Galetober #8 Spice

Day 28 - Dark

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Thank you @artsywarden for the gift of Galetober!! 💜

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I like to think about how Gale feels when he meets a Tav who gives him magical items without hesitation. A Tav who doesn’t become annoyed or combative when Gale explains his critical need for magical artifacts. A Tav who listens to Gale’s urgent request and instantly replies by saying, “I’d be happy to help.”

I like to think about what a sweet gesture that is for Gale in that moment.

Even though Gale only reveals his condition to Tav because he’s seen them be kind, and he’s confident he’s found a good person to ask for help, Gale knows that he’s asking a lot from a relative stranger. He stresses the importance of his request as he reveals it: “I need you to help me find magic items to consume,” he pleads. “It is vital. Dare I say it, critical.” He’s already anticipating that he will get pushback. He’s bracing himself for a firm ‘no.’

…but instead, Tav says: “I’d be happy to help.”

You can see in Gale’s face how pleasantly surprised and taken aback he is by that response—so much so that it actually takes him a couple of seconds to process it fully:

Imagine how that must feel for Gale.

A man who has spent the past year in his tower suffering and struggling with a deadly condition. Cast out by Mystra; afraid to reenter society; grasping at straws to find a cure. Lonely. Hopeless. Bitter. And now, suddenly, he gets this unexpected gift of sweetness from a stranger.

How wonderful would that be?

You know, a lot of people have tried to pinpoint the exact moment that Gale starts to fall for Tav. Some think it’s right when Tav rescues him from the portal; some think it’s after Tav gives him that first magical item to soothe his condition; some think it’s when Tav agrees to share a moment with him the Weave.

…but I think that, maybe, it’s when he asks for help from a person he barely knows, while bracing for his request to be questioned, or scoffed at, or refused…and instead it’s accepted—he’s accepted— with a smile and a nod.

And later that night, when Gale is alone in his tent with the orb and the tadpole and all his uncertainties about the future, I wonder if he realizes that he’s smiling to himself as he slowly drifts to sleep, his thoughts focused on Tav…

How curious…

I never expected them to say yes so readily…

I knew they were kind…but, oh…

…oh, how sweet they are…

…to do this…

a happy month and big thanks to all of you ♥ Galetober prompts from @artsywarden (special sincere thanks for the prompt month. you've spoiled us all)

⋆°.ִֶָ ☾ ⋆࿔* ⋆˚ .⋆. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ ⭒ ˚ .

you were lost in his kiss when Gale's hands swirled through the water to your lower back, pulling you onto his lap in a fluid motion. one hand remained, the other cradled your cheek as he deepened the angle of your lips. he had a tendency to groan into all but the most innocent of kisses, you'd think he was a terrible tease if his specific weakness for you hadn't been made so evident, but right now he was moaning into your open mouth; soft but shameless. the heat of the bubbling water, your wet bodies locked in an easy grind, it must be making him light-headed. and oh, was he gorgeous like this. the virtue of his blush alone, strikingly boyish against strong, masculine features, a fuller red than you'd ever seen on him, it had need tumbling through your stomach. but no, his broad shoulders also glistened, inviting you to hold on. even above the chlorine, his scent pure delusional intoxication. the right inhale chased every single thought from mind. his chestnut hair clung damply to his cheek, your temples. he slicked it back on a parting of your lips and when he pressed his thumb to your bottom lip you sucked it in to the knuckle. an exploratory bite with the run of your molars and you felt his cock stir, his endless brown eyes momentarily helpless as his hand wraps around the entirety of your wrist.

VP by dear @rdekarios, thank you! 🫶🫂

✨The pose will be included in her upcoming pose pack Cozy moments on her Patreon!✨

Gale’s heart fluttered like a young bird, frantic and alive within the fragile cage of his chest. His palms were damp; his mouth, painfully dry. He scarcely dared to breathe.

You were here. With him. In the quiet dark.

Nestled against him, your body a steady, living warmth seeping through the thin linen of your nightshirt. Your breath ghosted against his throat—slow, even, peaceful—and the weight of your presence felt almost holy in its simplicity. His arm, resting around you, trembled faintly at first, as though afraid that the smallest movement might undo the spell of your closeness.

You smelled of rain and soap and faint traces of the tonights dinner's spices—human, familiar, real. It filled him, invaded every sense until there was no room left for thought or fear.

Only you.

And yet the fear remained, in some quiet corner of his mind—the knowledge of his own mortality pressing in like the cold beyond the window. His time, he knew, was finite. ABut now, with you here, that truth felt unbearable.

He had once thought he would face the end alone—another scholar’s name fading into dust, another folly buried beneath the weight of history. He had made his peace with it. Or thought he had.

Until you.

Now, the thought of leaving this behind—your laughter, your stubborn grace, your warmth against his chest, the unbearably gentle way you kissed him—was enough to send a sharp ache through his ribs.

But for now, there was only this: the quiet rhythm of your breathing, the rise and fall of your chest against his. The steady thrum of your heartbeat, answering his own.

It felt unreal—impossible—that he should be granted this. This peace. This joy. This small eternity between two fragile mortals.

You were here. With him. And for a brief moment, Gale Dekarios was not thinking of the end.

Only of the miracle of now.

With you.

brought to us by @artsywarden, thank you! 🫶

Thanks again to @artsywarden for creating the event.

Art by @redreart

This prompt is perhaps my favorite so far. Gale & Lily’s canon lore is that nightly, while adventuring, Gale casts Leomund’s Tiny Hut (one of the absolute best 5e spells, TBH) and fashions it into a semblance of his bedroom in Waterdeep where they spend the night together, away from camp…

Each night, when the camp dimmed and the others settled onto their bedrolls, I would wait for quiet to take hold, then weave our refuge anew. A few gestures, a breath of the Weave—and there it was, the shimmer of a sphere between worlds. Leomund’s Tiny Hut—such a pedestrian spell in lesser hands, a mere bubble for the unimaginative—but in mine, it became our nightly haven away from the bleak, bloody reality of our lives.

It was the dream of Waterdeep remade in miniature: high windows spilling imagined moonlight, the scent of old vellum and storm-washed air. In truth, I think I built it as I once imagined welcoming her to my tower for the first time—each illusion chosen with the care of a nervous bridegroom setting his chamber in order for his beloved.

The bed dressed in opulent linens, their hue drawn from the pale blush of dawn. Candles arranged to flatter her hair, to gild the silver in it until she gleamed. A fire that never smoked, only glowed—steady, patient, like a heart refusing to falter. Even the books stacked neatly at the bedside were chosen for charm rather than intellect; poetry I would read to her, stanzas I would share.

She’d step inside laughing, the sound breaking through the quiet like the first note of a song, and I would think: this is what all magic aches to become.

Outside, wolves and horrors might call across the dark. Inside, I read aloud while she traced idle circles on my arm, her hair glinting silver in the candlelight.

Morning came gently in our little conjured world, always a few minutes later than the sun outside. I wove it that way on purpose—bent time itself for one last stolen hour. The illusion of dawn spilled through the false windows, catching her hair, her smile, the steam rising from tea that would never cool.

We’d breakfast in bed like the indolent gods of our own making, spellbooks open beside the tray—her notes scattered among crumbs and jam-stained napkins. She’d reach for a page mid-bite, fingers sticky with honey or preserves, and leave a constellation of fingerprints across the margins of my careful script. Her laughter, when I scolded her for it, was worth the smudge. To this day, if I find an old folio bearing the faint ghost of her touch, the memory stirs—bright, reckless, alive.

That was our discipline: spells prepared between sips of tea and murmured endearments, power drawn from peace instead of striving. We were adventurers, yes, but each morning inside that illusion felt like a small act of defiance—a reminder that even on the road to ruin, we could still choose gentleness.

We always rose before the others, careful to leave no trace of our quiet indulgence. By the time the camp stirred, the hut was gone, the illusion dismissed to a whisper of warmth in the air. To them, we’d simply shared the same rough ground and sleepless night. Only we knew better. Only we carried that secret luxury—the world remade, for a few stolen hours, to be ours alone.

If you want to join in the calendar is here :

he hears his name.

prompt calendar courtesy of and with massive, heartfelt thanks to @artsywarden. i can't describe what a boon this event has been for my creativity. and thank you to everyone who has participated, by craft and cheer and and adoration for this silly, wonderful man. it has been an absolute joy and privilege to share this month with you all. <3

~670 words, prose poetry. what's in a name? rated G. 🪄💜

(non-lapslock variant here, if preferred)