Chapter Text
If, in their search for a cure and answers, they have committed to war, then they have survived the first hellish skirmish in its unraveling course.
Goblins are trite obstacles in Solistre's experience, too wild and simple to pose a threat to the weathered adventurer with shrewd tactics and tricks up their sleeves. Gathered in a small raider's army, drunk on booze and fervent worship of a new god, however, they proved themselves to be of a different mettle indeed.
Even with Priestess Gut and Minthara cunningly dispatched in their private – and conveniently quiet – corners, the goblin and few humanoid warriors rallied into a formidable force under the command of Dror Ragzlin. Luring them into a drawn-out offensive through the temple and into the open courtyard, Ragzlin forced them to wade through line after line of bloodthirsty zealots in their dogged pursuit of him, before Lae'zel's red-dripping blade plunged through his heart.
None were left untouched by battle's end, bruised and bleeding ever more freely with arrows pulled from torn flesh. After a short rest, Halsin – in fittest condition when shifted back to his elven bulk – led the way back to the druids' grove. The trek was arduous, made doubly long by their impaired gaits, and the night was at its deepest dark when they reached the grove's wooden gate.
Declining Halsin's offer of sanctuary within a grove already full to bursting – with people and tensions alike – they made camp in a clearing near the gate, while the Archdruid marched back to his circle and restored order, tearing Kagha down from her ill-gotten perch. News of the goblin army's demise reached the tieflings' ears from Halsin's mouth, and Zevlor visited their saviours' camp the next day, offering thanks and a humble pouch of gold declined by Wyll. Worse still, Zevlor further offered a celebration in their camp that very night, tieflings and adventurers with a humble feast and their renewed hope for the future.
A gracious Wyll accepted.
Now an irritable drow looks over their noisy, crowded campgrounds and considers wringing his neck for the umpteenth time in a row. Where meditative quiet should have fallen over the camp, the starlit dark cloaking them in a measure of peace at nightfall, there are instead bright torches set around the grounds, keeping the shadows at bay. Tieflings drink and dance to the jaunty tunes of their bard's lute, jovial conversations turning to gasps at their wizard's magical lightworks, all while their battered saviours linger on the edges, nursing their own appetites and wounds.
Solistre would have preferred to spend the night with something more productive – say, discussing their next moves with Halsin. But the Archdruid had deflected questions and steered their focus towards rest instead, sending donations from the grove to supplement the tieflings' provisions for this celebration. To buy more time, is what Solistre reads in his gift, but the luxurious taste of roast beef on her tongue holds it from voicing critique. Even if she did put up a fight, she is uncertain if her weary body could follow through.
So she stifles protest with the last slice of beef from her plate, and rolls her eyes at the renewed cheers when Alfira strikes up another tune on the lute. She drains her goblet of its mediocre wine, casts one last glance at Wyll brooding by the river in the distance, then hops off her perch atop the tree where she'd hidden herself.
Gale startles at her soft landing and shoots a reproachful look from his tent, but doesn't stop her from walking off, satisfying himself by returning quill to journal page. Lae'zel gives her a passing glance from the feast table, sharing a strain of annoyance at the festivities, before turning darkened yellow eyes back on the vampire spawn. Astarion pays no heed to either Lae'zel's attention or Solistre's passing, occupied as he is with watching the tieflings from the side, the sneer on his lips revealing the hungry lick of tongue on fang. Only Karlach seems to be enjoying herself, with a sloshing mug in hand and her feet tip-tapping to the songs, though she keeps herself at an obvious distance from the other dancers.
The only one Solistre cannot see is Shadowheart, presumably seated at her tent pitched farther from the celebration, blocked from sight by the eyesore of a boulder beside Karlach's tent. When the drow pulls farther from the noise, towards the crevice where she had stashed her belongings, the cleric's location is given away by none other than Shadowheart herself.
"And here I thought you'd lost yourself in the party," Shadowheart says, seated on a stool by her indigo tent, with a goblet cradled in hand. "Why, is it not up to your standards?"
Solistre snorts, thoughts of retrieving her cloak for a midnight stroll forgotten, in favour of a riposte to Shadowheart's opening move. "This is a commotion, not a party."
"The night is still young. Who knows? A ritual sacrifice or murder might still happen." Shadowheart takes a sip of wine with a wry smile, knowing eyes glinting over the goblet's rim. "Then again, the Blade may put an end to that if it does. Or…he may not."
Her eyes scan the throng of revelers. "Where is he, by the way? I've had a few people asking after him already."
"Sulking by himself."
"Ah. Just like you, then?"
Solistre bites the bait with a sneer, albeit without fire, getting a smile from Shadowheart. "And you? What are you doing by yourself?"
"Drinking. Observing. Thinking." Shadowheart shrugs, looking over the camp again. "It's strange… You know who I never thought I'd find myself caring for?"
"No, I don't."
Her eyes flick in quiet exasperation at Solistre's refusal to play the game, but she continues regardless. "Desperate people. Refugees. Never gave them much thought. Certainly not this bunch."
Shadowheart pauses when one dancer tips over from an enthusiastic twirl and falls to ground, prompting as many laughs as offers to help her up. Despite her own apathy, Solistre drifts closer to Shadowheart's tent, getting a better view of the camp.
"Yet we came through for them. We saved their lives. Odd."
"We needed Halsin's help. He has information on the tadpoles."
"Information, or guesswork? He seems almost as clueless as we are. One would think getting closer to those cultists would allow us to better understand the tadpoles' power, at the very least."
"Would you rather work with a druid for the cure, or blend in with goblins and thralls?" Solistre snips back, crossing her arms.
Shadowheart wrinkles her nose. "Druids do smell nicer, I suppose. I think there's goblin stink in my hair still, no matter how hard I've tried to wash it off." She smiles to herself, then looks at Solistre. "Point taken."
Silence stretches the longer Shadowheart watches her, and Solistre has slid one foot back to move away when the half-elf speaks again, "Share a bottle with me?"
When Solistre cocks her head, Shadowheart goes on, "It's a perfect night to spend a little time away from all this, don't you think?" She nods at the revelers. "A little peace and quiet, just between the two of us."
Her finger taps on the side of her goblet. "If it helps, it will be quite the bottle. I liberated one of the finer vintages earlier."
"You found it here. How 'fine' could it be?"
"You'll just have to find out, won't you? Not here," she adds, when Solistre turns a palm up. "Best enjoyed someplace private, I think. We should wait a little while, until the others have drifted off."
Her eyes roam across the campgrounds, and up the side of the bluffs nearby, a wall of rock mirroring the curve of the River Chionthar. "The waterfall. Meet me there."
Solistre stares into green eyes, trying to discern some secret intent. But all she finds is a semblance of peace, anticipation, and none of guile.
"Later, then."
With her thin cloak wrapped around her shoulders, Solistre escapes into the surrounding woods for her nightly walk. Her strength remains diminished despite a day's rest, but she paces herself well enough for an hour that stretches into two, before bowing to her body's demands and turning back.
When she returns to the campsite, it is with chagrin, for the tieflings had not bothered to leave the grounds, and are snoring contentedly in their bedrolls under the stars. Stepping over empty bottles and half-eaten bites of food on sodden grass, Solistre swats away one thin hand reaching for their trunk of spare supplies, and flashes her dagger to scatter the few child thieves prowling the site. She waits in plain sight with the blade clutched in hand, until the children have scampered off completely.
Spotting their mastermind across the grounds, Solistre sends her a vicious glare – receiving a nonchalant shrug in return, then raised hands in appeasement when she lifts her dagger. Mol gives her a once-over, and slips away with a smirk. Ambitious little brat. She would make something of herself, if she doesn't overreach in hubris and gets her hands cut off before then.
Replacing her dagger in its ankle sheath, Solistre looks around the camp. Gale and Wyll's tent flaps are drawn; presumably, they are asleep within. Lae'zel and Astarion are nowhere to be seen. Karlach is sprawled out in her tent, snoring as happily as one does with a bellyful of drink and food. That leaves Shadowheart, and Solistre's appointment with her.
She leaves the camp behind, making for the bluffs that Shadowheart had indicated. Instead of following the winding foot-worn path up, Solistre hops on its rocky face for a quick climb to the top, relishing the effort and ensuing ache in her still-bruised muscles. She follows the curve of the bluff leading away from the campsite, and finds Shadowheart seated by the waterfall, already nursing a goblet of wine.
The half-elf looks up with caution that gives way to a smile. "You made it. Come, sit with me."
Solistre unties her cloak, dropping it carelessly as she sits, eyeing the open bottle. "Did you think I wouldn't show?"
"Lots of people make promises. Few keep them." Something flits across Shadowheart's face, darkening her expression, and it is gone before Solistre can read into it. She picks up the bottle, filling the spare goblet. "Well, to begin, I think a toast is in order. Any suggestions?"
"How about, no toasts."
"Ah-ah." About to hand the goblet over, Shadowheart now holds it out of Solistre's reach. "If you want this wine, you will play along."
She doesn't waver under Solistre's dour glare, and the drow has to bite down a smile. "Fine."
Shadowheart watches her for a moment, as if appraising the honesty in her concession, before surrendering the goblet. Solistre takes it, swirling the dark red liquid within. It can look so much like blood, that drow of the Underdark have taken to adding rare drops of liquid vitae into their vintage, often to savour the death of a hated rival. She herself is no stranger to the taste of infused wine, and its accompanying thrill of accomplishment.
"Victory," Solistre murmurs. "To victory."
"Dominant, self-centred, savouring another's loss…" Shadowheart raises her goblet. "I like it. To victory."
Solistre can't help but match her smile. Shadowheart understands the way her mind works, the core tenets bred into her bones that guide her actions – a little too much, sometimes. It makes Solistre suspicious, and just a little defensive. She never reveals how close Shadowheart is to the truth, if only to keep her guessing, and to see that knowing smile play across a hidden layer of vexation.
They clink their goblets, and take a sip together. This wine slides down her throat smoother than the swill passed around the campfire earlier, and Solistre is forced to admit that her companion has good taste – with nimble fingers to match.
"Now tell me something about yourself," Shadowheart says, when their goblets are lowered. "And no tadpoles, dragons, marauding goblins, or anything like that. Something about you."
"You first."
"Oh no. I provided the refreshments." She tips her goblet. "You can supply the entertainment."
"If you wanted entertainment, you should've invited the bard."
"But the bard's not here, so we'll have to make do. Go on, then."
Solistre releases a long-suffering sigh, and takes a second pull of wine. She wades through memories of the weeks before her capture by illithids…and finds nothing she wants to talk about. Not of her latest jobs for the Eilistraeean temple in Baldur's Gate, because she cannot be bothered to explain her own lack of faith, and it is surely unwise to reveal a secret temple of kind hearts to a Sharran, of all people. Not of her most recent contracts for the underworld and Nine Fingers Keene, either – it is only prudent to keep the details of her jobs secret, after all.
Leaning back on one hand, she dives aimlessly through the memories of past years, and finds herself arriving at the very start, when she tilts her head up to look upon the few stars above them tonight.
"The night sky was the first thing I liked about the surface." Solistre trails off, hoping that is enough. When Shadowheart only waits in attentive silence, she takes an inward sigh and continues, "I took my first steps out of the Underdark in daylight. I was already tired, hungry, pushed to my very limits just to survive the climb to the surface. To be greeted by the hot sun, stranded under the bright, open skies…I thought I was being burnt alive. It drove me mad. I ran blindly, looking for shelter."
And escape from the hired assassins on her tail. But there is no need to reveal everything. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
"I ran until I collapsed under a tree in the forest. When I awoke, it was dark. For a moment I thought I was back in the Underdark, but…then I saw the stars, and the moon. They did not burn as the sun did. I was confused, then enchanted. I found them…beautiful. Comforting, after all that had happened in the day. I think I spent half the night just lying there, staring at the stars until sleep overcame me again."
Shadowheart listens, seeming to drink in every word. When she opens her mouth to speak, it is not to ask for details that Solistre is unwilling to part with. "It must've been disorienting, to be introduced to the surface like that."
"An understatement."
"May I assume that's how you developed your hatred of the sun?"
Solistre huffs a short laugh. "I suppose. I hated the sun. Still do. But I was also afraid of the sky. It made me feel so exposed, like something could swoop down on me at any minute. And the weather – gods, the weather. You have the sun, the rain, snow, hail, storms…and you cannot predict any of it."
"Sounds like someone was pampered by the Underdark." Shadowheart delivers the light jab, and gets a scoff in return.
"Anyone who makes a home in the Underdark is anything but pampered," Solistre replies, knowing well she had stepped into the trap. But what else is she to do here, to while away the time with a bottle between them both? "Its environment is enclosed, but danger lurks in every shadow, behind every corner. The unwary will be torn apart by fang and claw. The foolish vanquished by plots and poison. But if you understand it – how it works, how to move in it, how to use its very dangers against your foes… It can become a playground even in the heat of battle, even in the most desperate of times."
Her gaze has drifted far and away in reminiscence, and when she looks back to Shadowheart with a challenge on her tongue, she pauses. The half-elf watches her quietly, with a soft smile on her lips. Solistre grows aware of the smile on her own, and fixes her expression.
"Sounds like you love it," Shadowheart says.
"I was born in it." A deflection, but it doesn't work.
"You miss it."
The truth hurts as she admits, "I do."
"So why don't you go back?"
A question she'd pondered herself, but to have it asked to the face is akin to a blow. A light blow, one easily shrugged off, but a blow nonetheless.
She likes to think it impossible, that she cannot, simply because her death had been decreed, and it is her home no longer. But the truth is, she can return to the Underdark if she wished, especially after the time she had spent away. Menzoberranzan is where her death is certain, but while it is the largest city – the jewel of the Underdark, as it were – its reach doesn't encompass the entirety of the Underdark. She could live in its remote corners, fighting for her own space with other races and creatures who have built settlements or nested in the wilds.
Hells, she could even live near the Upperdark's entrance to the surface, if only to escape the sun. But she doesn't want to. It is a pariah's life, and the constant struggle in such close proximity to home, will always be a reminder of what she had lost. The temptation to return will be ever-present, and Solistre doesn't trust herself to not break.
But that is too much for a simple, pleasurable chat over wine on a peaceful night.
"It is…difficult," Solistre says slowly, avoiding Shadowheart's searching gaze by taking another long draught of wine. When she lowers the goblet, she turns the arrowhead back around. "You are very enamoured with the Underdark."
"Not the Underdark exactly, though it does interest me. No, I am…curious about its denizens. Like you."
Solistre looks over quizzically.
"You have an extraordinary affinity for the darkness. I must admit, I envy it. You slip into the shadows with such ease, as if you are simply taking a breath. You can plunder secrets, lives, and more, with none knowing of the deed. These are skills that serve a Sharran well. You would excel in my Lady's service."
She scoffs, lighthearted. "Save your praises, if you only seek to convert me."
"Not now, no. I know better than to move too fast." Shadowheart smirks, just a touch smug. "Besides, conversion is not my aim. And my praise is genuine."
Genuine? Solistre doesn't know how to react to that, only sit with doubt welling in her gut, and move the conversation forward.
"I may have the skills, but I do not believe in your doctrine. Your people embrace loss. I hate losing anything at all."
Shadowheart watches her quietly, for a long moment that threatens to grow longer, before she asks, "What have you lost?"
Solistre tenses and turns her face away, trying and failing to ignore those eyes on herself. Shadowheart sounds, like she had said, genuine. But every piece of information shared of her own loss, is another arrow for the Sharran's quiver. And yet…she feels a perverse urge to feel its sting, to test herself against religious dogma that goes against everything she'd ever believed, to see if she would fold even after her abandonment by her own goddess.
She breaks off the arrow's tip, and hands over its splintered shaft with a whisper, "Everything."
Her fingers clench around the goblet's thick stem, and she downs the rest of her wine in one go. She sets the goblet down with a firm clink and reaches for the bottle unseeing, then jerks away when her hand closes around Shadowheart's fingers, already wrapped around the bottle.
Solistre meets Shadowheart's eyes involuntarily, and finds a glimmer of amusement to accompany the soft curve on her companion's lips.
"Allow me."
Solistre withdraws, watching Shadowheart refill the goblet and hand it back to her. It takes every bit of effort not to betray the slightest tremble in her hands, as she takes a sip of wine.
Shadowheart has chosen not to speak, allowing companionable silence to fall over them. But Solistre's nerves have grown frayed from everything she had revealed, from the arrow shaft that lies so idly in Shadowheart's hands. It turns the silence unbearable.
To distract from her own discomfort, Solistre turns the conversation back on Shadowheart. "I think I've spoken enough. It's your turn."
Shadowheart shakes her head. "You know I can't give you that. I sacrificed my memories before my mission. They're lost to me right now."
"You haven't lost everything."
"Of course. Not my skills, nor my orders. I remember everything I need to, but not much that I can share. "
To Solistre's surprise, Shadowheart's expression falls as she hugs at her knees, gaze lowered to the ground. Is she truly so disappointed, to have nothing to share? Or does the sacrifice of her memories tug at her heart, where staunch faith purports to reside? Surely not, for one who has sworn her life to Shar, who finds pride in pain endured for her goddess?
Solistre stares, growing further restless at her companion's subdued air, and says without thought, "You like night orchids, and you can't swim."
Shadowheart blinks, looking back at her in surprise. Her melancholy seems forgotten, falling away to make room for a smile. "You remembered."
"And Scratch. You like Scratch too."
"Yes. But keep that a secret, won't you?"
"A secret? You're not as subtle as you think."
"Shut up," Shadowheart retorts, without conviction. "And here I was, thinking you're sweet."
"It's for blackmail."
"Please. You can hardly do much with that." Green eyes are aglow now, with a warmth that is not unfamiliar. "Is that all I like?"
Solistre shrugs, drinking more wine if only to keep her breath from catching under Shadowheart's expectant gaze. She always turns surprisingly gentle if treated the same, and…Solistre never quite knows what to do with herself when Shadowheart softens like this.
She is still staring into green eyes, searching for an answer to Shadowheart's question, when stark purple light flares on the half-elf's hand. Shadowheart flinches away, gripping the wrist below the incurable wound to steady herself, keeping her goblet upright.
Any trace of happiness from Solistre's observation is gone, black fringe further casting her eyes in shadow, as she worries at the wound with her fingers. Solistre watches in silence, wondering what had caused it to flare.
Before Shadowheart can retreat into herself, Solistre asks, "Your wound. Why does it act up like that?"
Her companion gives no reaction to the question, and Solistre is about to let it go when, "I…don't know. Only that the pain comes from Lady Shar."
Her voice is thin, uncertain as she rubs the sting from her hand. Pain from her goddess? Punishment, then – or that is Solistre's guess, at least. But what has she done that deserves punishment, while they sit here for a mere chat?
Shadowheart continues to worry at the wound, though the purple glow is long gone. Solistre ventures, "Will some healing help?"
She sighs. "No. Not that I would try. If Lady Shar deems it necessary, I will not insult her will by alleviating the pain."
Shadowheart cradles her hand a little longer, then gazes back at Solistre. "But the thought is appreciated. You know, you're not half as bad as you pretend to be."
'Pretend'? Solistre frowns, but she can hardly hold onto her indignation when Shadowheart breaks into a grin at her reaction. That genuine tease had made her eyes twinkle with mirth, without a hint of guile or thorniness that she had carried in their whole journey thus far.
She is…quite pretty.
"Cease your slander," Solistre snaps weakly, unbalanced by that inopportune realisation. "Or I will take your tongue."
"Is that a promise?"
Solistre blinks, kept off balance by the smooth riposte, and her eyes flick down to those bow-shaped lips. Aware of her misstep as soon as she made it, Solistre lifts her eyes back up and finds, impossibly, a warmth that threatens to bring the rest of her guard down. It sets alight a fire low in her gut, where desires had lain dormant for too long to count.
She stares into Shadowheart's eyes, caught in rapture, before shaking herself out of it. Stop. It's dangerous. You're dealing with a Sharran, of all people. The most beautiful creatures are often the most venomous.
She turns back to the front, breaking their connection, and the charged air of the moment fades.
"More wine?" Shadowheart asks.
Solistre nods distractedly, holding out her goblet for a refill. She hopes one bottle will be enough to drown wayward thoughts for the rest of the night.
As it turns out, the bottle is enough to drown more than thought. It had doused the ever wakeful core of her mind enough to lull her into true sleep rather than trance, against her own preference.
When Solistre rouses, it is with little discomforts announcing their presence. First are her knees, aching from having rested against the ledge, where her legs had dangled through the night. Second are the aches from her battleworn muscles, no longer dulled by drink, herbs, or magic. Last is the chill of the night air, intensified by the occasional breeze that sweeps through, sending shivers down her body.
She reaches for her cloak, fingers closing over thin air above her stomach. Her hand lies curled in a loose fist for a moment, before it sinks into her awakening mind that there is no cloak in her hand. Odd. She could've sworn that she had pulled it over herself, remembers how she'd nearly caused a cramp in her side when she strained her arm above her head, reaching for the cloak she'd carelessly discarded hours before.
She tries again, grasping here and there, filled with confusion until her hand travels to the side, and finally digs into that familiar, thin weave of wool – and the arm underneath.
Solistre turns her head aside, and finds her cloak wrapped around Shadowheart. Her quizzical gaze is met by Shadowheart's drowsy counterpart, the half-elf breaking into a lazy smile.
"It's cold," Shadowheart utters.
"Apparently."
"Are you?"
A grumpy growl rumbles in her throat, getting a chuckle in return. But she doesn't try to take the cloak back. It will take more than a chill to kill her, or pry her mouth open for a complaint.
Shadowheart sniffs, shifting under the cloak. "It's a little thin, though."
"Then give it back," Solistre deadpans.
"I don't think so," comes the impish reply. "Besides, it's nearly light. The others will be awake soon, and we'll have to move."
Solistre groans as she pulls her stiff legs back from the ledge, feeling them protest at the motion. "They can wait. I don't want to move."
"Another moment won't kill them, I suppose. Well, it might, but let's take that risk." Shadowheart pulls the cloak snug around herself, and turns onto her side to face Solistre. "Thank you for last night."
"You brought the drinks."
"And you the company. We're even, then."
Faint creases adorn the corners of gentle green eyes when she smiles, further softening her mellow expression. Nestled up to her neck in the stolen cloak, peering through the curtain of dark hair with a tender touch to her gaze, she looks…at peace. Painfully vulnerable, without her barbed words and prickly demeanour to cover the fact of the bruise on her cheekbone, the short reddish cut under her chin. Beautiful, with nothing to hide, nothing to scowl at.
Huh. The thoughts came unbidden, but were not quite foreign. As if she had always known, but never acknowledged it; content to leave them in the back of her mind, while she focused on their fight for survival. But it is here, now – undeniable, unforgettable, and Solistre finds herself unable to look away.
Shadowheart shows no intention of moving either, wrapped in a cloak and the comfort between them two, unspoken and unchallenged. Has it always been like this? Why Shadowheart has drifted towards her, among all others? Has she focused too much on freeing herself of the tadpole and unwanted companions, that she has overlooked what is right in front of her?
What, exactly, is in front of her?
Tension creeps in, and her pulse quickens in contemplation. Her lips have parted – what for, she will never know, because a crash resounds so loudly from camp that it reaches the waterfall.
Solistre snaps upright, head swimming from the sudden motion. Her body wails at the exertion, but she allows herself only the slightest hunch to accommodate her discomfort, as she grips the dagger by her ankle and pricks her ears for sounds from the campsite.
Nothing. Her nerves start to pull taut, when she hears the faintest shouts of a reprimand, then a louder, clearly amused laugh joins in. Recognising the second voice as Wyll's, she relaxes from her sharp attention. If the Blade has found nothing to be concerned about, then they are in no danger.
She sighs, and that makes her aware of her own gritted teeth. Her shoulders are hunched lower now, with one arm clutched to her stomach, bandaged under her shirt. There is a distinct pull in muscle, and though she feels no wetness in the half-healed slash, the pain radiating from it threatens a reopening.
"It hurts?"
A firm hand touches her shoulder, turning her around to face Shadowheart. Solistre nods, and the cleric pulls her arm away, tugging the shirt up to check that her bandages are still unbloodied. With a short incantation and gesture, Shadowheart casts a spell that banishes the pain, and closes the wound just a little tighter.
"Better?"
"Yes," Solistre breathes. She looks up, pauses. When did Shadowheart get so close? "Thank you."
The words escape her before she knows it, though the flush of embarrassment is beaten back by the heat of sudden proximity.
"Is that your first word of thanks?" Shadowheart teases – still gentle, without provocation. "I'm flattered."
Now the embarrassment is working its way up her neck, and Solistre hopes against hope that the dark flush is not terribly obvious. In a futile attempt to distract them both, she bites, "You shouldn't be."
Shadowheart hums. "I suppose you're right. We could do better."
The cleric's hand, lingering at Solistre's stomach, moves up with surprising speed to clutch her jaw. Solistre tenses as Shadowheart's smile tilts crooked, a darker heat entering her gaze. She looks into Solistre's eyes and, finding no resistance, closes the distance between their lips.
It is decisive, yet gentle – and still Solistre finds it difficult to breathe, under the press of soft lips to her own. She barely pulls her wits together to respond, catching the edge of Shadowheart's lips when she pulls away.
Shadowheart lingers, just close enough for their breaths to mix, but she doesn't move again. Solistre stares back into verdant eyes, wordless, despite the suffocating churn beneath her ribs. Her heart beats, just a little harder on the next note, and she throws caution to the wind, leaning in for another kiss.
Shadowheart meets her, soft as ever, with familiarity from the first, deepening in mutual desire. Solistre tilts further into the kiss, and Shadowheart reciprocates gladly with a low, approving hum. Heat simmers in her chest when the tip of a tongue grazes her lips, and she chases after it, feeling its tease again in a deeper kiss.
The hand at her jaw grows firm, asserting a gentle pressure as Shadowheart breaks away. She smiles at the low growl that escapes Solistre's throat, and traces her bottom lip with a thumb. When green eyes dip down, Solistre thinks she will claim another kiss, but Shadowheart merely sits back with a satisfied sigh.
Solistre tries not to resent the chill brush of the air on her jaw, when Shadowheart's hand falls away. The warmth on her lips makes it easy, and she settles for watching Shadowheart in silence.
Her companion gazes back at her with that same smile, then lies down on the ground, tugging the fallen cloak back around herself. Taking the cue, Solistre lies down as well, biting back a groan and marveling at the ease with which Shadowheart moves. Perhaps their cleric is not as wounded as she had thought.
Exhaling a slow breath, Solistre looks up at the lightening sky, lacing her fingers over her stomach. "Was that better?"
"Mm. Much." That teasing glint returns to her eyes, and quirks her lips. "We should do this again, sometime."
"Only if you keep liberating 'fine vintages'."
Shadowheart laughs. "So easily bought, are you?"
"Perhaps." Solistre returns her smile. "You'll just have to find out."