#galefcrce.

Word spreads fast, apparently. One might think these idiots would have more important issues to concern themselves with, between cataclysmic cosmic horrors and cortex-chomping worms wriggling about their skulls, but it seems even the best and brightest among them can't resist a spot of good gossip.

"I can't swim." Shadowheart snips, attempting to funnel all her attentions into the scroll pinched between fingertips. "It was merely a joke coined by that oaf, Halsin. Something about my unreliable memory. Entirely unfunny." Gods above, if this fish nonsense turns into any more of a problem…

"Wait—" The cleric swivels on a dime, glaring knives into the poor wizard's soul. "People? Who else is engaging in this slander?!" They should've left that druid to rot in that cell.

"If I catch you joking about this with anyone else, I swear I'll set fire to all your rarest tomes!" To drive her point home, a pointer finger is jabbed squarely into his chest, drilling at the scar that houses his netherese demon.

There's always a lot on Gale's mind. It's not always bad. He's a man of academia, forever seeking to further his knowledge and fill the space between his ears with something magical. Several times she has borrowed his brain — poking him with little questions, curious queries, and all manner of trivial interrogations. Usually just to tease, yet she always walks away having learned something new. He's a wellspring of intelligence, and there's hardly a time where he isn't pacing between his own thoughts.

Tonight is different, though.

Ever since his reunion with the great Elminster, he's been … somber. Unnaturally quiet. And it isn't difficult to know why. He is sentenced to death. Commanded by his goddess to sacrifice mind, body, and soul for the betterment of humanity. That devouring orb caged in his chest is set on a timer, and there's only one way to rid himself of its wrath. To do the unthinkable.

Shadowheart had offered him a spot at her tent; to relax, to distract, to scavenge what precious time she still had left by his side. She brewed his favorite tea, and provided a bit of awkward company. Words are not her forte. She hasn't said one peep since he sat upon her stool. There's a good chance anything coming out of her mouth will make the situation worse, and she cares for him, enough so that she wishes to avoid that.

He fills the silence first, after several minutes have crawled by. It was her hope that he might speak. With any luck, it'll let him process his feelings thoroughly. She can't even begin to imagine what boils beneath his skin. Is he angry? Despondent? Utterly heartbroken?

"… do you mean Mystra?" she whispers, terrified to talk too suddenly. "What she asked of you … it isn't fair. You know that, right?" Selfishly, Shadowheart is only able to view his fate through her own lens. She doesn't want to lose her friend. Forget the dilemma of morality. He shouldn't have to blow himself up for a world that doesn't deserve him. "We'll find a way to destroy the Absolute without you having to —"

Die. She can't let him die.

"You've a good head on your shoulders. If anyone can think of a way out of this, it's you Gale. Besides, if you're gone, who's going to give me my daily fun fact? I know you can't resist a hungry mind. I want to … I want to learn more. With you." She's never cared for learning anything beyond what she knows. Not before meeting him. She isn't sure she'll know another tutor as beautifully passionate as him. One so in love with the Weave and its mysteries. She doesn't want it all to end just because a lazy goddess decided his life wasn't good enough.