corporeity | PSL — EXSANGUE

[ 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.

[ And, therefore, should not be set alight. ]

Edited 2024-01-01 22:09 (UTC)

[ Maybe Astarion's gotten a little clumsy, far from home as he is. There is - was, he wants to correct - no room for error with Cazador. If a noble came after the Szarr house because of Astarion's sticky fingers, Astarion would be left to sizzle in front of an open window for months. Not enough sunlight to kill him, but more than enough to have to knit his own skin back together each night.

He's not afraid of Gale the same way, not by leagues, though it's also true he doesn't know the extent of his spellcasting prowess. Still, Astarion huffs a laugh that hitches with the knee slotted between his legs and the clench of fingers in the fabric of his shirt, seeing a brief veil of stars from his skull knocking against stone. ]

Was that a line, then? I wasn't so sure you swung my way. [ Purred long enough for Astarion to maneuver one hand to the sheathe at his thigh, the point of a poison-tipped dagger pressed just beneath Gale's ribs. ]

I do. [ Slowly, not pressing the tip in, but ensuring Gale can feel it. He flicks his tongue over a fang, tipping his head back so Gale can see the unnatural point of his teeth in the lamplight of the adjacent street. ] But we may want to put a price on it, if you know what's good for you.

[ Gale drags his eyes up the lovely column of Astarion’s throat, the sharp set of jaw, and swallows hard. This man is a charlatan, a thief, and not a word he said that wretched evening is to be trusted. He ignores the question regarding his proclivities — thinking, spitefully, that Waterdhavians are more open-minded than others.

He feels the point of the dagger before realises what it is, breath catching on an inhale. Shit, how foolish he’d been to forgo the advantage of distance in the name of pettiness. ]

Are you so sure everyone of your persuasion would find you charming? [ Brows arched as his tongue darts out. Sharp. Quick. A retreat would show weakness and beg for a cut, so Gale presses closer, the dagger tearing the fine fabric of his waistcoat but not the chemise underneath.

The fangs provide the missing piece, a picture of this reckless rake fully-formed. A vampire would never let him this close, so he must be a spawn. If Astarion can be believed, the person who kept him on a tight leash is the true master. Now that’s interesting.

And still he barters, when he should beg. Gale barks a startled laugh, at the brazen insolence. ]

Were my gold cufflinks not enough for you, spawn? Would you like my signet ring? My fine clothes? To tear the silver from my ear with your sharp teeth?

[ No wonder he looked so unreal in the firelight. The captivating guise of a predator; nothing more. ]

[ Astarion is surprised Gale presses closer instead of folding, but not unpleasantly so. This, strangely, is something to focus on that isn't just running or the terrifying mundanity of survival: it's the sharp thrill of it instead.

Spawn nearly rankles him. Astarion just manages to dodge showing visible displeasure, realizing he'd underestimated this man's wits. Not that it takes a sage to tell a vampire lord from their spawn, but most people back off when vampire alone comes into play. ]

Now we're properly flirting. [ Astarion just smiles with teeth at the bait, keeping a firm grip on his dagger as a pair of drunk patrons stumble past them down the alley; paying them little heed, but the fact that they're in a busy part of town does work in Astarion's favor. ]

I doubt you want to cause a scene where people could identify you, Master Dekarios. [ His voice low, gambling on what little Gale revealed to him the other night: eligible bachelor, well-known about town. Presumably well-liked, though that's not a given despite the number of women vying for his attention the other night. And he hasn't bothered to disguise himself tonight - common folly of the rich. ]

Why don't we find somewhere cozier to chat? I'm certain we can come to a civilized agreement.

[ Flirting — Gale scoffs. Despite the commotion at his side, his eyes follow Astarion’s teeth. Up close, Astarion might notice the thin cut under his jaw or the faded mark at his throat. The perils of wizarding duels, perhaps, or scars unique to the risks of one once Chosen.

Astarion strikes a nerve, however. His evasion at the fête has lost him goodwill. And a man who stoops to physical altercations is a brute, in the eyes of most Waterdhavians. At least the public locale also protects him: A nobleman’s death in this distract would warrant a thorough investigation, and Astarion very much wishes to go unnoticed. ]

Why not, indeed? Perhaps because, along the way, you’ll slip free with the journal and my coin purse for good measure, hm? [ He mutters something unintelligible under his breath and tilts back, weight settling on his heels. ]

[ It’s enough space for Astarion to break free — or it would be, if it weren’t for the shimmering strand of weave encircling his wrist and Gale’s, connecting them like a fine chain. He releases his grip on Astarion entirely, so he can waggle his fingers and showcase the trick. ]

You know, I’m suddenly feeling more amenable. [ offering his linked hand in the style of a gentleman. ] Shall we?

[ That was a trick up Gale's sleeve Astarion hadn't anticipated. Wizard, he settles on firmly, and one who might have a reasonable amount of power. Perhaps he should have expended more effort getting into Gale's good graces the other night.

Still, Astarion has a bargaining chip in the form of the book, assuming it isn't taken from him by force. But force doesn't seem to be this wizard's style. He can work with that.

Astarion tests the length of chain, puts on a smile that certainly doesn't reach his eyes as he finds its strength. He has enough maneuverability to put his dagger away with a flourish before taking Gale's hand, astonishingly warm as humans always are. ]

I'm staying just around the corner, as luck would have it.

[ He's not, and Gale is surely in the tailspin of not knowing what's truth or fiction from Astarion's mouth, but Gale still has the upper hand in the form of that chain.

Astarion walks them down a street lit with the soft glow of golden lanterns, until they come to the Smiling Siren: formerly a nightclub, now a space dedicated to the priests and priestesses of Sune. It's a classy brothel, but a brothel nonetheless.

The entry hall is covered in murals of nymphs enjoying varying levels of tasteful debauchery, with a golden basin in the center where patrons make their donations for the night. Before Gale has a chance to march them back out, Astarion waves his free hand to the proprietress, who is already heading their way. ]

Do you have a room available for a few hours? No need for a priest, we're just looking for some...alone time. [ Astarion smiles his most charming smile, tipping his head toward Gale. ] My companion is willing to pay handsomely for your discretion.

[ Impossible not to grow smug, with Astarion’s barely veiled irritation. It’s apparent that Astarion underestimated him (and likely still does, unless someone mentioned his status as archmage). Good. Unfortunately, Astarion recovers quick, light on his feet, and leads him to an area of town that he has never once visited. Spiralling scenarios unfold in his mind’s eye — a trap, a trick — but Gale can’t afford the scene and would indeed prefer this disagreement to be settled with words, not blows.

By the time he comprehends where they find themselves, it’s too late. He doesn’t know where to look, with the murals just as scandalous as the priest that slinks past them, fine silks slipping from his shoulders. Never in his life has he visited such an establishment, even one with ties to the gods.

The proprietress (Sanchel, she coos) glances up at them, a glimmer of recognition alighting her eyes as they rake over Gale. If the colour and fabric of his brocade weren’t telling enough, the silver symbol dangling from his ear cinches it. A smile blooms on her face. Astarion is an unknown quantity, however, so she addresses him first, appraising.

Oh, my, and here I thought your companion had finally come to kneel before another goddess. She flourishes a hand in the direction of the fountain. No need to say his name and shame him further, when he’ll well know how much her discretion costs.

Directed at Gale, then, dripping with innuendo, Your worship would be most welcome here. A brilliant flush rises from his neck to his cheeks. ]

Ah — alas, my companion [ Not the reverse! As if that somehow matters. ] is terribly greedy, so my praying hands will be occupied indefinitely.

[ Smile tight, Gale clasps his hand at Astarion’s elbow, steering him to the fountain so he needn’t break or expose the chain. With his free hand, he fishes a coin purse from his pocket and upends the contents. Mystra, forgive me. The water glows, tinting the room in blue light. ]

[ with a demure cough, ] In fact, we’ll take the room for the evening. [ A knowing smile on her lips, Sanchel wanders over and produces a key from her loose sleeve, offering it to Astarion. Straight ahead and up the steps, second door on the left. You’ll be quite pleased with my selection. They say Sanchel can judge a person’s preferences just by looking at them, but Gale suspects she dabbles in reading minds more than bodies.

His hand drops to the small of Astarion’s back, urging him onward. Anywhere but here. ]

[ Another goddess. Astarion schools his expression as he clocks where Sanchel's eyes lingered, alighting on Gale's earring as it catches the light. He doesn't answer to any gods, himself, so while he may know their names he can't recognize most by their symbols. A line of casual interrogation for when they're alone. ]

The whole evening? You spoil me, darling.

[ Astarion takes the key and gives Sanchel a wink, fully visible to a reddened Gale as they venture up the stairs. He supposes anywhere in the Castle Ward is going to be busy this time of night; they pass a number of priestesses and patrons, most of the patrons in attire just as fine as Gale's. Entirely possible they'll adhere to noble discretion and not whisper about Gale's appearance here, though Astarion assumes the priests gossip about their patrons regardless.

It's moderately irritating to have to maneuver his hands around the shimmering link between them to open the door, but Astarion is nothing if not dextrous. They're greeted by a room that's lush and grand: plush pillows on the floor surrounding a low wood table laid out with Waterdhavian wine, meats, and cheese; a canopied bed by the balcony entrance, offering sweeping views of the Castle Ward and beyond. A sunken tub rounds out the luxury, mosaic tiles already filled with steaming blue-green water. Delightful.

Astarion would like to flop onto one of the pillows once the door is closed behind them, but doesn't have quite enough slack to do so with Gale still chained to him. He walks backward into the room, instead, bag still held tight to his shoulder. ]

I had a number of buyers in Skullport who were very interested in Arkhennan. [ Does he care that he's gotten the name wrong? Not in the slightest. ] Kind of you to share your knowledge of such a valuable artifact with a complete stranger.

[ The walk to their room proves even more treacherous than lingering in the reception, with beautiful priests and priestesses in varying amounts of finery. He has the distinct misfortune of recognising a former classmate, whose brows raise to high heaven in turn. It all serves to deepen Gale’s rouge into a permanent stain.

Can’t help but sigh in relief, at leaving the mass of bodies behind. There’s nothing so lurid in the astral — the smell of sex lost in the sweet rosewater of the Weave. Gale double-checks the door has locked behind them. He’d very much prefer to stay at the end of the room, thank you, but Astarion calls him forward as the line pulls taut. With obvious hesitation, he surveys his surroundings. Whatever debauchery he imagined has yet to come to pass, thank the gods.

Annoyance subsumes his apprehension, when Astarion speaks. ]

Arkhenneld. [ an immediate correction, his irritation obvious in his pinched brow. ] Mock me all you like. [ A flicker of shame across his face, nonetheless. ] It’s a privilege to share knowledge with another — the fault lies with the one who would abuse all he learns.

[ Despite his reservations, he edges closer, curiosity lifting his features. ]

Did you intend to steal that night…or had you hoped to find a meal?

[ A theft of property is one thing. A theft of life, another entirely. ]

I wasn't going to kill anyone, if that's what you're accusing me of. [ Astarion keeps them in stride until the backs of his thighs hit the edge of the bed, and he settles himself into a comfortable seat there, ankles crossed. Might as well enjoy the trappings while they're here.

The length of chain between them means Gale isn't quite pulled into his lap, but Astarion imagines he's closer than he'd like to be to a strange man settled comfortably on a strange velvet bedspread. ]

People can live through a quick bite, you know. Some even enjoy it. [ He gives Gale an appraising look, gaze drifting from his chest up to his mouth, then settling at his eyes with a smile. ] But no, I wasn't looking for a meal, either.

I'm in need of...a patron, of sorts, while I'm here. [ Safety. Protection. Astarion had fumbled it with Gale, really, but he had also expected it to be easier. It's fine, though. This is another chance. ]

How would you feel if I told you those buyers would be just as easy to steal from? Arcane knowledge and magical items you certainly can't find at your antiquarian shops topside, no matter what strings you're able to pull there. [ He is offering, of course. For a price. ] Ill gotten, so you could always return them to their rightful owners. Or keep them for yourself. Who am I to judge?

[ Blinded by vexation, Gale ends up with a leg on either side of Astarion’s, standing far too close for his comfort. His pride won’t allow him to lengthen the noose, so holds fast, unwilling to cede ground or risk escape.

Having read all manner of texts on the subject of vampires — both lewd and academic — Gale is no stranger to the concept of the bite. Any pleasure could be down to the person, or the physiology, with how few vampires have ever been contained and studied. His thoughts stray to how he might confirm a hypothesis, eyes wandering to Astarion’s mouth, the pointed tip of a fang barely visible, before he refocuses.

Good, that Astarion wasn’t looking to make a meal of a Waterdhavian. Better, that he makes the opening barter. One never should show their hand, in matters of negotiation. And yet Gale snags the inside of his cheek between his teeth, visibly considering the ramifications of any bargain.

Astarion may not realise why the offer strikes a chord, but he’ll be able to identify inner conflict for what it is, forming a wrinkle between Gale’s brows and dragging the curve of his mouth downward. To acquire arcane items lost to academia, to institutions, to Mystra is a chance at redemptiom. A goddess cares little for flowers — but magic, entombed in lost objects, could yet prove his worth. For a moment, Gale is elsewhere, longing etched in the lines of his face. ]

Mm. [ an acknowledgement as well as an attempt at stalling, if only to centre himself here and direct his thoughts into a plan of action. With his unchained hand, he gestures between them. ] And your patron would supply lodgings? Coin? Finery? [ Gale snorts, at the hollowness of it. All things he can afford to give and cares not to lose. There is, however, the matter of the vampire lord, if anything Astarion told him is true. A potential pest, to be sure. ]

People will think we’re courting. [ He speaks slowly, as if teasing an idea into reality. ] But I suppose that could be to our collective advantage. [ There is no greater protection than one a wizard might offer their household, after all. And Gale would like to turn the eyes of every Mamma and Auntie to other prospects with haste. ]

Edited (spelling…) 2024-01-03 00:23 (UTC)

[ Astarion watches Gale's face closely, unable to parse the finer details but very much clocking that he is interested, on some level. He leans back on his free hand, dragging his gaze properly up Gale's torso. Clothes a little rumpled from their earlier altercation, cheeks still flushed, his thighs warm where they bracket Astarion's.

He can see why Gale's popular on an entirely superficial level, if nothing else - very much the rich, handsome scholar, well-groomed with a face you could bring home to Mother. Add powerful wizard to the mix and it's no wonder he squirreled himself away from suitors at the party.

Astarion waves his chained hand in acknowledgment at the list of needs. ]

Finery is a bonus, but I wouldn't say no. [ And a brow quirks as Gale continues. He sits up, interested, which puts his face much closer to neck-level on Gale, tipping his head to look up at him. ]

You know, I think I like how you think. [ Also slowly, voice low, following the thread. ] You wouldn't have to dodge Lady Hani or whomever, and I'd have sanctuary in the city.

[ A different sort of tension mounts between them, like a thread pulled as taut as their woven chain. It pulls Gale’s eyes downward as Astarion peers up, an angle that brings all his sharp features into relief. Not quite handsome. Almost pretty. Striking. The type that commands a second glance. He fooled you once, with that face, with his honeyed voice, but Gale hadn’t been on his guard then.

All the more reason that Astarion is right, in any case. Who would dare approach, if Gale were seen on his arm? His mouth quirks, either at the compliment or the blossoming potential. ]

I may perish if I have to hear of her talent for riding [ horses ] again; it’s true. [ Astarion’s latter point warrants greater scrutiny. Sanctuary signifies the depths of the protection required, though Gale’s overconfidence lessens his concern. ]

[ mildly, ] If you suspect your lord will give chase, my tower would afford you the utmost protection. [ between the right of invitation and his wards, little could reach him. ] There are plenty of spare rooms for you to choose from. [ One finger raises to preempt a response. ] Provided you keep your fangs out of the people in my city. [ A stern look. He loops the chain around his palm, shortening the leash and winding Astarion’s hand back into the slim space between them. ] I can’t have a trail of blood lead to my door.

[ This encounter might play out leagues better than Astarion could have imagined. Of course Gale has an entire tower with spare rooms and wards. For all that Astarion is enjoying the lush spread of the room they're in currently - and has entertained victims in spaces not unlike this one, when they have the coin - he hasn't dreamed of having his own space in a long, long time. If anything, he thought Gale might just pay his room and board at whatever tavern would put him out the least. ]

I don't know that my - [ He still hates saying the word after all these years, with a small wince, ] Master will come looking for me himself. [ Astarion has considered this: the effort Cazador would need to expend to track him down, the time away from Baldur's Gate. Vampires aren't exactly known for vacationing beyond their domains. Cazador has assets and power within the bounds of the Szarr Estate, but Astarion hasn't heard of any contacts in Waterdeep. It's part of why he ventured south, rather than up to Neverwinter. ] If anything, he might send a thug or two after me. [ A flash of a smile. ] Nothing someone of your talent couldn't handle with ease, I'm sure.

[ Gale pulls the lead tight and close, and Astarion's gaze goes a little dark, holding Gale's as he flexes his fingers, circles his wrist. ]

I do need to eat. [ Considering: how much he should downplay his own upkeep, in case Gale decides he's too much trouble, or if he should get ambitious about this. He sweeps the backs of his nails up Gale's waistcoat, barely touching, until they reach his collar. ]

Not much, though. I have a light enough touch I could do it while you're sleeping, if you're squeamish. [ Flicks one of the buttons on his collar with a pointed nail. ] Unless you have a rat problem in your tower. But living on vermin is like asking you to live on...well, vermin, I suppose. And then you'd have to dispose of the bodies, since I just suck them dry. Considerably messier than a simple blood donation.

[ Something about the way Astarion says master unsettles Gale, a stone sinking in his gut. The unwilling, unbreakable link between master and spawn is much debated in wizarding circles, magical in nature but wholly other. However had Astarion manage to escape?

Gale tells himself it hardly matters, when the question of whether a vengeful vampire lord will seek him out has been settled. As Mystra’s Chosen, he won scrapes and survived ambushes. This will be nothing different. ]

I’m sure. [ an echo that’s at once pleased and amused, informed by the now familiar rhythm of Astarion’s sweet lies. His wandering hands are also anticipated, yet no less destabilising for it. Gale’s heart rabbits in his chest, threatening to leap into his throat. ]

Luckily, my tressym takes great pleasure in ridding the lower levels of vermin — and she isn’t fond of sharing. [ not in matters of food or, well, Gale. She’ll not like a surprise visitor one bit, but she’s been spending half her days with Morena on account of his piss-poor company, so they’ve time to plan for that. As for Astarion’s diet…his proposal in the stuff of novels, the vampire relieving their victims of blood while they sleep. Distrust sharpens in his lidded gaze, even as he allows the chain to slacken once more.

He raises both hands to wrap gentle fingers around Astarion’s wrists, more touch than hold. He should guide them back and step away, lengthening the chain with a quick spell. Instead, he leans forward, attention dropping to Astarion’s mouth for a second too long to be academic. Silent calculations evident in his face. ]

You can take what you need from me only while I’m awake. [ Awake, he could have Astarion on his back in seconds with a thunderwave. Brown eyes searching, ] Any other parameters?

[ Astarion is still more than half-expecting Gale to say no, to walk back their whole (complex, entangled) agreement. He doesn't know what god to thank for the rare good fortune, having never thanked a god in his life; perhaps he should start with Sune, since they're on her premises.

He could easily snake his hands free of Gale's loose touch (the chain notwithstanding), but he lets himself be held, batting his eyes and smiling enough for a flash of fang when Gale's gaze lingers there. ]

Sounds agreeable to me.

If you let go of me a moment, I'll give you the book. As a show of trust.

[ This could work. It’s complex, a tad too involved, certainly — but workable. Surely it won’t take long to find treasures worthy of his goddess. Anything lesser will be returned to it’s rightful place. ]

Ah, good. [ Gale releases Astarion’s hands and pulls back too quick, the chain going taut. He hastily mutters a spell under his breath, the woven link dissipating into the air like stardust. ]

[ dryly — ] A show of trust. Please don’t make me regret it.

[ It would decidedly not be in Astarion's best interests to attempt to dash after they've gotten this far. He reaches for the satchel on the bed behind him, carefully unlacing it and pulling out the journal. Still in fine condition, despite their earlier scuffle. ]

All yours.

[ A furtive look, waiting for the trick. When none comes, he takes the book, shoulders sagging with relief. Thank the gods. ]

At least you listened to me about the delicate pages. [ He thumbs through a few as he ambles back to the centre of the room, checking for damage. ]

Thank you, Astarion. [ gaze swivelling up sharply, as though something has just occurred to him. ] It is Astarion, isn’t it?

[ It’s just as likely to be an alias, under the circumstances. ]

Edited (words) 2024-01-03 19:00 (UTC)

[ An alias might have been wise, and Astarion has given them at the taverns and inns he's stayed at over the past weeks. Still, he doesn't see much point in giving Gale a different name now; assuming he does his research (which seems likely, with the picture Astarion now has of him), he'll find evidence of a Baldurian magistrate who died nearly two hundred years ago and left no bereaved behind. ]

Astarion Ancunín, at your service.

[ With a bow and a flourish of his once-chained wrist as he hops off the bed. Now that he's free to roam, he sets his eyes (and hands) on their room's lovely set dressing, examining a gold incense burner and wick trimmer and then opening the large standing wardrobe by the bed. Mostly costumes with very little fabric to them, unsurprisingly. ]

I'm going to make use of the bath, if it's all the same to you. [ Astarion fingers a silvery negligee, glancing back in Gale's direction. ] Unless, of course, you had other thoughts on how we should spend our first evening together.

[ Astarion Ancunín, a name that means nothing to him, except that Astarion told him two true things, the first night. As such, it’s a glimmer of hope for their partnership, now that they’ve settled into even ground.

Gale’s brows shoot to his hairline at the implication, cheeks dusted with fresh colour. ]

Ah, no — not at all. [ He closes the book gingerly and sets it on the nearby table, looking anywhere but Astarion. This leads to him having a sudden interest in the wine (a passable vintage) and wandering in the direction of the single bookshelf (of course). He only peaks over his shoulder at a safe distance from Astarion. ]

I suppose someone should enjoy this place, seeing as I’ve donated an extortionate sum to a goddess I don’t even worship for the privilege of having it. [ a delighted little gasp, as he surveys the shelf, the wine bottle dangling at his side. ] Oh, they’ve the sequel.

[ There's a small flutter of relief in Astarion's gut that Gale doesn't want to fuck right now, though he doesn't quite know why. He should be offended by the not at all, honestly, though he's fairly certain Gale's refusal is more to do with modesty and the repression so common amongst the elite than total disinterest in Astarion himself.

Astarion watches Gale do his own survey of the room as he unbuttons his coat, begins to undo the laces on his shirt, musing. ]

Who is the goddess you kneel before, speaking of?

[ He tugs his shirt up over his head and bends to work the laces of his boots, next. ] I can't say I've met many whose worship's so well-known that the local brothel proprietress calls them out on it.

Edited 2024-01-03 22:47 (UTC)

[ Bollocks, he’d hoped Astarion had forgotten that exchange. Still better than pressing the bruise beneath his rejection. It’s not that he has no interest in Astarion on a surface level, but Gale has no stomach for casual affairs, and his heart remains in another’s grasp. ]

Yes, well. [ primly, ] I imagine my worship is the least of her interests, as a servant of the Lady of Love. [ in the truest sense of the word, anyway. He pivots from the shelf, book held against his chest, to return to the table. While he hadn’t planned on staying long, he finds himself in need of wine, to answer Astarion’s question. ]

[ filling one glass, then another; ever the gentleman. ] My given name is indeed Gale Dekarios, [ though he doubts Astarion had considered otherwise. ] but I am a wizard of some renown, known across the continent by my title and present position as the Archmage of Waterdeep. [ A tip of his head to catch Astarion’s eye, in acknowledgement of how silly it is to say that in his hometown. ]

Until very recently, I was a Chosen of the goddess of magic herself, Mystra. [ A world of longing, imbued in her name alone. ] A role I held for some time. Almost a decade. [ A beat. ] And, perhaps more relevantly, I was also her lover.

[ He tips his glass, taking a generous swig of the red before refilling it. A Waterdhavian signature, meant for tourists and locals alike — and not meant to be downed so unceremoniously. ]

[ Astarion strips down to his underwear while Gale opens the wine, clothes and boots discarded in untidy heaps on the floor wherever they happen to fall. His ears perk at two things: archmage, most importantly, but also the fact that he refers to his relationship with his goddess in the past tense.

And said relationship was considerably more intimate than any devout one Astarion's ever encountered before.

He does comb his memory for any mention Cazador might have made to other powerful wizards on the Sword Coast, but can't find any that stick. All the better if Cazador doesn't consider Gale an immediate threat, honestly. Baldur's Gate has enough for him to stick his claws in without casting his eye southward, Astarion hopes.

He strides across the room to take his glass, a brow arching delicately as Gale goes for an immediate refill. Clearly he should have just brought a bottle up the other night, if he'd wanted to rob Gale properly. ]

But not anymore. [ Astarion gives him a knowing look over the rim of his glass as he sniffs the wine. ] Is it possible to have an amicable breakup with a deity? I always assumed those were cataclysmic by nature.

[ He takes a sip and makes a face, setting his glass down on the table and waving a hand. ] Awful. You can have mine.

[ Astarion moves silently, tread so light that Gale would miss his approach, if not for the expanse of pale skin entering his view. His eyes snag on Astarion’s fine collarbone before he finds his face again, relieved to find interest, not judgment.

The breakup wasn’t cataclysmic in the wider sense, no. On a personal note, it was ruination itself. Another hefty swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. No one in Astarion’s position has ever asked after how things ended — perhaps because his friendships had faded, when he dedicated himself to his goddess in all things. His mother and Tara have made their own assumptions, informed by their initial disapproval. It isn’t as if one can bring the goddess of magic home to the family, after all.

Astarion’s scrunched face brings him out of his head, a startled laugh on his tongue. ]

Not to your taste, my bloodthirsty companion? [ How foolish of him to ever think this man was a mere elf. ] And here I was, ready to toast to our partnership.

[ He takes a sip of Astarion’s glass now, as if that counts. Then, he half-sits, half-collapses into the chair, kicking out his legs. Catching a thief was a more involved and physical affair than any of his tower-bound exploits in the last six months. ]

It was neither amicable nor cataclysmic, to answer your question. [ Another drag, the warmth of the wine settling in his chest, softening the ache for her. ] I was no longer fit to serve. [ A note of bitterness curdles his mouth. ] Too ambitious, too wanting, though I’d argue that she cultivated those instincts with her own hand. [ Sacrilegious, whispers devotion, but so is laying with the divine. ]

Another has taken my place in the field, if not in her bed, and I have returned home. To my tower, to much gossip — to more courters than I ever enjoyed as a dashing apprentice — and now, you.

[ Only now does he dare appraise Astarion properly, with liquid courage in his veins. ]

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