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Lae’zel will always be impressed with how early her companions retire to their bedrolls.
As soon as the stars are at their brightest, like clockwork, the camp falls into an eerie silence. The only sounds that remain are the hungry screeches of distant owls and the crackling of the dwindling campfire. At this time of night, Lae’zel is typically the only one still conscious, her rigorous battle training refusing to allow her to sleep until she knows they are safe.
Lae’zel stands at the outskirts of the camp, her hands curled on the hilt of her sword with its tip buried in the earth. Her eyes are watchful and careful. There is no such thing as being ‘too careful’.
Behind her, she can hear Shadowheart poke at the dwindling fire. The Sharran is the only one of the bunch that has yet to return to her tent. In one of her hands is a strange, unfamiliar contraption, and she uses it to breathe and exhale a puff of gray smoke. Judging by the smell, it’s a sort of substance, one that Lae’zel is not knowledgeable of.
There are many of Faerûn’s ‘customs’ that she is not familiar with. Drugs are one of them.
Lae’zel removes herself from her guard, slipping her sword into its sheath before approaching the half-elf woman. “What are you inhaling, istik?” she asks. The usual bite in her tone is absent.
Shadowheart side-eyes Lae’zel lazily. Although the two of them have ‘buried the hatchet’, so to speak, there is an awkward tension between the pair that can’t be helped. Despite that, Lae’zel notices their recent arguments feel more… electric.
The Sharran rests her elbow on her knee. “Weed,” she answers, arching her brow. “Why? Are you interested?”
The Githyanki wrinkles her short nose.
“Why would you smoke the weeds?” she asks. Her lip curls in disgust. “I cannot imagine they have an enticing taste.”
“Not that kind of weed,” scoffs Shadowheart, narrowing her eyes. “Marijuana. The Devil's Lettuce. Though I suppose the Githyanki have their own substances to indulge in.”
Lae’zel’s nostrils flare in understanding.
“Ah. I see,” she responds. Lae’zel takes a seat beside Shadowheart, who glares at her uncomfortably. “An uncultured herb, as uncultured as this realm.”
Shadowheart brings the pipe to her lips. She tilts her head forward, sparking the packed bowl with a flame between her fingertips before she takes a short puff. The smoke ushers a pleasant warmth in her chest before she releases it from between her teeth. The cleric shifts, offering the device to Lae’zel with an expectant look in her eyes.
Lae’zel knows Shadowheart well enough to know the woman is challenging her.
“Well?” asks Shadowheart in a tone that only confirms Lae’zels suspicions. “I won’t be waiting all day, Gith. Take it or leave me be.”
“Chk. Very well,” Lae’zel murmurs. She snatches the pipe from Shadowheart, investigating the contraption curiously. Githyanki never used such crude inventions for self-pleasure. Their own devices were significantly more thought-out—and were both elegant and elaborate.
“What’s the matter?” Shadowheart asks. She makes a face. “Don’t tell me you’ve never indulged yourself before.”
“I have made many ‘indulgences’ in my lifetime, kainyank,” says Lae’zel. She glares at the cleric pointedly. “Though Githyanki substances are significantly potent. I expect they far exceed any mere plant you can simply pluck from your realm.”
Shadowheart looks as though she could care less. She rests her chin on her hand, shaking her head with a muted expression. “Just take the damn hit, Lae’zel,” she says with a sigh. There is an ember ignited between her fingers again, and Lae’zel leans forward to relight the end of the pipe with a huff.
As soon as the substance reignites, Lae’zel can feel the smoke flood past her lips. It tickles the walls of her throat on the way down and she can’t help but cough, feeling her eyes water from the heat. Her chest is wracked with several subsequent coughs, and as soon as she begins to still, she can hear Shadowheart’s raucous fit of laughter.
“A foul drug!” hisses Lae’zel. She shoves the still-smoking pipe back to Shadowheart. “My suspicions were correct. Githyanki substances are far more sophisticated.”
“Come now, Lae’zel!” says Shadowheart. She’s having a hard time controlling herself through her hysterics. “You can’t just condemn it because it made you start coughing. Admit it—this is one of those things where I’m simply better at it than you are.”
“Better?”
Shadowheart knows what she is doing. A coy smile plays on her lips.
There’s a burning warmth in Lae’zel’s head that encourages the warrior to seize the pipe back from the Sharran’s fingertips. She suspects it's the beginnings of the weed muddling her thoughts. Lae’zel surrenders herself, sitting cross-legged across the other woman while she draws another dose of the smoke into her lungs. As soon as Shadowheart’s lips release the tip of the pipe she snatches it from her hands, pressing it firmly against her own mouth.
“You could say please,” Shadowheart grumbles.
“Never.”
Lae’zel is already taking another puff of the pipe. Like before, she feels her throat begin to tighten. But she feels more prepared this time, coughing considerably less. A pleasant fuzziness begins to bloom beneath her skin.
“Now you’re getting it,” says Shadowheart in a low voice. Her praise is unexpected, and Lae’zel can feel a feeling of warmth grow in her chest. She returns the pipe without another word.
They find a rhythm in passing the pipe between the two of them. The fuzziness in Lae’zel’s head expands into a haze that makes her skin tingle. She keeps her eyes on Shadowheart, observing her demeanor for change, but the Sharran doesn't seem nearly as affected as she is. Lae’zel is beginning to suspect that she is simply skilled in hiding it.
“And when Gale casted that grease spell, Astarion nearly lost it,” says Shadowheart. She’s explaining a story from the goblin camp that Lae’zel is only half-listening to, who is rocking back and forth in a pleasant daze. “It splashed all over his legs and hair. He looked like an angry wet cat. For a moment there, I thought we were going to have to knock him out on the way back to camp.”
Lae’zel hums in response.
Shadowheart takes a long puff from the pipe. “Sometimes I think Astarion would rather break a bone than a nail.”
With those words, Lae’zel releases a genuine laugh. It isn’t a particularly loud laugh—more like a quiet chuckle. But it’s enough to make Shadowheart sputter and cough out the remains of the smoke in her lungs. She whips around to stare at the githyanki with wide eyes.
“You can laugh!?” Shadowheart all but shouts.
Lae’zel pauses. She raises one hand to touch her own face as though it betrayed her.
“Forgive me,” she says. “This substance seems to double as a muscle relaxant. My vocal muscles must have slipped.”
Shadowheart is dumbfounded.
“No, no, no, you can’t just say that,” says Shadowheart stubbornly. She moves to sit on her knees, clasping her hands on either side of Lae’zel’s shoulders. Her eyes are firmly pinned to hers. “You. Lae’zel of Créche K’liir. Just laughed.”
Lae’zel purses her lips. “I do not see why you are in such a state of shock,” the warrior says. “I myself have witnessed Karlach laugh many a time without you losing your composure.”
“Please. Don’t pretend like you don’t understand,” says Shadowheart. She notices Lae’zel’s eyes trace the redness that stretches across her cheeks and shoulders. It only makes her flush more deeply. “You and your stone cold exterior. That ‘stoic warrior’ act you flaunt, in battle and out. You’d sooner crack someone’s skull than crack into a fit of laughter.”
The githyanki brings one hand to grasp Shadowheart’s chin, silencing her instantly. The Sharran can’t help but flick her eyes to glance at the other woman’s lips.
“I see,” says Lae’zel thoughtfully.
“What?”
“I was correct. The pipe’s contents do affect you. You are simply well-trained in hiding them.”
Shadowheart goes rigid. A deep red floods across her cheeks and she snaps away from Lae’zel’s touch. “You—” she stammers, her fingers twitching. “I can’t believe you, you stupid—”
Lae’zel’s fingers slip into the band of Shadowheart’s trousers, tugging her closer by the waist. Their lips press together in a way that makes Shadowheart see stars, that familiar warmth spreading across her chest. Her hands find the curved edges of the githyanki’s hips. They’re lean and firm, and hot beneath her palms.
When Shadowheart breaks away to breathe, Lae’zel chases her to reconnect their mouths. Her lips are a frenzy, her teeth nipping at her bottom lip before running over the marks with her tongue. The quick transition of pain to pleasure uncoils something in Shadowheart’s stomach that she can’t describe.
Her breaths become heavy and when Lae’zel pulls away, a whimper escapes Shadowheart’s lips. The githyanki’s taste is far too fresh on her tongue for it to cause her any embarrassment.
“Lae’zel,” whispers Shadowheart.
Lae’zel’s lips find Shadowheart’s skin again, this time in the sensitive crook of her neck. She pulls the Sharran closer so that she falls in her lap with a gasp. “Shadowheart,” she responds huskily, her breath hot the shell of her ear.
Her fangs rake across the surface of Shadowheart’s shoulder hard. She trails long, red lines across her skin, drops of blood beading down her chest. One of Lae’zel’s hands slips out from its place on the edge of her trousers, instead moving to cup the curve of her ass. Her fingers coil and tighten to press her fingernails into her skin, drawing a groan from her lips.
In retaliation, Shadowheart’s hands shift to explore the planes of Lae’zel’s stomach.
Lae’zel’s ridiculous underwear doesn’t leave much up to imagination. The straps are thin and far between. Her hands are splayed across her skin, tracing the toned lines of her abdominal muscles. She imagines them twisting and turning in battle, flexing under the armor that she wishes was so much more revealing than it was.
Shadowheart sighs when Lae’zel’s mouth finds the skin between her breasts. Her lips press against her sternum, and she lifts her head to scrap her teeth across her collar bone.
“Lae’zel,” she whispers. She can feel the muscles in her thighs tighten. “I need you.”
Lae’zel’s hands are enthusiastic, but Shadowheart can tell they are losing their fervor. Her lips press a series of final kisses against her chest, her shoulder, her neck, then her lips. The cleric chases the other woman’s lips greedily as soon as they separate, but she stops her with a finger on her lips.
“Calm yourself, Shadowheart,” says Lae’zel. Her eyes are dark and Shadowheart can see the stains of her blood and sweat on the warrior’s lips. “I will not have you tonight.”
Disappointment is heavy in her gut. “Why not!?” Shadowheart asks. Her brows furrow with frustration.
“I do not wish to claim you when we are inebriated,” says Lae’zel, rather matter-of-factly. “I want you to make this choice when you are clear of mind. When you cannot lay blame on your use of substances after I have brought you to climax.”
Shadowheart’s lips part. For a moment, she wants to refuse and take Lae’zel’s fingers right here and now. But with surprising fondness, she realizes the githyanki has her best interests at heart.
“Fine,” she concedes. Her hands leave Lae’zel’s skin. “But I’m finding you as soon as I’m clear-headed at sunrise.”
Lae’zel’s lips quirk with a sultry smile.
“Very well, istik.”