[ Their journey to the Sea Ward is blessedly uneventful. As one of the cities quietest (and wealthiest) areas, all its above board enterprises shut down at dusk. There are several wizard’s towers in the area, including Gale’s own, perched at the edge of the water. An elegant, sandstone exterior, interior lined with rosewood.
Through a combination of sharp gestures and low words, Gale disables the wards that protect his home and invites Astarion inside.
There are several unoccupied rooms in the tower, echoes as they follow the stairs up, up, up to the living quarters, which span the whole of the main floor. He raps on the doors of two suitable guest rooms in particular, as they pass. An archmage is expected to host visiting acolytes, he explains, so they’re outfitted with every luxury. You’ll find my rooms at the end of the hall, if you need anything. Any and all visitors trigger the wards unless Gale has deactivated them, so he assures Astarion that he’ll provide a means of clearing them tomorrow, so he might come and go as he pleases. Before retiring, Gale offers him some of his own clothing for sleep. It might be a bit big on you, but it’ll do for a night. The days are short in winter, so they can venture to the shops in the early evening the next day to get everything Astarion might need. Gale has an open tab at a few choice establishments, besides, including his tailor.
When he finally falls asleep, Gale dreams of a cool touch at his cheek, solid fingers in place of gossamer silks.
By the time Astarion joins him the next day, Gale has closed the curtains of every window in the main rooms, with only the cracked door to the veranda leaking sunlight and sea air. A combination of candle-lit lamps and conjured lights illuminate the space in daylight’s stead. The decor is universally traditional and luxurious, all polished wood and jewel-tone velvets. A few items — his desk, the bench on the veranda, a stool by the fire — seem worn. Family heirlooms, perhaps.
The living area splits across two tiers, a sunken hearth and raised workspace — both lined with ceiling height bookshelves, occasionally interrupted by paintings of nature and sculptures of godly or historical figures. Although largely tidy, scholarly clutter fills the space. A gilded telescope, an open shelf for scrolls, baskets of materials for potions and spellwork. No surface goes unadorned by a book, closed or opened, unmarked or well worn. A fire warms the lower level, the coffee table before it decorated with unanswered letters: A missive from his mentor, inquiring after his well-being; an invitation to another ball at the end of the week; and a request to promenade by the water, signed by a delicate hand.
On the upper level, the small but ornate piano plays something classical. Gale sits there, leaning over his desk, surrounded by several hefty tomes and smaller journals, including the one he pocketed last night, open to his drawing of Astarion’s scars. There’s hardly space to write, with trinkets and scrolls aplenty. A statue of feminine figure overlooks his work. Rather than progress his translation, he appears to tinker with something small and metallic, catching the light that hovers above him. He only realises Astarion has joined him when he turns his head to reach for a scroll above him. ]
Ah, there you are. [ absentminded, then, a thought meant to remain inside his head slipping free — ] Are all vampires so quiet, or is it just you?
no subject
Through a combination of sharp gestures and low words, Gale disables the wards that protect his home and invites Astarion inside.
There are several unoccupied rooms in the tower, echoes as they follow the stairs up, up, up to the living quarters, which span the whole of the main floor. He raps on the doors of two suitable guest rooms in particular, as they pass. An archmage is expected to host visiting acolytes, he explains, so they’re outfitted with every luxury. You’ll find my rooms at the end of the hall, if you need anything. Any and all visitors trigger the wards unless Gale has deactivated them, so he assures Astarion that he’ll provide a means of clearing them tomorrow, so he might come and go as he pleases. Before retiring, Gale offers him some of his own clothing for sleep. It might be a bit big on you, but it’ll do for a night. The days are short in winter, so they can venture to the shops in the early evening the next day to get everything Astarion might need. Gale has an open tab at a few choice establishments, besides, including his tailor.
When he finally falls asleep, Gale dreams of a cool touch at his cheek, solid fingers in place of gossamer silks.
By the time Astarion joins him the next day, Gale has closed the curtains of every window in the main rooms, with only the cracked door to the veranda leaking sunlight and sea air. A combination of candle-lit lamps and conjured lights illuminate the space in daylight’s stead. The decor is universally traditional and luxurious, all polished wood and jewel-tone velvets. A few items — his desk, the bench on the veranda, a stool by the fire — seem worn. Family heirlooms, perhaps.
The living area splits across two tiers, a sunken hearth and raised workspace — both lined with ceiling height bookshelves, occasionally interrupted by paintings of nature and sculptures of godly or historical figures. Although largely tidy, scholarly clutter fills the space. A gilded telescope, an open shelf for scrolls, baskets of materials for potions and spellwork. No surface goes unadorned by a book, closed or opened, unmarked or well worn. A fire warms the lower level, the coffee table before it decorated with unanswered letters: A missive from his mentor, inquiring after his well-being; an invitation to another ball at the end of the week; and a request to promenade by the water, signed by a delicate hand.
On the upper level, the small but ornate piano plays something classical. Gale sits there, leaning over his desk, surrounded by several hefty tomes and smaller journals, including the one he pocketed last night, open to his drawing of Astarion’s scars. There’s hardly space to write, with trinkets and scrolls aplenty. A statue of feminine figure overlooks his work. Rather than progress his translation, he appears to tinker with something small and metallic, catching the light that hovers above him. He only realises Astarion has joined him when he turns his head to reach for a scroll above him. ]
Ah, there you are. [ absentminded, then, a thought meant to remain inside his head slipping free — ] Are all vampires so quiet, or is it just you?