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[ A couple of days after Gale first arrives, a little parcel finds its way to his door. Neatly wrapped in paper is an enchanted compass. Upon the paper has been written, in Astarion's careful hand: ]

No unhinging of the jaw necessary. And before you ask, this was given freely.

[ In fact, he bartered for it (or so he'd describe the process), but he's not about to put that down where anyone else can see it. The only evidence of what had transpired is one other word written on the paper, in clearly different handwriting: ]

CATERING

Hello Gale.

[ somehow, he expected this. ]

Hello Orin.
To what do I owe the pleasure?

The days and nights are so very quiet. What do people do with all their time here?

I’ve taken to exploring the grounds, seeing as the place is spelled to rearrange itself and offer new rooms on a whim. The library also holds a treasure trove of information on this world that I’m most eager to read.

[ a beat. ]

Neither of which is to your tastes, I imagine.

What would you do, if we were in Faerûn?

All I ever did and do was find new offerings for my father. I am the youngest Unholy Assassin on record, that does not happen with complacency and incompetence.

Did you hear that the dead don't stay dead here? Without magic or intervention, they rise anyway.

Yes, some sort of manor-wide necromancy at work. Rather inconvenient for an assassin, I imagine, unholy or otherwise.

[ there, there. ]

Apparently, there’s a place below the manor called the Otherworld for, ah, writhing, as you put it. Might be more to your interests?

[ unsure if he should unleash her on it… but maybe she’ll be entertained enough to NOT murder people… ]

Little point in a death that does not serve the Dread Lord, I might as well not slaughter little lambs at all.

[ which is NOT a legally binding promise do not hold her to it!! but maybe might be a tiny bit of a relief-- no mass murder plans for now. ]

Do you know of this place, have you been there?

Indeed.

[ this! feels promising! ]

I haven’t ventured down yet, no, but I know where it is. It’s… not my usual sort of haunt.

I would say that none of this house is your usual haunt. We are so very far we home, are we not? You must feel it too.

Okay, Gale, we will go to Otherworld. When?

[ was he actually asking her? it doesn't matter!! ]

[ typing dots ]

I suppose we can go whenever you like.
If you promise not to stab me while we’re there.

I'll bring no knives, wizard, only myself. If it makes you feel at ease I will leave the armour too.
Take me tonight, after the sun dips out below the horizon?

Is the armour terribly effective?

[ what with being made of HUMAN SKIN. ]

I don’t mind.

[ sudden fear that she will show up wearing nothing unlocked, hm. ]

Alright. I’m not like to stay long, but I can escort you.

It has its uses.

Will you share a drink with me? I assume you would not suggest anywhere that does not provide us wine, at the very least.

[

]

Edited 2024-11-21 19:42 (UTC)

[ is this a trap? is it a date??? which is scarier? ]

I would be a terrible escort if I refused you. And I’m certain they have all manner of drinks, including many that will be foreign to us.

I can come by your rooms to pick you up.

[ mostly to keep astarion out of whatever the hells is happening ]

[ some secret third worse thing, probably ]

A gentleman too? Wonders cease to amaze.

Fetch me from my rooms, though be careful not to get lost. Have you had trouble navigating these halls?

My mother would not forgive me if I were anything else.

The halls are rather changeable, but so is every wizard’s tower. I shall manage to find you and our destination both, I’m sure.

Mine would have forgiven me just so, only her opinion stopped mattering quite some time ago.

Tonight then, at a time that suits you most well. I will be ready, and eagerly awaiting your knock, knock, knock.

😊

I'll look forward to it, Orin.

[ sincere, actually. she's an, ah, interesting one. ]

[ are you having a peaceful evening? are you enjoying the sights and sounds of saltburnt? well, congratulations on finding a new companion tonight: this dog, with glowing hell eyes and fire collar and a stinky sulfuric perfume wafting along with her. if you step away from her, she will follow. if you move towards her, she will step back. just a little dance-y dance for about a few minutes before she decides she's had enough and leaves.

she knows you now. time to report back to her human. ]

[ after encountering raphael, gale knows the scent of the hells. naturally, it does not make him any warier, simply intrigued. he crouches despite his knees’ protests, beckoning the spectral creature with an outstretched hand.

gods, he misses tara. ]

[ what a nice person. very decent looking, nice smelling. would be very sad if someone barfed sympathetic ectoplasm onto their shoes! ]

[ i don't know what i expected dot gif.

gale, predictably, yelps. ]

[ if it's any consolation, the doggie is seemingly apologetic. here, let her set it on fire— ]

[ oh my god

gale douses himself and the dog with water, creating a rather sizable puddle for the balfours’ staff to clean. ]

Gale, it is Tilanus.

I spoke with Astarion. You were wounded?

[ clocking the username first, how very like a sorcerer.

ah — his friend from another life. with astarion? he imagines that went badly, guarded as the elf is. perhaps gale ought to have tried to lay the groundwork there. too late, now. ]

I was. Nothing I couldn’t handle, of course.

[ *with help from the clinic and astarion. ]

[ it's a relief, though the storm of his anger is only mildly quelled. ]

But she dared to try.

What happened, Gale, what threat did she leave you with?

[ she dared, a strong reaction indeed. gale wonders if tilanus, like astarion, has knowledge of a possible future. ]

We came to an agreement, after the stabbing. I don’t believe she intends to harm me again. Best not to test if my death ends us all and whatnot.

What do you know of her?

Too much, and not enough.

Your party has yet to reach Baldur's Gate, you said? How much would you want to know?

Bearing in mind that there are differences in our past, of course. Not all that is true for me may be so for you.

Edited 2024-11-23 11:32 (UTC)

Quite right.

Let us restrict this to her role in Faerûn, as we both know it. She’s the Chosen of Bhaal, is she not?

[ not anymore. though, as far as gale's concerned... ]

Yes. And a shapeshifter, with doppelgängers under her command.

In my version of things, she infected me directly. She's also the one who took Minthara and her army, and put them to work.

She was waiting for us when we reached the city. Almost at once she infiltrated our camp and took Lae'zel captive. I came here directly after killing her and taking her netherstone, so you can imagine my thrill at finding her alive and well here.

Infected you with the tadpole?

[ my, that seems — personal. perhaps that explains why tilanus was so open to minthara, despite her apparent cruelty. ]

I see. That complicates things. Do you know if she recalls this herself?
Trapped as we are in a place death cannot touch, I don't think retribution a viable path. I would rather aim for peace, however tenuous it may be.

Yes. Most of what I know of it comes from discovery. Her attack also destroyed most of my memories.

Believe me, if I could kill her again here I would have already. Or she would have killed me. Anyone I care about might equally attract her interest.

Neither you nor Astarion remember me, but she does. If she knows that I care for you...and she may.

She's from earlier than me, but her infiltration of the camp may have happened already. I'm not sure when it started. The two of you should watch out for each other. Though I am sure you would have done so anyway.

[ that i care for you, still such a odd, painful thing to hear from a stranger. what sorrow, to forget and and be forgotten. empathetic as he is, gale's heart aches in turn. i'm sorry on his tongue yet again. ]

I've taken the room adjoining Astarion's and set wards already. If any should seek him, Orin included, they'll not find him alone.

As a sorcerer, I'm sure you'll have done the same, but if I can assist you, tell me how and it shall be done. She is not the only danger in this place.

Edited 2024-11-23 15:11 (UTC)

She is not, though she's the one who will actively hunt me. I feel it's time I did the same to her.

I am glad you seem to be well.

But I must ask - your orb. Is it stable here? The resurrections I've heard tell of seem to take a week or more.

[ hunting people..............

as for the orb, it's something few have ever known about. tara, his companions — now armand and this man. he bristles, just a touch, before settling. the question is surely asked out of that aforementioned care. ]

Not stable enough to weather my death, which I made clear to Orin, for all our sakes.

To what end will you hunt her?

[ not stable enough.

what would the power behind this place do about that, he wonders. ]

And she believed you, she stopped?

[ that's about the most reasonable thing he's ever heard of her doing. ]

I'm glad of it.

She and I have business that is unfinished, for all that I thought it was. I don't know what resolution we can find here. We'll see.

She did. We had a lively discussion of the divergences between our gods. [ “lively discussion” = “talking while gale was bleeding” ] It’s not everyday one meets the Chosen of another. I suspect I intrigue her, to a degree.

[ and she intrigues him in turn. an admission he keeps to himself, when he’s well-aware where such curiosity landed him last. ]

I hope you can reach an accord, regardless. We know not what we face here, as yet.

[ he'd tell most other people who said something like that to him where they could stow it.

but this is gale. ]

That is so.

You would counsel caution, then, despite the worm she put inside me?

Unequivocally, yes. One Professor Volkarin is investigating the affects of death and resurrection here. You may yet destabilise or empower Orin further, if you enact violence before we know of the consequences.

I’m told many returned at a party held mere weeks ago with strange abilities. We do not know what sort of magic we touch with bloodshed.

Take Bhaal himself, for instance. Killing is worship for his followers, yes, but it also strengthens their god. And there are all manner of necromantic traditions that require such sacrifices.

[ mansplaining bhaal to his chosen ✔️ ]

[ gale of waterdeep, at his absolute finest.

it's unreasonable that this should make him feel warm, but it does. gale of waterdeep indeed. ]

So I've heard.

[ lol ]

Admittedly, it's difficult to imagine the Lord of Murder's hand in a place like this. His temple in the city was so very different. And, I should imagine, it would be difficult for him to gain power from a death that doesn't stick.

It does concern me. I won't pretend otherwise. Have you given much thought to the boundaries of this place? Tried to leave?

My efforts to leave have ended in failure, as I’m told all do.

This place has great and powerful magic, to be sure. I intend to plumb its libraries and learn all I can from those who arrived before me. Few problems can’t be solved by quality research.

Yes I've heard that, too. I wouldn't rob the vaults of Sorcerous Sundries for just anyone, you know.

How does the library here compare, have you found anything of use?

[ hopefully you were not expecting a sorcerer to have done any of the reading... ]

[ another reference to their time together that gale has yet to — well, in his case, may never — experience. an uncomfortable twinge, at the thought. he wants to ask more (why would they rob a most esteemed establishment), but it’s best not to, in the end. it wasn’t gale that did it.

the reminder will only wound one who appears amenable to heeding his advice and learnings. ]

It’s well stocked, if nothing else. Young Koby has aided me in acquiring the essentials of this world’s history — a place thought to be without magic, it seems, though we know better.

[ ah, koby. he spoke to him, read his welcome package. it had been helpful, even if there was no explanation to anything within. ]

The dead rise as a matter of course, and they thought it without magic.

I spoke to a woman who wanted to try and open a portal out of here. Not that she had any idea of how to do so, or any indication of how to reach any of our worlds from here. If we found more direction, there might be merit to the idea.

[ if. it's a very big if. ]

I agree. I intend to focus my efforts on studying the magic of this place, for the moment, before I go about toying with it as Agathe suggests. A hard-won lesson.

[ given his presently fatal affliction. ]

Have you read through Silco’s discussion of leadership? What do you make of the Balfours?

Edited 2024-11-23 18:23 (UTC)

That they've given the impression they aren't in control of their home.

[ which is not to say he's taken that as read. ]

There was also some strong opposition to Agathe's idea of interrogating them. It's possible they're prisoners here as much as the rest of us, though that could be a ruse. Did you happen to encounter Auntie Ethel on your travels?

[ she'd played innocent, too. ]

We did. Appearances deceive, indeed.

I believe interrogation is unlikely to be effective, regardless, if they’re prone to hysterics. More flies with honey, as they say.

I believe lashing out at them would be unwise, at least for now. I can't say I trust them, but it sometimes pays to be patient. I agree with you.

[ about this, anyway. orin is another story. ]

Good. I’ll keep you informed of what I learn.

[ a beat. ]

Thank you for asking after me, Tilanus.

[ for caring. ]

[ he's wary of pushing too much, assuming too much. especially after talking to astarion. it's strange to be strangers again. ]

You're welcome.

Gale, if there is anything you need, you need only ask.

An exceedingly kind offer. Please don’t hesitate to reach out to me, either.

As I said before, I would like to know one who knows so much of me. Or a version of me, at any rate.

I know.

It was no lie when I said I recall little of my past. When I woke on the Nautiloid I knew nothing but my name, and I met you not long after.

[ what he had discovered, he had discovered with gale, and the wizard had not turned from him then. would this version feel differently?

it is a strange thing to be concerned about. there are few people whose opinion would matter to him. ]

Would you take a drink with me? I would rather speak of this in person.

[ already, questions bubble to the surface. because of the tadpole or another reason? ]

Of course. What luck that the manor has a tavern on the premises.

I shall meet you there.

[ and he will. he's explored enough of the house to find it with relative ease. wine is his choice, and he'll be able to be found at a table large enough for two, with a bottle of red. he hasn't opened it yet, though there are two glasses waiting for gale's arrival. ]

[ gale already has a fondness for the fox and hounds, when it has the same feeling as the dockside taverns in waterdeep. a tad more real than the shimmering finery of the manor itself. before joining tilanus, gale stops by the fire to give the pub’s wolfhound, harry, his requisite scritches — and a treat, magicked out of thin air. the only tell of his injury is how slowly he bends and rises, careful of the stitching. ]

Tilanus. [ a neutral greeting, as he takes his seat. both astarion and orin have shaded in his portrait of tilanus since they last spoke, but much of the details of his true person remain smudgy. gale adjusts the collar of his emerald, knit jumper, and wonders if tilanus prefers a red or if he simply knows that gale does. ]

Tip top shape, as you can see. [ in reference to himself. ] How are you keeping?

[ he straightens when gale enters, and smiles. his eyes flick quickly over him, despite already having been assured he was alright. if orin had truly wanted to do him harm, he wouldn't be walking. tilanus knows that. he also thinks there would've been a good deal more spectacle around it, if that was what she wanted.

he'll allow himself to be relieved.

he gestures to the seat across from him. ]

I'm glad to see it. Thank you, for meeting with me. I'm well, I suppose.

[ aside from being frustrated by this unintended break from his actual life. talking to gale makes it all feel a little more normal, even though this one is not truly the friend he'd gotten to know.

he puts his hand on the wine bottle. ]

I got this in the hope you'd feel like sharing, but I'll get you something else if you prefer. They appear to have everything.

[ there it is, the instinctive ease one feels with the familiar, written in the set of tilanus’ shoulders and mouth. the kind gale shares with astarion alone now, all else foreign to him in this world.

it’s a cruel thing, gale thinks, for the gods to make them strangers. he nods, quick in his assent, and gestures for tilanus to pour. ]

It’s no Waterdhavian red, [ more light teasing than genuine criticism. ] but I’m sure it’ll do. They do like to keep us sated, in this place.

[ lulling them into complacency, he assumes. a wry smile. ]

Wherever do we begin, I wonder.

[ he opens the wine to pour for them both. ]

I've had worse, [ he says, thinking of the old bottles scattered around the shadow cursed lands, covered in dust and snatched up to feed the camp in a pinch.

he's still not really sure how this will go. it should be easier, he thinks. it's simpler talking to people who are strangers to him. ]

Well, if we are to start at the beginning, that was not long ago for me. I told you I woke on the Nautiloid remembering nothing but my name. Perhaps I should ask, what would you like to know? If I can tell you, I will.

[ A couple of days after Astarion's conversation with Tilanus (in which he, in the privacy of their rooms, has seemed more agitated than usual), the vampire comes through the adjoining bathroom, a pinch in his brow.

He debates a text, debates a letter, debates a call. None quite seem sufficient.

Without any preamble (and without any regard for whatever Gale was previously doing): ] Tilanus. You've spoken with him.

[ Gale’s door to their adjoining bathroom remains open most of the day, and so Astarion has implicit permission, of a kind, to join him. Even now, with his head ducked and pen scratching, bent over his vanity-turned-desk. ]

— Ah. [ That explains his mood, of late. It appears he was right to assume Tilanus’ recollections went over even more poorly with his friend than himself (and Gale remains uncomfortable, with their unbalanced memories). He straightens in his chair, leaning back to better regard Astarion from his low angle. ] Yes, we met at the faire, and he reached out when he learned of Orin’s actions.

[ From Astarion, he assumes, since no other knows of it. That doesn’t particularly bother him, when Tilanus seems fixated on her and therefore likely to enquire after her… activities. ]

I do not recall him any more than you did Elodie, I’m afraid.

At least Elodie had the courtesy to treat me as a stranger, [ Astarion hisses, already beginning to pace a course through Gale's room. As he goes, he pulls his phone from his doublet pocket, scrolling through its contents before he finds the message he's looking for.

In a melodramatic (and frankly uncharitable) tone: ] "There was much that we shared. Much that I know well you would not tell a stranger you had just met." The gall— to speak of knowing me—

[ He bares his teeth in displeasure, still on course to bore a divot into the floor of Gale's quarters. ]

Whatever version of me he knows must be a dolt, else he would know better than to address me so familiarly. Or perhaps I was under some enchantment—

[ The fact is that he doesn't actually know what it is that Tilanus knows about him, but he doesn't want to ask and find out, either. ]

Does he speak to you the same way?

[ When Tara paces the floor so relentlessly, he’s meant to attempt to lift her. She may hiss at him in displeasure, but the effort is required. Wisely, he thinks things are somewhat different for Astarion, in that any physical contact would be rebuffed in his agitated state (and an unfamiliar tract for them, first-aid notwithstanding), but the principle of reaching out — emotionally — could prove applicable.

Gale scoots his chair sideways, leaning an elbow over the wooden back. His brows arch as Astarion speaks. ]

With presumptions of closeness? [ The question starts dry, only he can’t maintain the tone ] Certainly. [ A beat. He swallows hard. ] He spoke of the orb, unbidden.

[ Gale’s greatest, most private shame. Tilanus enquired from a place of care and yet it burned him just the same, foreign hands pressing against his deepest wound. He wonders if Tilanus’ vague allusions with Astarion are a lesson learned from Gale’s unease, or telling of greater intimacy. Much that we shared does tempt the imagination so. His knuckles sweep under his eyes, trying and failing to knead the tiredness from his skin. ]

And of deep care. Of earned friendship. [ Gale looses a small noise of frustration, despite his efforts at neutrality. He mislikes this — feeling on the backfoot, exposed and unintelligent — all of it. Whatever is Gale meant to do, when he remembers none of the adventures Tilanus speaks of, and what little he’s learned of this man contradicts his current trajectory. A party without Karlach, a journey alongside Minthara, a strange closeness (antagonistic though it may be) with Orin the Red, daughter of Bhaal. ]

It’s unsettling, in truth.

[ With each new word that leaves Gale's mouth, the corners of Astarion's turn further and further downward, as upset with the (perceived) invasion of Gale's privacy as with his own. ]

Unsettling, [ he repeats, as he briefly stops his pacing to plant his hands on his hips. ] It's insulting. You know, I told him — twice! — that we were strangers, and each time he acknowledged the fact, and yet the conversation always rattled back onto the subject of how we once knew each other, of how he would protect us. Us! As though he were our beloved keeper!

[ And his pacing begins again, though this time, his hands come up to the level of his chest, his palms parallel as he gestures through his frustration. ]

He speaks of earned friendship and yet acts as though the earning has been done already. He says he wishes for us to be on an equal playing field, then persistently mentions how dear we are to him, further reminding us that we know nothing of him at all.

[ He'd stomp his foot if it wouldn't belittle the degree to which he's been irritated by the entire affair — and he'd throw himself onto the bed if it weren't Gale's, so he simply stops for a second time, his fingers curling into fists. But this second pause seems to be enough to get him to relent — not in terms of changing his mind but in terms of calming down for Gale's sake. He realizes, after all, that he's basically made the same complaint twice already.

Actually, suddenly, abjectly: ]

We— we know each other, don't we? A few lost days aside, I—

[ He falters, unusually flustered and unmoored by his own errant train of thought. ]

[ Our beloved keeper, a telling turn of phrase for them both. It isn’t the first time someone has professed to know what’s best for them — indeed, what they deserve. His expression cracks, then, as Astarion loops back around to the crux of this upset. They are known without having consented to the knowing, unable to recall it because the memories have been altered, excised or may never occur. It’s either a violation of the mind akin to the tadpole and a vampire lord’s compulsion, or, preferably, the encroachment of one world into another (which still leaves them at a precarious disadvantage).

All the intricacies of the situation, and his own pain within it, tumble from his mind, supplanted by Astarion’s disorientation. Gale rises to his feet, fingers still wrapped around the chair and tap, tap, tapping. Stuck, momentarily, unused to being a confidant or offering solace after a year of isolation. ]

We do. [ An immediate answer, serious and sure. He crosses to face Astarion, one hand hovering outward before his fingers curl into his palm. ]

[ gesturing through the aborted attempt at comfort, ] You know me better than anyone in Waterdeep, Astarion.

[ Except for Tara. Strange to hear from one who gives the appearance of sociability, perhaps, but no less true. The nature of their companionship, linked in mind and close in quarters, has ensured it. Gale was set apart from others long before his folly, singled out by Mystra’s glittering hand. Their party had been — is singular, for him. ]

You all do. [ emphatically, one hand chopping through the air. ] That, I could not forget.

[ When Gale gets to his feet, for a single, terrifying moment, Astarion fears the worst. That he's been coddled, duped — that there's been a stranger in the adjoining room this entire time. It's writ clear upon his features, in the wide set of his eyes, the way the line of his jaw goes taut.

Then — relief. There's a flare of his nostrils as he breathes out, lets go of the worry he'd been holding onto, his expression remaining unusually open just a moment longer (because he sees the way Gale's hand hovers in the air, because something else entirely seizes his chest in that brief moment) before it changes again, taking on something like self-effacement as he allows himself a tsk and a slight stomp of his foot. Even his shoulders slump, leaving him looking small but at least less rudderless than he had been mere moments before. ]

Nor I, you. Any of you.

[ He speaks the words more easily than he typically does similarly honest sentiments, like the syllables are being pried out of a vise. He draws in a breath to say something more, then seems to change his mind, a shadow of Gale's gesture, extended and then curbed. ]

I've had rather enough of him, [ is what he settles on, his tone plaintive as his eyes bore a hole into the middle distance, his apparent lack of focus serving as an indicator of the mental strain used in jumping from one train of thought to another. ] The next time he calls me friend, I'll put stones in my pockets and walk into the lake.

[ A familiar helplessness overtakes him, at the sight of Astarion’s uncharacteristically open (and therefore vulnerable) features. Whyever did he stand up, if he was only going to add to his companion’s unease and then bloody stand there, unable to do anything more? They’re suspended for a moment longer before Astarion stomps his foot, and Gale cards his offending hand back through his hair, skimming off the top of the surface tension — then trying and failing not to look touched by the answering reassurance, unasked for. Truer for it, when Gale has begged praise from others since he first started casting.

You remember me, and I remember you. Recalled from their first conversation, an axiom-like rhythm to it that sticks in his mind. A comfort, for its reciprocity. ]

Come now, surely your roguish talents are better served putting stones in his pockets.

[ A sly, half-smile, hesitant in the offering, as he resists the urge to ask where it is Astarion goes, when he looks elsewhere. Better to make oneself worth paying attention to here. ]

Would you like to see the wards I’m setting? [ Already doubling back to the safety of his desk, rearranging his papers to find the sigils in question and sliding them out of his messy notes on everything from ki to their twisting timelines. ] Tilanus, Orin, anyone entering without our leave will find themselves in for a nasty surprise. A changeling can fool the human — or elven — eye, but not [ he raps his knuckles against the wood. ] the arcane.

[ Time, thank the gods, resumes its usual flow. A breath looses itself from Astarion's ribs, forming into a half-laugh (to complement that half-smile on Gale's features) as he imagines the hypothetical outcome. A step removed from the fear that had taken him just a moment ago, he almost thinks he's reacted too harshly against the Drow, but— he's not the type to stew in that type of regret, and besides, it's useless to take issue with a feral cat for using its claws.

(He's grateful, though he won't say as much out loud, for Gale's resetting the conversation, his seemingly ever-steady hand leading them, without much issue, into safer waters. Once, he'd have said it's a skill he's just as deft at using, but— well, here they are.)

Step light, he crosses the room, his hands linking loosely behind his back (as though to keep them out of any further trouble) as he peers over the papers laid out over Gale's desk. Characteristically meticulous — and not as boring to Astarion as he likes to pretend. He suspects that Gale knows as much, that the time they've spent traveling has, for better or worse, dispelled some of the illusion he typically maintains (even if it isn't born of magic). ]

And what kind of surprises have you cooked up for our would-be intruders? [ he asks, with a glance toward the door. ]

[ The other side of Gale’s mouth hooks high in turn, balanced out by the joy of sharing his craft (and, in this case, mischief) with a friend. He glances sideways to meet Astarion’s gaze, eyes brightening, before he singles out a torn page with a familiar sigil, tapping his fingers upon its fine lines. ]

A shock, to start. The warning shot, nocked in our bow.

[ Their shoulders bump as he shifts his hand, fingers splaying below another symbol at the top of his desk, more intricate and rarer than the last. ]

But violence, while it has its place, seems a tad gauche, don’t you think — with Portia’s ancestral carpets and portraiture at risk. It may even prove ineffective, when many have defensive or healing abilities.

[ An earnest, quickening lilt, seeking Astarion’s approval of his work. Yes, he knows now that Astarion doesn’t find him as dreadfully boring as he once feigned, but he yearns to impress, always (and soothe any lingering anxieties, too). ]

Polymorph will make for a greater deterrent and mark our intruder for all to see. [ A final tap of the paper for emphasis. ] Nothing quite so satisfying as reducing one’s enemies to baaing in protest.

Edited (belated typo realisation) 2024-12-19 10:57 (UTC)

[ This, at least, is easy. Their laughter, their conversation, their proximity — he doesn't feel the need to shy away or otherwise close himself off. Even that little brush of Gale's shoulder— all it prompts is a shifting of his posture so that his chest is at a perpendicular angle to his companion's, a slight drawing closer that doesn't demand either of them give up any space. ]

Polymorph! [ he repeats, with a bright laugh. (Approval sought and easily given, more and more so with each passing day. He's aware, in some faint capacity, that Gale looks for it, the same way that Astarion himself does. The desire of an unwanted or discarded thing to be wanted.) ] Well, you've certainly got my approval. And I'm sure Shadowheart would appreciate having a new source of prey — not that the very human forms of the other guests have really served as a deterrent.

[ His head tilts, his cheek finding his shoulder as he braces one arm against the desk, admiring the notes covering the breadth of Gale's desk.

Then, mildly, ] Though, one would hope this doesn't result in a menagerie. As much as I'd like to see your wards deployed, I think one or two sheep would be quite enough, if not too much already.

[ It feels like a victory, to have Astarion draw close and laugh aloud, the sound tinkling in his ear. Delight and surprise written in those fine features, each emotion satisfying to witness from this vantage point. A charming peak of fangs (gods, something must be wrong with him, to find a predator’s razored edges so charming). If he looks a little too long — or leans a tick closer — anyone would understand. All part of the frightfully human instinct to linger in the sun’s warmth, impossible to resist. Even Astarion wouldn’t begrudge him it, surely, after a year in the dark.

Gale’s laughter joins his own, myriad anxieties eased by Astarion’s words and proximity — the admiring look in his eye — prompting a pleased flush. ]

Let us hope we don’t reduce the population to cattle, lest Shadowheart grow envious.

[ Gale starts reorganising his notes, sliding the sigils to one side and his lengthy notes to the other. ]

[ almost shy, ] I’m like to finish this up tonight, if you’d keep me company.

[ As if Astarion would be doing him the favour, despite being far more rattled by their lot than Gale. A glance from the notes to the armchair in the corner, where Astarion might prefer to linger, together without clinging. He imagines (hopes) continued contact would help soothe them both, after this uneven week. ]

Edited 2024-12-24 00:38 (UTC)

Oh, hardly. It'd just make it easier for her to lay waste to the place.

[ It's with that thought that Astarion pushes himself off from the desk, a satellite reentering its orbit after lingering too close to a sun. (He registers the blush upon Gale's features, moves away to linger on its sweetness, on how much he finds he likes to see it. He's handsome, Astarion's always known that, and yet—)

He's halfway back to his usual sense of ease when Gale speaks again. For a second, Astarion simply looks surprised, casting a glance back over his shoulder, going still ... then shrugging. Ease to counter the near-shyness in Gale's voice, even if he isn't certain he doesn't feel a little shy, too. Better long to linger on the feeling, anyway. ]

I suppose it'd only be fair. You are doing this for both our benefits, after all.

[ Though he doesn't go to the chair, first, instead checking the door to the bathroom, through which Shadowheart, as though summoned, comes tip-tapping, circling Astarion's ankles once before beelining for the darkest corner of Gale's room.

Then, then he finds the chair, settling in it with his legs thrown over one arm and his back against the other, watching Gale a moment longer before diverting his attention to his phone. ]

Dear Gale,

Per our discussion on the network, I have something to report as to the nature of death in this place.

The fact of the matter is that it is not, in fact, death. It is something very close to it, practically indistinguishable by those who experienced it, but not death. It's entirely unfamiliar to me, I'm afraid. I wish I knew more, but this seemed significant enough to pass along.

Yours,
Emmrich

Emmerich,

My, that is significant. Difficult to say whether it should alarm or comfort our fellow residents, to be held on the precipice of the end, within death's cool grasp...

[ Predictably, Gale considers his own demise, which may or may not come quickly. Not at Moonrise, but perhaps at the Gate. Or after, for if he refuses his goddess, will her blessing continue to protect him from annihilation? An unlikely scenario. ]

You've my thanks for sharing your findings. We may not yet know what to make of them, but they could prove vital.

Frankly, I worry that it may be the latter, as it seems that experiencing such a shadow state comes with its share of aftereffects, the nature of which I am still researching.

And of course. I expect it will benefit us all to share from our respective troves, rather than keeping a dragon's hoard.

Aftereffects? How frightful.

I’m glad to hear you say as much, when I think there are those who have been here longer that would advise otherwise. It’s my intent to investigate the enchantments powering the manor, but I’ve made little headway as yet.

[ From the other room: ]

Has anyone shown you emojis yet? Or has the illustrious Gale figured them out on his own? 🧙‍♂️

[ an audible, if unintelligent, exclamation from his room. ]

Astarion!
I would ask how you captured my visage in miniature, but surely my beard isn’t as grey as all that just yet.

[ The sound elicits a smile in turn, blessedly not the sort of thing that will carry while out of view. ]

Somehow, the other option, beardless though it is, strikes me as even greyer: 🧙
Perhaps it's the glasses?

A compelling theory. Your first fellow is much more youthful behind the eyes, indeed, though I fear the old-fashioned wizard’s hat does neither gentleman any favours. Oft dusty and a mite enchanted, in my experience.

Edited 2024-12-02 22:57 (UTC)

[ another little hah! as he figures out the keyboard. ]

🧛‍♂️
There you are.

You know, I've always thought that looked rather more like Cazador.

[ Then, quickly, lest Gale think he's stepped on a land mine: ]

🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🧛‍♂️

🔥🧛‍♂️🔥

😈👊💥🧛‍♂️

(That’s Karlach’s formidable right hook, to speak nothing of her left.)

[ Faintly audible from the other room: ] Oh, that's quite good.

[ Then, momentarily: ]

It's a shame there's nothing more representative of her. 👹 is rather too severe, not to mention hairy.

👺 Does this one resemble Raphael, do you think?

[ victory!!! ]

It certainly has his eyes — and irritable visage.

What about Withers?
💀🩻

[ A longer pause, then: ]

💀
💪🩻💪
🥾 🥾

[ A laugh aloud, this time. ]

Your skill in emojis is proven, Astarion. I bow to your superior artistry. 🙇‍♂️

[ The sound of laughter begets a smile, and a quick glance in the direction of the open door, though Astarion doesn't move — nor really make any other indication of his own reaction. ]

I've had time to practice, but I'll accept the flattery nevertheless. 😇
Use this new power wisely, my dear.

[ my dear — the usual affections, surely. ]

I shall wield it as carefully as any arcane wonder. 😉

Thank you for thinking of me.

I have a question, if you have a moment for it.

[ brows arching, ]

For you? Naturally.

Do you know where someone might find a large quantity of lights?

Similar to the ones that I’m told are ‘decking the halls’, hm?

[ fairy lights twisted around the bannisters, etc. ]

Exactly. I wish to decorate a tree. Do you think the kind matters at all?

No, I should think not. I’ve seen a few of different varieties. The tree in the small library I frequent only sports gold lights and decorations, for instance.

A theme. Interesting, I had not considered that.

I might have need to avail myself of some of these existing lights. If there are so many, surely one or two would not go amiss?

Surely. Getting into the holiday spirit, are we?

[ Upon Christmas Eve, a set of three gifts of varying sizes — all wrapped neatly in brown paper and twine — finds its way to Gale's door.

— One reveals itself to be a copy of Vestalus Pentaghast's Duties of the Prelate of the Grand Necropolis.
— Another is The Power Broker: Robert Moses and the Fall of New York.
— And the last, smaller than the others, contains a pencil and cap.

There's also a note, written in careful, almost cartoonishly neat script: ]

Dear Gale,

In the spirit of the season — somewhat similar to what I am familiar with as Wintersend, though I expect the term will mean little to all else here — I thought I might share one volume relevant to my particular school of magic (and my [arguably former] line of work), as well as one I found on some more distant part of this world's history that I found quite compelling. Perhaps books make for a rather dry gift, but I thought, based on our correspondence thus far, that you wouldn't find such a thing objectionable.

May the new year bring us the answers we seek. Your friend,
— Emmrich Volkarin

Edited (links ...) 2024-12-09 23:36 (UTC)

[ Astarion debates, not for an insignificant amount of time, whether or not he really wants to participate in gift-giving at all. But it's hardly as though there's much else to occupy his time, and the things he thinks of aren't all the sort that can be picked up and immediately stowed away.

Come Christmas Eve, once the festivities wind down — once Astarion can hear Gale's steady breath on the other side of the door in their shared suite — he steps quietly into their adjoining bathroom and places a single note card by the mirror above the sink. On it, written in Astarion's hand: ]

Find me first
In the place the sun shines
Where your lesson revealed
That reflection of mine.

[ Waiting for Gale in the solarium, upon the table where they'd had their lesson, wrapped in silver paper, is a capsule from the gachapon room, as well as a small pouch containing several of the coins required to use the machines therein. There's another notecard, too, this one reading: ]

Next, seek the room
With the hearth you've enchanted
And seek out the seat
Upon which you're most often planted.

[ This next clue should lead Gale to the little library he's virtually taken up residence in, and upon the chair he most often sits in is a silver paper bag, and within it, wrapped in white tissue paper, is a felted figure of Tara — or at least, of a Tressym with black-brown fur, as best an approximation as Astarion could manage given the occasional description alone. And with it, again, another notecard, another clue: ]

Third, you must look
In the room where we dine
Where often you find
Your chair next to mine.

[ In the dining hall, where they usually sit for mealtimes, is a silver box containing a silver perfume bottle. Around its neck is tied a purple velvet ribbon, upon which has been embroidered, in gold thread: my hand in yours. The fragrance inside smells, even to the untrained nose, of lavender. With it, one more note: ]

And now we come
To the end of the path;
Go look in the place
Where you'd draw a hot bath.

[ If Gale returns to their suite, he'll find, placed upon the mat by the bathtub, a silver jewelry box containing a diamond and opal earring (the gift he considers the biggest swing, considering what the earring Gale already wears symbolizes), as well as a letter, written upon parchment rather than card stock. It's short, though its relative terseness is arguably belied by everything that's led up to it. ]

Gale,

The riddles weren't my finest work, but I expect you enjoyed the experience of puzzling them out better than the gifts they led to. So consider the chase to be my gift to you if none of the trinkets please you.

Either way, don't get too used to it.

~~Yours~~ ~~Fondly~~ Your friend,
— Astarion

[ The earring ought to be what absorbs the whole of Gale’s mind, for all it suggests — and all it entails. Instead, your hand in mine repeats like a favoured chorus, echoed every time he flicks opens the final box and considers the enormity of Astarion’s gift to him.

Christmas Day proves somewhat chaotic in the house, with presents to be exchanged, breakfast to be shared, and speeches to be made. Gale leaves a note upon Astarion’s bed in the interim, spelled to catch the light, so it doesn’t go unmissed. ]

Astarion,

Thank you for my gifts — and for the puzzle you provided to settle my unquiet mind.

You said I ought not get used to this, I know. Still, might I ask a little more of you?

A spot of patience. That’s all.

My earring is not only a token from Mystra, as you surely suspected, but also my arcane focus, which I use to cast spells without the aid of a staff. Give me a week to attune your gift to my talents, and you shall see it worn proudly.

~~Your friend~~
~~Yours~~
Impatiently,
Gale

[ At Christmas dinner, paper crown upon his head and laughter in his mouth, Gale follows the instructive sentiment provided by the perfume he now wears. Emboldened to reach out under the table, toward the near-constant presence beside him. He brushes the back of Astarion’s hand and waits for permission before threading their fingers together.

Mystral earring or no, his immediate appreciation (and the brightness of his affection) is clear. ]

Edited 2024-12-20 11:45 (UTC)

[ Christmas Day is, frankly, a little overwhelming. He expects none of the gifts he receives, none of the thoughtfulness that accompanies them.

Then there's the letter that Gale leaves — one that causes his heart to skip a beat, one that makes him wonder if it wouldn't be for the best to text him straight away, to say, it's just a gift, it doesn't matter to me if you wear it or not. It's not so much that he decides to let things play out as they will as that he decides to ignore it, to put it out of his mind until he can't anymore.

Dinner carries with it the scent of lavender, a giddy breeze that helps place a red paper crown upon his white hair, a smile upon his features even as he groans at the jokes hidden inside the crackers that line the table. Only once does he falter — when he feels Gale's hand find his, hidden out of view, though his head turns so quickly that anyone paying attention would notice, his eyes widening a fraction before his thoughts seem to catch up with him. The line of his shoulders relaxes. Their fingers wind together as easily as though he hadn't paused at all.

He laughs more loudly in the gesture's wake, seems merrier, livelier, brighter. When the time comes for them to return to their rooms, he walks the hallways shoulder to shoulder with the wizard, tittering about this and that, the crown still on his head, their hands still linked as his other hand gestures enough for both of them. It doesn't occur to him that this is one of the rare times they enter their suite through the same door — or perhaps it does, though his chatter as they ready themselves for bed remains the same, easy and fond. (Another thing that touches a nerve, better to be glossed over until it's no longer avoidable.)

He waves goodnight on the threshold that divides his room from their adjoining bathroom, and when he does, a sunstone glints upon his pointer finger.

You’ve not got the eyes right on your mirror image just yet. What a strange thing, to be so seen. ]

hey quick question when you have a minute
is your magic like
teachable?

it's nick btw from the shop hi

Hello, Nick.
I’ve a minute. Perhaps even two.

[ teasing! ]

Certainly. In Faerûn, all can experience the Weave and learn to call upon it — and you’re a clever sort, besides. I see no reason why you couldn’t learn.

really?
ok amazing!

cause like i'm not going to lie i have wanted to learn that hand thing since the first time i saw it

Oh, the mage hand? It does improve one’s ability to multitask, though sometimes it has a mind of its own.

It’s a schoolboy cantrip, you know, one of the first they teach you at the academies. Highly teachable.

all that money my parents spent on a good education, wasted
this would have been a game changer in high school :(

i don't know if i can teach you anything in return, my stuff isn't super learnable, but we can try?
how are you with potions?

Between you and I, I may have napped through my potion's lectures, but they really shouldn’t have scheduled any classes for Friday mornings. It’s borderline sabotage.

That is to say, I’d be glad to learn, though you needn’t feel indebted, when you’re offering me a chance to listen to myself talk.

honestly that's so fair though, like who's even capable of learning at that time
(morning people i guess but i don't understand them at ALL)

no debt though, don't worry! just like
fun exchange of like minded ideas and all that or whatever
so long as you can tolerate having a so-so student anyway

My favourite sort of exchange, but I must quibble your self-assessment.
Is it not the responsibility of the teacher to inspire the student? If you've found your learning experiences so-so, the burden of improvement is not on you alone.

for the record, if you absolutely lose your mind trying to teach me basic baby spells i'm going to remind you that you said that

i've got it in writing and everything

Madness seems a small price to pay for progress.

your dedication to teaching is remarkable professor gale
i promise if i drive you to drink i'll provide the booze
whiskey? or wine

you strike me as a classy drink kind of a guy

[ professor gale!!!!!!!!!!!! ]

Well, if one is going to indulge, it might as well be in the best, hm?
Red wine and smoky whisky, to be exact. I'm unfamiliar with the vintages of this world, but that only means I now have the privilege of trying something new.

have yuo tried tequila?

Should I?

oh
absolutely yes
everyone's got to experience it at least once in their life

I have a feeling it’s not for the faint of heart.

no, but it'll be a hell of an experience

oh you know what we should all do? after work drinks

A classic bonding experience for colleagues! You’ve my wholehearted support.

ok great i'm going to arrange it and you have to come
:)
+1s or whatever you can bring someone if you want

You've my word.

I'll see about Astarion joining when the time comes, seeing as he spends plenty of time at the shop with us, anyway.

oh please do, i think it'd be fun to get to know everyones partners a bit better :)

[ PARTNERS 😳 ]

Quite.
Is that how you and August would describe yourselves? Partners?

Edited 2025-01-25 20:22 (UTC)

well
actually
boyfriend
but its like very new and im trying not to make a big deal about it
is that totally lame? boyfriends, i mean we're not twelve

[ sir u are nineteen ]

I think it’s sweet. A romantic notion, no matter one’s age.

Am I the only one with a bad feeling about this?

Literally transformations are like the worst thing about this place

[ Wait, he didn't add any context to this, maybe that would help. ]

All these "treatments," I mean. Especially given the source ... I distrust anyone Portia trusts by default.

[ at the message, relief floods him. he's been wondering who to ask about all this. ]

Thank the gods.
I'm rather famous for my incaution, and yet I must wholly agree.
Not least because the transformation appears to go beyond the physical.

[ astarion isn't himself, he types and deletes, not wanting anyone else to interact with a vampire ascendant before he has a better handle on the situation. ]

Edited 2025-01-05 21:13 (UTC)

[ Matt continues to fret that maybe Gale doesn't approve of him (which is his fault), so the first line of that reply is a balm to his hamster-wheeling soul. ]

The transformations always go beyond the physical.

They always do!

I try to remind myself that a lot of people here either didn't know magic was real before they got here, or else came from truly shitty worlds, but at this point

I don't know, I'm not very good at explaining myself. I wouldn't know where to start.

I'm in no position to judge anyone for their follies, I'm afraid, so let us begin with the issue of the provenance of these enchantments. I doubt Portia's hack doctor is a genuine apothecary.

Swindlers and crooks, human and otherwise, oft take advantage of the vulnerable.

Okay, yes, that's a great point. And I can see why people wouldn't necessarily be on the alert, since the tourney seemed fine and the little winter village was like, mostly adorable

but none of that offered to change anybody.

[ Except, perhaps, for Krampus turning people's internal organs into external ones. ]

Have you taken a deeper look at any of it? The lotion and stuff?

What of the general coercive magic in play? The mistletoe, the favours, the drinks at the Otherworld, all try to change one from within and force actions without.

I would say the lotion is a straightforward escalation, from that perspective, displaying the alterations to one’s person on the skin.

[ FOCUS, GALE. ]

Yes, I’ve a sample. I suggest we use the potions table at Sol & Scroll to analyse it further.

[ a beat, still unsure how much he can trust matt — ]

And I watched it change Astarion, when I awoke this morning.

[ Hang on, Matt has to have a full five-minute spiral about the point Gale's made before his main point. The exact topography of it is probably boring to an outside observer, but it boils down to the fact that Matt's been thinking of a lot of that magic as more like regular drugs. Consent-impairing, for sure, but not capable of fundamental alteration. Though werewolves shapeshift all the time and they're fine, so is this a cultural bias of his?

Don't worry, he'll be chewing on the question like a tasty rawhide for weeks if not months. ]

Oh geez, okay. That does push up my personal timeline for investigating

I'll be there. whenever you need

[ He isn't sure if Alina's still mad at him, but the store doesn't have a NO MATTS ALLOWED sign on it or anything. Plus Erik gave him that nice gift card. ]

Alina's off on a romantic rendezvous with her beloved, so we can easily stay after hours for some experimentation.

[ what's an innuendo, never heard of it. ]

Come by this evening. I'll bring everything in to work.

[ Are we not doing phrasing ...?

Evidently not, because when the name of the game is magic and people he adores are at risk, the thought somehow doesn't cross Matt's mind. ]

Awesome. I'll be there.

[ And as the sun sinks below the horizon, Matt is en route to Sol & Scroll, trusty FEEDETH ME A TURKEY LEG AND TELLETH ME I'M PRETTY tote bag stuffed with freshly harvested herbs, a few essential oils, one of Matt's notebooks (now full of new anxious configurations!), and other bits and bobs. Finding the door unlocked, he slips inside. ]

Gale?

[ After hours at Sol and Scroll, the shop remains lit by candlelight. Gale has already cleared the potions counter of day’s remains. The ReSculpt ointment sits at the centre of the table, not yet uncapped. The source of the change in Astarion, in Alina — his chest pangs, both the orb and his heart unsettled. August and Nick will provide something to feed the ache soon. A relief, if not a cure. ]

Matt — over here. [ With a flick of his wrist, he conjures a ball of light, floating above them. Then, as Matt steps closer, Gale tosses him a pair of gardening gloves. ]

Suit up.

[ They’ll be no help to anyone if they dose themselves. ]

Ah-- [ Matt doesn't catch the gloves. At least, not with his hands: They arrest themselves in midair, floating into his waiting grasp. Matt quirks a smile down at them, then over to Gale. ] Smart.

[ Honestly, he could stand to wear gloves for more of the stuff he gets up to. He slips them on, then turns to dig into his bag. ]

So where are you so far? I brought some things I thought might be helpful for like, determining the nature of an object or a substance, [ his fingers close on something and withdraw--it appears to be a small gemstone. ] But like I said, I haven't done much with the stuff itself.

[ Gale slides a finely decorated bowl out and uncaps the ReSculpt. Impossible not to think of Astarion, changed before his very eyes. ]

Not far at all, I’m afraid. [ wryly, ] I fear I napped through one too many potions classes.

[ he eyes Matt’s curled fist. ]

What are you thinking?

[ Matt frowns suspiciously at the ReSculpt, thinking his own uneasy thoughts about the friends and lovers he's seen altered. The question jars him out of his musing, into a startled smile. ]

Oh, uh. This is kyanite. [ He sets it on the table with a careful clack. ] It's a stone that's supposed to help see through illusions or distortions. I also have ...

[ Matt reaches back into his tote, and swiftly realizes he may have put these gloves on prematurely. Peering into the bag's contents, he inhales quickly, causing a few items to lift into the air: a sprig of honeysuckle, a small jar, his notebook. ]

Honeysuckle for persuasion and psychic insight. Anise essential oil, which is good for a number of things where I come from, but also psychic insight. Plus it smells good. [ His gaze slides back to Gale, and he offers another small smile as the notebook pages flip, flip, flip themselves to the right spot. The page shows a filigree of symbols placed within a circle. ] My method so far with these things is honestly pretty simple ... I just sort of ask it what it is?

[ Gale plucks the stone to observe it himself. It’s a druidic approach, effortlessly entwining the natural with magic in ways a wizard wouldn’t think to do. Complementary to Gale’s academic approach. It assures him, despite the unsteady end note of their last conversation. ]

[ returning the kyanite to the table, ] A bag of tricks and a straightforward inquiry. I knew you were the right person for the job, Matt. [ His enthusiasm’s more forced than it was when they stood by the fire, but that’s to be expected. ]

I’ve a spell in my roster of a similar make — the aptly named detect magic — which might reveal the school of trouble we’re dealing with. [ He claps his gloved hands and pulls a face, dismayed by the muted sound. ] Shall we?

[ Matt can't really tell the difference between Gale's forced enthusiasm and the regular kind, but even if he could, there'd be nothing to stop him from projecting. In either case, the solution is the same: Impress him with magic!

And Matt can, at least, tell that Gale expected more oomph out of that clap. He smiles ruefully at him and says, ] Let's.

[ Matt's magic doesn't require words, as such. Not out-loud ones. What it requires is his focus, an intention to north-star the casting, and the architecture to produce the right notes. Matt inhales, one eye on his notebook and the other on the tabletop, as ribbons of golden light weave themselves into a copy of the design on the page. He compares--a few ribbons wriggle into a slightly different shape--sets the kyanite and honeysuckle in north and south positions. Dabs the anise laboriously onto various spots in the pattern, then onto the inside of the gloves' puffy wrists. The spell circle closes; everything gleams. The words in Matt's mind are part memorization, meant to get him out of his own way. Then such a knower has every pleasure he wills upon the earth, and holds great powers in the grasp of his lotus-like hands. And in part, as he intimated to Gale, they're a simple question:

Who are you?

The answer is somewhere between a vision, a leaf-green whisper, and a smell: hawthorn trees on Saltburnt's snowy grounds, a strange mossy plant climbing their trunks in broad, irregular rings. For a moment, Matt's eyes flicker with verdant tendrils.

Then he blinks, breathless, and seems to come back to himself. ]

[ It's a fascinating thing, to witness another cast, particularly when they've learned so differently from yourself. For Gale, magic is as simple as breathing, as thinking, as talking. With a hushed word and flick of his wrist, his question is answered, an enchantment born of a brew, so potent the mere thought of it tempts the orb.

In contrast, the ceremony of Matt's endeavour intrigues, seemingly complex for being different from his own approach. Indeed, Gale watches Matt venture elsewhere, eyes vacant, then brilliant green — perhaps this is the way of it, for one whose body is vital to the casting, an invariable physical component, a ceding of one's person to the spell. Fascinating, to be sure. Gale finds he does not envy him, having already given so much of himself over to magic, to Mystra. ]

Are you quite all right?

[ It's outside, Matt's about to blurt--which would be pretty cryptic, so it's probably for the best that Gale's question breaks across his thoughts like a pebble to the surface of a pond. ]

I'm great, [ he says, sincerely. It seems to be true: Matt's got a bit of a bounce in his bearing, a light in his eyes that comes not from any mystical plant communion, but the exhilaration of spellcasting. It falls somewhere between the neat pleasure of solving a puzzle--things fitting into other things--and the awe of prayer.

Just as his own ritual strikes Gale as complex, there's only a handful of spells Matt knows how to cast as quickly as Gale can. So he's slightly uncertain as he adds, ] Did you do your thing? I wasn't supposed to wait for you, was I ...? [ A sheepish smile. ] What'd you learn?

[ Left in Gale's room before he wakes up, potentially delivered by a mouse: ]

Gale,

I'm sorry that we haven't found the time to catch up. If you have the time, perhaps you would like to join me for breakfast and a walk through the gardens? I believe the kitchen staff are able to do "take out".

Halsin

[ After saving the mouse from Shadowheart, Gale pens a response — and tasks her with delivering it, in apology. ]

Halsin,

A sorry predicament that is entirely my fault. I know not where the time has gone, only that many are not themselves, of late.

I’d like that very much. First light on the morrow? Flora in the kitchens is particularly amenable to allowing charming rascals like us a treat or two for the road.

I must warn you against sending rodents to our suite, however. Astarion and Shadowheart (the vampire chicken, I shall explain) find them much less charming than you do. Shadowheart, in particular, favours them when peckish, ha!

[ Shadowheart returns with Halsin's response, vampire chicken turned carrier pigeon. ]

Gale,

Thank you for introducing me to your fine feathered friend! Shadowheart (such a name to live up to!) and I had a very interesting conversation. You didn't mention she had such a sharp sense of humor. I have agreed not to tempt her with mice and look forward to getting to know her.

I will also look forward to breakfast tomorrow. I'd suggest wrapping up warm, the mornings have been quite icy.

Halsin

[ As promised, Gale slips from his room at first light (after a brief peak into Astarion’s, the tranquility of his trance soothing, when so much has changed). Bundled up in a cashmere coat, the same deep plum he favours on their travels.

Halsin will find him in the kitchens, chatting to a member of staff as they wrap two pastries in separate takeaway bags. ]

Halsin! [ Gale lifts a gloved hand in greeting. Notably, instead of his Mystral earring, a dropped opal glints in the light. ] Sweet or savoury?

[ He’ll take whatever Halsin doesn’t prefer. ]

[ Gale isn't the only one worried about his companion. Although Dorian has turned him out of his bed and made his feelings on their burgeoning relationship clear, Halsin isn't abandoning him -- like Gale, he pauses outside of Dorian's door to listen for his slumbering breaths before he moves on.

He's not wrapped as warm as Gale, though he's at least in layers, the brightest being a colourful heavy knit cardigan that's somehow sized to his broad shoulders. He grins as he arrives, and doesn't stop moving towards Gale, seizing him in a big bear hug. ]

Gale! It's good to see you. [ Releasing him, he eyes the pastries, smiling at the kitchen worker. ] Savoury, please. And, if you would be so kind, perhaps some bacon and bread? Cold mornings make me rather hungry, I'm afraid.

Ooft. [ said more for the sake of it, though he does hesitate before returning the embrace. Unused to the affection, even if it isn’t unwelcome. The opposite, in fact. ]

It’s good to see you, too, my friend. [ Gale pats Halsin’s sizeable bicep when they part. ] Forgive me for forgetting your appetite outmatches mine own. I’ve grown rusty without a campful of adventurers to cook for!

[ Good-humoured self-deprecation as they gather their food. Gale settles for his single pastry and coffee to-go, stepping into the snow with an audible ah. ]

Have you settled in well, Halsin?

Edited 2025-01-21 17:04 (UTC)

[ The kitchen is at least used to last minute requests, and Halsin's efforts to get to know every single person in the manor have paid off. He's given a bacon roll as well as his coffee and pastry, and tucks the latter into the pocket of his cardigan while he works on the hot food.

He measures his stride to match Gale's as they make their way out of the kitchen and the mud room and out into the cold air and the bright morning. He tucks into his breakfast as they step out onto the snowy grass, chewing and swallowing before he answers Gale. ]

As well as I can, I suppose. It is a passing strange place. I'm not used to spending so much time indoors. And this business with the shaman.. [ He frowns, his thoughts lingering on how Dorian had turned him out of his bed the day before, the harsh cold words from a man who had seemed so warm just hours before. ]

I fear there's some darker magic at work.

[ Gale sips his coffee, appetite going as the subject turns to their present troubles. If not for Nick and August, he might not have tended to his arcane needs, hollowed out as he is by the affair. ]

Almost certainly. [ miserably, then. ] I watched that wretched substance change Astarion before mine own eyes.

[ Because he was too slow, too sleepy, too human. He picks at the pastry with a gloved hand, messy and entirely unhelpful in the matter of actually eating it. He sighs. ]

I’ve met others clearly affected as well. Made insecure and cruel, despite all this talk of improvement.

[ Alina, acting even more unpredictable than usual. ]

[ It's not a good topic of conversation, but Halsin views it as a necessary one. They've solved far more difficult problems together, after all, and he gets the sense that Gale wouldn't talk about it otherwise. He keeps eating his own breakfast, his own appetite driven by practicality, though his mood darkens when he hears about Astarion. ]

It is no improvement, unless it's for some crueler goal.

[ Frowning, Halsin studies the grounds ahead of them. He chases the last bite of his bacon roll with a swallow of coffee, then continues: ]

I had been sharing a bed with a young mage, Dorian -- you may have met him. We had been having a good time together over the last few days, but yesterday morning he threw me out of his room, saying that he no longer wanted to spend any time with me. I thought I had offended him somehow, but he has been using that accursed lotion.. and now you tell me that Astarion is also changing. I fear we are headed down an evil road.

[ He glances over at Gale. ]

Do you think we could try to undo it? A cleansing spell, perhaps?

[ The arch of Gale's brows sharpens, at the mention of Dorian, who had seemed to be enjoying himself when they last spoke. ]

Another young mage called Matt and I tested the lotion. We ascertained its source, a plant in the gardens, but — it refused us, Halsin. [ powerful and terrible. ] Whatever magic is at work here, it's unlike any I've known, even at the height of my power.

[ Gale shakes his head, utterly miserable. ]

We can hope that its application and presentation provide a clue as to its nature. That is to say, I suspect it needs to be re-applied to remain effective.

Edited 2025-02-01 12:57 (UTC)

[ At some point in the days just after New Year's, Gale will receive a small but lovely arrangement of clematis, verbena, lavender, and other purple flowers, with a hand-penned, lightly perfumed note: ]

For your gentlemanly assistance and warm company the other night.

Yours,
Dorian

[ Now that Dorian's done sweating out his ReSculpt fevers, he's circling back, as they say, on something that's been nagging at him. ]

I hope you've been well, in the midst of all this ReSculpt tumult.

I've been wanting to ask you a personal question, which you're more than welcome to refuse.

[ Someone definitely thought they got away from this topic. ]

I'm fortunate not to have been affected, though I can't say the same for those I care for. What a vile temptation.

[ as for the rest, well — ]

Ask as you like, Dorian. I endeavour to be an open book, waiting only for someone to turn my pages.

I'm sorry to hear that. [ About Gale's nearest and dearest, that is. ] I've only just recovered, myself, and can now officially say I'm not a fan of this place's magical proclivities.

I'm curious about the nature of your mark. And concerned, as well--as your friend, if I can call myself that.

Someone I know back home has an affliction with similarities to yours, at least on the surface. I know it pains them, though they hide it well.

You’ve my sympathies.

[ for having succumbed. caroline and astarion were beaten down by the detox process as much as the initial change. ]

You spoke of lyrium and forced etchings before I bid you goodnight. I assure you my mark is of a different make.

[ gale hasn’t admitted that it’s more than a decorative consequence, let alone an affliction, to anyone but nick and august, and he isn’t certain he intends to reveal as much to dorian now, kindly though he seems.

(and perhaps he chafes, just a touch, at the thought of his predicament being something common and shared, when his singularity is all he has left.) ]

Edited 2025-01-21 10:40 (UTC)

And you spoke of consequence and cost, yes?

[ Dorian felt the traces of something curdling in that magic, when he'd traced his fingers up it. He thinks not just of the Inquisitor and their mark--a gift and curse, to be the only one able to close the rifts--but also of Felix. Marked by the Blight to a slow and inexorable death, one Alexius was willing to destroy the world to prevent.

He'd wondered if he'd overstepped, that first night, and feels the propulsion that may take him there again: concern, but also curiosity. ]

I can tell that it's powerful magic, within you. And that there's something else threaded there.

[ Dorian hadn’t then, but now — Tilanus’ knowledge of his lot, without having earned it from Gale himself, has left a sour taste in his mouth.

He told Dorian as much as he wished, that night. ]

If you’ve such a clear understanding of the situation, then I needn’t say anything more.

[ gale disapproves 🙂‍↕️ ]

[ Dorian, unfortunately, doesn't always know when to leave well enough alone. ]

I don't understand. That's why I'm asking.

Perhaps when we’ve spoken for more than an hour, I’ll feel more loquacious on the matter of the magic in my very flesh.

Edited 2025-01-21 19:21 (UTC)

[ Did he earn that? Yes. Still, owch. ]

Fine. I only wanted to see if I could help.

[ SEEN ✔️ ]

[ Sour feelings begin to fester in him as soon as the ReSculpt starts its long journey out of his system, like a fist closed over his heart, squeezing every time Gale comes to check on him.

For all that it had been an enchantment's work, he remembers every second of it, every thought that had crossed his head, every look on Gale's face, every word that had left his mouth. It all makes him feel— guilty. Sick, sicker than he already feels.

It's in one of the rare moments that Gale is gone that a message lights up his phone. (Astarion hasn't said much since rehab began, has had trouble even making eye contact.) ]

I've something I'd like to say, when you've a moment.
Don't let me pretend otherwise, if I try to say I've forgotten.

[ Perhaps predictably, after days of tiptoeing around the truth, Gale manages to twist himself into a tangle of nerves upon receiving this message. It’s clear to him now, regardless of the magic at work, that he mishandled this affair. Either he was overly accommodating or not accommodating enough, too forthright or too evasive. Worst of all, he proved himself incapable of protecting anyone from the very thing he thought his domain, even in his diminished state.

Whatever is the point of him? ]

Anything I should worry over?

[ How to unsend a message— ]

Ignore that.
Would you like me to come by?

[ He should have asked that before visiting him at all, shouldn’t he, instead of assuming his presence was wanted. ]

[ The same thoughts exist in Astarion's head — the idea that he's proven himself unworthy, that he's ruined whatever fragile thing had been burgeoning between them. Perhaps he ought to have known this would happen. He's spawn — a low thing, raised into false confidence by the kindness of strangers, here. ]

Please.

[ When Gale arrives, Astarion is where he'd last left him, settled into an armchair with his knees tucked up to his chest, unusually small, unusually childish. His features are sallow, his hair, typically perfectly coiffed, oily and unkempt. He can't help trying to fix it as Gale appears, though he gives up sooner rather than later, sinking back into his seat. ]

Apologies. I— didn't mean to worry you. About the message, I mean.

[ Please. Isn’t that his line?

By contrast, Gale is overly put together. Collar re-straightened before entering the room, the hem of his jumper tugged and smoothed repeatedly. The idea that he’s been called to an audience — to kneel, to beg, to stand and take responsibility — persists until he sees Astarion curled in on himself.

Gale edges closer under the guise of tidying a stack of books upon the table beside Astarion’s seat (ones he’d plucked himself, in the event detox allowed for idle pursuits), furtive glances from his work to his — companion all the while. ]

The burden of an unquiet mind. [ The worry, that comes before he has the answer to every question in his brain. A fundamental flaw in his person, not Astarion’s. It occurs to him, suddenly, that he’s making this about himself, just a little, so he splays a hand on the stack, fixing Astarion with a sidelong glance. ]

Are you — all right?

[ Unquiet mind and all, it’s terribly difficult not to chase that with his usual greeting: How can I help? ]

[ (In that pile, one book Astarion had brought, himself: the volume Gale had gifted him at Christmas. He's only managed to make it through a chapter or two, any feats of heroism sitting not-quite-right with his current state, but it's there, regardless.) ]

I am returned to my former self, at least.

[ Weak, again. Drained of that shine and sparkle. Just Astarion. Even his usual way with words seems depleted, as he opens his mouth and then closes it, stoppering whatever song might have flown forth, before.

I was not myself, he wants to say, but that's not quite true. Everything he'd been under ReSculpt's influence had been some mirror to the truth, to what he's longed for and worked for since escaping the Szarr Palace. And it hadn't been good, hadn't been enough. Except— ]

I wanted to ... apologize. [ Like pulling teeth. Not the concept of apologizing, as a whole, but confronting his previous behavior. ]

I behaved rather poorly, and you suffered the brunt of it.

[ Oh. That’s — entirely unexpected. His features loosen, eyes widening to take in Astarion’s parted mouth, the shadows hollowing out his cheeks, his already too-sharp angles brought into relief.

Some of the tension bleeds from his shoulders as they square to face Astarion properly. He taps the hardback with each finger in turn. ]

[ wry, ] You weren’t so unreasonable. [ His breath catches, and he coughs into his hand, trying to obscure the emotion that wells up at the thought of this past week (and of the Astarion he knows, gone). ]

Just — off. [ Ahem. ] How strange it is, to say I missed you, when you’ve been here, and yet.

[ Gale did. The real him. ]

[ Off. Another word to say that what he'd been under ReSculpt's influence hadn't been quite right. He doesn't smile, exactly, but his lips twist as if in an attempt.

His hand skitters, briefly, out to his knee — in search of an anchor, a mooring touch — then retracts. ]

But I was— it was me. [ His gaze falls. Could shame trigger immolation, he would be in flames. ] I'm— what I was. I'm capable of that. I am that. Peel back enough skin, and there— there that ugliness would be.

[ His fingers, in his lap, twist at the sunstone ring still set on his hand, a token he now feels profoundly unworthy of. Perhaps if he had some other idea of where freedom and revenge might lead, he'd feel otherwise, but now— it's as though he's staring into a void. Even where once he might have played at pettiness, turned to meanness to drive Gale away, he can only find the strength for this terrible kind of honesty. He'd taught him how to see his own reflection, and what stares back at him is—

His lip wobbles. ]

You deserve someone beautiful.

Astarion—

[ Halted as he edges closer, placing his hand on the arm of the chair, unsure how to move forward. His expression has cracked open, any attempt at academic neutrality or genial support forgotten. The helplessness that’s defined him all week threatens to resurface as he watches Astarion’s elegant hands skitter and twist when they should be — featherlight. Dexterous.

He reaches, then, touch light then firm at Astarion’s knee, imagining his hand still there beneath it. ]

Astarion, you must know, I — I could not think beyond Moonrise until you asked it of me. [ He shakes his head, destabilising the image of the same dark co rider that carries him to his present ruin. ] Until you gave me something to look forward to. [ Astarion with him, Astarion in Waterdeep, a reprieve from the loneliness that has shadowed him since boyhood. ]

To hope for. [ Always easier, isn’t it, to live for another than for oneself. They say that certain wounds can’t heal without the aid of another, don’t they? ] Any capacity you have for ugliness must be viewed in tandem with that — a capacity for beauty.

[ Gale thinks of it in different terms: The tension between that which makes one worthy and unworthy. In the end, it means the same thing. ]

Edited 2025-01-29 08:57 (UTC)

[ If he's honest, he isn't sure he believes what Gale is saying, but the touch of his hand (warm, present) and the gentle lilt of his voice diminish Astarion's ability to argue. If he's managed to pull the wool over Gale's eyes as to what he is, he can't simply sit back and allow him to continue to suffer under an illusion, but— Gale's already seen through it. Accepted him as he is, never once asked for anything more than what Astarion was ready and willing to give.

He aims for a smile and falls short, though the fondness in his voice makes up for the remaining margin. ]

You fool.

[ A word to encompass a multitude of kindnesses that Astarion, so unused to the sun, can hardly begin to understand. Tentatively, he reaches back out, his fingers barely brushing the hand on his knee. ]

You'd have found a way, with or without me.

[ He knows that, because he knows it's what Gale deserves — to choose his own path, to make his own decisions, unfettered from a being incapable of loving him. ]

But I'm glad it was with me. [ A breath. ] I suppose it's my turn to ask you to wait for me. I'll be— [ better, more beautiful, more amenable, except none of that had worked, none of that had been an issue, not really ] —more myself, once I've sweat through this fever.

[ The resistant (and dour) part of Gale nearly quibbles Astarion’s faith in him, despite how it echoes what he feels to be true of his companion. The fact remains: He resigned himself to die the moment he left his tower. It was, ironically, that tadpole that saved him from a lonesome demise the first time. And his companions, Astarion included, the second.

But what good does it do to say that? To make it seem as though his tether to this world remains a tenuous thing, when Astarion is here. No, Gale decides he has never been so glad to be thought a fool.

With a quirk of his mouth, his counter comes soft and easy. ]

Of course it was with you.

[ Another echo, as he nudges Astarion’s outstretched fingers. A series of teasing follow-ups occur to him (about how only Astarion thinks him enchanting, or perhaps on the matter of how fetching he manages to look, even while a bit of a wet cat) but he can’t manage to see either through.

Instead, ]

It’s only you. [ Robbed of his eloquence and verbosity by the sincerity of it — and the fear that he’d lost any chance at this, that Astarion had thought himself unwanted — gaze suddenly flicking to their hands, touching but not grasping. ] That I’m waiting for.

[ A confession that isn’t a jab at his myriad connections in the manor, simply a natural outcome of his affections, which have always been singular. ]

[ The fact of the matter is that he remembers what Gale as said as clearly as he remembers the words that had left his own mouth. I care for you, as I’ve not cared for another before, the sentiment's weight diluted in the moment by the ReSculpt running through his veins. But when he thinks of it now, combined with a set of words that nearly knocks him back, it's only you, he feels a surge of warmth flood his chest as though there were blood in his veins once more, filling his body, his heart.

There are three words he thinks in response, but he keeps them to himself, because it's too much, especially now, when he's just had his knuckles rapped for overreaching. But it's the one thing he can be certain of amidst a staggering new uncertainty as to what the future holds for him — a different kind of sunlight to walk in, to grasp even if it means he's being selfish.

Pink colors the tips of his ears, the bridge of his nose; color, amidst how pale he's looked otherwise. His lips press together, failing in an attempt to suppress a smile. In tandem, he stretches out his pointer finger, hooking it delicately under the curve of Gale's. ]

Forget I was ever so sickly, once this is over, [ he says, a shade of his former confidence returning despite the shyness of his gesture. ] I'll never forgive you if you remember me looking like this.

[ Astarion touches him the way he would have before ReSculpt forced his hand: Tentative and sweet, a balm to his wounded heart. It emboldens Gale to look up, and he finds himself duly rewarded for his bravery, enraptured by the pink of Astarion’s features, proof of health and hope, affection and humanity. His breath catches in his throat, awed by his luck, his lot, his — companion. ]

Certainly. [ Amusement brightens his eyes. And sincerely, ] How fortunate I am, to never have to content myself with memory in the matter of you. [ Even as he memorises every minute shift and lovely angle of Astarion’s features, sallow though they are.

He lifts his other hand to tidy Astarion’s hair behind his ear, to run a finger along the edge of it, up to the pointed tip. For want of moving closer to Astarion himself, he presses against the arm of the chair. ]

You’re burning up, you know.

[ Teasing, maybe, cloaking his lingering concern. Thumb straying back to his temple, fingers still curled protectively around the shell of his ear. He thinks of holding Astarion properly, arms around him as they’ve never been before. If not now, then one day, whenever it would be wanted. ]

Is there anything I can do to ease your discomfort?

[ With the magic in him replenished by August and Nick’s efforts, even as the orb grows more ravenous. Another update he intends to share, once they’ve settled the most urgent matters of care. He holds fire and ice in his fingertips, the ease of prestidigitation on his tongue. He’s already made a point to visit each day, bringing blood for Astarion and Caroline both. Whatever can be done, it’d please him to do it. ]

Edited 2025-01-30 18:08 (UTC)

[ If he lets go of the armor he's been wearing since the moment he realized what his lot in death would be, if he looks past the peaks of guilt and loneliness and cynicism that have risen like a shield around his heart, he can admit to himself that the immense tenderness Gale shows him — the trust he places in him, the care he demonstrates — is not entirely the product of naïveté, nor something that Astarion would truly rebuke or dismiss with contempt. He craves it, as much as a man who has been lost in the wastes of the arctic would crave even the faintest heat despite the fact that it might burn to the touch.

He can't help the way his head tips into Gale's hand, his gaze searching the wizard's handsome features for a long moment. He wants to ask how on earth he could think him perfect when he's seen behind the curtain, to ask what it is that makes him willing to stay. What makes him deserving of such attention. But he stops short of giving voice to any of those questions; the moment is too fragile, and he daren't risk fracturing the tenuous peace they've come to.

(And there's one thought he does his best to dismiss entirely, wakened by the mention of memory — that he will have only his memories of Gale to keep him company, as the years wear on, even if the Netherese Orb in Gale's chest becomes a problem solved. Arguably, the simple matter of age is the bigger issue, a knife's edge he finds unusually sharp as his thoughts stray near it.)

But, instead, the patter of his words going from quick to slow as he attempts to remain bright: ] Stay here. Just until dinner.

[ No dear, no darling — the words plain and unadorned. ]

You're magic enough for me.

[ Astarion blooms under the attention, a flower opening in the sun, and Gale savours the sight of it (the answering warmth, in knowing he’s the reason for it). Not the work of an enchantment or a spell, just Gale.

And still, it surprises him, to be invited to stay, particularly without having been of use. The converted rehabilitation floor’s hardly Elysium, but he’d still anticipated a higher barrier to entry, after a lifetime of proving himself. You’re magic enough for me sweeter than any exaltation. ]

Aha. [ Gale ducks his head, a sudden flush striping across his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. Much the same process of consideration and acceptance occurs in Gale’s mind. It’s impossible to fathom that he might be enough, particularly without the knowledge and power that made him worthy of a goddess, once. And yet, this Astarion, with his wounded heart, wouldn’t use a line to sway him. ]

If you’re certain.

[ A lesser questioning than what plagues his mind, in that if, sneaking a glance up through his lashes. He could sink to the floor, his place at Astarion’s feet, so like what came before — but that isn’t the way of things any longer. He knows that, even if it contradicts his longest, fiercest infatuation and leaves him uncertain how to proceed. Tempted to hide from that realisation, to be sure, and resisting it — ]

Budge up, then.

[ In that armchair that could nearly be built for two, thanks to the Balfours penchant for luxury. At the risk of destabilising their equilibrium, of overreaching himself, Gale squeezes beside Astarion and winds an arm around his shoulders (that bit narrower than his own). Progress over perfection. Like the way he talks. ]

Edited 2025-02-01 11:05 (UTC)

[ Even as he scoffs, scooting over to make just enough room for Gale to join him on the seat, Astarion thinks to himself that he doesn't truly mind it — the awkwardness, the things others might regard as childish or silly, all of it separate from the vocabulary he'd become proficient in across centuries. He cherishes it, the same way he cherishes the way Gale looks when he's been taken off-guard, the particular shade of pink he turns when flustered. Ever handsome, as much a figure from the stories he'd been told as a child as any dashing prince.

It comes across in his lack of resistance, not so pliant and eager as he once had been, but slightly stilted, as though still figuring out his own limbs, or how he might fit against another without the intent of seduction. His arms tuck in, his knees drawing up to his chest as he allows his frame to curl against Gale's.

It takes a last moment for him to let go completely, to allow his head to fall against Gale's shoulder (to feel like he can remit his care to somebody else).

A word comes to mind, but manifests only as an exhale, a breath let out through the slight smile that persists on his features. It's not for him to say, he thinks — it's sweeter on his companion's lips. Simple, singular — wow. ]

Gale. I hope you're well. I'd like to extend an invitation for dinner, if you'd be amenable to joining me.

[ !!!

typing dots, in which he backspaces his instinctive “of course” to exercise the slightest bit of caution. ]

At the risk of indelicacy, I must ask what you intend to eat for our shared meal.

[ having been snacked on once, it seems prudent to inquire. ]

And check that you’ve found your land legs once more? I should be glad to join you somewhere dry.

[ Valid questions. ]

I awoke this morning on the shore of the lake, returned to myself. I may have to ask for a little more of your trust that I have no intention of hurting you any more than I already have. It was not my intention to

[ ... ]

mislead you in any way. I regret it.

As I was returning to the manor, I noticed Ebisu is currently in residence on the second floor. It was a favourite restaurant of Daniel's, so they know me there, and are able to supply me with the same blood we get from the staff.

I don’t doubt you, Armand.

[ when he wasn’t himself, no more than Astarion had been after using ReSculpt. It touches him, besides, that Armand has reached out to him so quickly — and that he would be invited somewhere once shared with Daniel. ]

It isn’t all right, exactly, but it is something I’m willing to forgive, for you.

I’ll meet you there, my friend.

You are more generous than I deserve. See you soon.

[ The izakaya is small and already busy with guests crowded along the bar, laughter and conversation competing with jazz music, the rattle and clink of glasses and the noise of the kitchen somewhere behind a door. Thankfully, Armand had arrived early enough in the evening to claim one of the tables along the wall, reclining comfortably on the tatami mat and very much returned to his normal form, albeit with a thin line of dark scarring around his neck, presently covered by a knotted silk scarf patterned with dark purple flowers.

By the time Gale joins him, he's already ordered and some of the food has arrived: salted edamame, pickles, karaage chicken, and a sashimi platter. Armand is also nursing a cocktail glass that appears to be full of blood. Gale will have to order his own drink -- though it may already be waiting for him, given the bartender's gift for knowing exactly what her customers want, no matter what it is.

As Gale arrives, Armand greets him with a rather wan smile, gesturing for him to take a seat (sorry on behalf of your knees, Gale). ]

I thought perhaps I could introduce you to a cuisine you may not have tried before.

[ Ever curious, Gale pauses to admire this new corner of the manor, as yet unknown to him. The bartender fixes his drink as he does so, placing a twist on an old-fashioned beside his plate (made with Hibiki Harmony, according to the dainty card beside it). The aromas differ from that of the Balfour’s kitchen, with its traditional British fare that reminds Gale of taverns across the Sword Coast. He hands his overcoat off to the waiter, left in his shirt and patterned vest, lavende with gold detailing. He appears wholly recovered from both the drowning and the bite, twin pinpricks there but fading.

A final hesitation: Gale allows himself a long look at Armand before he kneels — gaze firelit, no longer abyssal; not quite well, but certainly better than Gale has thought him to be, of late. No longer consumed by the loneliness they both know intimately, though he surely remains affected by it. ]

You thought right. [ mouth tugging higher on one side, almost shy. ] I’ve always made it a point to try the local cuisine wherever I go — and bring the best recipes back with me. I’m something of a cook myself, you know.

[ When he was Chosen, his role called him across the continent. Another life. He snags the chopsticks but doesn’t yet eat, gaze still lingering — assessing, in fact. ]

[ faux casually, unable to keep the concern from his voice: ] I’m surprised you’d see me so soon. You must be feeling — overwhelmed, by all that’s come to pass.

[ Without asking for permission, Armand reaches across to take Gale's hand in his own, arranging the placement of the chopsticks with gentle fussiness. He then demonstrates by picking up his own, holding them for Gale to observe as he picks up a slice of sashimi and deposits it on Gale's plate. He assumes Gale will be a quick study when it comes to matters of hand-eye coordination.

As for the observation, a wry smile appears on his face. Softer than it ought to be. He's tempted to retreat into melodrama, to explain that what happened is far from the worst thing he's ever experienced, that every vampire is born into a life of trauma and pain from their very first moment. Instead, he finds himself wanting to be honest. So he avoids Gale's eyes as he sets the chopsticks back down and picks up his glass of artificially warmed blood -- O neg, from a sweet young donor who had recently been given a quantity of alcohol, so it carries a trace of intoxicants. ]

I was allowed to feel.. emotions, sensations, that I haven't felt for five hundred years. I tasted wine and bread again. It has awakened.. [ He frowns faintly, rubs his thumb idly up and down the side of his glass. How to express the complexities of joy and grief of being given a glimpse of life again, after so long? ]

I had forgotten how to miss it. That is, perhaps, a gift.

[ Another tiny smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes as he glances up at Gale. ]

It's going to take some getting used to. But I will endure. If nothing else, I am built to endure.

[ Gale allows Armand’s fussing, smile evening into a bemused quirk. Pliant, instinctively, under the guidance of another — and irrepressibly fond to be in receipt of it. Evidence that despite what’s passed between them, they remain familiar. A closeness that can’t be shattered by the manor’s tricks or human hurts.

With a pointed look and cocked brow, he mimics Armand slowly, playful yet determined (to excel in all things, even something as insignificant as this). His first bite of the sashimi derails that train of thought, eyes alight with surprise at the taste. ]

Gosh! [ Delighted, evidently, when he leans forward for more. Not quite the right angle on the first try but perfect on the second. A wizard needs master their hands at an early age, after all. He tempers himself and his enthusiasm, if only to match Armand’s seriousness (and counterbalance the hesitance that characterises his candor, yet another way he mirrors Astarion).

A nod, first, acknowledging then sentiment. He holds his hand aloft, awaiting his thought to form before he carries on with the meal. At last: ]

I do wonder if that makes us any more capable. [ A tap of the chopsticks against his plate. ] Becoming accustomed to a particular ache, that is.

[ Physical or mental. Most people would find it a dolorous topic, but he recognises his melancholia in Armand’s eyes. A lifetime of denial, of waiting and wanting, for love and approval — it did not inure him to the absence of it. If anything, it made him desire it with greater desperation. ]

Does a familiar pain hurt any less for being known? [ Pensive, brow wrinkling, words spoken aloud as they occur to him. A riddle to be solved in real time. ] I’ve only had my — condition for a year now, yet it oft feels as if it were that first day, that terrible hour, in which I succumbed to it.

[ Each pang tearing him anew. Armand thinks not in years but decades, however. Centuries. If anyone could argue in favour of distance, of forgetting, it would be him. ]

[ Gale's musings are met with a quiet gaze, Armand watching him with a mixture of fondness and genuine fascination for a man so enthused about life despite its challenges. He strokes the side of his glass with absent restlessness, light glinting off the pair of rings he wears -- one crowned with a bicolor sapphire, one shaped like thorns -- following the path of the chopsticks back and forth as Gale gestures before meeting his eyes once more. ]

The curse of the vampire requires that we remain the same as we were when we were turned and broken from our mortal life. Frozen in time for eternity. Made perfect, but caught in time, like a fly in a ball of amber.

[ He frowns faintly, looking down at his hands curved around his drink. ]

If we felt pain or fear, it becomes part of us. We are riddled with the trauma of our birth into death. I was dying of a poison in my blood when I was turned, so part of me will always be poisoned. Part of me will always be that boy shivering in his bed. Just as part of you will always be a.. [ He looks at Gale, searching for a better word than failure. ] servant of your cruel goddess.

Yet, it sustains you. Your condition. As I am sustained by the Dark Gift.

[ Gale lifts his gaze, keenly attuned to Armand’s expression, his barely there tells. Younger than him in looks, he realises, despite the age of his soul. He can’t help but frown, mouth twinging in sympathy for the boy Armand was — is. Poison in the blood, yet another strange thing they have in common.

There’s something exceptional about Armand, in particular, thinking his goddess cruel — having known her through Gale’s memories and perceptions, which remain largely adoring. What then does he see that Gale fails to, even now, her forgiveness within his grasp? Or your freedom. ]

[ evenly, ] Perhaps.

[ Perhaps he will always be a servant, perhaps not. A third path stretches before him, after all. A crown reforged by his skilled hands that would make him a god in his own right. Worthy, after a lifetime of inadequacy. Undying and all-powerful, overcoming the blight eroding his very person.

He wonders if Armand is privy to those musings, peering his whirring mind. He hasn’t shared that possibility with anyone yet, even Astarion. ]

—Why do you call it the Dark Gift?

[ Servant, to save Gale's pride -- to Armand it seems no less than slavery, the chains no less heavy for being slender purple lines. He knows how it feels to be promised such gifts; the men who used him would do the same, when they wanted him. Those men would pile gold and jewels at his feet, dress him in furs and silks, press delicacies to his lips. They would praise his beauty and promise to free him, to bring him home with them on their ships. But afterward, they would leave. And no amount of cold coin would pay for what they took from him.

He sees the edges of it in Gale's mind, bright and hopeful for his scraps of reward. Aching in sympathy, seeing nothing but pain, Armand looks away. ]

So it was named to me by my maker. [ He fiddles with the chopsticks beside his setting, rolling them back and forth with a fingertip. ] So it was named to him, thousands of years before we met. A gift, too freely given. But a curse. With it comes the other gifts -- fire, flight, the ability to see into mortal minds and control others. Payment for enslavement to the darkness.

[ Gale watches Armand turn from him, his profile as sharp as his teeth. For all that Armand talks, there’s much he doesn’t reveal. So like Astarion in that way, too.

The similarities aren’t lost on him, at least between those granted the Dark Gift and those Chosen. For the latter are exalted above all, even forbidden magics at their fingertips, but they must serve their gods and goddesses for eternity to retain their power, attuned to their morals and missions. Everything has a cost. How much are you willing to pay? is the real question. For greatness, immortality, immeasurable power.

His expression shifts, pensive. ]

You’re not enslaved to the dark, though — or is that the work of this place and its mercurial magics?

Edited 2025-03-18 14:25 (UTC)

Enslaved to the dark?

[ He lifts his gaze to look back at Gale, a little vulnerable with it, as if he's finding it difficult to stare into those direct and gently enquiring eyes for too long. A green that looks almost gold in the right light. Daniel had green eyes, before he was turned.

A bright young reporter with a point of view.

Armand purses his lips and looks away again, tapping his fingernail on the tabletop. ]

No, not truly. A turn of phrase. Darkness of mind, not in reality. I have been able to walk in the sun for almost a century now. A benefit of my age. As we collect the years, we become more powerful. But also more remote from humanity. When one lives for too long, one grows too easily bored of the petty troubles of mortal life. Love, loss. Plague and war and endless strife, over and over, always the same. My maker believed that it was better to live among mortals, to share their lives. He was killed for that belief. For daring to think himself above the Great Laws.

[ He takes a breath, makes a bit of an effort to draw himself back to the point. ]

But I digress into ancient and no doubt tedious drama. To answer your question: I am not required to live only at night, or to hide in the shadows and the crevices like a rat. I only need to feed once or twice a month, as I choose. I no longer need to sleep. [ He waves a hand. ] Such is the gift.

Edited 2025-03-18 17:19 (UTC)

[ Not a reporter, no, but a scholar and therefore beholden to the same instinct toward enquiry. A curiosity so dangerous it once damned it — perhaps it even helped drown him, mere days ago. Even now, he thinks to push. Even as indulges in the meal Armand has so graciously chosen for him, his thoughts snag on darkness of the mind, wanting to unspool it like so much thread. Then on the Great Laws (that Armand wrote and rewrote in the cellar, as much a devotee of that dogma as Gale was of Mystra).

Another thought: The gods do not live among mortals, as vampires must, lingering instead in the outer planes. To consort with a goddess is to be invited there, if only briefly. Perhaps that’s why they’re more remote — when the likes of Astarion and Armand and Louis seem awfully human, in the end. All the moreso, really, for their efforts to deny it. ]

Tedious. [ Armand hinted at that before, surprised by Gale’s sincere interest in his person. Simply, then: ] I think the word ill-fitting, in all matters concerning you.

[ A beat. He flushes faintly. ]

Though you may find that obvious, in light of my ceaseless questioning. [ His mouth quirks, sheepish. ] Apologies — it’s you who invited me here, and I’ve led us down quite the dour conversational path.

[ The warmth of blood beneath Gale's skin would be a goad to a lesser vampire. For Armand, it's enough to draw out a gentle smile, pleased by the compliment, and a thoughtful glance upwards beneath his eyelashes, coquettish and almost playful. He dances a fingertip around the rim of his glass. Gale's open curiosity conflicts with old instincts designed to help him evade mortal attention, prompting him to deflect, but he does enjoy it, being fascinating. Being anything but boring. ]

No need to apologise. My kind are unfortunately prone to lingering in melodrama. When eternity stretches ahead and behind, one needs to find reasons to remain interested in the world. Becoming quite aggravatingly self-obsessed is a side effect. And I'm afraid that it only gets worse with age.

[ A wry smile. ]

Please. Ask your questions. Or we can talk about something else. [ He tilts his head slightly, adding an almost mischievous edge to his smile. ] The unexpected pleasures of a new relationship, perhaps.

[ Eager to please, Gale watches Armand smile with some satisfaction. Glad to have successfully guided them both back to shore, perhaps, even as the tides of melancholia continue to swirl. Armand names yet another side effect of immortality to ponder. The distance of time multiplied ad infinitum.

Only that, too, dissipates under the brightness of his affection for Astarion, shadows scattering at the first rays of the sun. ]

Ah! I suppose it is new. [ His mouth quirks, helplessly fond. ] It both feels that way and doesn’t, at times.

[ New for the way Astarion delights and surprises even himself, taken aback by his own interest and softness. The bubble of laughter that Gale wants to bottle, a cure for even his most sorrowful bouts. But the comfort Gale finds in their closeness seems much older, aged and strengthened by all they’ve been through together.

His hand strays to the diamond earring Astarion gifted him, worn in place of Mystra’s token since the New Year. ]

[ bashful, ] Regardless, it’s rather wonderful.

[ The brightness of that loving joy is like a flame that Armand longs to plunge his hand into just to feel the burn, as if the pain can replace the warmth that has deserted his own soul. Once again, he misses Daniel with a physical ache, misses what he had with Louis so long ago, the simple happiness of every mortal or immortal who has ever found someone to share their days and nights and hoped it would be forever.

Like an addict watching someone else get their fix, he can't look away from it. Has to singe himself a little more, a vague attempt at a smile on his face, remembering waterlogged tenderness and the feeling of Gale's mouth on his. ]

Yet he hasn't tasted you.

[ He can tell that much, the marks on Gale's throat the product of a far less deserving vampire, the placement over his carotid a dog's hurried bite rather than the refined evidence of loving teeth. ]

[ Gale chokes on air, chopsticks fumbling a pick and lift of his next bite. He coughs into his palm to recover. Tasted, of course, has multiple meanings in the context of his relationship with Astarion — most of which return the same answer. It isn’t a point of contention or uncertainty, mind, merely a fact. ]

Ah — no. [ Colour high in his cheeks. ] What an observation.

[ Made fairly, when he wouldn’t think Astarion as careless as Spike, though he’s likely been hungrier for longer. Armand has insight into his every thought, besides, and Gale hasn’t expelled him from his mind since that first day.

He touches the marks, mouth taut, and averts his gaze. ]

This was — [ He hesitates, preferring not to speak ill of one who has apologised. ] A chance encounter. [ Softer, then, as he moves his food around the plate: ] I do worry I’ve soured, however, on account of my affliction. [ mournfully, ] To be expected of a dying creature, I suppose.

[ Because he is dying, even with potential clemency in sight. Only true forgiveness at Mystra’s gossamer fingertips, or godhood clutched in his own, will spare him. ]

[ Strange, to think of a vampire so capable of controlling their hunger, to have withheld himself from even a sip -- but then, Astarion is not a vampire like other vampires, never human even as a mortal. Armand studies Gale as he gathers himself and wonders if Astarion would even be significant within his own kind, a singular force of will.

As Gale touches his throat with his fingertips, Armand toys with the rim of his glass, gaze lingering thoughtfully on those small scars. He doesn't appear to be effected by the admission of mortality, already aware of the hot void hollowing Gale out from within. It has been a foundation of his understanding since he was turned: to be mortal is to die. His pity would be a thin and useless thing, not to mention hypocritical, given the corpses stacked in his wake. ]

Sickness will taint the blood. Pain, trauma, sadness, deprivation. As we take the blood, we take everything that comes with it. [ He frowns, pensive. ] My maker drained me as I lay dying, but it was under desperate circumstances.

[ His gaze is steady, searching Gale's expression. ]

Would you like me to try it, and tell you what I think?

[ He hadn’t thought of blood as such a holistic, revealing element of his person. It stands to reason that there are several factors that make Gale unappetising, then, from the Netherese blight nestled above his heart to the lifelong melancholia in his veins. His magic must surely have an outsized impact, as powerful as it is consumptive.

It fascinates enough that he’s tempted by Armand’s offer for reasons both academic and personal — wouldn’t it be better, to know for certain before Astarion indulges? Gale would rather avoid being the source of hurt or discomfort for one so treasured, even for a brief moment. ]

Always an honour to be invited into your head, for a change.

[ To hear his honest thoughts, on anything at all. He looks down at the blue-green veins in his wrist, pensive, but his hand strays to the purple leylines that trail his throat. ]

Perhaps another day, if Astarion does not mind it. I’ll admit I’m curious, but I’ve promised him the right of first refusal for my most peculiar vintage — [ He lifts his gaze, eyes sparking with amusement. ] And I’m learning you’re something of a territorial bunch, aren’t you.

[ Vampires, that is. He’s not so naive, after witnessing the triad in play at the manor and learning how Astarion accosted Spike, on his behalf. His smile remains easy, at once friendly and flattered. ]

—Did you wish him to change you?

[ A not so surprising answer, and an astute observation from Gale. Armand only lifts his eyebrows a little, acknowledging the point as its scored. He can't deny that his kind have a tendency to lay claim to the things they want, ancient hunting instincts they've never managed to shake off. One of the many reasons the Great Laws had forbidden congress with mortals -- that, and the tendency for the vampire heart to be far more fragile than it appears.

With a twinge of said heart, Armand's expression cools a little, holding on to his silence for a single pointed moment before he allows the change of subject, reaching for his glass for a swallow of tepid blood before he answers, not looking at Gale when he speaks. ]

My memories from that time are.. fractured. Difficult to hold onto. But I believe I.. I begged him for it, endlessly. His mercy. His gifts. Once I discovered what he was, I only wanted to be with him forever. He saved me. [ His tone warms, becomes almost reverent. Still devoted, even after all this time. His accent slips a little, becoming something else. ] Not just then, but before, when I -- he took me from a brothel. At fifteen, I believe, though I don't know for sure how old I was -- how old he was. Arun. That was my name before, I think, I don't remember it for certain. Stolen from his homeland as a child. A good little slave. A good little..

[ His words falter, his jaw working as he closes his mouth on the word he was going to use, a foul word that that had shaped Arun -- shaped Amadeo, shaped Armand. He struggles with it for a few beats, then continues, looking up at Gale with bright and shining eyes. ]

Yes, I wished for him to change me. For I had already been changed, against my will. So many times. Over and over. Raw metal hammered into a shape I did not understand. But he could give me something that nobody else ever could. And he let me choose. He let me want it, do you understand? I never wanted anything as much as I wanted him. To be him. To be with him. And now I am what he made me, and it has been five hundred years since I last saw him, before he was taken from me.

[ Gale watches Armand process and accept his answer, too observant, too learned not to know what Gale might say, in weighing the offer — that it would surely hurt Astarion, as one of his kind. He does not think Armand cruel, but — he’s certainly inclined to push, beyond those boundaries humans would consider acceptable. Another byproduct of eternity, perhaps. Of unrestrained power.

Armand’s explanation, however, proves humbling. A beginning not so different from Astarion’s, though the timelines and mechanics differ in the details. Arun, he sounds out in his mind, knowing Armand will hear it as if spoken aloud. Memorising the shape of it. A good little slave, the word alone making him flinch, though he dares not look away. Gale could identify reverence, absolute devotion, even while blind, while insensate. Immediately, he understands. ]

When you were fifteen. [ Mystra appeared to him long before that, but it was then that she named him Chosen, a token glittering in her transluscent palm. For Arun, he was fifteen and already abused by the world. Fifteen and still naïve, surely, about the nature of eternity. Of belonging, even. Did he let you want it, or did he teach you to do so? ]

That’s terribly young. [ To know what one wants. To know anything, including a saviour from a keeper. ] Still, I’m glad that he changed you, else I might never have met you.

[ A soft smile. Sincere in this, at least, even as he resists questioning the nature of such a dark gift. Selfishly, Armand’s answer calls his own potential futures to mind. He could become a god — and raise Astarion up with him, ensuring neither of them suffers alone ever again. Perfect and protected, no longer vulnerable to potions and foolish mages and resurrections-gone-wrong.

Tempted as he is to ask after the fate of Armand’s master now, he decides against it. Taken is explanation enough. ]

And I do — understand, that is. As much as anyone can.

[ To be him. To be with him. For so long, Gale dreamt of a life as Her peer and greatest love, not one of many Chosen but an equal, ever at her side. The whole of the Weave at his fingertips, the breadth of eternity to explore their love. Is it so different from a vampiric master kneeling at the side of the dying, offering them more when they could possibly understand the cost? To hear it from another. One he cares for, at that, whom he would risk life and limb to keep from loneliness — it shifts his perspective. ]

[ The ghosts of those boys sit beside them, unseen but present. Armand tries not to look too closely at them, at Arun's pain and Gale's yearning. Both of them taken and used and broken by hands that should have loved them instead. Devotion. A small word for what it cost them, for how little reward they have been given.

He hears the question that sits in Gale's mind. Did he let you want it? Not the first or the last to wonder at it, though Armand can't approach the details without flinching, retreating into the gaps between those jagged mirror shards of memory. The safety of oblivion, back behind Armand's mask. He sees the warmth of Gale's smile, the compliment in his thoughts meant for a different vampire entirely, but can't feel it, not in that cold void. He fidgets with his drink instead, pointed fingernails clicking against the glass, only vaguely aware that he's doing it. His voice is likewise distant when he speaks. ]

Nobody can. Not truly.

[ After a long beat of staring into the distance, a flat nothingness in his amber eyes, he stirs again. Blinks, comes back to himself, or at least appears to. He offers Gale a pleasant smile that goes no further than his mouth. Rashid's polite servitude, yet another mask. ]

I'm sorry, that was -- I'm not used to talking about these things. It was a long time ago. A lifetime ago.

[ He need not read minds — or indulge the tadpole’s conquering instincts — to know that Armand goes elsewhere. Back to Arun, perhaps, or the false safety one finds in the depths of the self, in the refusal to face the truths that lie beyond it. Human instincts, despite the hundreds of years between them.

And if Gale were a younger man, he’d pull on that thread until the peace between them unravelled. As he is now, he banishes the stacking questions from his mind. Holds Armand’s gaze, when it returns to him, after a beat of fussing over his food. A soft, sad smile upon his face. ]

It’s all right, my friend. Well, none of it’s all right, exactly — but it doesn’t offend me. [ hopelessly sincere. ] It couldn’t, to know more of you.

[ Gently, then: ]

I hope my curiosity hasn’t taxed you in turn.

[ His relentless pursuit of knowledge being his greatest strength and weakness, the very thing the guided him down that dark, winding corridor to his doom. ]

We’ve lighter things to discuss, besides, like Santiago’s latest exploits.

Hey

[ He's not used to this, give him a sec. ]

Sorry for biting you. Or whatever

[ wow. ]

Or whatever?

Look, I'm new to apologizing for doing what I gotta do to eat

Spent 100 years being plain evil. Wouldn't have even left you alive about a year ago

And I'm still plenty evil, mind you.

[ Don't get any ideas. ]

Any particular reason you’re plenty rather than majority evil, at present?

[ maybe a little amused by this designation. ]

In any case, I understand what is it to hunger better than you imagine, so I’ll not begrudge you for your actions.

[ astarion will do that for him. ]

Government put a chip in my head that dampens the evil a bit.

[ The real answer is a lady, but we're not getting into that right now. And there's more to the chip than that, but Spike's not laying all his cards out at jump. ]

Decent of you. Got people holding grudges against me for less than a nibble.

Sounds invasive.

[ pondering the worm. ]

I do have to insist you refrain from indulging again, though I suspect you’ve already gathered I’m not for eating.

[ what with tasting like garbage and all. ]

Extremely. You ever get tased and wake up in a holding cell? Don't recommend it.

[ Weird things they happen to have in common for $500, Alex. ]

Yeah, your boyfriend took care of that if the taste didn't already

Not to pry or anything, but you might want to get that looked at. Unless you're not human, in which case carry on. Fancy trick to keep predators out of your veins honestly. Like those bugs that squirt nasty smells when you try to squish 'em

[ boyfriend (!!!) ]

Astarion spoke to you?

[ 🥺😳🥺😳🥺 ]

Yes, well, regardless
I’m sure it has something to do with the nature of my magical abilities.

[ a beat. ]

Did it truly taste so terrible?

Yeah, real charmer

Don't worry, you're not the worst I've ever had. Sometimes you end up biting demons disguised as humans and there's suddenly essence of pond scum and rotten egg in your mouth

You had a little pond scum flavor, I guess. Just a top note though.

Perhaps it’s an acquired taste.

[ 😔 ]

Do you encounter many demons in your…I hesitate to say line of work. Travels?
Not many here are familiar with multiple non-human species or entities, you see.

I think Astarion'll turn me into pudding if I try to acquire it, and I can't say I'm tempted. No offense.

Well, yeah. I live on a hell mouth. Demons and other beasties come with the territory.

Most people just don't notice what's around them until they're getting swallowed whole, in my experience.

You said something about your magic, though. So are you familiar? With demons.

[ It’s all a bit ridiculous, but — he’s pleased to hear that Astarion would care enough to act, all the same. That feeling helps soothe his continued unease about the state of his blood. A natural consequence of not only dying but being consumed, and yet — ]

I’ve had my share of encounters with demons, devils, fiends, undead, and one particularly nefarious yugoloth. To be expected, for the once Chosen.

[ Only one word catches him here, even if he doesn't actually know what a yugoloth is. ]

Hold on

Don't tell me you're the Slayer here. You???

[ They make wet noodle boy versions now????? ]

The Slayer?
Heavens no.

[ lmao. ]

I was the Chosen of the goddess of magic.

Oh. [ Phew. ]

Yeah, figured you couldn't be. You don't meet the strength prereq by a long shot. No offense

You notice any women with superstrength carrying wooden stakes around after dark?

Some offence taken.

You’ll find the general populace here isn’t particularly concerned about vampires. We oft have greater problems than a few individuals with unusual dietary requirements.

Fair enough.

All the better for me and the other bloodsuckers, I guess

Say, question for you.

[ Given how they met... ]

Is your username because you can't swim

[ with sincere enthusiasm, ]

Not at all! It’s because I hail from the great city of Waterdeep, the crown jewel of the Sword Coast.

[ ... ]

Right. Good chat

Try not to fall in any more ponds

[ 🥺 ]

And you.

Caroline's gone. I expect you already know that, but

just in case.

I’ve cast about for her myself. [ in every sense of the word. ]

Glinda has gone as well.

[ And Matt before her, losses Astarion will feel more keenly, for how long he was by his lonesome. ]

Would you come with me to the pool that Lady Alia shared with us? We could honour all the friends we’ve missed, of late.

[ not lost, when he hopes they’ve been returned home. ]

[ Caroline, Glinda, even Halsin, though Astarion doesn't yet name him lest it seem like the list of losses seem unending. ]

Of course.

[ How strange — to not only be willing but to have reason to do such a thing. ]

Perhaps after breakfast?

After breakfast.

[ a promise. ]

I’m sorry, Astarion. I know the House has been especially cruel to you, of late.

[staring at the ~20 notifications about books from gale, finally with the message read appearing below the messages.]

nothing new for me today?

[ !!!!!!!! ]

August! How marvellous. I’d been so terribly worried for you, my friend.

And I’ve another stack of books to share with you. Are you quite alright?

don't be.
i'm doing fine. had a couple of years to catch up on.

Years?

[ now that’s a peculiar phenomenon, far more than his days on the road. ]

And you still recall your old friend Gale?

six.

[he's leaving out that he didn't remember him in his home world and when he woke it was an onslaught of overlapping memories.]

of course.
my friend told me i wasn't out for too long. everything okay?
i'll be back at sol&scroll when i tie a few things up.

So you’ll not have any dashing grays for yourself just yet.

[ thanks buddy ]

You missed a quiet week, to my knowledge. I personally managed to have a rather uneventful month after all my trouble the previous turn.

[ forgetting that he didn’t mention said trouble at the time. anyway. ]

Anything I can assist with?

not yet
no, it's tricky magic.

[not letting that slide.]

what gave you trouble?

Ah, ah, ah! I shall tell you of my troubles if you tell me of yours. A fair trade.

all i can say is i'm removing something. it's not my place to say what.

is there something else you want to know?

The magic within you, does it still trouble you and Nick?

[ah. of course, that's what he decides to ask.]

it's worse after being away.

[ :( ]

I’m sorry, August.

[ gale won’t do him the disservice of offering to help. they’re alike in some ways, and they’ve surely tried every solution, even as time ticks away. ]

[he can feel those words through the screen.]

don't get misty eyed, i'm handling things fine.

[debatable!]

what happened with you?

I assure it’s the pollen.

[ as for his informational debt, ]

Well, like Nick, Armand returned to us as selkie of some sort and nearly drowned me. Thus making me rather easy prey for another vampire — though my rotten blood served as a reminder I’m not for eating, even before Astarion had a word with him.

And I’ve not had any trouble since, at least. Or ventured forward in time, for that matter, since my jaunt at Christmas.

[that's not what he wanted to hear gale. has august's own silence bought more from his friends, or are the two of them just as secretive? he'd been so blinded by guilt and anger he ignored the signs from gale. he ignored everyone. there is a long pause before a response.]

okay.
i'm going to make you a ward.

[somehow threatening...]

glad you're doing well now.
you can come to me if you need anything in the future.

[ hey, that’s his line. ]

Ah, you needn’t worry so! I assure you it’s my intention to stay out of trouble from now on.

[ said the guy who was stabbed mere days after arriving. ]

That’s awfully kind, August. I’m sorry to trouble you — or not to trouble you,!in this case.

[gale don't act like you have a choice or opinion here.]

everyone says that.
that wasn't a suggestion, i'm making you one.

[dun dun dun.]

do me a favor:
don't apologize to me unless you've done me wrong.

[ he thinks about arguing, but he knows august, even with years between them. ]

Then I’ll simply thank you again, my dear friend.

good.

[a few days later and (seemingly) out of thin air, a silver brooch appears on gale's dresser. the symbols shift every so often at certain times of the day. when the wearer is in imminent danger, it will release one barrier of immunity and give the wearer 10 seconds to escape. melts after use.]

Got a question for you, Gale.

Make it a couple, actually. But if you laugh at the first one I'll kill you, implosion or no

I’ll treat your queries with the utmost seriousness, my friend, for your sake and mine.

What would you do if that girl I told you about showed up here. And you didn't remember anything happening between the two of you, other than one very brief but tender kiss, but you've got an inkling she's lying to you about something more happening. Sometime in your future, thanks to this place's radically fucked time travel business, but only days, apparently, because the universe has a truly mental sense of humor and loves to play a game of kick the Spike.

Just theoretically

[ oh my god ]

Presuming I’m you in this scenario?

Edited 2025-05-05 15:24 (UTC)

Theoretically, then, what cosmic torture! You’ve my sympathies, as one previously left behind in the timeline, so to speak.

The goods news is that you are still you, so whatever kindling ultimately sparks the blaze of her affections surely remains. And you need only have patience, in the face of this temporary (and temporal) uncertainty.

Yeah, well-- me being me, I'm a monster to her.

And all her friends. Including one of her exes, who's also showed up because of course he has

She was dead, you know.

Sacrificed herself for the sake of the world and her kid sister. Spent six months looking after the niblet in the wake of it, because I promised. Because I'd die myself before I let anything happen to her.

And then her friends brought her back. Had barely--a few days to sit with that before I wound up here. Knowing she was back in the world and I'd been yanked somewhere else.

Doesn't feel real. And at the same time, having her here--

It's everything I want. Selfish of me.

I’m sorry for your — and her — loss.

But you’re not a monster, Spike, regardless of what others believe. Caring for your beloved’s sister is about the least monstrous and selfish thing one could do, when caught in the tidal wave of grief.

And, for whatever it’s worth, I’d also rather Astarion remain here with me than continue our fight by his lonesome, regardless of the dangers. If that’s a selfish instinct, it’s a frightfully human one.

Think you might be the first person in all my years since turning to say I'm not a monster.

So...thanks, for that. And for listening. Dumped a lot on you.

Sunnydale's probably gone to hell in a handbasket without Buffy there. Literally.

Well, I am the cleverest wizard of my lifetime.

[ an attempt at levity, after gale rereads that message for third time. it’s easy to give into monstrous urges, when everyone expects the worst of you. he’d like think he understands spike a little better now. ]

You’re very welcome.
And to soothe both your concerns, it seems time doesn’t move so swiftly beyond these walls.

Can you send me a picture of your bare chest?

Astarion, if you're reading this over Gale's shoulder, it's not for me.

Who on earth IS it for, then???????

A girl I met who's conducting a survey on tattoos.

Technically, it’s not a tattoo. Does that disqualify my entry?

It's more about the aesthetic quality, so your orb is still valid.

[ reading between the lines — ]

Oh? And is this girl terribly pretty?

She might be.

I can send her your picture privately, if you don't want it on the network. [ The concession she'll make to privacy. ]

I’d appreciate that. I don’t even undress in front of Tara, you know.

[ like it isn’t his picture in the first place 🤡 ]

[ pause for conflabbing with astarion. ]

> ATTACHMENT.JPG

I don’t quite understand how it will help, but I do hope you’ve a nice time.

You don't undress in front of your cat?

It's a little weird without your nipples, but it'll do.

She’s a tressym, Shadowheart, and my oldest friend.

[ as for that critique, ]

Yes, well, how fortunate that’s the only thing weird about this.

Sorry. I'm sure I'd love to meet her. [ And pet her cute wings. ]

Anyway. Thank you for the picture.

[ And, as an immediate follow-up text with no comment: a picture that was likely meant for someone else. ]

[ After a "Gale dropped his phone on his face"-sized pause: ]

WRONG NUMBER.

[ excuse you astarion there's no need to be rude--

oh. ]

Don't do anything weird with that picture, either.

There are other pictures?

[ what are you two DOING ]

Would you like to see?

Shadowheart, as lovely as your breasts are, if you send Gale one more picture of them, I will post it to the network immediately.

I was talking about the picture of me that's on your phone.

But you're right that my breasts are lovely.

[ A pause, to show Gale the picture and, more importantly, the text conversation it was prompted by. ]

Hurry up and send them to their intended, then.

Best of luck, Shadowheart.

[ supportive!!! ]

[ Inside an envelope upon which is written, in neat script, from Astarion: ]

[ ooc: there won't be a main log for the movie-watching (at least this time around) but folks are obviously free to icly respond, send their allotted invites, and/or play out their experiences if they so wish! welcome to the rebooted astarion's movie club! 🥳 ]

Have you any thoughts on who should be my plus one?

[ 😇 ]

The hen, obviously.

[ actually, ]

I imagine she'd enjoy the darkness of the room.

Quite right.
Then I’ll have my favourite companions on either side of me.

[

]

Charmer.

Try not to cry.

But I’m so very proud of you.

[ ew ... haha ...

]

Proud? For what? And if you say "for making an effort to be social," I'll consign you to the back row.

Hm. How about “for planning such a lovely evening for our friends”? It’s nice to have things to look forward to.

I suppose I'll let it slide.
But you're not wrong — at least I know this will go off without a catch.

[ Unless the DVD player or projector break, but he won't speak that into existence. ]

Generous of you.
Do let me know if you need assistance with anything, or if you’ve thoughts on what I should wear, on your big night.

Nothing, ideally, but for the sake of polite company ... something handsome, so I can show you off, and something soft, for when my head inevitably finds your shoulder.

[ 😳 to 😍 ]

Well!
The shirt you liked the other day, perhaps. And that jacket, for something soft.

[ brain a little broken by that one-two combo of nothing and show you off show you off show you off — ]

❤️❤️❤️

[ A private smile. The shirt you like the other day. He likes that Gale remembers things like that. ]

I trust you'll help me pick something to match.

[ wait— ]

💞

[ Astarion looks at the little pink hearts on his screen for a moment before— not so much changing his mind as adding, as though trying each on for size: ]

♥️

It would be my pleasure.
🥰

[ that one is how he imagines he looks every day, in astarion’s company. ]

Ah, that one's rather sweet, isn't it?

😘
I imagine this is how I seemed to you, when we first met.

😳
A little.

You flustered me rather early on, if you recall — though it took you some time to accurately pinpoint the object of my “sad hopeless pining.” ☺️

🫣
I’ll admit, I misjudged you. Or perhaps I misjudged myself.
You’re supposed to be the clever one between us, besides.

[ Perhaps I misjudged myself. He knows the feeling. ]

Now, now, you can’t expect me to be clever around you.
Well, not as clever as I usually am.
😍😍😍

Perhaps not. 🤭
But still cleverer than most. 🥰

Flatterer.
Though I’ll admit I’m clever enough to ask: Am I allowed to kiss you in front of all of our friends?

Oh, my darling. You don't have to ask.
But I'm glad you did.

Then I’ll ask again tonight.
I do so like to hear you say yes.

You know, I've said it so many times before, but never with the same blush of excitement I feel with you.
That is to say, I plan to say it over and over again, until we both lose count.

And even after that, I hope.

[ he rereads it, thumb swiping up the screen. ]

Gosh, you have me flushed in the shop.

On the one day I decide not to accompany you to work. How cruel!
I've half a mind to remedy that, though the other thinks of how I could greet you when you return home.

[ after about 20 distinct fantasies — ]

I couldn’t tell you what I’d prefer if I thought about it for hours.
But, perhaps, if something of mine appealed to you…

[ He’s worn less of Gale’s belongings as spring supplants winter, leaving Gale to ponder exactly how much he savoured it. Astarion, all wrapped up in him, even while spending time with another — ]

Now there's a thought.

[ And that text is it, for a while, until—

—at intervals, the minutes in between presumably spent putting each outfit together, Astarion sends along a series of photos: pieces from Gale's wardrobe, carefully selected and placed on their bed (for lack of properly being able to photograph himself), at first laid out smooth, still on the hanger, then — by the third picture — posed, the fold of an arm mimicking a hand behind the head, the pants legs crossed. One of Gale's cream-colored shirts, paired with Astarion's black trousers (which, hadn't he been wearing those this morning); one of Gale's polos and a pair of his slacks. Nothing too racy, save for the sixth (and for the moment, final) photo, which features another curated look — and a pair of Gale's underwear, peeking out from underneath. ]

[ For the duration of Astarion’s silence, Gale returns to his (unpaid) work. Shelving here, tweaking a display there. The first picture stops him in his tracks, looking down in initial confusion, then blushing understanding. He clips himself on the corner of their potions’ table upon recognising the trousers Astarion had almost certainly been wearing when he left, instead splayed on their bed. Unable to keep himself from thinking of — well — every inch of pale skin Astarion has allowed him to regard and touch, of late.

And it’s cute, besides, which is surely not a word many would apply to a centuries-old vampire. Gale can think of no other descriptor for the effort. The silly little poses arranged for their amusement alone.

By the time he straightens all the bottles, the final photo has pinged his phone. ]

Wow 😳
It would be terribly useless of me to say they’d all suit you, wouldn’t it?
And yet it would be true.

The first and the last stand out, though I’m afraid I’ll be tempted to swiftly undress you, in either case.

Hardly useless when it's the correct answer.
I wouldn't pick out something that didn't suit me, would I?

[ Typed out as he lies on his back, phone held over his face, feet kicking happily over the edge of the bed. Is it strange to still be so taken by flirtation? To find the effort of sustaining interest to be effortless? ]

At any rate, I shan't spoil the surprise.
You'll have to wait until the end of your shift to see what I've chosen.
And to take it off of me.
😇

I suppose not.

[ and isn’t that pleasing, to have said the right thing without effort. To not strive to please, exactly — but to do so, anyway. ]

How lucky I am.
And how tortured! To content myself with fantasy until then.

Tortured, hm?
Send me one little photo, won't you?
I want to see that adorable little pinch in your brow.

[ after touching his brow and finding it furrowed — ]

Ha.
However could I deny you?

[ that pinch persists, chiefly as a consequence of trying to get the angle of the selfie just right. nothing too different from the usual, then: hair half-up to make shelving easier, button-down open at his chest and sleeves rolled, gifted earring glinting in the afternoon sun of the greenhouse. complete with a bashful smile on his face. ]

[ When the picture comes through, he smiles without thinking, thumbing over the screen — over that little divot of concentration — as he tallies each other detail like a dragon collecting bits of gold for its hoard. He startles a little when he realizes he still hasn't responding, sending first, ]

♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️
🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰
♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

[ And then (after setting the picture as his phone background), ]

Alina's lucky I don't spend all day at the shop when you're on duty.
Hurry home when you're done. I'll count the seconds.

I so love to hear you say that.

[ “home” ]

Promise I’ll be there soon.
❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
🏃🏻🏃🏻🏃🏻🏃🏻🏃🏻

[ Sooner even than he intended, leaving an hour or so early with a ludicrous grin and stammered excuse. He loves the shop, he loves their community of mages, unlike anything he’s known, untainted by competition — but nothing compares to the comforts (and wiles, it seems) of home. Gale hardly makes it through the door before casting about for Astarion. And as much as he’s been cycling through fantasies for the whole of the afternoon, unable to remember even the most basic potion recipes, the real thing outdoes his imaginings.

They’ve traversed so much ground together, his proffered hand and hesitant questions far from the now sure grip at Astarion’s waist, swiftly tugging him close, back to chest. Forgetting that he was meant to be admiring Astarion’s curated ensemble and instead nosing after his pulse, peppering kisses along the waning crescent of his throat. ]

[ The time being what it is (or rather, Gale's sense of dedication being what it is), Astarion visibly startles when the door opens. Then again, perhaps it's less surprise than it is the parallel note of delight. He'd heard the footsteps in the hall, known the gait and weight of them, and yet—

Any sense of decorum seemingly forgotten, he yelps, the sound dissolving into bubbling laughter as Gale's arms wrap around him. The book he'd been reading almost falls from his hands entirely — and he has half a mind to let it, if not for the fact that it's the volume Gale had given him for Christmas, now not just a distraction but an object of some sentimental value. ]

You're back early, [ he says, breathless, his head falling pliantly to one side to bare more of his neck. Greedy, as he's swiftly proven himself to be, for Gale's attention and affection, though he wriggles in the next moment, suddenly stricken. ] Wait, wait—

[ As soon as he manages to pry himself free, he — though the effect is somewhat lessened by how excited he still is — strikes a pose, one leg stuck out, his hands on his hips, a grin splitting his features even as the tilt of his head attempts coyness. Heather grey trousers, cornflower blue shirt, slightly large on his frame — both Gale's. ]

Better on a model than on the bed, don't you think?

[ Oh, there’s the laugh. Like bells, like soaring music. Beautiful and happy and his, when he had hardly heard it before, in their first walks together, those early days in the manor, with Gale trailing after him like a stray dog, fed once by the hand that accepted his favour and unable to forget it. ]

Better. [ breathed more than said, as he steps closer, unable to hold himself apart, even in service of appreciating the sight of Astarion, all wrapped up in him. His, not to keep but to guard. They haven’t plainly discussed his desires, partly because Gale thinks it so obvious. I want you and only you forever written in shaky hands and unwavering looks. He can hardly decide where to fix his attention, with the looser neckline revealing Astarion’s lovely collarbone, the cuffed trousers indicative of that slight difference in their builds, the blue that somehow makes him look lighter, younger, freer, or maybe that’s the flush of excitement. The slouchier fit only looks refined on him, an intentional elegance that Gale could never pull off. ]

[ mouth twitching, smile all crooked — ] Far better than anything I could imagine.

[ And he imagined so much, in the intervening hours. It takes an herculean effort not to kiss him, as soon as he re-enters his orbit, drawn close enough to slide his knuckles under Astarion’s jaw, eyes still flickering between his and the rest of his person, bright hazel made dark by intent. ]

—And if I want to see the model on the bed?

[ In his clothes, in their room, ]

[ He decides, in that moment, that this is better than any mirror. His countenance reflected not by glass but by the shine of Gale's reaction. Who else is he preening or performing for, after all, than for the person he's deemed singular in his life, in his world? He can see himself, more beautiful than he'd ever boast even in his most facile moments, in the warm color of Gale's eyes, imperfections smudged away under a kind of adoration that accepts them as written.

There's no resistance as Gale reaches for him again, chin tipping up at the encouragement of Gale's hand, lips parted as though around a thought. (He likes to be looked at, by him. Could stand to be looked at by him forever.) ]

Well.

[ He doesn't attempt to hide the fact that he's thinking, his tongue peeking out onto his lips as the cogs turn. There are a multitude of answers — then ask nicely, or I can make that happen — and he takes his time in sifting through them all in search for the right one. When he finds it, a lightbulb seems to go off in his head, brightening his features and straightening the set of his posture. He glances behind him, once, and turns back, swaying as he settles his arms around Gale's neck, his smile turning a little teasing. ]

You'll have to place him, then.

[ It isn’t that Gale no longer worries about overstepping — ever mindful, always watchful of Astarion’s reactions — but that he has a clearer understanding of where the dotted lines still lay and how one might safely cross them. He knows now, for instance, that even his longest looks are welcome and returned. Observing a stutter of those thick lashes, just for him, ink-dark against Astarion’s pale cheek. Tracking the sweep of his tongue over his lower lip. It’s charming, how seriously he’s taken this entire affair.

In turn, Gale settles his hands on Astarion’s waist. Feigns consideration, when Astarion could have asked him to do anything, and he would surely find a way to comply. ]

A worthy task from on high. [ A divine mandate. A generous trade. Rather than hitch his thighs up, as he did last time, he bends his knees and sweeps an arm under Astarion’s legs to bridal carry him. ] I accept.

[ And it’s worth the undignified creak to win whatever laugh or flush Astarion deems fit to give him. A reward in and of itself, before they ever make it to the bed. ]

—Though you mustn’t ask me to do this for any great distance, for your own sake.

[ Such showmanship is tenable only for a brief moment, which is all Gale requires to settle him on the duvet, atop their decadent throne of pillows (a collection doubled when Gale vacated his former lodgings). Easier this way to resist the urge to give chase, instead covering his eyes with a splayed hand to reset the scene. He waits a beat to peak between his fingers. No need to exaggerate his grin, crinkling the corners of his eyes. ]

Wha-ow.

[ The flop of his snowy curls back, the line of his bared throat, the waistband of his trousers that catches below his hipbone, too loose. ]

( in the late evening, he places a call.

he has since defied his brother's wishes and cured him. the pulsing, venomous veins have disappeared, but the bite remains in it's place. a bite that festers. a bite not taken care of for weeks because it couldn't be. )

[ he sees the username, and it’s hard not to wonder if the worst has come to pass. grief and failure both, bitter on the tongue. ]

Hello.

[ gentle, to start (or, perhaps, always). ]

Stefan? How can I help?

( He's calming. Careful. Stefan decides he likes Gale. )

This isn't going to make complete sense to you, but I gave Damon what's called the cure in my world. For vampires. The house... I found it. ( A pause as he looks down at his brother. ) The venom is no longer fatal. He's human. But, he still has an infected bite.

[ the cure for vampirism, which gale would think madness if he hadn’t seen such things in the house already. astarion’s sunstone eyes turned blue as waterdeep’s harbour — armand withering away — caroline’s nerves, over being returned to how she was before. it’s still a shock to the system, and it takes everything in him to tamp down his scholarly instinct to question stefan. they’ve more urgent matters to tend. ]

Right. That’s — wow.

[ recalibrating, ]

There are nurses in the infirmary on the premises, but they may have gone home for the night. A safer bet, then, is my friend Shadowheart, who can heal him with magic in mere moments, provided he’s truly human again.

[ specificity to ensure this doesn’t backfire and to clarify why her help wasn’t sought earlier. ]

That's --

( Betrayal, but wow covers it. )

He's truly human, just with the cure in his veins. Shadowheart? Is that a title?

Quite.

[ but we don’t have time to unpack all that. ]

Uh, no. She’s an acolyte of Shar? The Goddess of Loss, the Nightbringer, the Lady of — a story for another time. Dark in name but not in spirit, shall we say. She’ll not deny you, if you declare yourself a friend of mine.

[ because for all she pretends at being uncaring, she isn’t. and certainly not in the matter of their little crew. ]

( he only has so much time. and so many resources. (that is, none) )

Okay. Shadowheart. Thank you, Gale.

Of course.

[ softer, then. ]

Call me if you need further assistance — or company, as your brother recovers.

( He wouldn't say no to company, but he wouldn't ask for it, either.

Shadowheart confirms she can help, which is his first priority. She does. And he doesn't know how to ask for - anything. He doesn't check in. He waits. )

Any news?
I’ve gone looking for a bottle of something strong. Perhaps not for the patient.

[ but for him and Stefan. ]

He's asleep, no doubt from the toll his body took these last few weeks.

Bourbon?

( Should he come to find him (and his brother,) Stefan is sat at Damon's desk, ontop, feet dangling. His phone sits beside him, from the myriad of messages he's been sending and fielding.

He just couldn't sit in that chair by his bedside any longer.

He will again, just not yet. )

Sacrilege, around these parts, but I’m sure Jonty has imported something for his collection.

[ and he does find some, in the recesses of Jonty’s cellar (thinking of how he found another vampire there, not so long ago). Gale knocks lightly before easing open the door, button down partly undone, his tattoo almost glowing in the low light.

No glasses, in his haste, but with a flourish, he conjures two on the desk beside Stefan. After the spell, lavender lingers in the air. ]

Don’t tell Giles [ the butler. ] that I’ve helped myself. I think I’m close to winning him over.

[ after attempting to befriend him for months. ]

( that's a look. nice tat, bro.

he's thoroughly impressed that something can be conjured out of thin air, nodding. )

You should call him Rupert. I hear he loves that.

( Gale gets no holds barred sardonic Stefan. )

The patient is still asleep.

Hah, I do wonder if there’s a relation.

[ between the gileses. they have a similar bearing, after all.

gale fills and passes stefan a glass. ]

Forgive my potential rudeness — but does it taste of anything to you?

[ the bourbon. it varies, for the vampires he knows. ]

There's not, to my knowledge.

( He's met Giles. Good guy. A little in over his head but aren't they all.

He takes the glass, holding it in both hands, head dipped down. You've joined the pity party. He did what he did. Now he lives with it. He reacts, turning to look at Gale, eyes the glass and then tastes it - a bit reluctantly.

It burns well. )

There are notes of vanilla. Probably barrel cask. It's good. Thank you.

( is that the right answer? )

[ stefan’s rightfully sour mood doesn’t phase him, though it’s typically his role in any twosome. the melancholic type.]

Oh. [ mouth and eyes rounding. it’s certainly an answer. ] You’re the first vampire I’ve met who can enjoy such things. [ he taps his finger against the glass. ] Astarion insists anything but blood tastes like swill.

[ which takes away a positive he was going to offer about damon’s condition — a world of food and drink! gale glances at him, then, undeniably curious about the nature of this so-called cure. too good to be true, he would think. ]

Would it help to discuss your unlucky start in the manor — or, ah, would you prefer we speak of just about anything else?

Our vampires can taste. And even eat. But, it doesn't sustain us.

( Coffee warms their bodies. Alcohol helps curb cravings, especially for young vampires. A lot of vampires are lushes, Gale. )

My unlucky start? ( that's a way of putting it. ) I guess that depends on what you'd call unlucky. Damon being here and alive. Albeit, from after Tyler bit him. ( he slips. only subtly. damon wasn't back there. he disappeared into oblivion when the other side collapsed.

Bonnie, too. ) We're from different times in our lives, apparently. Is that common?

A fair point.

[ damon here and alive. any pretence of neutrality softens into sympathy. he doesn’t have siblings, but he’s always been close with the family he does possess. ]

I don’t know. It’s understandably something individuals often prefer not to disclose — I was once behind Astarion, but I’ve since caught up, and now Shadowheart is from our past as well. It’s not unusual, I suppose.

I guess the last thing I'd want to be is unusual.

( He supposes it's easier for him to be here, than Damon. Klaus' ritual "killed" Elena, thanks to her uncle John. Her father, John. But, he has a lot to catch Damon up to, if he even wants to be. )

He's from a much more tumultuous time. A breakneck pace of events that didn't let up.

( And then this month dragged on, and other than the wedding neither of them attended or the burning down of the chapel -- they were focused on - well, Damon. )

[ Gale leans against the wall, head tipped back. ]

There’s no easy way to navigate these…misalignments. [ measured, in this as in all things. ] I myself stood at a precipice, two radically divergent paths before me. Astarion did not reveal all he knew to me, back then — and I think I’m grateful for that.

[ for allowing his agency to remain intact, for not trying to sway him one way or the other. it isn’t a universal experience, surely, but it’s one example for stefan to consider. ]

It wouldn't be fair to him, to know certain things. And I'm not planning on telling him.

( unless he asks. but, he doesn't expect him to want much from stefan for a while. he'll live with the burden of everything else. of his own actions, of klaus, of silas. whittemore. and the Travelers. )

I can understand that.

[ it’s possibly the only reassurance he can offer. it was better, that astarion didn’t taint his perspective. it will be better, for him not to force shadowheart’s future upon her. knowledge is a burden. ]

It’s — a lonely path, though, isn’t it?

I've walked the lonely path before.

( Isolated himself. Changed jobs. Lives. This is no different. And what he's done, his brother may not forgive him. )

There are some things I can't hide. I won't. But nothing unnecessary.

[ gale nods, sipping his drink as he turns over stefan’s answers in his mind. ]

Well, you’re not alone at this precise moment, now are you.

[ a statement of intent. gale has also trudged that narrow, winding path, and he’d do most anything to keep others from it (overstepping, drowning, anything). ]

[ lighter, ] The manor makes isolation difficult, besides.

( It's not for nothing, at least, and he turns his head, acknowledging Gale. He's not. Maybe it means something for him to hear all this. )

Does it. Because of the musical rooms?

[ his shoulders lift in verbal answer before he speaks. ]

Certainly. And events seem to throw us together at regular intervals. Parties. [ a beat. ] Horrors. We were all made human, rendered without magic or augmentation, during the last great trouble — and we faced it together, for the most part.

You had no choice.

( He's not going to be the Stefan he was. Can't even isolate himself if he wanted. Needs to push away the guilt he feels for making the choice for Damon. Damon is alive. Not a monster. Not buried. Not worse. He's alive. )

It won't be long before it happens again, and this time Damon will be just as defenseless.

( But alive. )

But alive.

[ a thought shared. ]

And not wholly defenceless, when he has you. [ finger tapping the glass. ] I can help as well, at least to an extent. I’ve warded Astarion and I’s rooms against intruders already.

But alive.

( living. breathing. )

Really. Intruders not including vampires. How so.

[ with a look, edging toward teasing: ] Magic, Stefan.

[ another drink. ]

I was once the most accomplished wizard of my generation. Of the past several, in fact.

[ spoken with more truth than ego, though there’s a glimmer of the latter in his crooked smile, to be sure. and a little wistfulness, in his faraway look. ]

( he smirks, draining the rest of his glass and setting it down between them back on the desk. )

I mean, how does your magic distinguish between intruders. Does it require everyone to have an invitation? Or, does it work each time someone tries. Just inquiring into the logistics. I'm not against it. Damon probably won't be. But, I need to know how it works. And, maybe I might want one, too.

( But, at least if he has knowledge, he knows how it works. he believes Gale. he comes off as a scholar. and a good person. and real help.

he hopes it doesn't bie them in the ass. )

It’s — my magic isn’t so rigid, [ relenting, ] though I appreciate your interest in the technicalities. The weave that composes it is all around us, you see, so I need only to thread it thusly. [ an accompanying gesture, free hand threading the needle. ] To use another spell as an example, I could direct a fireball your way and make it so you did not feel the lick of a single flame.

[ as for the aforementioned technicalities, he waves a hand. ]

It can be otherwise tailored, of course. To allow specific individuals, respond to a code-phrase, punish offenders. If you can imagine it, it can be done.

Edited 2025-05-28 22:05 (UTC)

And, what if we made it so that everyone would need a proper invitation. That would fall under code word?

( That seems to be the simplest and keep protections from other vampires. According to Buffy, this place is crawling with them. )

[ gale tips his head to catch stefan’s eye. grins small but sure. ]

Then you can bring me a bottle next time.

[ as thanks. ]

I have good taste.

( And that's a promise. )

Thank you, Gale. I promise, I won't be throwing myself off the roof any time soon. Or, Damon. I can't guarantee Damon won't be doing the throwing.

A good thing you’re still a vampire, then.

[ he’s not getting involved in all that! ]

You’re very welcome.

[ with a final swig, he stands to leave. there’s only so much comfort that can be given at this hour, in this situation, isn’t there? and he imagines it wiser to be elsewhere, when damon wakes (and his favoured vampire awaits him, besides). ]

And you know where to find me, my friend.

[ he has gratitude rounds to do and this one needs to be done in person—but, ]

You're not at the shop.

[ well, this is hopefully a good sign. ]

One cannot subsist on books alone, though rest assured I’ve tried.

You and my brother both. You missed the part where that was me fishing for your location, though.

Oh!
I hope not due to any more troubles, for you and your brother’s sake.

Edited 2025-05-24 20:06 (UTC)

[ belatedly, ]

I’m rather fond of the smaller library ensconced on the topmost floor. That is to say, I’m there presently.

✔️ READ

[ damon doesn't respond to the text, he just shows up in the top floor library after a few minutes. he looks much the same as the last time gale saw him, which wasn't all that different from how he looked as a vampire. less visibly ill, of course, but that was never the vampirism, that was just the fact that he was dying.

he approaches gale, unsubtle and obvious as only a human could be. ]

's there a reason you prefer it up here? [ should he avoid the library-library? ]

[ as promised, damon finds gale there, his notebook and papers splayed atop a table in front of the flickering fireplace. even in the summer, the nights are cool here.

at the sound of footsteps, he looks up from his spot on the sofa. unable to keep himself from looking a little long, knowing what he does of damon’s changed state. ]

—Oh, chiefly to avoid the hellspawn. [ unserious, obviously, though he almost seems to blink back to himself before he adds, ] I like the quiet.

[ when the main library is always aflutter with activity. ]

And the view. It reminds me of my tower.

[ of home. ]

[ hellspawn gets an almost-smirk, a rueful quirk of the lips—the hustle and bustle of this place could put mystic falls to shame—and damon crosses his arms, leaning against a conveniently-placed bookshelf. ]

Well, I won't disturb your quiet too long, then. Just wanted to say thanks for the effort.

[ even if it didn't work, it means something that gale tried. damon isn't used to sincere displays of emotion, but he knows how to put one on: eyebrows drawn up, eyes wide and hang-dog, eye contact, the whole deal.

of course, he's about to follow it up with another request for help. but hey, that's being a witch for you—always cleaning up supernatural messes. ]

Edited 2025-06-04 02:38 (UTC)

Ah — [ he drags a hand over his beard, scratching at his jaw. it’s kind of damon to bother, when he failed. when stefan felt the need to resort to something drastic to prevent a terrible loss. ]

I suppose you’re welcome, though I’m sorry to have failed you so. Not quite the wizard I once was.

[ but that seems a self-indulgent sorrow, so he attempts a recovery. ]

Are you — that is to say — circumstances being what they are, are you all right?

No, [ bluntly honest, shrugging disaffectedly, ] but that's not your problem.

[ it's stefan's. ]

The only cure in my world? I didn't even know it existed until Stefan told me about it. You didn't fail. It was inevitable.

[ which is all true—gale was never going to be able to cure the bite, or save damon from its effects. his life just doesn't work like that. he had to try, for as long as he could, but damon didn't expect it to work.

but... ] There is something new I could use a wi—zard for, [ probably calling the guy you're asking for help the wrong thing isn't a great idea, ] if you're up for it. This one isn't as inevitably doomed as a cure for a werewolf bite.

[ it’s hard not to argue. nothing should be inevitable to the once chosen of mystra. the forbidden magics of time travel. the heights of power only accessible to the select few, exalted above the rest. a prodigy. a genius. a champion.

but he supposes none of that has been the case for some time, now. he wilts, as he considers this, only to perk up as damon suggests hope for redemption — for being of use. ]

I’d be glad to direct my mind toward a solvable problem. [ a beat. ] Please go on.

[ jesus christ, where was gale all those times they could have used a witch in mystic falls? bonnie and emily and bree, all powerful and righteous and not anywhere near as eager to help as this one man who's known them for less than a month. there's a voice in his head (suspiciously feminine, disapproving, throaty) admonishing him not to take advantage—

but damon hasn't gotten this far in his life by passing over advantages when they fall into his lap. ]

There's a catch to this, [ he gestures to himself, stepping away from the bookcase and toward gale, ] or really, a whole bunch of catches, but one's a little more pressing than the rest.

[ it's never easy to reveal a vulnerability, but damon takes a deep breath in, breathes out through his nose, feels how it feels his lungs and how his heart thuds against his chest. vital, steady, vulnerably human. ]

If a vampire drinks enough of my blood, they'll take the cure and become human. I, meanwhile, will start to age on fast-forward, to match the age I should be.

I'm 170 years old, Gale.

Gosh.

[ brows hiked, eyes a tick wider, more surprised by the brutal consequence than his age — when astarion and armand and spike are older creatures, still. ]

You mean to suggest the greatest threat to you now, beyond the typical dangers of mortality, would be another vampire.

[ he picks up a pen, scribbles a note or two, already thinking. ]

I wonder, then, if it’s a cure at all — or merely a suspended state — it seems a rather deadly game of pass the parcel, otherwise.

[ when one could transfer the cure from one vampire to another endlessly. ]

[ gale casts vicious mockery using the word "gosh". it's a critical hit and damon takes 8 points of psychic damage. ]

Yeah, [ he says slowly, recovering from the effect of a grown-ass man saying gosh in complete earnest, ] something like that.

[ looks like gale's already picking at the problem. given how little damon knows, he probably won't be of any more help—oh, nooo, an excuse not to participate in witch bullshit... what a disappointment..... ]

I couldn't tell you. I can't tell you anything other than that, honestly, I threw Stefan out before he could explain more than the basics. If you have any more questions, he'd be the one to ask. Oh, and I told that Strange guy about this too. Figured two witches are better than one when it comes to the never-before-attempted super-juju.

[ so, please: talk to literally anyone but him about this. he's going to be busy drinking himself numb so he can forget how weird it is to have a living body again.

he takes a backwards step toward the exit, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door. ]

Well, I'll leave you to your quiet. Thanks again.

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text | @orin

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a brief haunting.

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@magicincarnate

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action?

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🚪 visitation.

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✉️ text — un: ev.

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