Fantasy Of Black Waters - A Witcher 3 inspired, dark fantasy RP [dead, we are restarting]

"..'Devils Footstools' we called them," Gwyn had chimed in as Fletcher regaled Marsilia and the others on the mushrooms she was drawing power from, "Eat one too many, and you'll be scraping your very soul off the walls."

The blond thief arched a brow; he would've been a fool not to guess she was familiar with the deliriants, however he was pleased she had an understanding of their potency.

It meant he could possibly enjoy them with someone genial and hopefully not worry very much about them meeting an untimely death in pursuit of pleasure. He'd have liked to say he hadn't watched someone choke on their own insides and roll their eyes up into their skull for just such a reason, but that would've been a lie.

Many pursued enjoyment at their own expense; he wasn't special in that regard, but 'Devils Footstools' he did not wield lightly.

"The devil is always in the details, is he not?" the blond mused, casting a cheeky glance to the dashing dark haired rogue, the corner of his mouth flicking upwards in his token Cheshire grin.

His smile was always a thinly veiled dare, as if to ask the other to meet it with a flush hand. She already had, physically, but the game of loose leaf smiles was something particular to performance. Perhaps she'd call his hand with something metaphorical or intoxicating.

He'd be right on one of those counts; a sorry—if brilliant—move. One they would definitely not regret, in ways they wouldn't yet understand.

The cat costumed Valoria hadn't answered his obnoxious verbal prodding. Perhaps she preferred to clean her bits, which the blond chuckled at, finding her scraping a sandpaper tongue over her tiny foot. Perhaps she was bored. Perhaps she wasn't Valoria at all. Perhaps, more likely, she was tired of all their shit and munching on her toes was a better use of her time.

That was a more likely assessment.

He couldn't say he didn't find her little gnawing endearing. Cats were particularly pleasant creatures for the thief, despite their barbs and tiny fangs.

"..Pleasantly un-punched. I can see you're well," the dark haired rogue leaned his way, taking to the bookshelf he'd found himself propped up against, "But I'll be holding you accountable soon enough, you needn't worry." He swore he'd caught a wink from the powerful woman, now healed just as he was, warranting a thankful look Marsilia's way.

This one in particular, he didn't want to lose to cruel fate. Despite her injuries not being wholly detrimental, he found the prospect of her in pain a flavor of unsettling he didn't reserve for accomplices such as his one-time drinking partner.

Who was still in the thickets of a pain he had no hope of solving, though the mangle-speeched elf in their midst would soon attend to. This was a different shade of worry, though a worry nonetheless.

"I'll hold you to that," he said in hushed tones, edging his lips to the shell of her ear. Fletch pulled away to cast a glimmer of a smile, "But no funny business, darling. One punch is all you get," he raised a finger to exemplify his point, "lest I tumble you to the sands and take to ineffectual fisticuffs."

"On second thought, I might enjoy that as well," he chuckled low in the chest, pausing. With open palm, playing her flush hand expertly, she presented an offering: Devil's Footstools, Tandy's Marbles, deliriants for connoisseurs. They were not to be truffled with; the wordplay of thought caught his smile and bade it sharper.

He plucked one free and popped it into his mouth. Bitter and mealy as it was, he'd take anything he could get right now to stymie this hellscape of sand and screaming things. Screaming things he hoped they wouldn't run into, but inevitably would, as was their fate to face misfortune at every inopportune moment.

"..Just to make our inevitable deaths a little more interesting."
"Much more interesting, thank you," the thief managed as he chewed, "at least it will distract from the prospect of sand in places disconcerting."

Time would pull them forwards soon enough, and the brightly colored woman would no doubt be the most ravishing, aura-stricken red he'd possibly have ever seen. Things unfunny would grow hilarious, funny things would turn into cacophonies of visual spellwork that he'd be doubled over about. Faces would melt, and perhaps grow fearsome, but the blond would still find this entertaining.

Veldspar was resting, but his silence felt curiously fearful. Fletcher felt in his bones he didn't enjoy the intoxicants for reasons he didn't know. Perhaps it was very unfamiliar for the demon—did they not have drugs where he hailed from? Did he not hail from here at all?

Perhaps he just couldn't handle it, while the blond was capable of sitting in the void completely unhinged from reality, laughing until he made no sounds at all. The soft chuckling had already begun; his stomach had been rather empty after all was said and done.

"You know," he tried his best to stifle his goofy expression, "you have quite loud eyes. I feel they're trying to tell me something, but the drugs are getting in the way of it. Maybe," the thief narrowed an eye at the mushrooms in Gwyn's grasp, "Oh, indeed this is the strong sort. Better one than two, I'd say."

His laughter would not last, as Daealla who had borrowed one of his blades would soon conjure a nightmarish sight.

"Can you remove the metal arm drapes?"
"Oh dear," the blond said, second guessing his suggestion at just one mushroom, "on second thought, another if it pleases you. This one's phonetics are too rich an opportunity." Even as he said this, Fletcher cast a glance at Shia that spelled in no uncertain terms his concern. Concern for what the elf may do, concern for his injuries, and the overall brotherly overbearing sort.

"Ah, godspeed my friend—"

Daealla popped his arm back into place and the blond winced, sympathetic pain egged on by the mushrooms causing him to clutch his own arm. They had all truly done a number on themselves, hadn't they? Speaking of which—they were missing a few companions...

"Connor's alive," Shia had managed after veritably collapsing into the sand. Out of fatigue or emotional exhaustion or both, he couldn't say. "Spotted him in the library. No sign of our other companions."

"...what of the barking one?" Fletcher had begun his descent into viewing prismatic hues and shotputting fits of chuckles, pantomiming the motions of the animal in question. "Apologies—" he tried his best to act accordingly, but Shia's body had become an acordian in his eyes, and his words started to garble in the air not unlike Daealla's, floating like little gems of ancient glyphs.

"Those ... aren't poisonous, are they?"

The elf had returned with something red and expansive floating in her hands. Something red and expansive that spoke to—Blood, little bird. I can smell it, and the call to a power she's careless to. At the moment.

What the shit does that mean?

Eh, your hysterical delirium agonizes me so. I'm going to retire again. No, no...enjoy the menagerie with me. The beast reeled in his veins and Fletcher felt as if he were turning away to ignore him. Oh, you're no fun. And you're too much, heathen.

"Shit hole? Is that what this place is called? Gohtar, your kin say this place is called 'Shit hole'—this is why the desert was bleeding, no?"

"Bleeding?" Oh, that was a dreadful word to say. Now Fletcher had begun imagining, in his mushroom begotten antics, the sands were indeed bleeding. And they were, right before his eyes. His hands came to his face and he gawked, yet it wasn't much of an expression. Soon it twisted into deep chuckling, that of which he tried to stop but came like a flood.

"Gohtar," she spoke in foreign words, foreign words that floated about in golden syllables that spoke of ancient things, and twisting phrases, "I can make your pain less now!"

"How? I warn you, I better not have to put that in my mouth. I'd rather eat grubs." Grubs. Fletcher didn't like them; he had a natural aversion to those, leeches, ticks, mosquitoes, scarabs, and things that dug into the skin. They didn't pay room and board for his flesh; on that merit, did the demon? The blond crossed his arms, high and irritated at the thing inside of his body for no discernible reason except for his thoughts were spinning out like a spool into the air and casting ridiculous notions.

The blond was eager to catch them, and may have struck out a hand to lacerate the air—he paused in mid swoop.

"Wait. Have you used my dagger for what I asked you not to?" he asked Daealla incredulously, then laughed at his own incredulousness.
"Oh yes, a fine poison at that," the blond noted with a 'hmm' sound sent Gwyn's way, the wayward question Shia had asked dissolving out into reds to meet his ears finally. Shia spoke in tones of russet it seemed; red like his hair, but a bit darker.

It interested the blond, yet his one-time drinking partner hadn't said much more for a spell. Gwyn spoke in blues to him, he'd soon find. Blue, his favorite color, deep and rolling like the ocean.

A newcomer would speak in gray, a disarming sort. Veldspar curled around his muscles at his speech, a curious ministration, as Fletcher would only be startled. The metal clanking had resounded like a warm drum.

“People. You’ll have to excuse or execute me. First fellows I’ve seen in days, the tunnels aren’t kind.” They were accruing more of them. Like pack animals hinging together, seeking one another, or perhaps horses dying of thirst in this vast underground desert. Cloying together for that last scrap of invaluable liquid.

“Tell me, did you pass through Medreen? Small town, harpy problem." The man in question asked, cloistered in metal not unlike Kaykavus, but seeming a different sort of bird. Kaykavus felt brittle yet unyielding. This man seemed imprisoned in the suit, and certainly soon it became a vast shroud before Fletcher's eyes.

"Agh, now the visions grow malignant," he paused, reasoning with what reason he had this would be taken as an offense, "Apologies, mushrooms, slight constitution," as if that explanation was perfect, simple, and descriptive.

"Yes," was all he said, not giving much, but attempting to raise his palm in a swivel from elbow to wrist, his other arm crossed against his chest.

"Well. Yes," he tried again, breaking out into a fit of chuckling that only was partially solved by placing his hand on Gwyn's shoulder, "Yes."

"Apologies...yes. Ser. Hah. Sit, sit for a spell. You look encumbered so," the blond managed in between thin, breathless laughs. "Oh, this was a mistake, darling. Perhaps—" he snorted, "Perhaps Daealla has a panacea...that doesn't involve using my knife to stab hers—" Fletcher had no more words, and he must have appeared mad.

This had been a dreadful, wonderful, bountiful mistake. He was absolutely useless as the air swam with shapes inhuman and the sand seemed to lap at their heels like water.

He picked up his foot as the yellow grains cascaded past his ankles. It was beautiful and surreal. He hoped Gwyn could see the same, because it was indeed a lovely painting. A lovely painting now trickling up his calves like stardust seeking the sky above.

Lovely.

"I'll hold you to that," Fletcher whispered back, his lips a hairs breath away from her ear, only to pull away again with a smile and belated chuckles, "But no funny business, darling. One punch is all you get,"

"Only one? Very well." Gwyn's lips formed a small, amused pout; He had no problem spelling out his interests, of which it seemed he had a pension for either humility, or pain. In both regards, she was very much familiar with. In fact, the more she pondered it for a moment, it had been quite some time since she traveled with this many people, let alone do drugs with them. Longer still since she shared more than bread with another person. By choice, she confidently assures herself-- Certainly not her irritability or inability to maintain her urges. Nope.

"lest I tumble you to the sands and take to ineffectual fisticuffs. On second thought, I might enjoy that as well."

"Do you think you could?" She chuckled finally, hands firmly planting on either hip. The question wasn't a provocation necessarily-- It would only be a matter of minutes before the mushrooms effects took over her mind, as well, and tumbling through the sand would prove to be much more difficult than if they shared a sober mind. When colors blur, senses shift, and reality suddenly becomes a lot more entertaining. How long had it been since she engaged in any sort of playful romp through the dirt? And was that all it would be, or did the prospect of getting physical excite the thief in more ways than one? "I'd have you under my heel in seconds, darling," She smirked, "Though It'd be no surprise if you enjoyed that, too."

He had, luckily, accepted her offer, stifling down one of the mushrooms without hesitation.

"At least it will distract from the prospect of sand in places disconcerting."

"Eugh, you needn't mention. I can feel the chaffing setting in now.."

"You know," Fletcher called her attention again, "you have quite loud eyes."

"..Do I now?" She chuckled again, slightly more nervous. Is it that obvious?

"I feel they're trying to tell me something, but the drugs are getting in the way of it.

Maybe," He eyed the mushrooms, "Oh, indeed this is the strong sort. Better one than two, I'd say."

She was inclined to agree; At least, until the elf woman drew near, something akin to blood suspended in her grasp. She seemed to be helping Shia with his injuries, his arm popping back into place soon after. Fletcher winced and clutched his own arm sympathetically, and Gwyn too couldn't help but grimace. "on second thought, another if it pleases you. This one's phonetics are too rich an opportunity." He requested plainly. Stifling a small laugh, she thrust another fungi into his palms. Though, she was never known to be outdone in the intoxication regard, soon tossing another for herself into the air to catch with her open jaw. This would certainly be an interesting night.

Gwyn used the brief gap in the conversation to.. stare aimlessly across the space, the first vestiges of intoxication making themselves known. The intricate texture of cracked stone pillars began to twist and melt, as if it were a candlestick left in the open sun. Fletchers blond locks shone a brilliant, sparkling gold, flowing in a nonexistent breeze. The rogue woman blinked, unsure at first if this were the result of the mushrooms, or the demon in his skull conjuring some sort of image. When her eyes landed on their half-formed party, the red-skinned woman looked physically warm to the touch; Waves of energy radiating off of her as if she were... a pie. Yes, that was it; A delicious cherry pie, cooling on a windowsill. Morbid though it was, suddenly Gwyn found herself wondering if, in fact, her skin tasted as red as it looked. It had been some time since they ate, hadn't it?

"Those ... aren't poisonous, are they?"

A wave of realization struck Gwyn like a punch to the tit, warranting an audible gasp from her and she began fumbling about her person; Patting pockets and sleeves, searching various nooks and crannies of her garb until the desired item was located-- A wrap of cloth, containing a few solemn strips of dried goat jerky. It was her usual traveling snack, and while her hunger had been mostly ignored through this whole endeavor, drugs had a way of intensifying the feeling. Shia's question had all but flew over her head entirely with this revelation, her teeth tearing off a bite to savor the salty goodness.

"Oh yes, a fine poison at that," Fletcher responded after some time, passing a 'hmm' sound in her direction.

Her eyes abruptly snapped up to meet both men's, having been transfixed by the pure flavor of the jerky like it was mana from the heavens. She swallowed a mouthful of the stuff and began nodding her head incessantly, "Yes, yes, very deadly, you know. Better to go out on our own terms, eh? Care to join us my gingered friend?"

Suddenly, another new companion clanked into view from the shadows-- At first, the sight of the patterned helmet sent her reeling, having contorted into a type of.. hollow, ornate face.. that sent chills up her spine. Though Fletcher, incorrigible as ever, offered little words to answer his questions.

"Agh, now the visions grow malignant. Apologies, mushrooms, slight constitution,"

"..Right," She attempted, "Erm, there were.. crows. And no sweetrolls." Shit, what'd he ask again?

"Yes." Said Fletcher, though whether he was agreeing with her to attempting to answer, she didn't know.

"Indeed," Gwyn said back, nodding confidently.

"Well. Yes." He began giggling now, his hand gripping her shoulder in an attempt to regain his composure. But Gwyn couldn't help herself, his expression as he tried to hold back the laughter only sending her further down into a hysterical fit. It was a low giggle at first, her drug-induced smile lighting up as, for one last time, he said, "Yes."

A pause. Gwyn sucked in both lips, trying to contain the amusement within, only to have it come spilling from her mouth in a hearty, echoing laugh. Her expression an incredulous mixture that said 'It's not even that funny.' And yet, it was.

"Apologies...yes. Ser. Hah. Sit, sit for a spell. You look encumbered so," Fletcher spoke between laughs, "Oh, this was a mistake, darling. Perhaps—" he snorted, "Perhaps Daealla has a panacea...that doesn't involve using my knife to stab hers—"

"How rude, he does not look like a cucumber!" Gwyn scolded playfully, gesturing flippantly in thief's direction, and then back to the armored man in question.

Unable to contain the ebb and flow of technicolor hues and melting textures that encapsulated most of her vision, Gwyn allowed herself to collapse into the dirt, hitting the ground with both knees, and began running her hands through the dune, feeling the coarse texture between her digits. Shifting and folding like water, her hands rising from it's depths like sea serpents. She picked up handfuls of it, letting it fall from her fist and into her open palm, the sight evoking a kind of temporary peace reminiscent to watching an hourglass.

"If only we had some water," She muttered, a wistful look of nostalgia overtaking her expression, "Been ages since I made a sandcastle."

Fletcher close nearby, he too was entranced by the change in reality, clutching his own foot in the sand by her side, his hair still shining. She smiled up at him; A proper smile, beaming and pleasant, if only perhaps at the behest of the mushrooms, and not the crude half-smirks or scowls she was most commonly known for.

Lovely, indeed.

"Do you think you could?" Gwyn had asked of the pale thief before they'd gone on their lavish romp with psychedelics, while possibly all of their surrounding party members grew more and more annoyed with them as the moments ticked on. She stood with her hand on her hip; the question not so much a dare as it was realism painted in words. No, he probably couldn't, and that was the fun part.

"I'd have you under my heel in seconds, darling. Though It'd be no surprise if you enjoyed that, too." For this, Fletcher laughed, something musical that ended on a spire of a sigh. He clicked his tongue to his teeth, as if to chide her for her very apt assessment.

"I'd be more than happy to be beneath your heel, darling," he paused, shooting his endearing companion a mischievous grin, "Seems you've figured out my games. I was hoping someone would. The Gods know our world is far too grim to not enjoy a bit of foolishness, and that's my flavor of it."

"You need not worry. The hallucinations are an unintended side affect, but my spell should have filtered out any seriously harmful toxins from those mushrooms. Now, does anyone else need medical attentio-" Marsilia had started up, only to be drawn to Daealla's ministrations. Fletcher glimmered over her features curiously, then keened his head to look at the elf in their midst.

"Blood magic," the beast in Fletcher's body used his mouth to speak those two dark, heavy words. It was fond of that, but wary, it seemed.

Conversations passed like grains of sand, with the pair of them ebbing in and out of laughter. Gwyn's loud eyes, Fletcher's impossible laugh that was now silent because he'd run out of air. Veldspar was awake and a bit more potent than he had been before; no longer a black fistful of sludge, but a coiling of obsidian serpents in the veins. Fletcher could feel him pulling and prodding, trying to find his way back to every tendon, ligament and muscle. It was an odd internal sensation, but he couldn't say he was disquieted.

Not much would disquiet him in his current state. Furthermore, the demon when weakened had felt like a missing piece. Perhaps he'd always meant to have a passenger. Perhaps he didn't fear him, like he didn't fear losing his mind to these mushrooms, or fear the woman who could probably dislocate his jaw without much effort. Nor did he fear this place; Veldspar seemed to fear it more than he.

Fear, the mind killer. He had lacked it since he arose from his dirt nap; both a boon and a cataclysm. He'd have to be more careful from now on, certainly, so he didn't need to rely on Marsi, Vel, and Daealla to resuscitate him due to a paper cut. Fletcher couldn't court death anymore.

Bright blue eyes flickered to Gwyn as she seemed quite taken by the images he had no doubt she was witnessing. Time bent and shifted; the grains of sand lapped his ankles and up to his calves. They dipped around to cascade up his chest, and he raised his hands slightly at the sight. That same luminous sand had taken to slinking around the lot of them, but around Gwyn his mind had made the sand dark like her hair. Raven-night, and blues, and oceans. His favorite colors were of twilight; oh what a sorry sort he was, hasty emotions bleeding out in mental pictures.

The unreal was made real and he knew then that he couldn't court death for what ails he forgot but his mind bade remember.

He liked being around this one too much.

As if on queue, Gwyn fumbled for something, and began her ungraceful descent into jerky gnashing. Fletcher snorted, finding it charming.

"Yes, yes, very deadly, you know. Better to go out on our own terms, eh? Care to join us my gingered friend?"
"I think in any other circumstance, he just might," Fletcher added, crossing his arms, now transfixed by the vision of sand trickling up his arms. Devoured in the drug-induced hallucination of it all, but somehow perfectly fine to sit in the void. Hmph, Veldspar made a mental sound of distaste and almost displeasure. Fletcher snorted again.

"If I remember correctly, which 'correctly' is decisively not ever correct as my memory is faulty by design, we did have quite the adventure in Braelton. But it's possible I'm misremembering," he offered, raising a hand as he witnessed the air above him bleed down to meet his fingers in dripping prismatic metallics.

Their new, metal-encased, encumbered companion now received an explanation from Gwyn, which was not quite an explanation at all. The two of them couldn't rightly articulate, which was to be expected.

"Panaseea? What is this?" The blond chuckled, struggling to answer Daealla in words that made any sense.

"..Right. Erm, there were.. crows. And no sweetrolls." Fletcher stifled a smirk, honestly attempting to be serious but failing at it as he coaxed the imaginary liquids from his hands, spreading like quicksilver into the air. Now the pair took to laughing, as his companion was trying to hold the cacophony behind her teeth, and wasn't doing a very good job at it.

"How rude, he does not look like a cucumber!"
"My mistake, pet," gestured the blond, finding this impossibly hilarious, "No. Not a cucumber."

"What is cue-cum-ber?" the elf continued on with her questions. It was apparent there was a language barrier here, and he attempted despite being higher than the sea of stars above, to explain.

"They're a mild...mild flavored, long, green fruit mistakenly called vegetables...I'm certain you've had them?" Fletcher responded, trying to figure out what else they might be called, how else to explain them, or if Veldspar knew any elvish. Apparently, if he did, he wasn't sharing.

"If only we had some water. Been ages since I made a sandcastle." The blond found this to be an impossible statement on several accounts. First of all, they would need the water for drink, as the dancing sands didn't seem to carry much. Secondly, he also couldn't recall making sandcastles, and that impossible idea conjured impossible shapes betwixt sand and air of painful times he'd forgotten.

He joined his equally delirious companion to slowly sink to the sands, far less graceful than he'd have liked to be. Bright blue eyes glimmered over her features as she smiled; she was beautiful. Strong of brow, sharp of features, and eyes like deep-earth rivers. It was a dangerous thing to think, in a sand trap, high on mushrooms, with frightful beasts quite certainly stalking this tomb.

"You know...I never really made them," he said, voice quiet but seemingly far too loud for his ears, "I can't recall much before," sand fettered through his fingers in wisps of mercurial glass. He paused, unsure if he should say more, but the words came out in starts and stops all the same.

"...there was a time that I was not living. And now I am. With a passenger to thank for breathing once more," Fletcher's cautious gaze took in Gwyn's reaction, hoping the drugs would make her find his confession humorous and not malignant, "I think my life was much less fun before all this."

The blond moved abruptly to sweep sand from Gwyn's cheek but stopped himself. He sat back to look over the shifting landscape, eyes distant for a moment, arms crossed. He was feeling too much; too much from before, too much from these mushrooms, and too much to look on all of it in unison. His arms were all that kept him steady in this void of before, of now, of sounds, of her, of the sand, of things forgotten, of beautiful daymares and Veldspar writhing at his stupidity.

The cat had become Valoria once more, and that too was too much. But what was much too much, much more than any of that, was the sound of chattering. He could hear it in the distance like a plague, coming on as if a swarm of locusts, ten million gnashing things. Sadly for Fletcher, this was not a hallucination, but the machinations of sentient, scarab-like insects who had sussed out their location.

"...everyone—"

"You seem formidable, and unlike these louts I intend to find my way out immediately. If you join us, perhaps we can find some treasure in here worth more than the mere pence Devon was willing to pay." The blond caught the cat tail's end of Valoria's utterings, squinting in her general direction.

"Do you—"

“You were all going to share the bounty on those harpies then? Lot of trust to hold for strangers.”

Fletcher struggled to get a word in, and struggled to stand in the sands that were trying to encase his legs; a hallucination. But that sound was not a hallucination, yet he could not be certain. Peering from beneath a hand to stare across the dunes, he saw nothing of note except shifting air in prisms and yellow rust and stardust.

"Curious."

Foolish; we have been spotted, little bird. We move, now—

"No, I'd much like to stay here and make a sandcastle, I think," the blond paused, looking at Gwyn and the others with an awkward expression, "apologies. It is paranoid, and insistent we move on."

I am not paranoid, you insolent brat!

"I'd be more than happy to be beneath your heel, darling," he paused, his grin full of snark, "Seems you've figured out my games. I was hoping someone would. The Gods know our world is far too grim to not enjoy a bit of foolishness, and that's my flavor of it."

Gwyn chuckled back, the very sound of his voice reaching her ears in the form of colorful wisps. Bobbing and floating in the waters of an all-encompassing cosmic ocean. Like planets colliding, her own response came with explosive tendrils of texture and color; Pooling from her mouth as if she had swallowed some sort of sea creature. It permeated through the space between them, snaking up Fletchers calves, coiling around him like a jungle snake about to devour him whole. A meager representation of some rather equally colorful thoughts, she internally assumed, what with him confirming his particular brand of entertainment.

"How kindred, you and I." The rogue woman mused coyly. She wouldn't say it here-- Not where ears apart from their own might be listening-- But with one hand, she began thumbing a spool of rope, currently acting as a belt for her simple commoner pants; The implications of which, hopefully, would not be lost on Fletcher. Of course, she never set out on any endeavor without it, but rarer still it was used for it's.. intended purposes.

"I think in any other circumstance, he just might. If I remember correctly, which 'correctly' is decisively not ever correct as my memory is faulty by design, we did have quite the adventure in Braelton. But it's possible I'm misremembering,"

"Oh, so you've met before? Now isn't that scandalous," She couldn't help but laugh, "Shia? Have you any thoughts to share?" Her head swiveled in the nobleman's direction, eyes following a neon, orange-hued trail leading up to the man's feet. He wasn't an unattractive sort by any means, and those not versed in the arts of seduction or romance-- Shia himself, she confidently guessed-- Might mistake the look in her eye for a capricious, lustful hunger. Merely to put some playful pressure on the poor man, since it clear this was not his usual world.

Like before, some dialogue passed between the more sober of their party, none of which she could decipher as anything woefully detrimental-- It seemed in this intoxicated state, she all but forgot the original task at hand; Drugs bringing cravings, impulsion and memories that took precedent. When she next looked away, back to her palms, and her knelt posture in the sand, a thought occurred to her. One that cut through the colors and dancing textures abruptly, smothering the swelling euphoria in it's crib-- Not from fear, but from confusion. It was simple. Succinct.

Where is that sound coming from?

There was certainly some sort of sound, wasn't there? A type of chittering, skittering, scuttling that she couldn't quite place. She scarcely seemed to notice it at first, and even now, questioned it's reality. Just as she might have asked others, looking over to Fletcher to beg his opinion, did the thought leave as quickly as it came-- Her attention now fixated on the velvet tones of Fletcher's voice, who had collapsed beside her in the sand.

"You know...I never really made them," he said quietly, his voice hushed so that only the two of them might hear, "I can't recall much before."

Never made a sandcastle? Gwyn thought the notion preposterous. You hadn't lived until you made at least one sandcastle. She might have protested such, but just as she moved to do so, she could see the blonde thief still had more to say. His eyes somber and yet, like stone. Drugs had a funny way of bringing out certain emotions in people-- Sometimes the very same emotions you took drugs to forget. But if there was one thing Gwyn could understand, especially in a mushroom stupor, you could not stop the baring of your soul, not matter when it struck. And she would not deny him that. She would listen, offering him a thoughtful moment of silence before he continued.

"...there was a time that I was not living. And now I am. With a passenger to thank for breathing once more,"

To this, Gwyn seemed to falter, her cheeks suddenly turning ripe with a full, neon blush. The way he spoke.. Was he talking about her? Or the creature he harbored? She couldn't tell; Undoubtedly interpreting his literal proclamation in a vastly different way than what he intended. The latter, she assured herself internally, of course. But a time where she was not living.. Hell, couldn't that be now, too? Covering pain with wine, women, and other wonderful vices? It was a feeling all too relatable.

"..What's it mean to live, anyway?" She offered with a nervous chuckle and a roll of her wrist, attempting to lighten his temperament, if only slightly, "I, for one, revel in my own self-loathing. Like a normal person."

The snake that had wrapped itself around Fletcher dissipated now; His glittering locks began growing at an exponential rate, pooling before them like a golden riverbed, reflecting a miraculous, nonexistent light. Had he not noticed..?

It nipped at the edges of her boots, inching up her frame with every word he spoke, like vines overtaking a wooden fence.

"I think my life was much less fun before all this."

He reached out to touch her-- Caress her cheek, from what she gathered-- Only to stop, drawing into himself. Gwyn inhaled a shuddering breath, as if she hadn't been breathing when he came closer; Perhaps it were the blond tendrils ensnaring her by the neck. Either way, she could see that Fletcher, in a moment so brief, eyes returning to the sandy landscape ahead of them, was not there. Hazy and someplace far away. She didn't blame him. Whether it be the mushrooms workings or her own, Gwyn felt her earlier proclamation proved more accurate by the minute-- Kindred spirits they were. Though she was not as versed in consoling the burdened, I can hardly console my damn self, it only took a well-trained eye to see he was in pain.

And it was seeping through his cracks.

Slowly, she reached out with a palm, ringed with golden locks, to place on his knee; Fingers curling in the fabric of his pants with a comforting squeeze.

"..Mine, too."

It was all she said, but her loud eyes looked to his, brimming with solemn solidarity. Hoping to say all the things she was not equipped to say herself. Willing enough to share a small piece of her misery if it brought him recourse in his own.

In the next moment, conversation was to be had with Valoria and the armored newcomer, with Fletcher attempting to interject to no avail. Gwyn, for the most part, drowned out the sound, only remaining semi-coherent for the moment the blond in question shared a small piece of his soul with her. The intoxication would take over just as swift, batting at the air for some unknown reason, only again perking up at the sound of him speaking, particularly to what he suggested..

"No, I'd much like to stay here and make a sandcastle, I think," He said, passing a look between them all.

"A wonderful idea!" She haphazardly sprang to her feet, brushing off patches of sand-- And hair, the latter of which only she could see-- And casually draped an arm across Fletcher's shoulders, flashing the group a wide grin, "If only I had thought of it. Who will join us?"

"apologies. It is paranoid, and insistent we move on."

"Well it can piss off," She scoffed, being sure the words 'piss off' were spoken into Fletchers ear so Veldspar would be sure to hear her clearly, "The night is young, and there's a sandcastle what needs making."