corporeity | PSL — EXSANGUE

[ 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. ]

[ 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.

Edited 2023-12-23 04:51 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

[ 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?

[ 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. ]

[ 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?

[ 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.

[ 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’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 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?

Edited 2024-12-08 19:20 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

—I meant to call ahead.

for exsangue.

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