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It had started out innocuously enough. Though, she supposes, most things do.
He had been the only one in the camp - cult, really, if she’s being honest with herself - that hadn’t immediately been interested in what the sun-kissed, bloated carrion of her corpse would look like; no captivation with the thought of the birds picking the scraps off her ribs, no desire to feed her to the worgs. He had been cordial, kind even. Happy to indulge her in conversation about culture, about literature. He’d shown her the manuscript he’d gotten his hands on - though it took a little convincing to get him to do so - and had eagerly pointed out the bits that intrigued him the most, though she had to stop to explain some of the particularly complex words to him.
He was nice. And friendly faces had been far and few between over the last tenday; her companions, yes, and the tieflings at the Grove were amicable for the most part (save for Rolan, who seemed to have a very particular bone to pick with her). But she felt startlingly alone in all of this, even with her traveling party at her side. Small and insignificant, faced with the looming threat of her own mortality. Would today be the day her jaw splintered to make way for tentacles? Would her blood boil? Her organs eat themselves from the inside out?
So yes, she enjoyed the conversation, and yes, she was friendly to him. As far as she was concerned, there was no reason not to be.
Astarion and Shadowheart had loudly declared her to be a fool; too trusting, too focused on matters that were, frankly, frivolous. She was losing sight of the goal - they needed to find Halsin, rid themselves of the tadpoles, and move on with their lives. Gale had mostly been intrigued by how seemingly well-read he had been, rambling as they walked, though nobody was really listening.
What she had not anticipated from all of this was for simple joy from a kind connection to blossom into some kind of… fondness. Admiration, perhaps? Infatuation?
He had disappeared when the fighting started out in the courtyard, and the pang of concern she felt left her feeling confused; what did the safety of an Absolutist matter to her? Conversation aside, he was still part of the enemy, and she’d do well to remember that.
But when it was all over, and they stood triumphant, boots sticky with goblin blood, all she felt was the sick shock of regret. These were people, cult or not, with lives of their own. Families. Her mind haunted by the children in the Shattered Sanctum, how they had ran when the fighting started to get Halsin free. Krolla running the chicken chasing out in the courtyard.
And, of course, him.
She’s restless that night when they make camp, all fitful fervor, eyes so heavy and yet painfully plastered open. She gazes up at the stars, her stomach in knots. Had he made it out safe? Where would he go now, with nowhere to call home? Why had he been so kind to her?
She thinks the tadpole must finally be getting to her, because her chest aches, and she knows that that isn’t the correct response to all of this.
She considers the balance of nature versus nurture; could he have bloomed into something softer, had things been different? Taken away from the bloodshed, from the illithid influence, from the looming presence of the Absolute?
Or was he just a goblin, and she was making a mad dash towards the far side of crazy?
She rolls over in her bedroll with a sigh, willing her eyes to shut. Things to think about in the morning - at least if it is the tadpole finally taking hold, Lae’zel will make her death painless and swift.
She dreams, weightless, of possibility.