[ The week passes uneventfully — as much as it can, at least, when Gale keeps encountering someone else in a space that has always been his alone. Astarion comes and goes as he likes, but Gale has noticed how he lingers by the fire, when he can, and it warms him more than the blaze ever could.
For reasons unknown, Astarion has yet to ask after his throat despite, well, looking. Watching him tie his hair back before he settles in to work. Following the bob of his throat as he tips his head into the sofa. And then there’s the touching. Brushing loose strands over his shoulder. Flicking his earring when he’s said something particularly annoying. He feels like a schoolboy, with the scattered blush to match.
His research provides an excellent distraction from the novelty of company, so he finesses his Infernal translation at odd hours. Tara stops by during a particularly studious session, fluttering over his shoulder with a gasp. Mr Dekarios! You’d best have a good reason for dabbling in that cursed tongue. It’s for a friend, Gale insists, hewing as close to the truth as he can manage. Predictably, it only half-mollifies her. Not the same friend that has my spot smelling like roses, instead of like you, I hope. An accusation, a question. He has no answer for her that she’ll like, so he feigns interest in the text until she settles on his lap, and scratches out inadequate attempts until they’re both dozing at his desk.
The date of the ball arrives — the first true test of their bargain — Gale dresses and redresses for the affair thrice, settling on dress robes in a deep indigo that someone (Clara, maybe) once said was a flattering complement to his olive complexion. The gold pattern-work signifies his status as a wizard of some renown, so the host will be pleased that he played his part for once, at any rate. The neckline sinks into a slight vee, and he pointedly avoids any consideration of where Astarion might look.
When they join the ball, it’s already in full swing: An affair that will run from sundown to sunrise, though Gale insists they needn’t stay long. A memorable appearance is all that matters. He greets a few familiar faces as they wind their way to the heart of the event, his hand steering at the small of Astarion’s back. Without fail, the flicker of surprise that Gale has brought company is smoothed into pleasantries. Only one courtier lays a hand on his arm, polite in her enquiry after a dance. For once, Gale demurs easily by saying he promised his first to his lovely guest and tosses a pleased little look at Astarion.
The Silvertors’ grounds and home are seemingly endless, with rooms enchanted to hold more space than even the manor’s grand exterior would suggest. Every room has its own entertainment, a gaggle of bards or troupe of wizards entertaining the masses, but the centrepiece of the event is the Neverwinter Orchestra, rarely glimpsed outside their home city. Gale catches a glimpse as they make their way down, the players stationed in between the two stairways leading to the ballroom. ]
Ah, how thrilling! [ uttered with sincere delight as he peers over the railing, one pointed shoe perched a step higher than the other. ] I suppose there’s something to be said for these affairs, when they’ve culture at the heart. [ glancing back over his shoulder. ]
Do you know the Waterdhavian waltz, Astarion? It’s in four/four time, unlike the traditional three/four of the Neverwinter and Baldurian varieties — in the interest of being contrarian to the norm, I suspect. [ brightly, ] We pride ourselves on quick wits and quicker steps.
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For reasons unknown, Astarion has yet to ask after his throat despite, well, looking. Watching him tie his hair back before he settles in to work. Following the bob of his throat as he tips his head into the sofa. And then there’s the touching. Brushing loose strands over his shoulder. Flicking his earring when he’s said something particularly annoying. He feels like a schoolboy, with the scattered blush to match.
His research provides an excellent distraction from the novelty of company, so he finesses his Infernal translation at odd hours. Tara stops by during a particularly studious session, fluttering over his shoulder with a gasp. Mr Dekarios! You’d best have a good reason for dabbling in that cursed tongue. It’s for a friend, Gale insists, hewing as close to the truth as he can manage. Predictably, it only half-mollifies her. Not the same friend that has my spot smelling like roses, instead of like you, I hope. An accusation, a question. He has no answer for her that she’ll like, so he feigns interest in the text until she settles on his lap, and scratches out inadequate attempts until they’re both dozing at his desk.
The date of the ball arrives — the first true test of their bargain — Gale dresses and redresses for the affair thrice, settling on dress robes in a deep indigo that someone (Clara, maybe) once said was a flattering complement to his olive complexion. The gold pattern-work signifies his status as a wizard of some renown, so the host will be pleased that he played his part for once, at any rate. The neckline sinks into a slight vee, and he pointedly avoids any consideration of where Astarion might look.
When they join the ball, it’s already in full swing: An affair that will run from sundown to sunrise, though Gale insists they needn’t stay long. A memorable appearance is all that matters. He greets a few familiar faces as they wind their way to the heart of the event, his hand steering at the small of Astarion’s back. Without fail, the flicker of surprise that Gale has brought company is smoothed into pleasantries. Only one courtier lays a hand on his arm, polite in her enquiry after a dance. For once, Gale demurs easily by saying he promised his first to his lovely guest and tosses a pleased little look at Astarion.
The Silvertors’ grounds and home are seemingly endless, with rooms enchanted to hold more space than even the manor’s grand exterior would suggest. Every room has its own entertainment, a gaggle of bards or troupe of wizards entertaining the masses, but the centrepiece of the event is the Neverwinter Orchestra, rarely glimpsed outside their home city. Gale catches a glimpse as they make their way down, the players stationed in between the two stairways leading to the ballroom. ]
Ah, how thrilling! [ uttered with sincere delight as he peers over the railing, one pointed shoe perched a step higher than the other. ] I suppose there’s something to be said for these affairs, when they’ve culture at the heart. [ glancing back over his shoulder. ]
Do you know the Waterdhavian waltz, Astarion? It’s in four/four time, unlike the traditional three/four of the Neverwinter and Baldurian varieties — in the interest of being contrarian to the norm, I suspect. [ brightly, ] We pride ourselves on quick wits and quicker steps.