#galefcrce

@galefcrce sent

Was Gale drunk? Undoubtedly so. He could barely stand, his body swaying with the rhythm of a man long past his limit. Every few words that spilled from his mouth were punctuated with a hiccup, his usually sharp mind now foggy with alcohol. He had stumbled upon a delightful stash of wine in the cellars of the Last Light Inn and, for reasons best left to inebriated impulse, decided to drink his feelings away.

Now, teetering on the edge of being blackout drunk and an absolute mess, his glassy eyes landed on Astarion. Recognition sparked, and with a dramatic, almost accusatory sway, he lifted a finger toward the vampire.

"You!" Gale slurred, his finger wobbling in the air as he tried, and failed, to take a steady step forward. "You big, dirty-rotten, fantastic, sexy, lousy, good-for-nothing... bumsqueak."

He can smell the booze on Gale long before he approaches him. Not only because of his vampiric senses but because Gale is positively drunk. A state he does not see Gale in often so he wonders if there is cause for concern.

He pushes that thought away. Gale is a grown man, if he wishes to drink himself into oblivion, so be it. As long as he doesn't get Astarion killed in the process because he's too drunk to fight or cast a spell, the vampire doesn't really care.

He has been called many things in his life, many of the words that Gale has called him. Particularly 'lousy' and 'good-for-nothing' are things that Cazador has called him and it takes everything in Astarion not to flinch.

He'll focus on the other words, sexy and fantastic have a nice ring to them. Big is no something he's been called considering his short height and lithe body so it amuses him. Bumsqueak is a new one that almost makes Astarion laugh, he swallows the laughter back instead.

Gale had mentioned he had some sort of illness but had always been very vague with the details. It didn’t seem like any disease she had ever encountered. It needed magic to quell the symptoms but Gale otherwise seemed to be perfectly healthy. It had never crossed her mind that it could be contagious. She would know. She had the experience of a healer both magical and mundane. Maybe it was something that only affected wizards.

Then again, everyone else seemed to find it odd too. Maybe it was a very rare illness too.

And what kind of disease would leave a mark like that? Morren wasn’t even sure a weapon could leave a scar like that. It seemed so peculiar and in such an odd spot that she had simply assumed it was a tattoo like the ones she sported down her left arm. It had seemed like the simplest and most logical explanation.

“I—sorry. I thought…nevermind.” Morren gave the end of her braid a self-conscious tug. She hadn’t meant—she had only been attempting friendly conversation. She thought it would be something they could have in common.

The fact Astarion wore them was a simple matter of seeing how flustered Gale would become over them. Truth be told the glasses made his eyesight worse. Perhaps the rogue had a bit of kleptomania as well. Astarion certainly wasn't going to psychoanalyze himself.

"Asking takes all the fun out of it." But this trinket wasn't one he was willing to fight over. "You know— a man can get the wrong idea if you come visit him in the middle of the evening at his bed."

"Trust me, Darling, it is absolutely necessary," Gale could pout all he wanted, but Astarion wasn't going to let the other wander around looking as disheveled as he was now. It was downright a crime to do so, and in some ways he did care for Gale...

This was his way of showing as such.

Why the man had left alone to go and do battle with somebody, Astarion couldn't for the life of him figure out. All he knew was it had the others quite worried for him ... while Astarion? Well ... he felt something akin to pride in the other for doing what needed to be done. He didn't think Gale had it in him, quite frankly.

"I assure you, if I need help because I decided to be a dirty little renegade and get my hands broken, I will let you be the first to do my hair for me," he can't help but tease Gale, fingers gliding through the man's longer locks, his actions are methodic if not downright sinfully pleasurable as he works Gale's hair into something more manageable...

They all want to know their reputation.

You guys will be the death of me.

If anything was her sanctuary, writing was it. Music, stories, it didn't matter which. Tonight, music felt appropriate. Melancholic notes flitted here and there in her mind and she threw them onto hastily-drawn bars as they came to her. But what she really needed were lyrics to put the stray notes to. A bard's song without lyrics held power aplenty, but one with them felt significantly more so, at least to her. A song with lyrics could be emotionally charged twice over, instrument and voice melding as partners, both yearning to get a message out to anyone willing to listen.

Something or someone would need to trigger the beginning of that melding. What that something was had yet to reveal itself, and so it was that Alaara looked up from her journal and watched and waited for it. As she did so, she jotted little notes here and there about her companions. Such tidbits could be returned to at a later date and woven into the fabric of her creations.

She first caught sight of Lae'zel arm wrestling with Karlach, her expression grim. Into her notebook went a little note about that. She then took notes about Wyll, who was telling a tale about his heroics as the Blade of Frontiers. Shadowheart, Astarion, and Halsin were all paying attention, but even from where she sat, Alaara could tell Astarion was smirking to himself, biting his tongue to keep from saying too many sassy remarks and halting the story's progress. Shadowheart's smile, Halsin's rapt attention, and Astarion's cheekiness were all documented. And Gale of Waterdeep. What was he doing during all of this? He was-

Alaara looked around. Where was Gale? His tent seemed vacant, he wasn't standing over the cook pot, and he certainly wasn't with the rest of the party. Maybe he was off doing secret wizard stuff in another dimension? Was that a thing wizards really did? Tavern patrons were hardly paragons of information when it came to, well, anything but food and drink, but their mutterings about wizards were all she had to go on. That, and the scant few fact books she'd come across in the realms. Volo had written a rather colorful account of wizards, but he was well known to over-embellish and change facts to better suit his narrative. Such had only been staunchly affirmed when she'd met him in the grove writing blatant falsehoods about a bear of all creatures.

She looked back down at her journal. If only Gale was around, she could spend the rest of the evening picking his brain. He could tell her all about himself and other wizards. What he told her would be truths too, not just tall tales and outright lies. He could tell her about lots of other things too if he wasn't being a braggart. Given his collection of tomes he refused to travel without, she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

As she sat and thought so very hard to herself, she left a sea of black dots on her journal's pages without actively realizing it. So engrossed was she that she didn't realize she was no longer alone...

After Alfira, the dragonborn had barely existed when they were at camp. A few polite words, a sip or two of water, and then they would disappear off to their own tent. For a while, they had allowed himself to come back to the circle - once the heat had died down, some would say. But then the nightmares had gotten worse, and the pain, and the blood in his throat, and then... the hallucinations. No, it was too dangerous to be around them. Occasionally taking a bowl of whatever had been cooked, they would often not appear until well after the fires were banked, languidly walking around the quiet camp and clearing up, tidying away any mess that had been left over, sorting and cleaning. It was something to occupy his mind whilst waiting for the dawn to come…