he learned early on that the people of Baldur's Gate are far more likely to guard their possessions than they are their loved ones.
He pushes the thought away and lets the laughter linger on his lips.
"What fun! Perhaps we should put it to the others on the morrow, hm?"
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So, in this moment, he is keen to ensure their own survival. And he doubts the gith are going to be much help, at least not to their lot.
"Bring back whatever you deem useful. Something is better than nothing." There's a pause. "I doubt the druids have anything, but medical tools would be helpful as well. Though frankly, I'm not anticipating much beyond sticks and stones."
There's a pause as he picks up one of his bottles, giving it a sniff before he's pouring himself a serving in a sad little tin cup he found during their exploration.
"But yes. We'll posit to the others in the morning. Hopefully, they'll see the merit in being pragmatic." Maybe not all of them, but some convincing may need to happen. "In the meanwhile, care for a drink? I don't promise quality out here in the middle of nowhere, but it's... something."
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Hells, what he wouldn't give for a real drink. Not a purtid rat alreay tasting of black rot; not a boar, or a badger, or some unfortunate courier's horse; a drink of hot, fresh life-blood from a living, thinking thing. He's hungry enough that the question stalls him for a moment, and red eyes drift almost absently to the apple of Daan's throat before flitting up to his face again.
Get ahold of yourself, you fool.
"I suppose something is usually better than nothing ..."
His reply seems a little sardonic, though, as does the slight face he pulls at the unlabelled drink of dubious origin. Cazador may have fed his spawn on dead vermin but at least his purse was always kept heavy for his seductions: ply them with expensive wine, make them feel like he only had eyes for them, then seduce them all the way back to his master's palace of death.
No.
No.
Cazador is his master no longer ... but that doesn't mean he can't employ the same methods for himself. He lets the frown melt away into something exasperated yet charming:
"But if you feed me a cup of tavern piss you shan't find me quite so amenable to these little ... night-time chats, in future. Understood?"
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As Astarion's eyes flick toward Daan's neck, it doesn't seem as if the cleric notices. Yet, distinctly, the wide-eyed cat by Daan's feet is gazing up, watching unblinkingly. It is as if the cat is observing and processing what Astarion briefly gazes at -- and is thinking on it. Though, again, maybe a trick of the campfire light? Yet, that would be twice now, wouldn't it? Something might really be going on with that feline, but it's hard to place what other than unsettlement.
A soft huff escapes Daan, very close to a laugh but not quite making it. It isn't an unwilling noise, but almost as if he's so tired that he can't quite make it to even a chuckle. Still, he seems amused, and he takes out another cup to fill.
"I have some standards. I can't promise it's top shelf, but it's not all bad. Honey mead. It's... passable, shall we say."
The cup is filled halfway, just in case Astarion's palette is too delicate for the flavor. It isn't horrible, but Daan certainly has had better.
He's also had much, much worse.
"If you hate it, just give it back. I'd hate to waste it, good or bad."
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Astarion's own gaze is drawn down as those large, glowing eyes regard him from near Daan's ankles, and an uncomfortable sensation runs through him as the fine hairs at his nape prick up to stand on end. Cats are supposed to be distinguished, elegant creatures — in truth he finds them highly relatable — but there's something off about this one that sets his blood on edge. With any luck the thing will wander off in the night and end up as as a little furry snack.
Fortunately for both of them, Daan pulls his attention back up as he hands him a half-filled cup. Astarion lifts it to his nose for a disdainful sniff, swirls the contents once, twice, before setting it against his lips and taking a small sip.
It's awful, of course, but it isn't Gods-awful. It isn't quite what he wants — his attention passes Daan's throat for a second time but he forces himself not to linger, and instead knocks back another mouthful before pulling a face for posterity.
"... It'll do," he sighs with the long-suffering tone of one doing another a favour, as the warmth of cheap booze and honey spreads across his tongue. "'Hate' would be too strong a word, in any case."
He holds out the cup expectantly, indicating that Daan should go ahead and fill it properly. In the meanwhile he decides to do a little further prying:
"So! These standards of yours ... to what other aspects of your life to they stretch, I wonder? Work? Friends? Lovers?"
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For a brief moment, Daan is quiet as he fills up the cup properly this time, all the way to the brim. The bottle is set down after Daan refills his own, and he considers a moment before he has a drink.
"I'm flexible in some respects," he decides to say. "Work, I take it seriously, but I realize I might come off as... unusual, in some regards. Friends, I'm pretty open for. Lovers..."
For a moment, he trails off. It could be less Astarion being nosy but also seeking something specific here. He wouldn't be the first. Might not even be the last, to be honest. Even if he hasn't had that lifestyle in quite sometime.
Anyway. He holds up his hand, holding it out at his leftmost.
"Let me put it this way. The range in pure theoretical. On one end of the spectrum, you have someone like Wyll. Terribly genuine, an idealist, and sometimes adorably naive." His hand moves in a line to end at the rightmost. "At the exact end of the other side, you have Lae'zel. Bloodthirsty, impatient, barely tolerating the rest of us. For personal tastes, I would say... just a notch before Lae'zel, in terms of standards? I like to think that's very lax."
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"Nosey? I'm offended, darling. I much prefer to think of it as a healthy interest."
But yes, he's absolutely nosey, and if his expression is anything to go by he seems genuinely amused by Daan's description of his standards. Who'd have thought his tastes would range so widely — Gods, that they would run close to Lae'zel? It's excellent news for him, of course, as it suggests he'd be open enough to a silver-tongued rogue, which is really all Astarion needed to hear.
"How very curious," he all but purrs, before glancing across to the Gith'yanki's tent.
"I'm almost tempted to tell her that she could be in with a shot at you — but I suspect she wouldn't take kindly to any pointers I might offer on toning down her bloodthirsty, impatient side."
A silly, high-pitched chuckle escapes him as he lifts his cup to his lips, before indulging in a long sip of the pilfered mead.
"Although I have to say: I'm a little surprised. I'd thought most clerics would be a bit more ... discerning, in their tastes. Shadowheart, for example."
Pricklier than a manticore, that one.
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The comment about clerics makes him pause before finishing the contents of his cup.
"Yes, I imagine that would be true for most clerics, so... fiercely devoted to their gods and whatnot." Daan sets his cup down for now and shrugs. "Suffice it to say, I've been in a position more than a few times to expand my tastes. How fortunate the gods are so forgiving of debauchery so long as you do a few prayers and favors."
Yet, there is the slightest hint of distaste in Daan's voice concerning the pantheon. It isn't the mead talking either, for the cleric still seems suitably sober.
"Well, enough on me. And what about you? Specific tastes, or is it a free range?"