[ If stumbling back to his tent last night had been difficult, rousing himself in the morning is borderline untenable. He’s slow to wake and slower still to rise, exiting his tent to find everyone else dressed for the day. It’s a terrible morning — at least for Gale — altogether too bright, exacerbating his splitting headache.
Everyone else seems rather chipper in the greenery and sunshine. Lae’zel tsks as he wanders to the fire, but he assumes there’s a sliver of appreciation for his presence in general, given her annoyance that he failed to cook breakfast for the first time since their journey began.
Initially, he plans to eschew Astarion’s gaze. Gale may not be the one in debt, but he’d been — desperate, in all things. Quick to follow, eager to please. Besides, he doesn’t have the faintest idea how to handle the shift between them.
When Tav invites him to join the adventuring party, he should decline, pinning the blame squarely on his hunger (rather than his ill-advised blood donation, concealed by his high collar). Can’t help but chafe against helplessness, however, so he abandons his plans to rest and avoid Astarion both. It’s furtive glances from then on (ridiculous but unavoidable, for a person with as little restraint as Gale Dekarios). At one point, he thinks Astarion catches him fingering the punctures at his neck (not his earring, not today), or maybe he catches Astarion looking his way.
In the end, it’s for the best that he acquiesced, since he ends up putting out literal fires at Waukeen’s Rest. Nevermind that he’s so light-headed after their daring rescues that he misses news of Duke Ravengard entirely and has to be informed by Shadowheart on the walk back to camp. Perhaps that’s why she volunteers to cook in his stead, slinging a tease about variety his way. It means he can slump by the riverside while the others gather round the fire. A relief, when his veins are surely boiling, Netherese fire hollowing his ribs. ]
[ Astarion, blessedly, isn't hungover when Tav gathers their party to venture out. He's half-prepared for Gale's blood to leave him poisoned after the pleasure ebbs, but if anything he feels more bolstered than usual, raring to go.
Gale, meanwhile, looks far worse in the light of day than he did last night. Astarion doesn't feel any guilt about blood freely given and happily taken, though he does wonder at the wisdom of Tav bringing Gale along when he looks one errant crossbow dart away from fainting on them all.
He's also very obviously avoiding Astarion, which might be funny if it didn't sting a little. Of course Gale must regret their arrangement; only desperate men make deals with vampires. Through the haze of smoke, Astarion catches the glint of Gale's earring as he lifts his fingers to press at the puncture marks, and Astarion has to flick his own gaze away, tongue soothing over a fang as he remembers the taste of him, the feeling of him.
All things equal, Astarion prefers pilfering chests that aren't on fire, but beggars can't be choosers. He had--perhaps naively--envisioned walking away with a veritable buffet of arcane goods for Gale to feast on (and possibly a few to keep for himself). Instead, he only manages two today: a pair of leather bracers and a gemstone necklace off the charred corpse of a Flaming Fist.
They all smell like ash and viscera by the end of the day. Astarion watches Gale skulk away from the campfire, and Shadowheart gives Astarion the barest quirk of a brow when he slips away to follow, offering her a flash of teeth in return.
Astarion knows he's quiet as death, padding up behind Gale where he sits on the riverbank. Gale's been jumpy all day, so Astarion, of course, is going to press that button rather than leave it be, only speaking once he's practically at Gale's ear. ]
Come by my tent after dinner, will you?
[ He's fastened the necklace just under the collar of his shirt, a pretty blue gem that sits in the dip of his collarbone, flashes just so in the moonlight as he thumbs the laces of his shirt. Astarion's half-tempted to keep this one for himself once he figures out what it does, honestly. ]
[ Gale looses an undignified hiss of breath, shoulders jolting up as Astarion leans over him. He supposes that he should be grateful that he’s still upright, when he felt as if a strong wind could bowl him over earlier.
In his addled state, Astarion’s invitation invokes how last night ended first — before he recalls his devil’s bargain. A crackle in the air draws his focus as he turns to meet Astarion, eyes quickly dropping to his throat. Oh. Dawning realisation, yawning hunger. It’s immediately clear that the arcane ache, not the blood-loss, slowed him today. ]
[ snappish, ] I’m not so insatiable. [ Oh, but he is, discretion forgotten. He reaches out on instinct, only stopping when his fingers brush Astarion’s cool skin to curl under the bright stone — overcome with the longing to consume, to devour. The orb shudders in his chest. It must be satisfied. Eyes glassy, he fantasises about yanking the necklace free of Astarion’s neck in his desperation (and of leveraging it to lean in for another kiss, like he failed to do last night).
In the end, he does neither, a tremor running down to the tips of his fingers. ]
Where’d you find this?
[ It’s a hushed, near reverent question. He can taste the Weave in his mouth as his thumb brushes over the set of the stone. The necklace is the fine work of a clever mage, infused with a spell of its own. A potent stopper for the cataclysm in his chest. A potential asset, if their other companions have spied it. ]
[ For all that Astarion is a practiced liar, he does mean to speak to Gale the next day. Except that their relatively steady pace of expedition accelerates, once Tav decides it's time to prioritize reaching Moonrise--and thus time to venture properly through the Underdark. Not only does Astarion not have an opportunity to speak with Gale alone, he doesn't get to witness any potential reactions to the mark Astarion's left on his throat. Gale is whisked off with the lead party while Astarion is stuck packing up camp and finding a suitable place for them to pitch their tents amidst volatile mushrooms (sentient and otherwise) and drow outposts.
Tav finds an arcane tower below the surface, which of course means the magic users are marched to investigate while Astarion is left with Lae'zel and Karlach to sharpen their blades and sort the party's rations. The monotony and the nervous twist in his gut are both miserable.
It also means he hasn't had a chance to loot anything fresh for Gale, nor has he been able to feed properly. Astarion's own hunger pangs are staved enough by the occasional bat and lizard, and he has to hope Tav will cede something from the party cache if Gale's catches up to him while they're gone.
Which additionally means Astarion is worried about Gale, beyond just considering him an asset. Which is part of the whole problem.
Finally, Astarion's roped into a short scouting venture while Gale is left behind to rest. They ambush a duergar camp, and Astarion returns aching and covered in blood, one bejeweled arcane ring slipped into his pack. By some small blessing, their own camp is near a warm underground mineral spring--perfectly safe, according to Halsin--and seeing as Astarion doesn't need to eat with the rest of them, he slips off to rinse himself of viscera.
He sheds his armor at his tent and most of the rest of his clothes along the way, down to his underwear by the time he realizes he's not the only one in for an evening bath. There isn't much room for modesty in the great outdoors (or great underground, as it were), so most of them have shared the bracing river topside at a polite distance apart.
Somehow, Astarion and Gale haven't yet. Different sleep rhythms, maybe, what with Astarion not actually needing any. But here he finds himself at the edge of a steamy spring, lit only by the strange bioluminescent plants of the Underdark, staring at Gale's naked back a few yards from him. Their first time alone in days.
Astarion knows how to be quiet, stick to the shadows; he could slip back to camp before Gale even had a chance to turn around and see that he has company. A week or two ago, he likely would have done just that and dealt with his own smell in the morning. But Astarion is tired, and--he's missed him, he realizes with an uncomfortable pang, and they do need to talk. And this is a terrible place for it, with Gale very naked and Astarion nearly there, but it's not like they have many better options down here. So Astarion clears his throat from the rock he's perched on at the edge of the spring, not shedding the last of his meager modesty just yet. ]
Mind if I join you? I'll try not to get blood all over your side of the bath.
[ As he told Astarion, Gale is an old hand at waiting. There’s no time for him to catch Astarion by the elbow and see how he’s faring, however much he’d like to — and that’s fine. It makes him all the more relieved to have left things on a note of appreciation, not one of uncertainty.
The first day after, Gale thinks he’s gotten away with the marks at his throat, until Lae’zel “compliments” his spell-casting against a bulette, suggesting that he indulge his carnal desires more often, if it improves his performance in the field so. Later, when Shadowheart falls into step beside him on their walk to the arcane tower, she asks him how it felt to kneel at another altar, and he nearly stumbles into a chasm. (Before he notices a flicker of unease in her eyes: They’re the only two people of faith in the party, he surmises, and if his most unshakable, undying devotion should falter... He assures her his prayers to Mystra have remained as they were before, a constant, a comfort. For his efforts, he receives a dry: Your goddess is a different sort of mistress than mine. Although she offers to heal the marks, he declines.)
Each night, when Astarion slinks off as he prepares the dinner, Gale watches him leave. With their divergent duties, there’s no time to talk, let alone offer his neck, to Astarion. He tells himself that’s good, that it allows his companion time to review the encounter on his own terms, but Gale longs to dip into those curls again and unspool Astarion’s tangled thoughts with a deft hand. He concluded back then that the dismissal wasn’t to do with him, but a thread of insecurity threatens to make it so. Besides, he can’t help but worry about the nature and quality of food hunted in the Underdark.
At the spring, Gale folds his clothes neatly on the rocky outcropping (beside his modest collection of soaps) and swiftly finds some relief. The hunger pangs have started anew, faster than they ever have before. A sign that the orb is gaining power as he loses it, marching inexorably toward his end. He dares to ask Mystra why in his nightly prayers and receives no answer.
Best not to think of that now, with heat surrounding him — and a familiar voice behind him. His back straightens, muscles tensing as the water runs rivulets down his spine. Unable to stop himself, he looks over his shoulder at Astarion. Oh, that’s a new ache, fond and wanting. A desire to have Astarion near again that lifts the set of his eyes and curve of his brows. ]
Not yours, I hope. [ His gaze flickers over Astarion’s person, checking for injuries. If he happens to notice just how lithe Astarion is, well — between the heat of the water and the sudden realisation of what he’s done, colour rises up his chest to settle high on his cheeks. He turns away again, busying himself with an attempt to tie his hair back, for want of anything else to do with his hands. ] Please — this spring is big enough for the two of us, and you’ll appreciate its warmth even more than I, though not by much.
[ He succeeds in tying his waves in a loose knot at the nape of his neck, any missing strands plastered to his skin by the steam. He hazards another glance over his arm, trying not to look hopeful at the sight of Astarion so near. His earring glints blue in the strange light, still secure above the twin scars of Astarion’s true bite. ]
I take it the duergar were not open to diplomacy. To be expected, with their taste for conquering. And having seen what carnage they inflicted on the Myconids, I can’t say I’m disappointed.
[ Gale doesn’t savour violence the way that some of their group do, but he can appreciate its necessity, in matters such as these. ]
[ Gods, he is beautiful. It's an unbidden thought that should dissipate easily enough, but instead catches in his throat just as Gale's earring catches the light, the bruise Astarion left the other night faded to the blue-green color of veins beneath skin. ]
Not much is mine. [ After a cleared throat, peeling out of his underwear and slipping into the warm green water. Astarion is losing his touch; normally he'd make a show of it, call attention to the way Gale's cheeks went pink, stretch his muscles under this flattering lamp-glow luminescence. It's not that he's ungraceful, but he feels figuratively stripped down after their last encounter and the subsequent space between, not quite up to the task of performing the rake.
Shadowheart patched them up well enough, but he still won't fully heal until he's rested, and Astarion feels the sting of an open slice on his ribs as it hits the water, aware also of a cut on his cheekbone. He'll have a better sense of the lay of the land once he cleans the rest away.
He didn't think to bring his own soap, but much of the blood lifts from his skin with a gentle sweep of cupped hands through the water, turning it pink around him. It's a task that keeps him from staring openly at Gale, for the moment. ]
Talking didn't get us far, no. [ After he's plunged his head beneath the water and re-emerged, slicked his hair back out of his eyes and blinked the water from his lashes, his feet bringing him a few steps closer to Gale. Normally the carnage would have sated something in Astarion, but it did little for him today. ]
It does mean I found you something, though. For later.
[ The city of Waterdeep teems with life, and so much of that life has deep pockets. In Baldur's Gate, Cazador always had them pick off travelers at the Elfsong and sailors on shore leave at the Blushing Mermaid, anyone with a quickened hourglass in the city to begin with. People no one would miss, or think to look for.
Nobility is much higher stakes. Reckless quarry, the kind that would earn him at least a month in the kennel for his carelessness, but Astarion is running, and now that he's made it this far south he needs protection. He trusts no one to keep him safe, but coin and power are their own kind of safety. If he can weasel into some fop's good graces and then rob them blind, all the better.
Astarion holes up at Silavene's, where people are loose with their money and their tongues, and finds himself a human who's easy to ply with a little drink and nimble fingers. The winter festival of Simril is tomorrow night, and he has secured an invitation to the Melshimber family's estate in the Sea Ward. Astarion knows nothing of these people and cares even less, but a family of sages and vintners is likely to have books, scrolls, and bottles that will sell for decent coin on the black market.
And so he becomes this sad, lonely man's plus one to a fête that will hopefully be worth a little effort. The festival, and the Melshimbers' party, are an all-night affair; most Waterdhavians huddle on the beach to watch the stars, but the Melshimbers have an unobstructed view of the sea from their sweeping balconies and sprawling gardens, providing wine and warmth for only the most prestigious guests to wish upon their lucky stars. Astarion presumes, with most of the activity happening outside, there will be plenty of halls to wander and trinkets to pilfer.
Thankfully, Astarion manages to slip away from his patron almost immediately once they get in the door. Cazador has hosted gauche parties of his own, and Astarion expects something similar of the Waterdhavian elite, but the estate itself is... Well, if there were any romance left in his undead heart, he might call it romantic. All tasteful stone fountains and trellises covered in ivy, guests huddled around elegant braziers throughout the garden. It's a moonless night, perfect for star-gazing and also perfect for Astarion to slip through a servants' door and up the winding stairs in the dark.
He doesn't know the layout of this estate, but that shouldn't be a problem. Astarion finds himself in a long, low-lit corridor, quiet as a cat as he pushes open a large set of double doors that were already ajar.
It seems he's found a library, and it also seems he's not alone. There's a fire lit in the hearth, and a man standing by one of the two-story shelves- unfortunately in full view of the door, so Astarion is better off playing lost party guest than pretending he was never here. ]
Oh, I am so sorry. [ Astarion leans against the door, one hand lifting to the collar of the dark silk tunic beneath his embroidered jacket. ] Corelius tasked me with bringing up another bottle of the 1423 vintage, and I've clearly lost my way to the cellar.
[ He knows he's pretty enough that most people won't question why he's made it to the top floor while looking for the wine cellar, and hopes this gentleman he's stumbled upon is most people. ]
[ Six months ago, Mystra selected a new chosen — a prodigy, fresh from the Academy, younger and more powerful than Gale of Waterdeep. For now.
If Gale was so easy to discard after his years of service and devotion, this replacement will be even easier to depose. He is no one. An upstart. A child. If Gale can find the right spell, the rarest arcane treasure to lay at her delicate feet, he will regain Mystra’s favour.
In his dreams, it’s as though he never lost it, glimpses of her pale shoulder, draped in Weave; the warmth of purest magic washing over his skin at her every touch — and aching emptiness, on waking in the dark of his chambers, alone but for Tara curled on the corner of his velvet bedspread.
His mother appears altogether too pleased by his return, telling him how much the family has needed him here, far more than that wretched woman. Goddess, he reminds her, and she realises he hasn’t returned to Waterdeep by choice. News of his homecoming travels fast in their lofty circles. He is, after all, one of the last unmarried nobles of his age — despite Morena’s best (and ongoing) efforts. He ignores every invitation to take the airs in the gardens or attend the countless events leading up to tonight. One particularly enterprising young woman ambushes him at Curious Past, while he’s browsing the antiquarian selection. It’s a rather impressive set-up, until he asks what brings her here. Rather than name a single marvellous item, she says, you, of course.
After that, Gale devotes his lonely days to research, leaving his tower less and less. Three months into his return, he gains a new, decidedly less charming, reputation as a recluse. It is only his mother’s sincere request, uttered low as she bends over their clasped hands, that convinces him he must indulge her, just for tonight. Lost in the wet sheen of concern in her brown eyes, he acquiesces to joining her at the fête. And smartening up, dear, she adds impishly, with a tap to his untidy beard.
Much to Morena and Tara’s disappointment, he does not, in fact, shave his beard, but he does trim it properly. It’s dignified, he assures Tara as she grumbles. As an apology, he tucks half his hair up into a tidy bun. More warmly received is the brocade waistcoat in the deep purple of his family’s house. A stark contrast to the white silk of his undershirt. At the very least, he’s dressed the part for tonight, though his stamina leaves something to be desired.
It takes hours of dancing and polite conversation for Gale to escape the fête. Morena ensured his dance card was full before he set foot on the floor. The lovely Lady Hani had him by the arm in seconds, cooing something altogether too flattering about his last academic article to be true. It’s a blur of pleasantries after that, although he distinctly recalls stepping on some visiting noble’s foot. Not on purpose, mind, but it does provide him the opportunity to disappear under the guise of pursuing his dashing partner to beg forgiveness. It helps that he knows the Melshimbers estate as if it were his own, having played here as a boy and explored its gardens, passages and depths with the zeal of an intrepid explorer.
No one will venture up to the library, when it affords a pitiful view of the stars.
Except someone does, an elvish dandy with an exceptionally light tread. Gale only catches him because he happens to be looking up from the book in his hand, frozen where he stands. His eyes widen a fraction, a tell that he shouldn’t be there either, before he blinks away his surprise. His reply comes automatically, without thought. ]
Perhaps you forgot that a cellar lies below, traditionally. From the Old Elvish, cellarium, pertaining to a group of cells underground.
[ Once he shelves his book, Gale’s gaze sharpens, sweeping up and down Astarion with analytical precision instead of fleeting interest. Whatever he notices makes him frown, and he looses an exhausted exhale. ]
If you’ve been tasked with drawing me back to the party, [ By playing the handsome fool and asking after his help in the cellar. ] you have my sincerest apologies.
[ This one is prettier than the last, with dark eyes that hold his focus a moment too long (the red impossible to place between claret and crimson; that’s all). Gale drags his attention back, ducking his head as he works on removing one gold cufflink and then the other. He walks to a low table by the hearth, his dinner jacket already draped over the adjacent armchair, and deposits the links with a satisfying clink. Upon closer inspection, each is engraved with his house sigil: The waxing moon of Waterdeep tucked inside a seven pointed star. Without pausing, he begins to roll his sleeves to his elbows. Mildly — ] You can wait here a moment, if you’d like to give the appearance of a dedicated effort, [ a dismissive wave of his hand. ] but I suggest you save your energy for a more willing suitor.
[ Astarion, keen as he is on reading prey, catches the flicker in his eyes that says this gentleman is also trespassing. Noble lineages are as sprawling as their estates, so it's entirely possible he's related to someone-or-other in the Melshimber family, but Astarion watched his invite being introduced to their gracious hosts beside one of the fountains. They were both human, older, but look nothing like the man in front of him. Which means Astarion is probably safe from being immediately escorted off the premises.
An adjustment of tactics is easy enough. Entirely possible this man won't be interested - because for all of Astarion's charms, they aren't always womanly enough for some tastes - but if he won't bat an eye at Astarion casing the house, that will also work just fine.
He is handsome, though. Astarion does manage to hold his gaze a moment longer than most men who aren't of their persuasion, and he turns a keen eye to his discarded cufflinks and jacket. Were they in Baldur's Gate, Astarion might recognize the house, but as it stands all he can smell is wealth. Might be worth swiping the cufflinks before he leaves the room. ]
Ah. I see we've both been caught somewhere we're not supposed to be. [ Astarion's body language shifts as he nudges the door quietly shut with his hip, offering a conspiratorial smile rather than a hapless one. ] I found myself in need of some fresh air from the...well, fresh air. [ He flutters a hand as he sheds his outer jacket as if he were over-warm here, with the fire going: black as pitch with gold embroidery and buttons, the inner lining one of soft white fur.
His shirt ties at his neck, with ruffled collar and billowing sleeves, but the black silk is sheer, revealing plenty for those who wish to look. Astarion strides properly into the room, drapes his jacket over the back of a plush chaise and tips his head toward the shelves that surround them, indicating the books are also what he's here for. Which isn't entirely a lie. ]
[ For the first time in an age, Gale no longer finds himself alone. Not in waking hours, when the party alternates between the depths of the Underdark and stunning mountain vistas above ground, searching for a crèche as likely to kill as to heal. The true miracle is that Gale finds himself in good company in the evenings, too. On any night when exhaustion doesn’t drag him to sleep, he reads in Astarion’s tent; or Astarion entwines himself with Gale among his pillows, hands wandering his chest like uncharted territory; or they kiss until he can hardly breathe; or Astarion quiets his wretched mind with a bite (until his neck, wrist, shoulder all bear the marks). It’s good. It’s everything. In the daze of blood-loss and heady intimacy, Gale hushes an offer into cool skin. When all this is done, he could show Astarion Waterdeep. His city. His home.
With Astarion’s help, he feeds his arcane hunger more frequently than ever before — and it’s not enough, the ache yawning ever wider, like to consume him, too. Even so, there’s a glimmer of hope in the companionship.
It’s the tell that this peace is a mirage, like the snag in an imperfect illusion.
At the edge of the Shadow Cursed lands, Elminster not only sees how far his pupil has fallen (shame coming off him in waves), but also knows the true depths of his folly, as told by Mystra herself. Only Tav joins their conversation in camp. Lae’zel notes that Gale reeks of fear when she joins the others, though the dig almost veers into concern.
There is hope for you yet, dear boy. Forgiveness dangles beyond a jagged ledge, all he’s ever wanted in the agonising months since he lost his power and purpose both. He would do anything for it, for her, all higher thought forgotten until — you’re asking him to die! Tav breaks the trance, incandescent with rage on his behalf. The rest of the conversation passes in a haze of tension, terse barbs exchanged even as Elminster makes good on his promise to stop the orb’s advance. A stray thought: If Mystra could have saved him all along, her beloved, her Chosen… why hadn’t she?
No, he was going to die one way or another, wasn’t he? For his mistakes. Better it be in the service of something greater. Then, he wouldn’t be forgotten.
Without a word to the others, he disappears to spend the night alone on the steps of the monastery, staring up at the stars. Word travels fast at camp in his absence. Fortuitous, for once, when he’d rather not see their faces on learning of his imminent demise.
In the morning, the only thing he says to Astarion before they journey into the darkness is an upbeat, You won’t need to waste your spoils on me any longer. It’s the last positive thing on his mind, as the shadows encroach. A place rotted by blackest weave, shrouded from Mystra’s shining eyes. At their first camp in this wretched place, Gale doesn’t sleep. He casts and upholds light through the night, only relieved by Wyll in the morning.
The Last Light Inn provides a true reprieve. Well, after an interrogation and a rather depressing reunion with the tieflings. At the end of the day, Gale finds himself nodding off in an armchair as the others celebrate the prospect of beds. When he blinks awake, only Astarion remains. ]
Oh, gods. [ Gale massages the taut line of his neck, sore from the angle of his dozing, and glances around blearily. There isn’t a Harper in sight. Even Rolan has given up on drinking himself into a stupor and vanished. Voice rough with sleep, ] How long was I out?
[ Astarion lost all his capacity to dream of something like this long ago. Someone who wants him for more than his hands and mouth; who is tender, who makes him laugh, whom against all odds Astarion wants in turn. Never has he felt a sweet ache like this, when Gale looks at Astarion after a breathless kiss like he's hung the stars.
And in truth, he's been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the beginning.
Tav is distraught when Gale's messenger departs their camp, but won't say what happened. Shadowheart is the one who overhears their private revelation, and relays it to Astarion, who feels like he's swallowed his own unbeating heart: Lady Shar would not be so cruel, she says, because this is needless cruelty.
Gale slips from his fingers. He avoids him, no doubt consumed by the thought of one final, meaningful act of devotion to his goddess. The voice in Astarion's mind is Cazador's, always, shadowing him as Gale walks paces ahead through the Shadow-Cursed Lands: You were only a distraction, boy. You are nothing.
Astarion feels the cruel edge wanting to slip back into him, laced with the poison of hurt. When Tav had first asked Astarion what they should do about Gale, barely a week into traveling together before the orb's hunger made itself known, Astarion had been casual in that cruelty: toss him into a chasm, leave him in the Underdark to detonate far from all of us. He was not an asset worth the risk, in Astarion's mind.
And now Gale is on a true suicide mission, and Astarion is nothing. Mystra is a goddess and Astarion is vampire spawn, undead flesh and stolen blood. They were useful to each other when Gale's death was a precarious thing; his own use has waned, and Gale said so himself. You won't need to waste your spoils on me any longer.
Two can play at the avoidance game. Only Astarion fumbles his hand too easily tonight, intending to sneak away from Gale before he can rouse himself from his armchair. He gets lost, instead, in a self-inflicted wound: imagining the way he would have woken Gale back in the mountains, settling into his lap and threading their fingers together, teasing him gently before guiding him back to one of their tents.
Gale wakes, and Astarion feels like he's been caught at something shameful. There's only a flicker of it on his face before he manages to kill it, harden his expression, standing from his own chair and pacing toward the bar as if he has somewhere to be or someone to speak to, when he very much does not. ]
Not enough for a proper rest. There's a bed waiting for you in there.
[ It's taking longer than Astarion would like to find a buyer for the journal. He's out of touch dealing in items of actual value, and he's also learning there's a considerable difference between properly arcane items (magical, dangerous, easy to foist onto the black market) and arcane knowledge.
In tandem with the fact that Astarion has no contacts in this city - any he might have known prior to his death are either dead themselves or would expect him to be - this journal may prove more trouble than it's worth. He finally secures a meeting with a Zhent who knows a buyer in Skullport, since any shops topside in Waterdeep will likely know the provenance of the book and get Astarion locked swiftly behind bars.
The Zhent is late, but the Yawning Portal is busy, as always. On the one hand, Astarion prefers not to do business at a landmark like this; on the other, the entrance to Skullport and the Underdark is literally right there, so if their business is conducted swiftly enough he won't have to give a thought to this book ever again.
The cufflinks, of course, were an easier sell, and are paying for his wine tonight. Astarion passes the time with a sweet young thing he can hit up for a bite after he's done with the Zhent, a tiefling adventurer who's already tipsy and drinking up every word as Astarion refills his cup. ]
Waterdeep is known for its rich, sweet reds, you know. Almost as delectable as... Shit. [ He should have known better than to split his focus, because Astarion only catches sight of familiar purple brocade as its wearer is stalking directly toward him. He gets up swiftly, the tiefling blinking up at him as he gathers his bag. ]
Lovely to meet you, enjoy the rest of this bottle on me. [ Except that he does not put down any coin to pay for it, of course, before slipping through the crowd at the bar and attempting to make his way out the back door and onto the street, slowed by the sheer density of people at the Portal tonight. Shit indeed. ]
[ By the morning, Gale finds himself in Lord Melshimber’s study, under severe scrutiny. Only his insistence that he, too, had been robbed (and his fluttering sleeves as evidence), grant him temporary mercy. I haven’t forgotten your previous thefts, boy. Rather famously, Gale stole the Blackstaff’s, well, staff and opened a portal to limbo, leading to his near expulsion from the academy. His family tapped Melshimber himself to defend his honour. A verdict of boyish tomfoolery came to pass.
One that is much harder to plead at the age of thirty and change — so Gale sweetens the deal with a promise to reclaim the item and return it. Such ventures were typical of his work for Mystra, and he had never failed her. Begrudgingly, he’s allowed to walk free on his word alone.
Casting Locate Object is easy enough, but getting himself within range of said object is much harder. He frequents the taverns best know for travellers and troublemakers, flitting past the Yawming Portal more evenings than he’d like to admit, when the spell zips up his arm, senses slight with the electric sensation of finding.
Gale misty steps just to the left of Astarion as he exits the tavern and snags him by the collar, yanking him back with strength born of adrenaline. It’s harder to manoeuvre him against the cobbled wall of the alley, but he just about manages by leveraging his weight, knee wedged between Astarion’s legs and hands fisted in his shirt. ]
Stealing my lines now, are we? [ clucking his tongue. ]. And using them on a child. Really. [ A young, handsome thing, even more susceptible than Gale had been to false charms. ] Give me a reason not to incinerate you — for instance, that you still have a priceless journal on your person.
[ 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?
[ Astarion still half-expects Gale to think better of - whatever it is that they're doing, either by the time they get to his tower or by the time Astarion awakens from a brief (rare) nap.
The tower is beautiful. Astarion wonders, with a small spike of envy, what it's like to live somewhere like this, and it doesn't quite register that he gets to live here, at least for now. It feels like a waking dream, though upholding his end of their arrangement will come with a number of dangers, in the form of unsavory Skullport merchants and all the trappings of the Underdark.
The clothes Astarion wore to the other night's fête were a gift from his escort - which he most certainly kept - but the few others he carried with him from Baldur's Gate are showing signs of age and wear. The nightwear Gale offers him is a deep purple velvet that laces up the chest, expertly made and luxurious; and the room Astarion settles on is the smallest of the guest options, but the Szarr Estate had been grand and still claustrophobic, stifling. This has a plush window nook, which he'll enjoy after dark, a midnight blue chaise and low table by the hearth, a writing desk, and a clawfoot tub. Plenty of reading material, as well, which Astarion wants to snoop, but once Gale leaves him to it he realizes he actually wants to rest. Doesn't entirely know how to, but he does settle himself onto the chaise by the hearth and lets the hours pass.
When he pads into Gale's living space, in a pair of too-big embroidered slippers, he has no idea what hour it is. He's wearing the tunic Gale lent him - slightly too long and wide in the shoulders - with nothing underneath, cinched with its tasseled belt low at the waist. It does cover the important bits, though not by much; Astarion's hair is wild from his nap, and when Gale finally notices him he's reading one of the letters by the hearth ('we so dearly hope you'll join us, your presence has been missed'), the tunic slipping off his shoulder, exposing collarbone. ]
I'd like to think I'm exceptionally good at sneaking. [ Astarion doesn't look up, nor does he seem fussed that he's openly reading Gale's private correspondences. He picks up another, smoothing its folds. ] Not everyone can swap a rare book right under an archmage's nose. Do you think Lady Cressim realizes she's misspelled 'accompany' and 'correspondence' in the same sentence?
[ 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.
[ Astarion is used to an over-crowded living space, sharing with the other spawn and the occasional human servants who grovel at Cazador's feet. It's strange to have space to himself at all, but to not feel lonely all the same; Gale's presence is evident even when they're taking up separate corners of the tower. Astarion has historically found the magic of wizards to be oppressive, and Gale's certainly isn't subtle, given his power, but Astarion also doesn't flinch from it. He is -- at least for the moment -- protected by it. The most novel of novelties.
Astarion would be content to just prowl around Gale's tower indefinitely, but they do have a bargain and this is the less-deadly part of Astarion's end of it. (He's not putting off going to Skullport, exactly, just...temporarily distracted by the splendor of freedom and safety and company he doesn't revile.) And honestly, for all that Astarion would prefer not to navigate the social niceties, he does enjoy getting dolled up. Gale has bought him a red and black number with gold embroidered accents, perfectly tailored and surprisingly comfortable, with black boots made of supple leather and gold at the toe.
They make quite the pair. Gale is handsome with his hair tied back, the dip of bare skin at his throat and collarbone. Astarion lived so long on infrequent feeding at the whims of his master, he's almost forgotten he has a willing throat to drink from. Perhaps when the night is done, as a reward for well-played deception.
And Gale had certainly not undersold how popular he is. Astarion pretends to drink from his flute of wine and offers his devastatingly handsome smile to each of the courtiers he's introduced to as he instantly forgets their names.
It's almost...cute to see his host so animated about the orchestra. Astarion hands his full flute of wine to a passing butler as he takes the stairs with Gale. ]
Well, I may not be Waterdhavian but I am a quick study. [ And then, not bothering to lower his voice given the volume of the orchestra and the people around them: ] Certainly more culture than the blood orgies I'm accustomed to, I'll give you that.
[ If Astarion's honest -- which is rarely, to be fair -- he hasn't made up his mind on Tav just yet. There is a gravitational pull around her, as de facto leader of their group of tadpoled misfits; and their individual aims are disparate enough, Astarion won't be surprised if the weakest links get lost in the shuffle.
So he makes himself useful. Indispensable, really. Every cave and crypt is trapped to the hells and back, full of locked chests that require a dextrous touch, and Tav can hardly go anywhere without him.
Nor can she go anywhere without the wizard. At first, Astarion thinks she's just humoring Gale's endless string of anecdotes about magic and Waterdeep and all his favorite books, but soon enough they're accompanying each other on private little strolls around camp after dinner, chaste promenades that happen more often than not.
There's an odd part of Astarion that's -- relieved, maybe, that Tav's attention in that particular arena has been caught by someone else. But another, much louder part that insists his usefulness to her will run dry if she follows this thread with Gale to its conclusion. Already, Astarion's had his lockpicks at hand only for Gale to open a chest with a flash of colored light, a flourish, and a knowing look in his direction.
Astarion can't afford to be cast aside. One night, over a bottle of wine, Shadowheart notes that Tav seems to still be playing the field, despite the way Astarion's vision has narrowed solely to her interest in Gale; Tav has flirted with her, she shares, and has given her fair share of thinly-veiled advances to Wyll as well. No harm in any of it, with which Astarion agrees.
The Grove is a messy, exhausting affair, but Astarion is Tav's second pick for her frontline party, after Gale. Casualties on both sides, but they save more tieflings than they lose, and Astarion catches that heady flush of victory on her face as she embraces her comrades in turn. A party tonight will be perfect, she says with her arms wound around Astarion's neck, and Astarion can't help but agree.
Tav graciously entertains their guests before getting around to her companions, which means she's at least a bottle deep by the time Astarion intercepts her by the fire. She is pretty, Astarion thinks; conventionally so, by human standards. Whether or not she's nice to look at doesn't matter to him, in the end, but he can see why Gale's been casting his big brown puppy dog eyes upon her. Pretty and kind with a talent for drawing people together, while Astarion knows he's only the first of those things.
But Astarion also knows precisely how to turn on the rogueish charm. He's fairly certain no one's directly propositioned her, yet -- and he correctly clocks that that alone excites her. The thrill, the passion of sleeping with the vampire after a major victory! Who could resist?
Naturally, word of his early claim spreads quickly. Astarion doesn't bother listening in on any of her other conversations, but he is curious about Gale: he tucks himself into the shadows, close enough to a small group of tieflings to seem like he's just socializing.
Gale cedes victory for the night, but not without the implication that he's not giving up on her. There's a dark pleasure that skirts across Astarion's shoulders when Gale likens him to a tiger, of all things -- that Gale has been forced to think about Astarion during his courtship with Tav at all.
It would be stupid to tell Gale that it's nothing personal, but for Astarion, it truly isn't. Purely tactical, which is perhaps exactly what Gale is warning Tav against.
Still, she comes to Astarion willingly. Drinks up all of his lines and opens her body to him, just as planned; even gives him the gift of her bare throat. In the afterglow, she tells Astarion she'd rather get back to her bedroll than sleep on the hard ground, which is just as well. They throw their rumpled clothing back on and Astarion pulls her in for one more long, lingering kiss before she stumbles back to camp, grinning at him until she disappears amongst the foliage.
Astarion cuts over to the wooded edge of the river, instead of following. He's buzzed, both from the alcohol in Tav's blood and an adrenaline that's not unlike the urge to run, now that he doesn't have to play for her. It's a discomfiting combination, twisting in his gut, and Astarion follows his body to the shoreline just as dawn threatens to spill over the dark water. Not such a threat, anymore. Still a strange feeling.
His bare feet are light on the sand, and he clocks the other figure long before they're likely to clock him. Astarion can't say he's surprised to see Gale, dressed down and looking beautifully sullen with a near-empty bottle of wine by his side, though he had intended to wash this night away in private. It takes him a moment to pull a mask back on, something exuding the confidence of a sated lover rather than a desperate animal who's locked in on their quarry as he saunters to Gale's side. ]
Isn't it a bit late to be sulking into a bottle all by yourself? Or early, I suppose.
[ It is no small thing, for Gale to feel the stirrings of affection for someone after all this time. Tav is beautiful in her humanity, brilliant in her capacity for tugging truths out of each reluctant party member, even those who don’t deserve her gentle handiwork (himself, chiefly). For the last year and a half, Gale hasn’t had company like this. In truth, he never thought he’d have it again.
(And he knows it can’t last.)
Is it so surprising that he’d gravitate towards her effusive warmth? She’s all soft lines, with visible interest in his stories and audible appreciation for his abilities. Chosen, for the party frontlines and evening chatter. Astarion nips at his heels, however, brought along just as often and far more capable in melee. Tav throws her head back with laughter more and more, with Astarion in the party, and Gale can already imagine the point of his incisors piercing her delicate flesh. Sharp teeth, silver-tongued. All mawkish charm and devilish looks, he knows he doesn’t stand a chance.
And if he isn’t favoured, if she doesn’t adore him the way he might be capable of adoring her, she may yet see fit to dismiss him, upon learning the truth of his affliction. Oh, he and Astarion both share a hunger — the likes of which Gale glimpsed once, as Astarion stretched languidly by the fire, shining eyes flickering to the tanned line of his neck when he tied his hair back — but Gale alone risks total annihilation.
That makes Astarion no less of a predator, mind you, stalking back to camp invigorated by some wildlife or another. With watchful eyes, Gale has spied the newfound strength obvious in the lean lines of his arms. Without a doubt, the man is a charlatan, slinging flirtations at almost every member of their group, even Gale. A droll, insincere: I do so enjoy our walks had him tripping over an exposed root before a dull counter could slide from his tongue.
It should be for the best that Tav has chosen another (for her sake), if only it hadn’t been Astarion she followed into the night. His imagination allows him no peace, images of exactly how his companions spent their time playing behind his eyelids until his older, deeper melancholia overtakes him.
At Astarion’s jibe, Gale jolts and nearly slips from his perch atop a raised rock on the shoreline. Of all the people — ]
I was rather enjoying the view. [ until you soured it implied by his snappish tone and sideways glare. His scowl falters as tired brown eyes rove over tousled hair and flushed skin. Fresh blood in his mouth, no doubt. Gale’s stomach swoops. ]
It’s certainly early for you to be up, after the night you’ve had. [ A glimmer of hope, perhaps, that Tav might view Astarion as a better man for a night of celebration. A fair assumption, really. Even if Gale dared — indulge in anything untoward — he’s out of practice on this plane. ] Though you do look…enlivened.
[ Another flash of her throat bared for his pert mouth, fangs glinting in the moonlight. Like a tawdry novel. His cheeks warm at the thought, and he hopes the red hues of the sunrise might obscure it. ]
[ It’s ridiculous to think of something as ephemeral and precious as affection in terms of points, but, well, Gale knows Astarion has taken the lead. All down to his sterling performance at camp and in the woods, which Gale has the misfortune of recalling in vivid detail. Impossible not to, really, when Astarion makes a habit of flashing his fangs and darting his tongue out to catch the tip of a pointed tooth. Of course he’s good — at that, at the shameless nature of seduction, with how he looks and saunters about. It’s as irritating as it’s always been, except when Gale sees Tav wander off with Astarion, he now knows exactly how they might look together, and it makes something hot twist inside him.
Once, standing stock-still by the fire as they abscond, he recalls the sound Astarion made in the water, the way he arched in the rising sun, droplets following the definition of his stomach, and has to forcibly steer his thoughts elsewhere. Is that what they get up to? No, no, back to more pleasant things, like the horrible ache in his chest or presently inevitable illithid transformation.
In a surprising turn of events, Gale finds himself accruing points in the evenings: Teaching Tav magic with his deft hands and enthusiasm. He wonders, every time, if she means to look at him with such tenderness in her eyes. One night, she sends a message so clear, even he can’t deny it, a vision imprinted on his eyelids. He hates that he thinks of his wretched exchange with Astarion when she smiles up at him impishly. This isn’t an invasion; it’s an invitation.
Astarion must anticipate the danger. The truth of Gale’s condition comes out, and Tav defends him with more warmth than he deserves. In the following days, Gale hates that he can feel Astarion’s eyes on him in the field, watching for any slip up or embarrassment. Hoping, maybe, that he’ll blow himself up with a misstep. Worse, he resents that he finds himself doing the same. Brown eyes track where Astarion disappears and reappears in battle, the way he courts injury by plunging a dagger into the gut of a hulking fighter.
Their bickering picks up at Waukeen’s rest and spikes again after a nasty scuffle with spiders beneath the Blighted Village. In the former instance, Gale douses a nearly-explosive wall (and Astarion beside it) with water. In the latter, Astarion slashes a phase spider that teleports to Gale and covers them both in acid. It’s all ridiculous. Beneath him, as a former archmage and as a suitor.
Or, at least, it seems that way, until they hike into the mountains at Lae’zel’s behest. Neither he nor Astarion are invited to the first few scouting parties, which Shadowheart, Lae’zel and Karlach support to considerable success. When he and Astarion are tasked with coming along to acquire items and solve a puzzle, of all things — he enjoyed it, but it seems a waste of his conservable talent — Gale understands that he’s lost.
He catches Shadowheart’s hand at the small of Tav’s back, tucking her light hair behind her ear, tugging her arm to keep her from danger. It’s then that he realises he was competing in the wrong race. The same one as Astarion, humiliatingly, that would have led him to be a companion for the night and not for long after. Tav is kind enough to pull him aside that evening and declare her appreciation for his friendship. He allows it with a sad smile, promising that nothing need change. They’re close, after all.
And it’s understandable, isn’t it? With the rate of his consumption, his increased need for rest on the road when the pain becomes too much — he can’t be long for this life. A terribly frightening thing to cosnider, but perhaps it would be for the best, if he weren’t slowing his companions down when they venture into the Underdark.
For the night, he allows himself to languish in his foolhardiness. Ever the egoist, assuming he can have things that are far too good for him. Having pilfered a Waterdhavian red from the Kobold-infested cellar that day, he keeps it to himself. After he satisfies his duties as chef, he offers Wyll a flimsy excuse about his desire to collect potion ingredients before nightfall.
As the sun sets, he takes a seat at edge of the monastery’s crumbling roof and uncorks his spoils. No guarantee that he’ll have more evenings like this now, is there. Best to make the most of them, before they clear the crèche and move underground.
In the quiet of the cascading light, he hears the faintest footstep. Recognition tightens his throat, and he lifts his hand to tug the collar of his spiderwebbing robe from his neck, two fingers slipping into the gap. ]
Would it qualify as a truce if we both lost before we bothered to make peace?
[ Astarion gets too cocky. He's bedded thousands over the years with Cazador, the stakes always life and death but his charm and his body work for him. They're all he's ever had.
And on the rare occasions that they haven't, that he failed in acquiring Cazador a meal -- there were scalpels, handsaws, acid and holy water. Rusting nails fixing his palms to the wood of a support beam, the bed of a coffin. Those memories bleed together, vivid, distorted; Astarion feels the panic rise in his throat the further Tav seems to slip from his grasp, and never more plainly than when she defends Gale's place in their party despite his deadly secret.
Astarion thinks of telling Tav that Gale tried to drown him. It's not strictly true, but she doesn't need to know that. Each time he readies for this, as the fire dwindles in the evenings, he snags on the memory of water filling his lungs, filled with the stolen memory of Gale's pleasure and all-encompassing desire. The fury in Gale's eyes and his grip in Astarion's hair, a thread of nastiness in him Astarion is certain he hasn't shown any of their other traveling companions.
He misses his opening, again and again, and he doesn't catch up to the reality that Tav has left him and Gale in the dust until after Gale has. And yet -- she doesn't dismiss either of them from the party. Astarion keeps the truth of his use of her cradled close to his chest, still, not ready to release it; yet still she offers her friendship to him. He fumbles, slightly, in the accepting of it. He doesn't know what to do with such a thing.
Unfortunately, Tav also withdraws the open invitation to have at her neck, for the time being. You can feed during battle, of course, she offers, but their initial survey of the monastery brings kobolds and gremishkas, neither of which is an ideal meal.
Gale makes dinner for the others and Astarion skulks off to find something to ease the ache of his own hunger pangs. The gremishkas had been eating rats, so he ventures to the upper levels that they've already cleared, finds a couple of middling size he can drain. They're a snack, at best. He's irritable by the time he tosses their limp bodies into the ransacked gremishka nest, hears footsteps above him and climbs his way up the tangled vines, knowing who he'll find before he even comes into view.
His animosity for Gale is diffuse tonight, wanting a target for his frustration but not having the energy to fight -- not yet, at least. Astarion creeps quiet up behind him, struck momentarily by the beauty of the setting sun over the mountains; he won't say as much to anyone else, but he hasn't grown tired of it. ]
Oh, but Tav's fickle. I wouldn't say we're done for yet. [ There's no conviction behind Astarion's words, though, the same breezy tone he uses for all his other lies. ]
Give that here. [ The bottle, which Astarion gestures to as he steps beside Gale on the roof's edge. He doesn't even want it, but he wants to place his lips where Gale's just were just to sully the experience for him. ]
[ Astarion never does discover what Gale's tainted blood tastes like. Tav calls them back down for a discussion about the crèche, before they end their day; and Astarion retreats to his tent with rat and stolen wine on his tongue, Gale's offer effectively aborted, for now.
They don't speak of it, and whatever strange moment they'd shared on the roof feels years away by the time they venture underground. Food certainly isn't better, there, but it does exist. Duergar taste earthy - a little fungal, even, darkly funny given the myconid conflict they're asked to step into - and they aren't Astarion's favorite vintage, but beggars can't be choosers.
It was only a matter of time before Tav clocked Gale and Astarion's petty rivalry, and she begins to separate them on missions like they're children. Shadowheart and Karlach are the favored party, with the rest of them shuffled into rotation as needed. Being sidelined doesn't really rankle Astarion, at this juncture; he's not invested in risking his neck for everyone else, so if Tav wants to put the girls on the frontline, all the better for him.
But he can tell it eats at Gale, the way he broods by the fire at camp and perks up like a puppy every time Tav picks him for their mission-of-the-day. And even if Astarion doesn't want to get blown up or body-slammed by bulettes, it is irritating when Gale is determined more useful - and there are more bizarre arcane artifacts in the Underdark than mundane locks to pick.
One evening after dinner, Tav sits down with Gale and a map and they gesture excitedly together about some abandoned arcane tower down here. After they finish this business with the myconid colony, she promises, she's going to bring Gale along to see what's what.
Gale's good mood is annoying enough that Astarion sneaks a peek at the map and, around the lunch hour the next day - when most of them are reading or dozing or kicking the shit out of an illithid punching bag, in Lae'zel's case - Astarion feigns leaving camp for a nibble, and wanders in the direction of the tower. Just to get a look, maybe secure some invaluable intel that will make Tav realize she should bring him along rather than Gale.
The path there is absolutely riddled with fucking mushrooms. Astarion doesn't know what half of them are, but he watches a lizard creep too close to one and promptly explode, setting off three others near by. So he's treading carefully. Sneaking. Which means he's acutely aware that someone else is sneaking behind him.
Has been following him since he left camp, actually. Astarion can't imagine Gale wants to offer his neck today - hasn't let himself imagine it since that evening on the monastery roof, so as not to feel anything resembling disappointment or gods forbid yearning in relation to Gale - and so he is likely just here to chide him for being naughty. Or off his competition for slot number three in Tav's favor.
Astarion doesn't turn around yet, just calls back behind him all sing-song, ]
Are you keeping notes on my whereabouts for teacher? [ He does turn, then, spotting Gale not far behind, after having to drop from a ledge to catch up. Astarion twirls one of his daggers in hand, facing Gale and taking a few meandering steps backward. He's aware of the mushrooms around him, and doesn't intend to back into one, but it's fun to make the wizard sweat. ] Should I ask you for a permission slip next time I leave camp?
[ Nothing happens atop the roof, despite how Astarion’s fangs had peaked out from his parted lips — how he professed curiosity with hooded eyes. An image that recurs as he tucks into his bedroll for the night (and several knights after that). Foolish, human instincts, the fondness of prey towards predator that allows the cycle of life to roll onward. Memories softened by the red wine blurring their edges. Nevermind that Astarion was closer to him than anyone has been since, well — their bout in the river — and before that —
As such, there’s nothing to speak of. That’s what Gale tells himself when Astarion doesn’t so much as glance his way the following morning, or the evening after that, only deigning to pay attention to him when he’s done something suitably irritating in battle or blown their cover with a creak of his knees. The latter issue persists now, as Gale jumps from the ledge he’d lingered on to the ground below, steadying himself with outstretched arms. Best not to waste a misty step needlessly, but oof.
He hadn’t intended to follow Astarion, not really. He hadn’t even intended to watch him tidy his camp earlier, rearranging his magpie’s hoard. In his studiousness, Gale had seen him pocket a piece of parchment without knowing what, exactly, his slender hands pilfered, and if he wanted to embarrass their wretched little thief in front of Tav, he need only exclaim as much. Instead, he finds himself trotting along after their intractable rogue, following the very path he’d charted earlier, so that even when Astarion dips out of sight, Gale catches up with him. His clever mind has already begun working up a theory to explain this excursion, when Astarion interrupts his thoughts by calling out.
Shit, he thinks, having the decency to look chagrined even as he counters, ]
Should I be? [ Keeping notes, reporting to Tav. Hadn’t Astarion done the same? Once, when they watched the monastery sun dip low. ]
Why, you seem rather eager for me to accuse you, Astarion. [ wagging a finger, ] A guilty conscience, perhaps.
[ Gale isn’t the sort to attend a place like this, all low light and enticing whispers. Not out of any sort of judgment, mind, more a lack of interest — he so rarely falls for others, crawling from one all-consuming devotion to the next. His latest (and greatest) folly has been over for year now, though the damage it wrought remains, dual pangs in his chest and heart. Dates end before they start. Set-ups fizzle out. Few support him through it, and the ones continue to do so have finally tired of his melancholy. Fair enough, he supposes, with his heavy gaze weighing them down, and dour asides sapping the verve from many a conversation.
When he agrees to this — an attempt at breaking his rut — hands grasp his shoulder, encouraging, and he briefly thinks it will be good for him, after all. Nice, to be close to another warm-blooded creature, after sequestering himself for months. A hope he clings to right up until a hostess places a delicate hand in his, guiding him to his room and brushing her lips over his earring. She lilts a reminder of all that’s been paid for, all he could enjoy, in his ear. His stomach flips, not anticipatory but uneasy. He can leave at any moment, he knows, but he’d hate to let the others down — or waste someone’s time. Gods, he ought to have cancelled earlier, rather than inconvenience someone terribly.
When he enters the suite, the door clicking shut behind him, he sees a lithe figure slipping off their outermost layer, silver hair stark against the warm hues of the decadent room. A lush four poster, a sizeable bookshelf (for what purpose?) enough of a bath to welcome two or three or — he lifts a hand to his face, one eye peaking through the vee of his fore and ringfinger. ]
Ah, you don’t have to — apologies.
[ Already flustered, which bodes well for the night, doesn’t it. Gale dresses smartly, if unassuming. A tailored waistcoat of rich plum meets dark trousers. The dip in his starched collar exposes a faint trail of chest hair and a lined, circular tattoo, almost iridescent in the near dark. ]
[ Dalyria tells Astarion that tonight's client should be easy: a human whose friends booked him for the full night, no special requests. Astarion knows better than to think that means easy —— more likely he'll wait until they're behind closed doors to share his nastier proclivities, and they'll have to see if the dungeon is free.
Best case scenario, he'll be snoring by midnight and Astarion will be able to settle in with a book until morning.
Astarion's securing a red-jeweled earring, still wearing his dark velvet dressing gown just before the door clicks open. He slips out of the dressing gown before turning to look at his client of the night, knowing how effective the reveal for this particular outfit is from the back: a black-and-gold embroidered corset and top with billowing white sleeves, cinched at the wrist. He's considerably less covered on the bottom, just a thong and garter set dripping with red jewels, holding up sheer white stockings.
Astarion turns, expecting the man to be gaping like a fish as they all do, and instead he —— appears to be covering his eyes. He blinks a moment, assessing his quarry: mid-30s, handsome? (difficult to really tell behind the back of his hand), dressed like he has the money to pay for whatever he likes without necessarily flaunting it.
Astarion's gaze flicks to the tattoo, mildly intrigued but not enough to linger there, before crossing the room, all perfumed smiles as he takes the hand Gale doesn't have over his eyes, clasping it between his own.
Smoothly, ]
Don't worry, darling. We have all night to discuss whatever you need. [ Astarion wonders if they've sent him a virgin —— not unusual, and all the more likely to be done quick and passed out early in the evening. He trails a manicured finger down the hint of exposed skin beneath his collarbone, tilting his head. ] Whatever you desire.
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corporeity) wrote2023-12-15 07:38 pm
for exsangue.
Everyone else seems rather chipper in the greenery and sunshine. Lae’zel tsks as he wanders to the fire, but he assumes there’s a sliver of appreciation for his presence in general, given her annoyance that he failed to cook breakfast for the first time since their journey began.
Initially, he plans to eschew Astarion’s gaze. Gale may not be the one in debt, but he’d been — desperate, in all things. Quick to follow, eager to please. Besides, he doesn’t have the faintest idea how to handle the shift between them.
When Tav invites him to join the adventuring party, he should decline, pinning the blame squarely on his hunger (rather than his ill-advised blood donation, concealed by his high collar). Can’t help but chafe against helplessness, however, so he abandons his plans to rest and avoid Astarion both. It’s furtive glances from then on (ridiculous but unavoidable, for a person with as little restraint as Gale Dekarios). At one point, he thinks Astarion catches him fingering the punctures at his neck (not his earring, not today), or maybe he catches Astarion looking his way.
In the end, it’s for the best that he acquiesced, since he ends up putting out literal fires at Waukeen’s Rest. Nevermind that he’s so light-headed after their daring rescues that he misses news of Duke Ravengard entirely and has to be informed by Shadowheart on the walk back to camp. Perhaps that’s why she volunteers to cook in his stead, slinging a tease about variety his way. It means he can slump by the riverside while the others gather round the fire. A relief, when his veins are surely boiling, Netherese fire hollowing his ribs. ]
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Gale, meanwhile, looks far worse in the light of day than he did last night. Astarion doesn't feel any guilt about blood freely given and happily taken, though he does wonder at the wisdom of Tav bringing Gale along when he looks one errant crossbow dart away from fainting on them all.
He's also very obviously avoiding Astarion, which might be funny if it didn't sting a little. Of course Gale must regret their arrangement; only desperate men make deals with vampires. Through the haze of smoke, Astarion catches the glint of Gale's earring as he lifts his fingers to press at the puncture marks, and Astarion has to flick his own gaze away, tongue soothing over a fang as he remembers the taste of him, the feeling of him.
All things equal, Astarion prefers pilfering chests that aren't on fire, but beggars can't be choosers. He had--perhaps naively--envisioned walking away with a veritable buffet of arcane goods for Gale to feast on (and possibly a few to keep for himself). Instead, he only manages two today: a pair of leather bracers and a gemstone necklace off the charred corpse of a Flaming Fist.
They all smell like ash and viscera by the end of the day. Astarion watches Gale skulk away from the campfire, and Shadowheart gives Astarion the barest quirk of a brow when he slips away to follow, offering her a flash of teeth in return.
Astarion knows he's quiet as death, padding up behind Gale where he sits on the riverbank. Gale's been jumpy all day, so Astarion, of course, is going to press that button rather than leave it be, only speaking once he's practically at Gale's ear. ]
Come by my tent after dinner, will you?
[ He's fastened the necklace just under the collar of his shirt, a pretty blue gem that sits in the dip of his collarbone, flashes just so in the moonlight as he thumbs the laces of his shirt. Astarion's half-tempted to keep this one for himself once he figures out what it does, honestly. ]
Unless you don't care to be discreet about this.
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In his addled state, Astarion’s invitation invokes how last night ended first — before he recalls his devil’s bargain. A crackle in the air draws his focus as he turns to meet Astarion, eyes quickly dropping to his throat. Oh. Dawning realisation, yawning hunger. It’s immediately clear that the arcane ache, not the blood-loss, slowed him today. ]
[ snappish, ] I’m not so insatiable. [ Oh, but he is, discretion forgotten. He reaches out on instinct, only stopping when his fingers brush Astarion’s cool skin to curl under the bright stone — overcome with the longing to consume, to devour. The orb shudders in his chest. It must be satisfied. Eyes glassy, he fantasises about yanking the necklace free of Astarion’s neck in his desperation (and of leveraging it to lean in for another kiss, like he failed to do last night).
In the end, he does neither, a tremor running down to the tips of his fingers. ]
Where’d you find this?
[ It’s a hushed, near reverent question. He can taste the Weave in his mouth as his thumb brushes over the set of the stone. The necklace is the fine work of a clever mage, infused with a spell of its own. A potent stopper for the cataclysm in his chest. A potential asset, if their other companions have spied it. ]
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i know i said the bracers were leather in a previous tag but i forgot so i am retconning
this is the new reality this is how it has always been
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Tav finds an arcane tower below the surface, which of course means the magic users are marched to investigate while Astarion is left with Lae'zel and Karlach to sharpen their blades and sort the party's rations. The monotony and the nervous twist in his gut are both miserable.
It also means he hasn't had a chance to loot anything fresh for Gale, nor has he been able to feed properly. Astarion's own hunger pangs are staved enough by the occasional bat and lizard, and he has to hope Tav will cede something from the party cache if Gale's catches up to him while they're gone.
Which additionally means Astarion is worried about Gale, beyond just considering him an asset. Which is part of the whole problem.
Finally, Astarion's roped into a short scouting venture while Gale is left behind to rest. They ambush a duergar camp, and Astarion returns aching and covered in blood, one bejeweled arcane ring slipped into his pack. By some small blessing, their own camp is near a warm underground mineral spring--perfectly safe, according to Halsin--and seeing as Astarion doesn't need to eat with the rest of them, he slips off to rinse himself of viscera.
He sheds his armor at his tent and most of the rest of his clothes along the way, down to his underwear by the time he realizes he's not the only one in for an evening bath. There isn't much room for modesty in the great outdoors (or great underground, as it were), so most of them have shared the bracing river topside at a polite distance apart.
Somehow, Astarion and Gale haven't yet. Different sleep rhythms, maybe, what with Astarion not actually needing any. But here he finds himself at the edge of a steamy spring, lit only by the strange bioluminescent plants of the Underdark, staring at Gale's naked back a few yards from him. Their first time alone in days.
Astarion knows how to be quiet, stick to the shadows; he could slip back to camp before Gale even had a chance to turn around and see that he has company. A week or two ago, he likely would have done just that and dealt with his own smell in the morning. But Astarion is tired, and--he's missed him, he realizes with an uncomfortable pang, and they do need to talk. And this is a terrible place for it, with Gale very naked and Astarion nearly there, but it's not like they have many better options down here. So Astarion clears his throat from the rock he's perched on at the edge of the spring, not shedding the last of his meager modesty just yet. ]
Mind if I join you? I'll try not to get blood all over your side of the bath.
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The first day after, Gale thinks he’s gotten away with the marks at his throat, until Lae’zel “compliments” his spell-casting against a bulette, suggesting that he indulge his carnal desires more often, if it improves his performance in the field so. Later, when Shadowheart falls into step beside him on their walk to the arcane tower, she asks him how it felt to kneel at another altar, and he nearly stumbles into a chasm. (Before he notices a flicker of unease in her eyes: They’re the only two people of faith in the party, he surmises, and if his most unshakable, undying devotion should falter... He assures her his prayers to Mystra have remained as they were before, a constant, a comfort. For his efforts, he receives a dry: Your goddess is a different sort of mistress than mine. Although she offers to heal the marks, he declines.)
Each night, when Astarion slinks off as he prepares the dinner, Gale watches him leave. With their divergent duties, there’s no time to talk, let alone offer his neck, to Astarion. He tells himself that’s good, that it allows his companion time to review the encounter on his own terms, but Gale longs to dip into those curls again and unspool Astarion’s tangled thoughts with a deft hand. He concluded back then that the dismissal wasn’t to do with him, but a thread of insecurity threatens to make it so. Besides, he can’t help but worry about the nature and quality of food hunted in the Underdark.
At the spring, Gale folds his clothes neatly on the rocky outcropping (beside his modest collection of soaps) and swiftly finds some relief. The hunger pangs have started anew, faster than they ever have before. A sign that the orb is gaining power as he loses it, marching inexorably toward his end. He dares to ask Mystra why in his nightly prayers and receives no answer.
Best not to think of that now, with heat surrounding him — and a familiar voice behind him. His back straightens, muscles tensing as the water runs rivulets down his spine. Unable to stop himself, he looks over his shoulder at Astarion. Oh, that’s a new ache, fond and wanting. A desire to have Astarion near again that lifts the set of his eyes and curve of his brows. ]
Not yours, I hope. [ His gaze flickers over Astarion’s person, checking for injuries. If he happens to notice just how lithe Astarion is, well — between the heat of the water and the sudden realisation of what he’s done, colour rises up his chest to settle high on his cheeks. He turns away again, busying himself with an attempt to tie his hair back, for want of anything else to do with his hands. ] Please — this spring is big enough for the two of us, and you’ll appreciate its warmth even more than I, though not by much.
[ He succeeds in tying his waves in a loose knot at the nape of his neck, any missing strands plastered to his skin by the steam. He hazards another glance over his arm, trying not to look hopeful at the sight of Astarion so near. His earring glints blue in the strange light, still secure above the twin scars of Astarion’s true bite. ]
I take it the duergar were not open to diplomacy. To be expected, with their taste for conquering. And having seen what carnage they inflicted on the Myconids, I can’t say I’m disappointed.
[ Gale doesn’t savour violence the way that some of their group do, but he can appreciate its necessity, in matters such as these. ]
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Not much is mine. [ After a cleared throat, peeling out of his underwear and slipping into the warm green water. Astarion is losing his touch; normally he'd make a show of it, call attention to the way Gale's cheeks went pink, stretch his muscles under this flattering lamp-glow luminescence. It's not that he's ungraceful, but he feels figuratively stripped down after their last encounter and the subsequent space between, not quite up to the task of performing the rake.
Shadowheart patched them up well enough, but he still won't fully heal until he's rested, and Astarion feels the sting of an open slice on his ribs as it hits the water, aware also of a cut on his cheekbone. He'll have a better sense of the lay of the land once he cleans the rest away.
He didn't think to bring his own soap, but much of the blood lifts from his skin with a gentle sweep of cupped hands through the water, turning it pink around him. It's a task that keeps him from staring openly at Gale, for the moment. ]
Talking didn't get us far, no. [ After he's plunged his head beneath the water and re-emerged, slicked his hair back out of his eyes and blinked the water from his lashes, his feet bringing him a few steps closer to Gale. Normally the carnage would have sated something in Astarion, but it did little for him today. ]
It does mean I found you something, though. For later.
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Nobility is much higher stakes. Reckless quarry, the kind that would earn him at least a month in the kennel for his carelessness, but Astarion is running, and now that he's made it this far south he needs protection. He trusts no one to keep him safe, but coin and power are their own kind of safety. If he can weasel into some fop's good graces and then rob them blind, all the better.
Astarion holes up at Silavene's, where people are loose with their money and their tongues, and finds himself a human who's easy to ply with a little drink and nimble fingers. The winter festival of Simril is tomorrow night, and he has secured an invitation to the Melshimber family's estate in the Sea Ward. Astarion knows nothing of these people and cares even less, but a family of sages and vintners is likely to have books, scrolls, and bottles that will sell for decent coin on the black market.
And so he becomes this sad, lonely man's plus one to a fête that will hopefully be worth a little effort. The festival, and the Melshimbers' party, are an all-night affair; most Waterdhavians huddle on the beach to watch the stars, but the Melshimbers have an unobstructed view of the sea from their sweeping balconies and sprawling gardens, providing wine and warmth for only the most prestigious guests to wish upon their lucky stars. Astarion presumes, with most of the activity happening outside, there will be plenty of halls to wander and trinkets to pilfer.
Thankfully, Astarion manages to slip away from his patron almost immediately once they get in the door. Cazador has hosted gauche parties of his own, and Astarion expects something similar of the Waterdhavian elite, but the estate itself is... Well, if there were any romance left in his undead heart, he might call it romantic. All tasteful stone fountains and trellises covered in ivy, guests huddled around elegant braziers throughout the garden. It's a moonless night, perfect for star-gazing and also perfect for Astarion to slip through a servants' door and up the winding stairs in the dark.
He doesn't know the layout of this estate, but that shouldn't be a problem. Astarion finds himself in a long, low-lit corridor, quiet as a cat as he pushes open a large set of double doors that were already ajar.
It seems he's found a library, and it also seems he's not alone. There's a fire lit in the hearth, and a man standing by one of the two-story shelves- unfortunately in full view of the door, so Astarion is better off playing lost party guest than pretending he was never here. ]
Oh, I am so sorry. [ Astarion leans against the door, one hand lifting to the collar of the dark silk tunic beneath his embroidered jacket. ] Corelius tasked me with bringing up another bottle of the 1423 vintage, and I've clearly lost my way to the cellar.
[ He knows he's pretty enough that most people won't question why he's made it to the top floor while looking for the wine cellar, and hopes this gentleman he's stumbled upon is most people. ]
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If Gale was so easy to discard after his years of service and devotion, this replacement will be even easier to depose. He is no one. An upstart. A child. If Gale can find the right spell, the rarest arcane treasure to lay at her delicate feet, he will regain Mystra’s favour.
In his dreams, it’s as though he never lost it, glimpses of her pale shoulder, draped in Weave; the warmth of purest magic washing over his skin at her every touch — and aching emptiness, on waking in the dark of his chambers, alone but for Tara curled on the corner of his velvet bedspread.
His mother appears altogether too pleased by his return, telling him how much the family has needed him here, far more than that wretched woman. Goddess, he reminds her, and she realises he hasn’t returned to Waterdeep by choice. News of his homecoming travels fast in their lofty circles. He is, after all, one of the last unmarried nobles of his age — despite Morena’s best (and ongoing) efforts. He ignores every invitation to take the airs in the gardens or attend the countless events leading up to tonight. One particularly enterprising young woman ambushes him at Curious Past, while he’s browsing the antiquarian selection. It’s a rather impressive set-up, until he asks what brings her here. Rather than name a single marvellous item, she says, you, of course.
After that, Gale devotes his lonely days to research, leaving his tower less and less. Three months into his return, he gains a new, decidedly less charming, reputation as a recluse. It is only his mother’s sincere request, uttered low as she bends over their clasped hands, that convinces him he must indulge her, just for tonight. Lost in the wet sheen of concern in her brown eyes, he acquiesces to joining her at the fête. And smartening up, dear, she adds impishly, with a tap to his untidy beard.
Much to Morena and Tara’s disappointment, he does not, in fact, shave his beard, but he does trim it properly. It’s dignified, he assures Tara as she grumbles. As an apology, he tucks half his hair up into a tidy bun. More warmly received is the brocade waistcoat in the deep purple of his family’s house. A stark contrast to the white silk of his undershirt. At the very least, he’s dressed the part for tonight, though his stamina leaves something to be desired.
It takes hours of dancing and polite conversation for Gale to escape the fête. Morena ensured his dance card was full before he set foot on the floor. The lovely Lady Hani had him by the arm in seconds, cooing something altogether too flattering about his last academic article to be true. It’s a blur of pleasantries after that, although he distinctly recalls stepping on some visiting noble’s foot. Not on purpose, mind, but it does provide him the opportunity to disappear under the guise of pursuing his dashing partner to beg forgiveness. It helps that he knows the Melshimbers estate as if it were his own, having played here as a boy and explored its gardens, passages and depths with the zeal of an intrepid explorer.
No one will venture up to the library, when it affords a pitiful view of the stars.
Except someone does, an elvish dandy with an exceptionally light tread. Gale only catches him because he happens to be looking up from the book in his hand, frozen where he stands. His eyes widen a fraction, a tell that he shouldn’t be there either, before he blinks away his surprise. His reply comes automatically, without thought. ]
Perhaps you forgot that a cellar lies below, traditionally. From the Old Elvish, cellarium, pertaining to a group of cells underground.
[ Once he shelves his book, Gale’s gaze sharpens, sweeping up and down Astarion with analytical precision instead of fleeting interest. Whatever he notices makes him frown, and he looses an exhausted exhale. ]
If you’ve been tasked with drawing me back to the party, [ By playing the handsome fool and asking after his help in the cellar. ] you have my sincerest apologies.
[ This one is prettier than the last, with dark eyes that hold his focus a moment too long (the red impossible to place between claret and crimson; that’s all). Gale drags his attention back, ducking his head as he works on removing one gold cufflink and then the other. He walks to a low table by the hearth, his dinner jacket already draped over the adjacent armchair, and deposits the links with a satisfying clink. Upon closer inspection, each is engraved with his house sigil: The waxing moon of Waterdeep tucked inside a seven pointed star. Without pausing, he begins to roll his sleeves to his elbows. Mildly — ] You can wait here a moment, if you’d like to give the appearance of a dedicated effort, [ a dismissive wave of his hand. ] but I suggest you save your energy for a more willing suitor.
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An adjustment of tactics is easy enough. Entirely possible this man won't be interested - because for all of Astarion's charms, they aren't always womanly enough for some tastes - but if he won't bat an eye at Astarion casing the house, that will also work just fine.
He is handsome, though. Astarion does manage to hold his gaze a moment longer than most men who aren't of their persuasion, and he turns a keen eye to his discarded cufflinks and jacket. Were they in Baldur's Gate, Astarion might recognize the house, but as it stands all he can smell is wealth. Might be worth swiping the cufflinks before he leaves the room. ]
Ah. I see we've both been caught somewhere we're not supposed to be. [ Astarion's body language shifts as he nudges the door quietly shut with his hip, offering a conspiratorial smile rather than a hapless one. ] I found myself in need of some fresh air from the...well, fresh air. [ He flutters a hand as he sheds his outer jacket as if he were over-warm here, with the fire going: black as pitch with gold embroidery and buttons, the inner lining one of soft white fur.
His shirt ties at his neck, with ruffled collar and billowing sleeves, but the black silk is sheer, revealing plenty for those who wish to look. Astarion strides properly into the room, drapes his jacket over the back of a plush chaise and tips his head toward the shelves that surround them, indicating the books are also what he's here for. Which isn't entirely a lie. ]
Shall we be naughty in companionable quiet, then?
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fin.
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With Astarion’s help, he feeds his arcane hunger more frequently than ever before — and it’s not enough, the ache yawning ever wider, like to consume him, too. Even so, there’s a glimmer of hope in the companionship.
It’s the tell that this peace is a mirage, like the snag in an imperfect illusion.
At the edge of the Shadow Cursed lands, Elminster not only sees how far his pupil has fallen (shame coming off him in waves), but also knows the true depths of his folly, as told by Mystra herself. Only Tav joins their conversation in camp. Lae’zel notes that Gale reeks of fear when she joins the others, though the dig almost veers into concern.
There is hope for you yet, dear boy. Forgiveness dangles beyond a jagged ledge, all he’s ever wanted in the agonising months since he lost his power and purpose both. He would do anything for it, for her, all higher thought forgotten until — you’re asking him to die! Tav breaks the trance, incandescent with rage on his behalf. The rest of the conversation passes in a haze of tension, terse barbs exchanged even as Elminster makes good on his promise to stop the orb’s advance. A stray thought: If Mystra could have saved him all along, her beloved, her Chosen… why hadn’t she?
No, he was going to die one way or another, wasn’t he? For his mistakes. Better it be in the service of something greater. Then, he wouldn’t be forgotten.
Without a word to the others, he disappears to spend the night alone on the steps of the monastery, staring up at the stars. Word travels fast at camp in his absence. Fortuitous, for once, when he’d rather not see their faces on learning of his imminent demise.
In the morning, the only thing he says to Astarion before they journey into the darkness is an upbeat, You won’t need to waste your spoils on me any longer. It’s the last positive thing on his mind, as the shadows encroach. A place rotted by blackest weave, shrouded from Mystra’s shining eyes. At their first camp in this wretched place, Gale doesn’t sleep. He casts and upholds light through the night, only relieved by Wyll in the morning.
The Last Light Inn provides a true reprieve. Well, after an interrogation and a rather depressing reunion with the tieflings. At the end of the day, Gale finds himself nodding off in an armchair as the others celebrate the prospect of beds. When he blinks awake, only Astarion remains. ]
Oh, gods. [ Gale massages the taut line of his neck, sore from the angle of his dozing, and glances around blearily. There isn’t a Harper in sight. Even Rolan has given up on drinking himself into a stupor and vanished. Voice rough with sleep, ] How long was I out?
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And in truth, he's been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the beginning.
Tav is distraught when Gale's messenger departs their camp, but won't say what happened. Shadowheart is the one who overhears their private revelation, and relays it to Astarion, who feels like he's swallowed his own unbeating heart: Lady Shar would not be so cruel, she says, because this is needless cruelty.
Gale slips from his fingers. He avoids him, no doubt consumed by the thought of one final, meaningful act of devotion to his goddess. The voice in Astarion's mind is Cazador's, always, shadowing him as Gale walks paces ahead through the Shadow-Cursed Lands: You were only a distraction, boy. You are nothing.
Astarion feels the cruel edge wanting to slip back into him, laced with the poison of hurt. When Tav had first asked Astarion what they should do about Gale, barely a week into traveling together before the orb's hunger made itself known, Astarion had been casual in that cruelty: toss him into a chasm, leave him in the Underdark to detonate far from all of us. He was not an asset worth the risk, in Astarion's mind.
And now Gale is on a true suicide mission, and Astarion is nothing. Mystra is a goddess and Astarion is vampire spawn, undead flesh and stolen blood. They were useful to each other when Gale's death was a precarious thing; his own use has waned, and Gale said so himself. You won't need to waste your spoils on me any longer.
Two can play at the avoidance game. Only Astarion fumbles his hand too easily tonight, intending to sneak away from Gale before he can rouse himself from his armchair. He gets lost, instead, in a self-inflicted wound: imagining the way he would have woken Gale back in the mountains, settling into his lap and threading their fingers together, teasing him gently before guiding him back to one of their tents.
Gale wakes, and Astarion feels like he's been caught at something shameful. There's only a flicker of it on his face before he manages to kill it, harden his expression, standing from his own chair and pacing toward the bar as if he has somewhere to be or someone to speak to, when he very much does not. ]
Not enough for a proper rest. There's a bed waiting for you in there.
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In tandem with the fact that Astarion has no contacts in this city - any he might have known prior to his death are either dead themselves or would expect him to be - this journal may prove more trouble than it's worth. He finally secures a meeting with a Zhent who knows a buyer in Skullport, since any shops topside in Waterdeep will likely know the provenance of the book and get Astarion locked swiftly behind bars.
The Zhent is late, but the Yawning Portal is busy, as always. On the one hand, Astarion prefers not to do business at a landmark like this; on the other, the entrance to Skullport and the Underdark is literally right there, so if their business is conducted swiftly enough he won't have to give a thought to this book ever again.
The cufflinks, of course, were an easier sell, and are paying for his wine tonight. Astarion passes the time with a sweet young thing he can hit up for a bite after he's done with the Zhent, a tiefling adventurer who's already tipsy and drinking up every word as Astarion refills his cup. ]
Waterdeep is known for its rich, sweet reds, you know. Almost as delectable as... Shit. [ He should have known better than to split his focus, because Astarion only catches sight of familiar purple brocade as its wearer is stalking directly toward him. He gets up swiftly, the tiefling blinking up at him as he gathers his bag. ]
Lovely to meet you, enjoy the rest of this bottle on me. [ Except that he does not put down any coin to pay for it, of course, before slipping through the crowd at the bar and attempting to make his way out the back door and onto the street, slowed by the sheer density of people at the Portal tonight. Shit indeed. ]
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One that is much harder to plead at the age of thirty and change — so Gale sweetens the deal with a promise to reclaim the item and return it. Such ventures were typical of his work for Mystra, and he had never failed her. Begrudgingly, he’s allowed to walk free on his word alone.
Casting Locate Object is easy enough, but getting himself within range of said object is much harder. He frequents the taverns best know for travellers and troublemakers, flitting past the Yawming Portal more evenings than he’d like to admit, when the spell zips up his arm, senses slight with the electric sensation of finding.
Gale misty steps just to the left of Astarion as he exits the tavern and snags him by the collar, yanking him back with strength born of adrenaline. It’s harder to manoeuvre him against the cobbled wall of the alley, but he just about manages by leveraging his weight, knee wedged between Astarion’s legs and hands fisted in his shirt. ]
Stealing my lines now, are we? [ clucking his tongue. ]. And using them on a child. Really. [ A young, handsome thing, even more susceptible than Gale had been to false charms. ] Give me a reason not to incinerate you — for instance, that you still have a priceless journal on your person.
[ And, therefore, should not be set alight. ]
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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?
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The tower is beautiful. Astarion wonders, with a small spike of envy, what it's like to live somewhere like this, and it doesn't quite register that he gets to live here, at least for now. It feels like a waking dream, though upholding his end of their arrangement will come with a number of dangers, in the form of unsavory Skullport merchants and all the trappings of the Underdark.
The clothes Astarion wore to the other night's fête were a gift from his escort - which he most certainly kept - but the few others he carried with him from Baldur's Gate are showing signs of age and wear. The nightwear Gale offers him is a deep purple velvet that laces up the chest, expertly made and luxurious; and the room Astarion settles on is the smallest of the guest options, but the Szarr Estate had been grand and still claustrophobic, stifling. This has a plush window nook, which he'll enjoy after dark, a midnight blue chaise and low table by the hearth, a writing desk, and a clawfoot tub. Plenty of reading material, as well, which Astarion wants to snoop, but once Gale leaves him to it he realizes he actually wants to rest. Doesn't entirely know how to, but he does settle himself onto the chaise by the hearth and lets the hours pass.
When he pads into Gale's living space, in a pair of too-big embroidered slippers, he has no idea what hour it is. He's wearing the tunic Gale lent him - slightly too long and wide in the shoulders - with nothing underneath, cinched with its tasseled belt low at the waist. It does cover the important bits, though not by much; Astarion's hair is wild from his nap, and when Gale finally notices him he's reading one of the letters by the hearth ('we so dearly hope you'll join us, your presence has been missed'), the tunic slipping off his shoulder, exposing collarbone. ]
I'd like to think I'm exceptionally good at sneaking. [ Astarion doesn't look up, nor does he seem fussed that he's openly reading Gale's private correspondences. He picks up another, smoothing its folds. ] Not everyone can swap a rare book right under an archmage's nose. Do you think Lady Cressim realizes she's misspelled 'accompany' and 'correspondence' in the same sentence?
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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.
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Astarion would be content to just prowl around Gale's tower indefinitely, but they do have a bargain and this is the less-deadly part of Astarion's end of it. (He's not putting off going to Skullport, exactly, just...temporarily distracted by the splendor of freedom and safety and company he doesn't revile.) And honestly, for all that Astarion would prefer not to navigate the social niceties, he does enjoy getting dolled up. Gale has bought him a red and black number with gold embroidered accents, perfectly tailored and surprisingly comfortable, with black boots made of supple leather and gold at the toe.
They make quite the pair. Gale is handsome with his hair tied back, the dip of bare skin at his throat and collarbone. Astarion lived so long on infrequent feeding at the whims of his master, he's almost forgotten he has a willing throat to drink from. Perhaps when the night is done, as a reward for well-played deception.
And Gale had certainly not undersold how popular he is. Astarion pretends to drink from his flute of wine and offers his devastatingly handsome smile to each of the courtiers he's introduced to as he instantly forgets their names.
It's almost...cute to see his host so animated about the orchestra. Astarion hands his full flute of wine to a passing butler as he takes the stairs with Gale. ]
Well, I may not be Waterdhavian but I am a quick study. [ And then, not bothering to lower his voice given the volume of the orchestra and the people around them: ] Certainly more culture than the blood orgies I'm accustomed to, I'll give you that.
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jealousy o'clock
So he makes himself useful. Indispensable, really. Every cave and crypt is trapped to the hells and back, full of locked chests that require a dextrous touch, and Tav can hardly go anywhere without him.
Nor can she go anywhere without the wizard. At first, Astarion thinks she's just humoring Gale's endless string of anecdotes about magic and Waterdeep and all his favorite books, but soon enough they're accompanying each other on private little strolls around camp after dinner, chaste promenades that happen more often than not.
There's an odd part of Astarion that's -- relieved, maybe, that Tav's attention in that particular arena has been caught by someone else. But another, much louder part that insists his usefulness to her will run dry if she follows this thread with Gale to its conclusion. Already, Astarion's had his lockpicks at hand only for Gale to open a chest with a flash of colored light, a flourish, and a knowing look in his direction.
Astarion can't afford to be cast aside. One night, over a bottle of wine, Shadowheart notes that Tav seems to still be playing the field, despite the way Astarion's vision has narrowed solely to her interest in Gale; Tav has flirted with her, she shares, and has given her fair share of thinly-veiled advances to Wyll as well. No harm in any of it, with which Astarion agrees.
The Grove is a messy, exhausting affair, but Astarion is Tav's second pick for her frontline party, after Gale. Casualties on both sides, but they save more tieflings than they lose, and Astarion catches that heady flush of victory on her face as she embraces her comrades in turn. A party tonight will be perfect, she says with her arms wound around Astarion's neck, and Astarion can't help but agree.
Tav graciously entertains their guests before getting around to her companions, which means she's at least a bottle deep by the time Astarion intercepts her by the fire. She is pretty, Astarion thinks; conventionally so, by human standards. Whether or not she's nice to look at doesn't matter to him, in the end, but he can see why Gale's been casting his big brown puppy dog eyes upon her. Pretty and kind with a talent for drawing people together, while Astarion knows he's only the first of those things.
But Astarion also knows precisely how to turn on the rogueish charm. He's fairly certain no one's directly propositioned her, yet -- and he correctly clocks that that alone excites her. The thrill, the passion of sleeping with the vampire after a major victory! Who could resist?
Naturally, word of his early claim spreads quickly. Astarion doesn't bother listening in on any of her other conversations, but he is curious about Gale: he tucks himself into the shadows, close enough to a small group of tieflings to seem like he's just socializing.
Gale cedes victory for the night, but not without the implication that he's not giving up on her. There's a dark pleasure that skirts across Astarion's shoulders when Gale likens him to a tiger, of all things -- that Gale has been forced to think about Astarion during his courtship with Tav at all.
It would be stupid to tell Gale that it's nothing personal, but for Astarion, it truly isn't. Purely tactical, which is perhaps exactly what Gale is warning Tav against.
Still, she comes to Astarion willingly. Drinks up all of his lines and opens her body to him, just as planned; even gives him the gift of her bare throat. In the afterglow, she tells Astarion she'd rather get back to her bedroll than sleep on the hard ground, which is just as well. They throw their rumpled clothing back on and Astarion pulls her in for one more long, lingering kiss before she stumbles back to camp, grinning at him until she disappears amongst the foliage.
Astarion cuts over to the wooded edge of the river, instead of following. He's buzzed, both from the alcohol in Tav's blood and an adrenaline that's not unlike the urge to run, now that he doesn't have to play for her. It's a discomfiting combination, twisting in his gut, and Astarion follows his body to the shoreline just as dawn threatens to spill over the dark water. Not such a threat, anymore. Still a strange feeling.
His bare feet are light on the sand, and he clocks the other figure long before they're likely to clock him. Astarion can't say he's surprised to see Gale, dressed down and looking beautifully sullen with a near-empty bottle of wine by his side, though he had intended to wash this night away in private. It takes him a moment to pull a mask back on, something exuding the confidence of a sated lover rather than a desperate animal who's locked in on their quarry as he saunters to Gale's side. ]
Isn't it a bit late to be sulking into a bottle all by yourself? Or early, I suppose.
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(And he knows it can’t last.)
Is it so surprising that he’d gravitate towards her effusive warmth? She’s all soft lines, with visible interest in his stories and audible appreciation for his abilities. Chosen, for the party frontlines and evening chatter. Astarion nips at his heels, however, brought along just as often and far more capable in melee. Tav throws her head back with laughter more and more, with Astarion in the party, and Gale can already imagine the point of his incisors piercing her delicate flesh. Sharp teeth, silver-tongued. All mawkish charm and devilish looks, he knows he doesn’t stand a chance.
And if he isn’t favoured, if she doesn’t adore him the way he might be capable of adoring her, she may yet see fit to dismiss him, upon learning the truth of his affliction. Oh, he and Astarion both share a hunger — the likes of which Gale glimpsed once, as Astarion stretched languidly by the fire, shining eyes flickering to the tanned line of his neck when he tied his hair back — but Gale alone risks total annihilation.
That makes Astarion no less of a predator, mind you, stalking back to camp invigorated by some wildlife or another. With watchful eyes, Gale has spied the newfound strength obvious in the lean lines of his arms. Without a doubt, the man is a charlatan, slinging flirtations at almost every member of their group, even Gale. A droll, insincere: I do so enjoy our walks had him tripping over an exposed root before a dull counter could slide from his tongue.
It should be for the best that Tav has chosen another (for her sake), if only it hadn’t been Astarion she followed into the night. His imagination allows him no peace, images of exactly how his companions spent their time playing behind his eyelids until his older, deeper melancholia overtakes him.
At Astarion’s jibe, Gale jolts and nearly slips from his perch atop a raised rock on the shoreline. Of all the people — ]
I was rather enjoying the view. [ until you soured it implied by his snappish tone and sideways glare. His scowl falters as tired brown eyes rove over tousled hair and flushed skin. Fresh blood in his mouth, no doubt. Gale’s stomach swoops. ]
It’s certainly early for you to be up, after the night you’ve had. [ A glimmer of hope, perhaps, that Tav might view Astarion as a better man for a night of celebration. A fair assumption, really. Even if Gale dared — indulge in anything untoward — he’s out of practice on this plane. ] Though you do look…enlivened.
[ Another flash of her throat bared for his pert mouth, fangs glinting in the moonlight. Like a tawdry novel. His cheeks warm at the thought, and he hopes the red hues of the sunrise might obscure it. ]
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so sorry/you're welcome for this ucky face icon
it’s an honour to give an angy cat face back
tru luv
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Once, standing stock-still by the fire as they abscond, he recalls the sound Astarion made in the water, the way he arched in the rising sun, droplets following the definition of his stomach, and has to forcibly steer his thoughts elsewhere. Is that what they get up to? No, no, back to more pleasant things, like the horrible ache in his chest or presently inevitable illithid transformation.
In a surprising turn of events, Gale finds himself accruing points in the evenings: Teaching Tav magic with his deft hands and enthusiasm. He wonders, every time, if she means to look at him with such tenderness in her eyes. One night, she sends a message so clear, even he can’t deny it, a vision imprinted on his eyelids. He hates that he thinks of his wretched exchange with Astarion when she smiles up at him impishly. This isn’t an invasion; it’s an invitation.
Astarion must anticipate the danger. The truth of Gale’s condition comes out, and Tav defends him with more warmth than he deserves. In the following days, Gale hates that he can feel Astarion’s eyes on him in the field, watching for any slip up or embarrassment. Hoping, maybe, that he’ll blow himself up with a misstep. Worse, he resents that he finds himself doing the same. Brown eyes track where Astarion disappears and reappears in battle, the way he courts injury by plunging a dagger into the gut of a hulking fighter.
Their bickering picks up at Waukeen’s rest and spikes again after a nasty scuffle with spiders beneath the Blighted Village. In the former instance, Gale douses a nearly-explosive wall (and Astarion beside it) with water. In the latter, Astarion slashes a phase spider that teleports to Gale and covers them both in acid. It’s all ridiculous. Beneath him, as a former archmage and as a suitor.
Or, at least, it seems that way, until they hike into the mountains at Lae’zel’s behest. Neither he nor Astarion are invited to the first few scouting parties, which Shadowheart, Lae’zel and Karlach support to considerable success. When he and Astarion are tasked with coming along to acquire items and solve a puzzle, of all things — he enjoyed it, but it seems a waste of his conservable talent — Gale understands that he’s lost.
He catches Shadowheart’s hand at the small of Tav’s back, tucking her light hair behind her ear, tugging her arm to keep her from danger. It’s then that he realises he was competing in the wrong race. The same one as Astarion, humiliatingly, that would have led him to be a companion for the night and not for long after. Tav is kind enough to pull him aside that evening and declare her appreciation for his friendship. He allows it with a sad smile, promising that nothing need change. They’re close, after all.
And it’s understandable, isn’t it? With the rate of his consumption, his increased need for rest on the road when the pain becomes too much — he can’t be long for this life. A terribly frightening thing to cosnider, but perhaps it would be for the best, if he weren’t slowing his companions down when they venture into the Underdark.
For the night, he allows himself to languish in his foolhardiness. Ever the egoist, assuming he can have things that are far too good for him. Having pilfered a Waterdhavian red from the Kobold-infested cellar that day, he keeps it to himself. After he satisfies his duties as chef, he offers Wyll a flimsy excuse about his desire to collect potion ingredients before nightfall.
As the sun sets, he takes a seat at edge of the monastery’s crumbling roof and uncorks his spoils. No guarantee that he’ll have more evenings like this now, is there. Best to make the most of them, before they clear the crèche and move underground.
In the quiet of the cascading light, he hears the faintest footstep. Recognition tightens his throat, and he lifts his hand to tug the collar of his spiderwebbing robe from his neck, two fingers slipping into the gap. ]
Would it qualify as a truce if we both lost before we bothered to make peace?
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And on the rare occasions that they haven't, that he failed in acquiring Cazador a meal -- there were scalpels, handsaws, acid and holy water. Rusting nails fixing his palms to the wood of a support beam, the bed of a coffin. Those memories bleed together, vivid, distorted; Astarion feels the panic rise in his throat the further Tav seems to slip from his grasp, and never more plainly than when she defends Gale's place in their party despite his deadly secret.
Astarion thinks of telling Tav that Gale tried to drown him. It's not strictly true, but she doesn't need to know that. Each time he readies for this, as the fire dwindles in the evenings, he snags on the memory of water filling his lungs, filled with the stolen memory of Gale's pleasure and all-encompassing desire. The fury in Gale's eyes and his grip in Astarion's hair, a thread of nastiness in him Astarion is certain he hasn't shown any of their other traveling companions.
He misses his opening, again and again, and he doesn't catch up to the reality that Tav has left him and Gale in the dust until after Gale has. And yet -- she doesn't dismiss either of them from the party. Astarion keeps the truth of his use of her cradled close to his chest, still, not ready to release it; yet still she offers her friendship to him. He fumbles, slightly, in the accepting of it. He doesn't know what to do with such a thing.
Unfortunately, Tav also withdraws the open invitation to have at her neck, for the time being. You can feed during battle, of course, she offers, but their initial survey of the monastery brings kobolds and gremishkas, neither of which is an ideal meal.
Gale makes dinner for the others and Astarion skulks off to find something to ease the ache of his own hunger pangs. The gremishkas had been eating rats, so he ventures to the upper levels that they've already cleared, finds a couple of middling size he can drain. They're a snack, at best. He's irritable by the time he tosses their limp bodies into the ransacked gremishka nest, hears footsteps above him and climbs his way up the tangled vines, knowing who he'll find before he even comes into view.
His animosity for Gale is diffuse tonight, wanting a target for his frustration but not having the energy to fight -- not yet, at least. Astarion creeps quiet up behind him, struck momentarily by the beauty of the setting sun over the mountains; he won't say as much to anyone else, but he hasn't grown tired of it. ]
Oh, but Tav's fickle. I wouldn't say we're done for yet. [ There's no conviction behind Astarion's words, though, the same breezy tone he uses for all his other lies. ]
Give that here. [ The bottle, which Astarion gestures to as he steps beside Gale on the roof's edge. He doesn't even want it, but he wants to place his lips where Gale's just were just to sully the experience for him. ]
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They don't speak of it, and whatever strange moment they'd shared on the roof feels years away by the time they venture underground. Food certainly isn't better, there, but it does exist. Duergar taste earthy - a little fungal, even, darkly funny given the myconid conflict they're asked to step into - and they aren't Astarion's favorite vintage, but beggars can't be choosers.
It was only a matter of time before Tav clocked Gale and Astarion's petty rivalry, and she begins to separate them on missions like they're children. Shadowheart and Karlach are the favored party, with the rest of them shuffled into rotation as needed. Being sidelined doesn't really rankle Astarion, at this juncture; he's not invested in risking his neck for everyone else, so if Tav wants to put the girls on the frontline, all the better for him.
But he can tell it eats at Gale, the way he broods by the fire at camp and perks up like a puppy every time Tav picks him for their mission-of-the-day. And even if Astarion doesn't want to get blown up or body-slammed by bulettes, it is irritating when Gale is determined more useful - and there are more bizarre arcane artifacts in the Underdark than mundane locks to pick.
One evening after dinner, Tav sits down with Gale and a map and they gesture excitedly together about some abandoned arcane tower down here. After they finish this business with the myconid colony, she promises, she's going to bring Gale along to see what's what.
Gale's good mood is annoying enough that Astarion sneaks a peek at the map and, around the lunch hour the next day - when most of them are reading or dozing or kicking the shit out of an illithid punching bag, in Lae'zel's case - Astarion feigns leaving camp for a nibble, and wanders in the direction of the tower. Just to get a look, maybe secure some invaluable intel that will make Tav realize she should bring him along rather than Gale.
The path there is absolutely riddled with fucking mushrooms. Astarion doesn't know what half of them are, but he watches a lizard creep too close to one and promptly explode, setting off three others near by. So he's treading carefully. Sneaking. Which means he's acutely aware that someone else is sneaking behind him.
Has been following him since he left camp, actually. Astarion can't imagine Gale wants to offer his neck today - hasn't let himself imagine it since that evening on the monastery roof, so as not to feel anything resembling disappointment or gods forbid yearning in relation to Gale - and so he is likely just here to chide him for being naughty. Or off his competition for slot number three in Tav's favor.
Astarion doesn't turn around yet, just calls back behind him all sing-song, ]
Are you keeping notes on my whereabouts for teacher? [ He does turn, then, spotting Gale not far behind, after having to drop from a ledge to catch up. Astarion twirls one of his daggers in hand, facing Gale and taking a few meandering steps backward. He's aware of the mushrooms around him, and doesn't intend to back into one, but it's fun to make the wizard sweat. ] Should I ask you for a permission slip next time I leave camp?
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As such, there’s nothing to speak of. That’s what Gale tells himself when Astarion doesn’t so much as glance his way the following morning, or the evening after that, only deigning to pay attention to him when he’s done something suitably irritating in battle or blown their cover with a creak of his knees. The latter issue persists now, as Gale jumps from the ledge he’d lingered on to the ground below, steadying himself with outstretched arms. Best not to waste a misty step needlessly, but oof.
He hadn’t intended to follow Astarion, not really. He hadn’t even intended to watch him tidy his camp earlier, rearranging his magpie’s hoard. In his studiousness, Gale had seen him pocket a piece of parchment without knowing what, exactly, his slender hands pilfered, and if he wanted to embarrass their wretched little thief in front of Tav, he need only exclaim as much. Instead, he finds himself trotting along after their intractable rogue, following the very path he’d charted earlier, so that even when Astarion dips out of sight, Gale catches up with him. His clever mind has already begun working up a theory to explain this excursion, when Astarion interrupts his thoughts by calling
out.
Shit, he thinks, having the decency to look chagrined even as he counters, ]
Should I be? [ Keeping notes, reporting to Tav. Hadn’t Astarion done the same? Once, when they watched the monastery sun dip low. ]
Why, you seem rather eager for me to accuse you, Astarion. [ wagging a finger, ] A guilty conscience, perhaps.
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cant believe i dont have a good icon for falling down a mushroom hole
HUGE OVERSIGHT
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WALKING DOWN THE STREET.
When he agrees to this — an attempt at breaking his rut — hands grasp his shoulder, encouraging, and he briefly thinks it will be good for him, after all. Nice, to be close to another warm-blooded creature, after sequestering himself for months. A hope he clings to right up until a hostess places a delicate hand in his, guiding him to his room and brushing her lips over his earring. She lilts a reminder of all that’s been paid for, all he could enjoy, in his ear. His stomach flips, not anticipatory but uneasy. He can leave at any moment, he knows, but he’d hate to let the others down — or waste someone’s time. Gods, he ought to have cancelled earlier, rather than inconvenience someone terribly.
When he enters the suite, the door clicking shut behind him, he sees a lithe figure slipping off their outermost layer, silver hair stark against the warm hues of the decadent room. A lush four poster, a sizeable bookshelf (for what purpose?) enough of a bath to welcome two or three or — he lifts a hand to his face, one eye peaking through the vee of his fore and ringfinger. ]
Ah, you don’t have to — apologies.
[ Already flustered, which bodes well for the night, doesn’t it. Gale dresses smartly, if unassuming. A tailored waistcoat of rich plum meets dark trousers. The dip in his starched collar exposes a faint trail of chest hair and a lined, circular tattoo, almost iridescent in the near dark. ]
—I meant to call ahead.
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Best case scenario, he'll be snoring by midnight and Astarion will be able to settle in with a book until morning.
Astarion's securing a red-jeweled earring, still wearing his dark velvet dressing gown just before the door clicks open. He slips out of the dressing gown before turning to look at his client of the night, knowing how effective the reveal for this particular outfit is from the back: a black-and-gold embroidered corset and top with billowing white sleeves, cinched at the wrist. He's considerably less covered on the bottom, just a thong and garter set dripping with red jewels, holding up sheer white stockings.
Astarion turns, expecting the man to be gaping like a fish as they all do, and instead he —— appears to be covering his eyes. He blinks a moment, assessing his quarry: mid-30s, handsome? (difficult to really tell behind the back of his hand), dressed like he has the money to pay for whatever he likes without necessarily flaunting it.
Astarion's gaze flicks to the tattoo, mildly intrigued but not enough to linger there, before crossing the room, all perfumed smiles as he takes the hand Gale doesn't have over his eyes, clasping it between his own.
Smoothly, ]
Don't worry, darling. We have all night to discuss whatever you need. [ Astarion wonders if they've sent him a virgin —— not unusual, and all the more likely to be done quick and passed out early in the evening. He trails a manicured finger down the hint of exposed skin beneath his collarbone, tilting his head. ] Whatever you desire.