Careful, darling, I bite...

Patron Saint of Roadkill

You’re the patron saint for insomniacs, people running from something, and cashiers. You are made of broken fingers, pulled out teeth, broken promises, the longing for a soft blanket, a face you’ll never be able to forget, an overturned cot. All you can offer as blessings are bruises around wrists, sneers on loved one's faces, and faded pictures of a distant childhood. You weren’t always this, or at least you think you weren’t. There are shards of glass everywhere. Your hands are bleeding. It won’t stop bleeding. How do you make it stop bleeding?

Gale paused in the midst of a ramble - with a hand raised as if to wave off the idea of the great Gale of Waterdeep being burdened with anxiety, but he paused. That would be an outright lie, and if he was to be honest with himself, he was quite the terrible liar. Instead, he slowly lowered his hand, paired with the smallest sigh before adorning his usual 'award-winning' smile. "Well, it would be rather foolish to not possess a mite of anxiety, giving our current predicament. I mean, mindflayer tadpoles are no mere hiccup, but furthermore, we are all essentially ticking time bombs." Although, some more than others… A thought that stayed firmly within Gale's mind. The orb was best left as a secret for now. It was essential that he proved useful to this motley crew, necessary even, so that when the time comes that he desperately needs a magical artefact, they will indeed sacrifice one for him. However, he had his doubts that Astarion would be of the generous sort. "Do you not feel any concern? I doubt you wish to experience the excruciating pain of ceremorphosis now, do you?"

Small talk was a bit of an ironic statement when it came to just how lengthy a casual conversation with Gale tended to lean towards. Astarion wasn't entirely sure where the wizard got all his energy from, and decided not long ago that all energy the wizard did have was wasted on talking.

"Well, Wizard, it wouldn't be the most excruciating thing I have experienced in my life." Astarion said with a casual shrug, picking at a piece of dirt beneath his fingernail that was particularly stubborn. Of course, he didn't go into any further detail on the matter, he never did. It was just enough to perhaps keep the others interested in the mystery that was Astarion.

Or, at least, the mystery he was trying to appear to be. As of yet, it didn't seem that anyone had picked up on precisely who -- and more specifically what -- Astarion was. And that was just fine with him, as he had no idea how any of these... people... he found himself stuck with and potentially reliant on would take his own secret.

He was certain the tadpole was what had given him this newfound ability to walk in the sun, but how long that would last, he wasn't sure. So he had to stick close to someone, and of all the others, Gale was at least the most tolerable.

Ask box is gonna be mostly emptied, a few older threads that have been sitting for months I may drop. I'm keeping a few things sparking joy but right now I'm trying to slim down and focus more on the people I have established writing with on my BG3 blogs.

stolen from: @dicethrow

patron saint of lost faith

patron saint of leaving it by the roadside. patron saint of it slipping out of your fingers. patron saint of searching and searching. patron saint of yearning for it back. patron saint of scraping your fingers down to the bone trying to hold onto it. patron saint of losing it anyway. saint of lost faith. not the saint of getting it back.