Truth be told, the offer - while not explicit - takes her by surprise, but she is walking far enough in front that he doesn't get to see her eyes widen with it. She is definitely not a very good healer herself, talent with alchemy aside, but who is she to say no to such a generous offer?
Her companions must be equally exhausted - they all defended the portal from so many enemies, they deserve at least a night's rest, if not to be left to heal up properly in camp for a while. (At some point, they need to investigate the House of Healing again, she promised Arabella. She's also fairly sure that the ruins of Raithwynn are near Moonrise, and she can't be dragging the same three people for everything. After all, she also promised Wyll to take him with her when they find the tower.)
Bottom line is, she has made a lot of promises to help each and every one, and when it does come down to it, Hermione still does not feel entitled enough to go knocking on Shadowheart's tent for a Cure Wounds. Not that the cleric has any spells left either. She thinks that given the gruesome fight, they're all drained, so it'll be bandages and sleep for her tonight.
And Astarion is alert and offering, and her tent is right there - bless whoever pitched it up in her absence - and she still carries the stench of rot and death on her.
"Alright," she says, pulling the flap out of the way and looking over her shoulder at him. "Come in, then."
She has read the mythology. The Curse of the Vampyr has been tucked into the bottom of her bag ever since she found it on one of their earlier adventures. She wonders if the invitation is merely a formality now, if maybe he doesn't need one - hasn't ever, or hasn't needed to be invited into people's homes since the tadpole. Even if he didn't, even if she's being silly, she still wants him to know he's welcomed in here.
Especially since she's fairly certain she needs to take her stays and shirt off for him to clean her wounds.
She sets her quarterstaff against the central beam of the tent, and cancels out the light by waving her hand to light every candle in the tent. Her companions have taken to collecting trinkets and making their tents more personal, she's noticed, and Hermione is not one to distinguish herself with a sparse lifetime. There are blankets gifted to her by the tieflings in the Grove, and books sitting in little piles where she would sleep, when not camping by a fire in the wild, and spell scrolls and alchemy ingredients and recipes and - it's a mess. It's chaos, for the outsider, but for Hermione it's very well organised.
She starts to take her robes off first, standing near the stool by her bedside.
"I've been thinking I should buy a proper armor before we set out again," she starts to talk, as she unknots the sash that holds her wizard's robes cinched at the waist, and slips them off. "Technically I think I am strong enough to manage a light armor, and I often forget to cast Mage Armor on myself because I don't expect a fight - more fool is me, I suppose."
The top layer, those dark red robes she likes to wear, out of the way, she is left in a practical pair of trousers and a white - well, beige at this point - shirt. Every pragmatic, even the stays on top of the shirt are functional rather than pretty. They are also, unfortunately, rather pinkish with the whole bleeding on them. A single sharp needle still sticks out of her, on her right side just under the ribcage, looking like one of the whalebones snapped in half. Except dark and very much coming from a cursed tree creature.
"Oh - " she murmurs with some dismay. "Didn't notice that."
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Her companions must be equally exhausted - they all defended the portal from so many enemies, they deserve at least a night's rest, if not to be left to heal up properly in camp for a while. (At some point, they need to investigate the House of Healing again, she promised Arabella. She's also fairly sure that the ruins of Raithwynn are near Moonrise, and she can't be dragging the same three people for everything. After all, she also promised Wyll to take him with her when they find the tower.)
Bottom line is, she has made a lot of promises to help each and every one, and when it does come down to it, Hermione still does not feel entitled enough to go knocking on Shadowheart's tent for a Cure Wounds. Not that the cleric has any spells left either. She thinks that given the gruesome fight, they're all drained, so it'll be bandages and sleep for her tonight.
And Astarion is alert and offering, and her tent is right there - bless whoever pitched it up in her absence - and she still carries the stench of rot and death on her.
"Alright," she says, pulling the flap out of the way and looking over her shoulder at him. "Come in, then."
She has read the mythology. The Curse of the Vampyr has been tucked into the bottom of her bag ever since she found it on one of their earlier adventures. She wonders if the invitation is merely a formality now, if maybe he doesn't need one - hasn't ever, or hasn't needed to be invited into people's homes since the tadpole. Even if he didn't, even if she's being silly, she still wants him to know he's welcomed in here.
Especially since she's fairly certain she needs to take her stays and shirt off for him to clean her wounds.
She sets her quarterstaff against the central beam of the tent, and cancels out the light by waving her hand to light every candle in the tent. Her companions have taken to collecting trinkets and making their tents more personal, she's noticed, and Hermione is not one to distinguish herself with a sparse lifetime. There are blankets gifted to her by the tieflings in the Grove, and books sitting in little piles where she would sleep, when not camping by a fire in the wild, and spell scrolls and alchemy ingredients and recipes and - it's a mess. It's chaos, for the outsider, but for Hermione it's very well organised.
She starts to take her robes off first, standing near the stool by her bedside.
"I've been thinking I should buy a proper armor before we set out again," she starts to talk, as she unknots the sash that holds her wizard's robes cinched at the waist, and slips them off. "Technically I think I am strong enough to manage a light armor, and I often forget to cast Mage Armor on myself because I don't expect a fight - more fool is me, I suppose."
The top layer, those dark red robes she likes to wear, out of the way, she is left in a practical pair of trousers and a white - well, beige at this point - shirt. Every pragmatic, even the stays on top of the shirt are functional rather than pretty. They are also, unfortunately, rather pinkish with the whole bleeding on them. A single sharp needle still sticks out of her, on her right side just under the ribcage, looking like one of the whalebones snapped in half. Except dark and very much coming from a cursed tree creature.
"Oh - " she murmurs with some dismay. "Didn't notice that."