[ Everything in Gale stills, on hearing how these scars were formed. For all his sorrow, he has never known true horror — not like what Astarion has endured over the course of hours, days, weeks. This must have taken time, dedicated and precise in its cruelty.

Permission granted, Gale crouches near the sunken tub to peer at Astarion’s scars, raised and angry. The itch to touch and feel out a problem goes untended. Inappropriate, however innocent his intentions are. ]

Your master has a ghastly idea of sweetness. [ He ignores the protective lurch in his skull. All he can offer has already been promised, the praesidium of an archmage known across the realm. ]

It’s Infernal, alright. [ The language of the hells. Mystra wouldn’t wish for him to entangle himself, in such things. ] But the syntax — it’s fragmented. [ faster, words coming together in his mind. ] Strange. Inferiu should be an adjective, but it’s the subject of a sentence here. [ He lifts his hand, as if to trace the shape, but stops himself, hovering. ] I recognise oaths and, ah, the fires below clearly. Once we’re home, I can consult my books for the rest.

[ Once, Gale would have said there’s no problem too great for that course of action. Looking at this macabre tableau, he isn’t so sure. ]

[ Steady, ] This is no poem, Astarion.