#threads of memory

“Mr. Dekarios, slow down,” she huffed, trotting up beside him. 

He yanked his boots on.  “There’s no time, Tara,” he massaged his chest, the ache of the orb more present than ever.  His stomach growled too, but he ignored it and Tara’s protestations as he hurried out the door.

Tara dogged his steps.  “Mr. Dekarios, it will kill neither you nor Velim to take care of yourself.  They would not want you running yourself ragged on their account.”

“They’re a doctor, Tara, they would have to say that,” he lengthened his stride, “Gods, if I just walked them home when they asked.”

Tara sprang from the ground.  Gale lurched forward as she landed on his shoulders and made new runs in his coat.  She anchored her claws in the fabric and hunkered down, ears pinned back.  “Velim would mean it,” she insisted.

“Tara, please.” Gale considered brushing her off.

“Gale, please,” she hissed back.

“Come with me if you must, but we cannot waste time,” Gale pinched the bridge of his nose and forced a deep breath into his lungs, pushing the orb back.

Tara kneaded his shoulder.  “I’ll make another loop of the Sea Ward.  Promise me you’ll eat when you return?”

Gale released the breath in a truncated sigh, misting in the cold air.  “I promise.”

“Very well, Mr. Dekarios.”  He winced as Tara flushed off his shoulder, her wings ruffling his hair.

The townhouse door swung open before Gale could knock.  The kobold saluted him, dropping the rope she used to reach the doorknob.  “Jada saw you coming!”

A violet tiefling made a beeline down the hallway and Jada scrambled out of his way.  He glared at Gale, dark red eyes suspicious in the way that teenagers are of most adults.  “You Gale?”

“Yes it’s a pleasure to --” Gale attempted a greeting.

“Come on,” the tiefling cocked his head down the hallway and slammed the door behind Gale, “don’t bother taking your shoes off.”

Gale hesitated to step on the carpet, but the muddy footsteps tracked up and down the hall indicated that the floors were the least of this family’s worries at the moment.

Jada tugged at his coat when he waited too long. “Velim’s wizard should hurry.” 

Helena held up her finger when Jada ran up to her, and Jada bounced from foot to foot waiting for her to finish her hushed conversation with one of her older children -- a human girl, maybe 15.  The human girl looked Gale up and down as she passed, flipping her box braids over her shoulder as she passed him by.  Helena smoothed the plaits in her graying beard.

“Velim’s wizard is here!” Jada chirped.

“She can see that, Jada.” The tiefling scowled down at her.  Jada stuck her forked tongue out at him.

Helena shook Gale’s hand, her palm warm and grip stone-solid.  “Mr. Dekarios, a pleasure to finally meet you.  I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Like a wedding!” Jada chirped, and the tiefling shushed her.

Helena cleared her throat.  “You’ve met Jada.  This is my son, Garus.  Kitty has been running messages to Georgie all day,” she gestured after the human girl, “Have you met Georgie?”

The barrage of names left Gale’s head spinning.  “Is Georgie another one of your children?”

Helena shook her head.  “No, no, Georgie is Velim’s fledgeling.  She’s working with Harold on the council to find a man named Unger the Gold.  Did Velim tell you why they were on leave?”

“Yes, they mentioned Unger the Gold in passing once or twice,” Gale said, “I have my tressym doing flyovers of the city, in case they’re out and about.”

Helena shook her head.  “Oh dear, Velim doesn’t vanish like this on a whim.  Your tressym isn’t likely to find them.”

Gale’s chest spasmed, pins and needles running up his arms.  He excused himself and sat down.

“Are you well, Mr. Dekarios?” Helena asked, thick brows knitting together.

“Yes, fine,” Gale choked out, “please continue.  How may I help?”

Helena looked at him skeptically.  “I understand you’re tenured at Blackstaff Research Institute?”

“I am.”

Helena produced a Vulture’s badge from her pocket, four black stars marking over a decade of service.  “Jada found this in the grass beneath Blackstaff Academy.”

Gale studied the badge, his heart dropping.  “I’ll ask around, but I don’t know what they’d be doing there.”

Velim reached inside their open chest cavity, hooking the blade of their scalpel beneath the aorta and slicing through with a hollow pop.  Their heart slipped free of the pericardium and into their hand, sputtering blood onto Gale’s pale skin.  They held the organ out and let it drop from their palm and into the maw of his chest.  Gale’s face twisted in pain as the teeth ground their heart to slivers.

“We’re gonna run out of ether at this rate,” Unger’s voice grated.

“Looks like someone’s tried to get at it’s heart before,” a woman said.

Velim bit down on the gag, gasping around the sweet chemical stench of ether.  Their vision swam, eyelids heavy.  They lolled their head aside to see their captors better and the echo of pain radiated up their neck.  The needle snapped off in their throat, a gush of blood splashed hot then cold on their bare skin.

“Awake again.”  Another voice, one Velim recognized but couldn’t place.  Like Unger’s, but softer.  

A hand grabbed Velim’s hair and wrenched their head back.  They choked on the flood of ether soaking the gag, their lungs and throat burning.  The skin around their mouth cracked and bled.

The maw yawned.  Velim wrapped their finger around the back of their pulmonary artery, the pain coming half a second after they sliced their finger on the way through the rubbery resistance of the vein.  They tipped their heart off their bleeding hand and into the mouth again.

“I don’t mean to cause you pain,” the maw said.

Pain is just pain, Velim tried to say, but heard only the wet inflation of their lungs.

“We have opium,” suggested the woman.

Velim’s eyelids fluttered, searching for the sound of her voice.  The leather straps firm on their upturned hands strained against the weak twitch of their limbs.  Their back ached like they’d been skinned.  They winced as Unger plucked off another scale.

“Couldn’t spare opium for me,” he grunted.  His legs clanked on the polished tile.

We had no opium, they wanted to say.  The gag still stank of ether, burning their eyes and tearing down their raw throat.

“Try this,” the voice that was Unger’s but softer said.  Velim couldn’t see what he held up, but felt the slice of a scalpel in their arm and rough fingers pushing a hard seed beneath their skin.  They whimpered.

Unger ripped out another scale and laughed when their body twitched.

They cut the inferior vena cava and fed their heart to the seething black void in the middle of the room.  It floated off their hand, coaxed forth on black tendrils that blackened the muscle.  Their claws cracked and crumbled away to ash.  The scales peeled back, the skin beneath blackening and muscle withering.  The bones of their hands charred, each fragment drawn into the void.  It smelled of afterbirth and vinegar.

Gale put his head down.  No trace of Velim but their badge in the grass beneath the infirmary.  His head pounded, the ache in his chest demanded attention.  Security checked the watching eye on the bridge, the wards on the doors, no sign of Velim or anyone else that night. He found himself walking the Sea Ward, and almost didn’t recognize the stairwell or the worn wooden sign for Lonzok’s Arcane Supply.  He opened the door, the familiar warmth of magic and incense greeting him.  

Lonzok looked up from the bookshelf he was stocking, his spectacles shining strangely in the gray daylight filtering in through small windows set high in the wall.  “Surprised to see you in the daylight,” he grunted, “in for the usual?”

Gale sighed.  “Yes.  No time for browsing today, I’m afraid.”

Lonzok presented the tray to Gale.  It rattled with its usual selection of odd trinkets.  Gale looked at the offerings, each a pittance for the waxing hunger of the orb.

“Do you have anything… more?” Gale asked, “something with a greater charge.”

Lonzok smiled knowingly and tucked the tray away.  “As a matter of fact, I do.  Came into it not long ago.”

Gale leaned in.  “What do you have?”

“If it’s concentrated magic you need, I can get you a pint or two of black dragon blood.  The genuine stuff, not some swill from a caged dragonling.  Fresh from the source, it’s potent if you know how to process it for extraction.  I’d cut a deal for a repeat customer,” Lonzok explained, setting a vial of blood on the desk.  

The orb lurched for the viscous red-black liquid.  Gale picked up the vial.  The orb throbbed, hungry.

“That’s already purified,” Lonzok explained, “fresh from the living beast.”

Gale felt the power of it, the weave primed for extraction.  The orb lashed.  Gale considered the things in his tower he hadn’t yet sold -- ancient tomes, the statuette of Mystra, the artifacts and trinkets he couldn’t bear to be rid of.  Dragon blood of this potency may silence the orb for a month, time enough to search for Velim unimpeded.

“Very well,” Gale conceded to the hunger, “let us deal.”

Dim light filtered through the slats between the boards of the crate.  Splinters dug into Velim where the wood wore their raw skin ragged.  They ached like a bug shoved in a box.  They willed their leaden limbs to move.  Their right arm throbbed numbly where Lonzok drove the seed beneath their skin.  The sutures pulled tight, professionally done.  The woman must be a surgeon, whoever she is.

Gods, they put some faith in that thing, Velim thought as they tested the flimsy hempen binds on their wrists and feet.  The cloth gag still stunk of ether, stinging the cracking skin of their lips.  Magic buzzed discordantly outside the thin barrier of wood. The moans of another trapped creature echoed forlornly.  A storehouse or a warehouse, not the place with the operating table.

Acid dripped from their claws and onto the rope.  Sulfurous smoke billowed up from the burning fiber.  They winced at the heat on their scoured skin as acid pooled on the floor of the crate.  Sulfur fumes choked Velim’s senses as the wood beneath them eroded.  They closed their eyes against the sting and woke again with a gasp that ravaged their scorched throat and sent them into a coughing fit.  The ripped the gag out of their mouth and retched.

Heartbeat loud in their ears, they ran their hands over the rough floor of the crate until their claws caught in the deep gouges the acid left behind.  Another dose of sedative coursed through their body in response to their adrenaline, dragging them back under.  Velim focused on the creaking pain in their shoulders and shifted their weight against the side of the crate until it tipped over and they crashed into the floor, unconscious.

The creature moaned again, morose at the sound of the padlock on the heavy door clicking open.  Velim’s arms buckled as they tried to push themself out of the twisted position they’d fallen into.  It clicked and howled in indignation, drowning out the clanking footsteps approaching Velim’s crate.

The storehouse sat third in a row of identical boxy brick structures set back from the docks on the Sea Ward and invisible in the hustle and bustle of ships and sailors.  The steel service door was locked with a padlock that whirred with wards Gale felt over the hot seething of the orb in his chest.  The keeper, a tall elven woman, grunted with the effort of turning the key.  A series of locks tripped inside, clicking in the static silence of sleet pattering on the ground.

She hauled the door open, putting her full weight against it to get it moving.  The swing of the door passed over four wards carved into the concrete floor, each glowing in turn as they activated.

“Quite the advanced security system you have there,” Gale commented in an effort to fill space, “the circuit goes all the way around the structure of the building?”

“You'd have to ask Lonzok.” The keeper held the door for him.

Gale peered down the long brick side of the building until the keeper gently nudged him inside.  The trilling of the manticore caged on the far wall drowned out the sound of sleet on the roof.  It paced, howling at them through the narrow slots between bars and working a single large claw through like a cat pawing at the crack beneath a door.

“Don’t worry about Milo,” she nodded at the beast, “we're holding her for a menagerie.  She's loud, but pretty girl wouldn't hurt a fly.”

Gale lowered his voice, doubting her assurances.  “What a treasure trove this place must be, have you worked for Lonzok long?”

She nodded. “Old School friends, he calls on me when he has a beast he needs kept down.”  She stopped at a wobbly wooden table and simple chair with a heavy leather coat draped over the back and picked up the pry bar leaned against it.

Gale stared at the coat.  Even in the dim warehouse, it seemed familiar.  The wear on the shoulders and cuffed sleeves nagged at his mind.  He looked at the coat, and at the tall woman.  “Are you working with a Vulture?”

“That’s mine,” Unger clanked out of the stacks of crates.  He crossed his arms, his brass legs shining, “took you long enough.”

“And you are?” Gale held out his hand. 

“Unger the Gold,” Unger crushed Gale’s hand in his grip.  He sniffed, his crooked nose twitching, “used to be a Vulture.”

The coat still bothered him, and he stared at the oilcloth hood until his guts dropped into the void. “It’s a bit small for you.”

“You callin’ me fat, wizard?” Unger scowled, then laughed and slapped Gale's back, “I'm kiddin’.  Let's get set up.  And just so you know: it looks like a person, but it ain't.  You seen the product for yourself already, so you know.”

“Come on, Unger, while the sedative still works.” The keeper handed him the prybar.

Unger approached a crate, askew from the others surrounding it.  As he wedged the prybar beneath the top, the crate exploded with a thunderous crack that sent the broad man flying into a wooden barrel. It split open, spilling a viscous silvery black substance over his head.  Unger wiped at the oil clinging to his face.

Gale covered himself against the hail of splinters that rained from the shattered crate.  He blinked the dust out of his eyes and grabbed the Vulture’s coat, holding it up like a shield as the dragon uncoiled from the crate and fell on Unger.

Unger’s body convulsed as Velim’s weight knocked the wind from him.  They snarled with jagged teeth, a screech rolling from their ragged throat.  Unger thrashed, but the acid dripping off Velim’s claws sizzled in the mechanisms of his brass legs and they seized.  The stench of burning flesh filled the room as they dug their fingers into his throat, the tissue coming away in strings of charred flesh. 

The keeper readied a spell, but Velim flung their’s faster.  A flash of green streaked between rows of crates, and the keeper screamed as her face melted away.  She pawed at her curdling flesh before falling. 

Velim staggered back from Unger’s body and collapsed.  The concrete floor leached what remained of the warmth from their body.  The sudden brightness from the lantern on the table drove a blade of nausea into their stomach, and they hissed as they leaned heavily on a nail lodged in a shard of wood.  The nail pierced their right palm, and they yanked it out as they forced themself to their knees.  The room spun and their hand throbbed dully, the sedative blunting the pain as another dose surged into their bloodstream.  They gripped the wood shard like an anchor, spine curling over and pressing their forehead to the cold concrete.

Velim braced their right arm against the floor.  Their vision resolved on the neat stitches between quills and scabs, and they drove the nail beneath them.  Blood welled up and obscured the site, but they continued levering the nail up until the sutures broke.  The sedative numbed the pain as they clawed for the little metallic seed and ripped it out of their skin.  They shook it off their claw and it made a hard little splat on the floor in the moment before they finally doubled over and vomited stomach acid onto the concrete.

“Gods, Velim!” 

The sound of their name pierced through the nausea and they rose on their knees as footsteps approached them, meeting the voice with a clumsy lash and wordless snarl that connected weakly with the stranger's shoulder.  The familiar voice yelled as Velim doubled over again and a violet woolen coat dropped to the ground, an acid burn eating away at the sleeve.  They blinked hard against the onslaught of the sedative, but their muscles went rubbery despite their resistance.  Heavy fabric settled over their bare back, pushing them further into the concrete.

Warm hands held them steady, their leaden head lolling back.  The stranger pulled the coat around their shoulders.  Their coat, they knew it by the smell of the beeswax they sealed the leather with, deadening the sharpness of sweat and blood clinging to their body.  He cradled their face, pushing mats of hair out of their eyes.

“Velim, can you hear me?” Gale asked, his voice low.  The manticore howled at the commotion.

Velim grimaced at his question, flashing their teeth.  Gale thought they might try to bite him, but they just lurched forward into his shoulder.  He cradled their head against his heart, their body shivering.

“That’s alright, just listen to the sound of my voice,” Gale’s heart slammed against his chest.  The orb reached out for them, caressing their face with burning filaments of weave.  He could have them.  Right now, drain them away to nothing and feed the orb a piece of Tiamat so powerful, a meal so satisfying, that it might not bother him for the remainder of his natural life.

The thought arrived so quickly and so selfishly that a knife twisting between his ribs may have been less painful.  He pulled Velim closer.

“I’ve got you,” Gale counted the steps he’d taken around the building, how many steps to the intersection closest to his mother’s house, “just hold on to me, I’ll get you out of here.”

“Please don’t…” Velim stammered, their voice giving out to ragged breathing.

“I won’t -- I-I’m --” Gale checked his calculations one more time, “I've got you.  Just hold on, I’m getting us out of here.” He adjusted his grip, hooking his arm around their waist and adjusting their arms over his shoulders.  They held onto his neck, the tips of their filed claws grazing his shoulders.

“Complicare viam,” he spoke, the words becoming truth in a gust of cold wind.  

Sleet dripped down the back of his shirt and melted on Velim’s hair.  He held them until the vertigo of traversing dimensions subsided, then hauled them to their feet.  They stumbled, knees buckling beneath their own weight.  Gale propped them against the wall of the alley to button their coat and pull up their hood.  He thanked the gods that the scabby black skin on Velim’s legs looked like boots in the dark.

Velim blinked up at the cloudy sky, letting Gale ease their arms through the sleeves of their coat.  He took their weight again, stooping so Velim could rest their arm across his shoulders.  They struggled to lift their legs, each step half-dragging through the mud until they found a stumbling rhythm with Gale pushing them forward.  

“Almost there,” Gale panted as they turned the corner into his mother's neighborhood.  The gas streetlamps flickered eerily off the sleet melting into the gutters.

Velim’s knees buckled as they lost consciousness, bringing them both down in the cold street.  Velim blinked back awake with a low groan, ice chilling their skin.  Gale glanced down the street at his mother’s stoop, just a half block away.  The orb throbbed in his chest, still reaching for the dragon in his arms. 

“Not far now,” Gale pushed wet hair out of Velim’s eyes, “I’m going to carry you.”

Velim nodded, letting Gale sweep his arm beneath their knees.  He staggered back to his feet and shifted their weight against his chest, each step fell forward harder than the last until he reached the short staircase leading to his mother’s stoop.  He braced himself for the final exertion, breath wheezing through his teeth, and surged to the top of the stairs where he let Velim down gently, holding them until they found their feet again.  Once he was sure they wouldn’t fall, he reached for the knocker and slammed it against the door until someone answered.

“What?” Charrel’s anger dropped away as she took in the scene on the front step.  Her long ears fell slack in surprise as the frustration that had rocketed her out of bed dissipated in a cloud of inert steam. “By the Gods, Mr. Dekarios,” was all she could manage in a small voice.

“Prepare a room and wake my mother, it’s an emergency.” Gale mustered his most authoritative voice, but Charrel was already helping him drag Velim across the threshold and lower them down on a bench in the foyer.

Velim traced the designs carved in the velvet upholstery, watching Charrel and Gale bicker.  Gale locked the front door, then warded it, and stormed up the stairs past Charrel yelling for his mother.  The commotion faded into footsteps above them.  The feeling came back to their toes with a prickling sensation.  Their arm and hand throbbed.

Gale and Charrel rushed back down the stairs, and Velim’s stomach churned as they were hoisted to their feet and carried up the stairs.  The patterns in the wallpaper morphed, birds stretching their feathers and turning to watch Velim pass by.  Gale and Charrel carried them into a bedroom lit with the low glow of an oil lamp on the desk and set them on the desk chair.

“Get out,” Charrel demanded of Gale.

“Get out?  What do you mean ‘get out’?” Gale’s voice didn’t rise above a harsh whisper, but his grip on Velim tightened.

“I mean what I say, Mr. Dekarios, now get out and let your friend some modesty,” she hissed, but her hands were gentle in prying Velim away.

Velim noticed the callouses on her fingertips as she eased them onto the bed, and thought dimly that she must play some kind of string instrument.  Gale’s vigor dissipated as he released them, holding their hand.  They left a smudge of blood behind on his palm as they finally slipped free of his grasp.

“Gale,” Morena lingered in the door in her housecoat.  Beside her, Delores and Dorothea blinked sleepily through curtains of curly brown hair mussed from sleep.  

Gale hurried out of the room and closed the door behind him so Del and Dot couldn’t see inside.  

Dot blinked up at him, her stormy gray eyes narrowed suspiciously as she pulled her curls back into a messy bun.  “Who’s that?”

“Is that who the matchmaker set him up with?” Del asked through a yawn.  She wiped the tears out of her cloudy eyes.

“Go back to your rooms,” Morena said through her teeth.

Her daughters looked at her skeptically, but both turned back on Gale in their own time.

“Go back to bed, it’s none of your concern,” Gale snapped.

Del blinked, full awake.  She ran her hand through her hair, but it fell back into place.  “What’s none of my concern?  Don’t you have your own tower to bring your dates back to, or would you rather spend the night in your childhood bedroom?”

“Delores,” Morena snarled.

Del matched Gale’s confrontational stare.  Dot grabbed her sister’s arm and dragged her back to her bedroom.  She waved to Gale as she slipped back into her own bedroom across the hall and closed the door.  Morena walked past Gale, gesturing him towards the sitting room.  She pinched the bridge of her nose.  Gale followed, shoulders slumping under his mother's scrutiny.

Morena sat in her rocking chair and folded her hands in her lap.  Gale sat on the long sofa across from her, avoiding her stern gaze.

“Gale, would you like to tell me what happened?” She asked, her voice measured.

Gale shrunk, his body responding to a tone of voice he had known before his feet reached the floor from the couch he was sitting on.  He gripped the brocade upholstery and blinked back tears.  When the onslaught didn’t stop, he buried his face in his hands.  His mother waited.

When Gale looked back into his mother’s stone eyes, the words spilled from him in an unstoppable tide.  He stared at the blood smear on his hand as he told his mother about his search for Velim and what he intended to do with the dragon.  He covered the aching black scars beside his eye when he explained the reason for his drastic measures.  He sobbed outright when he begged her forgiveness for all the time he’d been gone.  He was still crying when Morena sat down beside her son.  She rubbed his back and leaned against his shoulder, humming a soft lullaby beside him until he stopped sobbing.

The throbbing in Velim’s arm woke them.  They rolled over and covered it with their palm, pressing down on the flimsy bandage until the scab slipped.  Daylight streamed through the gaps in the curtains.  Velim squeezed their eyes shut against the light until the stinging pain drove them out of bed.  They leaned on the wall, picking up their coat from the back of the desk chair on their way to the bathroom, and closed the door behind them.

The water inside the tub steamed, the washbasin full of clean water.  Some kind soul whose face they couldn’t recall left fresh clothes and towels on the table beside the bathtub.  They dug for the bag of holding sewn into the lining of their coat and removed their surgery kit and a roll of gauze, dropped it on the table, and peeled away the stained bandages.  They dunked their wounded hand and forearm into the washbasin and scrubbed with soap until both injuries were red and raw, then studied them.

One all the way through puncture and one gash too open to stitch up.  They turned their hand over and flexed it where the nail had pierced their palm, matching the two holes dorsal and palmar.  They tested the movement, touching each fingertip to their thumb in turn.  It ached when they moved, but like a bruise and not a ruptured tendon.  When they turned their forearm over, some of the quills sat at odd angles.  They opened their surgery kit and picked out a set of forceps and one of the clean towels, then leaned their forearm on the table and plucked off the skewed quills.  They blotted at the blood welling up from the base.

They stripped the night dress and clambered into the tub.  Their body ached in the hot water, and slipped under the surface and let the world go thick and quiet until their lungs burned for air.  When they surfaced, their fingers were wrinkled.  They combed out their hair and washed the blood and sweat from it, soap clouding the water.  When the water cooled, they stepped out and scrubbed until the raw skin bled from the pinprick scabs where the scales were plucked.

They reveled in the feel of clean clothes and properly tightened bandages, the shirt supple from years of wear but missing the tie so it sat wide over their collarbones and left the scars down their chest plainly visible.  They held the collar closed as they approached the bedroom door and paused to listen for strangers in the hallway.

“Oh, good!  You’re awake,” Tara exclaimed, emerging halfway through a porthole above the wardrobe.

Velim startled back into the bed, knocking their already aching legs on the bedpost.

“Oh, my apologies,” Tara sat primly on top of the wardrobe, “I should have announced myself.  In any case, no need to listen for danger.  Morena sent the girls away this morning, and Gale received his scolding last night.  It’s only myself, Mrs. Dekarios, and dear Charrel.  Mrs. Dekarios sent me up to check on you.”

“Where is Gale?” Velim asked, rubbing their aching shin.

“Taking urgent meetings with his colleagues at Blackstaff,” Tara explained, “he’s been making calls since before dawn, I expect he should return past lunchtime.”

“I see,” Velim fussed with the fresh bandages on their arm.

“Fear not, doctor, I’ve been keeping vigil since I heard.  No ruffian is getting through that window without a good deal of scorching,” she flicked her tail at the closed curtains, “Mrs. Dekarios is expecting lunch downstairs.  I would appreciate it if you joined us.”

Tara disappeared back through the porthole and Velim heard her soft landing on the hallway carpet.  Velim followed Tara’s flagging tail down the hall until she vanished around the curve of the main staircase and left them alone on the landing.  Velim hesitated, tracing the carpet runner down the sun-dappled stairway -- much like the stairway in the Hazelight home, with windows set into the eaves letting the light in.  The stairs Everon chased them up with a kitchen knife.  They were whipped for it when they got the knife from him and chased him back down and into the arms of his waiting mother.  The chill of her hateful glare waited just around the corner.

Velim ignored the way their stomach clenched and took it one stair at a time until their hand passed into a sunbeam on the railing.  Their remaining scales flashed, inky black and glossy.  They pulled their hand away as though the gentle warmth burned and crossed their arms tight across their chest as they turned on their heel and walked quickly back to the bedroom.

The door clicked closed.  Velim sucked in deep, hungry breaths while their heart slammed against their ribcage.  They blinked back tears, and repeated against the tight wall of their throat, “I’m safe.  No one is going to hurt me here.”

The panicked animal at the back of their mind railed against them with worst-case scenarios.  They looked for a place to hide, some dark and tight corner of the room, and found the nook between the bed and the far wall.  Their head swam, body swamped by hyperventilation and the aching twitch in their fingers threatening to throw open the windows and jump out.  

Velim staggered into the corner and curled up, digging their claws into their knees and focusing on the pinpoint pressure on the joints.  Panic hammered at their defenses, tremors climbing up their spine.  Hot tears ran down their face, tracing odd patterns between the scales on their cheekbones.  They sucked in deliberately slow, stuttering breaths through their clenched teeth.

“Oh dear,” Tara mewed from her perch on the wardrobe.  She sighed and shook out her wings with a soft rustle, then left again.  She landed softly in the hallway.

Velim’s heart was just beginning to slow when Tara returned, gliding off the dresser and trotting up to rub against Velim’s knees.  Velim peeled their claws off their legs and scratched behind her ears.

“Doctor, I’ve arranged for lunch to come to you,” she explained.

A knock came at the door.

“Come in, Mrs. Dekarios,” Tara called.

Velim’s hand stilled, their body freezing tight.  

Tara pushed her head up into their hand.  “You’re okay, Doctor.  Morena already knows, and I’m afraid this conversation must occur while Mr. Dekarios is still out making his calls.  And besides that, we really must get some food in you.”

Morena set the serving tray down on the desk, the smell of hot coffee mixing with her rose perfume.  She pulled out the chair and sat across from Velim, taking her own cup of tea from the tray and sipping it.

“Gale tells me you prefer coffee, Charrel brewed it with cloves and ginger for their warming properties,” Morena said, studying the tea leaves drifting to the bottom of her cup, “she insisted I tell you that.”

Velim pressed their thumb into their injured palm, still stiff and cold despite the hot bath and now clammy with panic.  They swallowed the fear in their throat.  “That’s kind of her.”

Morena waited.  Velim felt her eyes on them, studying their loose hair and the pattern of scabs on their arms.  The scrutiny sent their heart hammering again.  The frigid hatred of Ulana Hazelight haunted the chair Morena currently occupied, as though she was hanging over Morena’s shoulder with her chestnut hair pulled back in a tight weave of braids and whispering all their horrid actions into her ear.

Tara leaned against their knees, but they made no move to pet her.  The shade of Ulana Hazelight froze them in place, but she dissipated as Morena got up from the chair and took a seat on the unmade bed beside Velim.  She leaned down and offered Velim a handkerchief.  

Velim flinched at the movement.  They wiped their eyes and blew their nose, then balled the handkerchief up in their palm.  “Thank you.”

Morena sat herself on the bench at the foot of the bed, adjusting her skirts and pulling her embroidery project from her pocket.  She hummed quietly as she worked the needle through.

Velim’s heart calmed and they unwound themself from the corner.  They leaned against the wall until they found their balance, then relocated to the desk chair and picked up the coffee, warming their hands on the mug.  The warm drink settled their stomach enough for them to realize how ravenous they were.  Morena continued her embroidery.

“I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you.” Velim balanced the fork on the empty plate.

Tara jumped into their lap with a huff and balanced herself in an indignant loaf on their knees.  “Far more trouble had you died, Doctor.  Do you have any idea what kind of state Gale was in when you didn’t arrive for dinner?”

“I’m sorry for that, too, then,” Velim sighed.

“Are you done?” Morena asked without looking up.

Velim watched out the crack between the curtains at the empty courtyard below.  “Yes.”

“Come sit, please.” Morena moved to one side of the bench and patted the empty seat beside her.

Velim sat, crossing their arms across their chest as though they would stop being a dragon if they just hid enough of the evidence from sight.  Tara had enough of that, though, and followed them from the desk chair to the bench.  She settled in Velim’s lap, pushing under their folded arms until they reluctantly extracted a hand to pet her.

“Thank you for bringing Gale back,” Morena said, her stern face drawn, “last night, he came home for the first time in more than a year.  I am grateful to you, and glad to finally meet you, although I wish the conditions were within your control.”

Velim traced the timeline in their mind.  One year previous Gale had his run-in with the Netherese magic, and then vanished from public life.  They wondered if he had to take desperate measures to control the parasite from the beginning.  

When Morena noticed that Velim was lost in thought, she continued with a small smile, “Gale is working to secure another option for disguise.  Until then, we will keep the blinds drawn.  You may stay here for as long as you like, but I believe it would be best for both of you to leave the city while the investigation runs its course.  I can only turn away your visitors so long.”

“He hoped he would return in time for lunch,” Tara sighed, “I always tell him that bureaucracy takes time.  When Mr. Dekarios hurried out the door this morning, he was so hopeful that he would return and prepare breakfast before you woke.”

Velim smiled at that.  “He knows he doesn’t owe me for dinner, doesn’t he?”

“Oh please,” Tara scoffed, “he talks about repaying the favor all the time.”

“Has Gale told you much about us?” Morena asked.

Velim began to relax, the tension easing out of their shoulders and leaving a throbbing ache in its place.  “Some, mostly about his sisters.  I understand he’s much older than them?”

Morena nodded, working her needle through the eye of the crane in her embroidery hoop.  “By ten years for Noelle and fourteen for Dorothea and Delores.  He helped raise them after his stepfather died.”

“Stepfather?” Velim echoed.

“Yes, stepfather,” Morena confirmed, “I met Gale’s father when I was still very young.  He fled his familial responsibilities in the Silver Marches, but he had to return shortly before Gale’s birth,” Morena trailed off, studied the stitches of her embroidery, “ten years later, I received his will as the only surviving inheritor for the family.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Velim watched her work the thread back through, pulling a downy gray feather into the bird’s body, “he never mentioned that.”

“He never met his father, and I don’t speak much of him. He doesn’t have much to tell you,” Morena pulled another feather into place, “I’m sure you’ve had more than your fair share of losses.”

“Yes, haven’t we all?” Velim tried to shake the oppressive memory of their years at the Hazelight home from their mind, a shadow cast over Ortheon Hazelight’s proud expression at their first amputation.  Instead, the hurt pinged against the memory of Luz’s body in the mass grave at Ulivin during the smallpox outbreak.  They settled on the grief of that memory instead.

Morena waited for Velim to elaborate, but they stared down at the tortoiseshell patterns in Tara’s fur and said nothing.  She set her embroidery in her lap.  “Is your family aware of your condition?”

Velim shook their head.  “Only Jada.  Peiotr and Helena don’t know.”

“Have you considered telling them?” Morena asked.

Velim shook their head again.  “The less who know, the better.”

Morena angled her body toward them.  “I have a proposition for you, and I would like to put it to you before Gale returns so that when he brings it up, you already have your answer.”

Velim waited for her to continue.

“I’ve staffed his father’s ancestral home in the Silver Marches with a skeleton crew for years to keep the place functional.  Willowdarn Manor, it’s been in the Halavar family for ten generations, and Gale is the last of the line.  It rightfully belongs to him, but I’ve never extended the offer because of its remote location.  Now, it seems a blessing,” Morena laid a hand on Velim’s shoulder, “I would send you both out there while the ruckus dies down and rumors of Tiamat’s Spawn running rampant among the townsfolk dissipate.”

“Does anyone else know about Willowdarn?” Velim asked, anxiety churning in their chest.

“Just myself and Gale, as the home is his birthright,” Morena assured them, “if you decide to go, we must make the arrangements quickly before the roads become impassable.”

Velim considered their options, glancing at the curtains and imagining the city beyond boiling with talk of another sacking on their doorstep at the hands of Tiamat’s own black dragon.  It wouldn’t be long until a mob with torches and pitchforks made their way to Morena’s door intent on tearing them limb from limb.  A desolate swamp sounded like paradise in comparison, but perhaps that was the dragon talking.

Morena gathered her embroidery and stood up to leave.  “Take your time and consider my offer,” then a small smile crossed her face, “I can't hold Peiotr off for long, so while you may remain in here until supper, I must insist that you join us for the meal.”

“Then I thank you for the warning,”  Velim smiled, and felt a buzz of warmth as Morena returned it on her way out the door, “Tara, would you be joining us at Willowdarn?”

Tara hopped off their lap.  “No, Doctor, someone must care for the tower while Mr. Dekarios is away.  I’ll keep an eye on your flat, as well, but it would just be the two of you.”

“And the staff,” Velim clarified.

“Yes, and the staff,” Tara echoed, flitting up to the top of the wardrobe, “get some rest, Doctor, I’ll send Gale up once he’s home.  Is there anything you’d like me to retrieve from your flat?”

“There’s a journal on my desk, if you can carry it,” Velim requested, thinking of the magical circuits scratched into the pages, “do you know where it is?”

“I absolutely can, and I do,” Tara purred, then was gone through the porthole.

Madame Toussau awaited Morena’s assessment, always best to let the client find the first words.  Especially one as particular as this mother -- single mother, so declared the portrait of herself and three children on the wall lacking any man besides the young starry-eyed fellow who was clearly her son.  

Morena finally set her cup down on the saucer.  “Please, drink your tea,” her command practiced, and Madame Toussau found the cup in her hand as soon as Morena asked.  Morena continued, “if I may be frank with you madame, a matchmaker is my last resort.  This process brings me no pleasure, but my every other attempt to return my son to society has thus far failed.  There is no more I can do on my own --” she rolled her wrist, “-- If he will not reforge his own social connections, then I must do so on his behalf.”

“So, are we seeking a spouse?” Madame Toussau asked.

Morena gave a curt shake of her head.  “I will not impose such a thing upon him.”

Madame Toussau finished her tea and set the cup down, tapping her long nails on the porcelain.  Morena filled it again.  Madame Toussau considered the lines of Morena’s face, the worry pulling at her mouth.

“A companion?” Madame Toussau ventured, “a reliable friend, perhaps someone interesting enough to coax him back into public life?”

“Can you provide someone like that?” Morena watched her face for any twitch or doubt.

“Under the correct circumstances.  Tell me about your son,” Madame Toussau prompted.

Gale leaned back in the creaking chair, massaging the ache in his chest.  He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the expansion of his lungs with each slow breath he took.  Sometimes, the orb eased away if he just let it file its complaints, and sometimes it spasmed like a crack of thunder through his ribs, hungry and threatening to suck him and the whole of Waterdeep into the abyss.  This was just a grumble.

The ceiling beams melted together.  His pulse throbbed hard in his neck, and he missed the first knock at the door because it mixed with the sound of blood in his ears.  He muttered a curse when he heard the second knock, fumbling for the drawer in his desk where he kept the enchanted trinkets Tara managed to pilfer and picking apart the tangled chains of amulets.

The orb throbbed harder, reaching for the weave within the locket.  Gale pressed it to his bare skin, the magic peeling his flesh away and sucking the locket dry until it was hot in his fingers.  He tossed the spent thing beneath his desk and wiped the sweat from his forehead before answering the door with black spots still in his vision.

“Mother?” his vision resolved on Morena’s stout frame, then on the tall and thin outline of a second woman, “and a guest,” he smiled politely, “to what do I owe the honor?”

Morena’s eyes stared pointedly past him and into the flat.

Gale stepped aside.  “Please, come in.  I apologize for the mess, I wasn’t expecting company,” he bent down and kissed his mother’s cheek as she stepped across the threshold, “should I make some tea?”

“That would be best, Gale,” the tone of his mother's voice assured him that what followed would not be a request, “I must discuss something with you.”

“Yes, of course, mother.  Would you mind introducing me to your lovely friend?” Gale nodded to the other woman, hoping his brow was neither too tightly furrowed nor shiny with sweat.  He already felt his face burn as his mother took stock off his unkempt apartment. 

“Madame Toussau,” she offered a hand bedecked in brass rings that gave off no magic, “it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Dekarios, Morena told me much about you.”

Tara swept through the open balcony door and puffed her feathers in surprise as she noted the guests.  Morena nodded in greeting, and Tara hopped to the top of a high shelf to observe.  Her ears tilted back in concern, tail twitching.

“And who is this?” Madame Toussau cooed in delight over Tara's feathers. 

“Tara, she's a tressym,” Gale waved away any further explanation as he put the kettle on, ducking Madame Toussau’s hand as she became fascinated with Tara, “what is it you do, Madame?”

“Madame Toussau is a matchmaker, Gale,” Morena stated.  She waited for Gale to finish fumbling the dishes in his surprise. 

“Mother,” Gale protested, “you cannot simply marry me off because I've taken some time off to deal with an illness.  I --” his further argument was cut short as his mother's gaze, firm and full of concern, fell upon him.

Tara shot him a look, wondering if clawing the Madame's hand might prompt her to leave.  Gale stared at the floor, so she chose to flit to another perch, less easily reached by curious hands.

“Sit, Gale, let Tara tend to the tea while we talk.” Morena beckoned to the couch, ignoring Madame Toussau’s confused look back at the tressym.  She placed the books and papers on the floor in a neat pile and brushed the dust from the cushions for herself and Madame Toussau.

Gale reluctantly pulled out the desk chair and sat.  “Why have you brought me a matchmaker, mother?”

Madame Toussau cleared her throat.  “Allow me to allay your fears, Mr. Dekarios, I am not here to marry you off,” her high voice pitched strangely through the quiet flat, “Morena shared with me that you experienced a loss about a year hence, and she expressed concern for your well-being.  She thought that, perhaps, you could use a small nudge back into public life?”

Gale absent-mindedly rubbed his chest.  “I've been ill.”

Madame Toussau nodded knowingly.  “Yes, of course, but is healing not easier with friends to share the burden?”

Gale scoffed. “I wouldn't place such a burden on a stranger.”

“So you lay the burden at my feet instead, Gale?” Morena demanded, “am I, as your mother, expected to sit here and watch loneliness rot my only son from the inside out?  I'll tolerate it no longer, you will do this.  You will do this for my sake, and for your sisters’.  Am I understood?”

The room fell silent until the kettle whistled, and remained without conversation until all three of them held cups of hot tea in their hands. 

Madame Toussau sipped her tea.  “This is delightful, Tara,” the tressym groomed herself on the desk, Madame Toussau continued, “would you like to hear about the match I've made for you, Mr. Dekarios?”

Peiotr cleared his throat for the third time, his legs dangling off a rattan chair not built for dwarves.  Velim barely glanced at him, tapping the page of their notebook with their pen to feel the muted round of it against their lambskin gloves.  They scratched out more notes about the ins and outs of matchmaking.  A loose strand of dull brown-black hair slipped from their ponytail and they tucked it behind their ear.

“Shouldn’t I be the nervous one?” Velim teased in their trademark deadpan.

Madame Toussau chuckled, disguising her laughter with a cough when Peiotr’s nose grew redder.  “It’s not unusual for those doing the matching to experience more nerves than the matched,” she assured Peiotr.

“And you’re my publisher, not my father,” Velim reminded him as the flush reached his ears.

Peiotr crossed his arms.  “I just want to see him for myself. Don't trust wizards, city’s too full of them charlatans.”

Velim checked the time on the clock tower peeking above the buildings.  “Might have decided against it, he’s late.”

“Perhaps nerves on his part, too,” Madame Toussau chimed.

“You intend to get lost once he arrives, don’t you, Peiotr?” Velim asked, dotting a spot of ink on his freckled arm.

He tried to wipe the ink away, leaving a black smudge.  “Aye,” he grunted.

Madame Toussau straightened up, her long neck craning,  “There he is,” she waved to a man making his way through the crowd.

The man gave her a shy wave back, and Velim closed their notebook to assess him.  Brown hair slicked back, brows drawn close in concern and a couple tenday’s worth of a beard, tall enough to see over the crowd and well-dressed in the way of a man who stepped out of the house too quickly to consider pressing his shirt.

Peiotr hopped down from the chair as Gale jogged up the stairs with a breathless apology prepared.  Peiotr intercepted him before he reached the table.

“Peiotr Ironfoot,” he extended his hand and shook Gale’s in a crushing grip that left his niceties a pained grimace, “Velim Tav’s publisher, good to meet you Mr. Dekarios.”

“Peiotr,” Velim waited for him to meet their eyes so they could mouth “get lost” as they wiped the remaining ink off their pen.

Peiotr cleared his throat and released Gale’s hand, glancing back up at the man’s face, but he was already fixated on Velim.  He met their muddy green eyes and looked away as though burned, then looked back and ran a hand through his hair.

“Shall I get us some coffee?” he asked, “recompence, for my tardiness.”

Velim sat back in their chair.  “Sure.”

“Nothing for me, thank you, Gale,” Madame Toussau said, “I don’t indulge on business.”

“Not even coffee?” Velim asked, flashing the sharp white canines wood elves sometimes possessed.

“Not even coffee, sera,” Madame Toussau made a shooing motion at Velim, “you know the rules.  Behave as though I am not here at all.”

“Difficult thing to do,” Velim commented, ignoring her rules as Gale ducked into the cafe, “where did you find him, anyway?”

Madame Toussau laughed soft.  “I could ask you the same.”

“Peiotr?  He and his wife have a habit of picking up strays, of which I am the honorary eighth,” they waved her questions away, “how’d you make your way into this business?  If you’re willing to share?”

Madame Toussau scanned Velim’s still face, their skin smooth and flawless when they dropped the practiced facial expressions.  “I used to be a madame of a different sort,” she watched for a reaction.

“Got sick of making yourself the match, then?” Another half-smile.

Madame Toussau restrained herself from scolding Velim for their packaged expression.  If the pair was good, the facade would fall away without her intervention.  Gale returned with two espressos in small cups and a glass full of water, which he placed in front of Madame Toussau.

“Forgive me, my mother raised me better than to leave a lady without refreshment,” Gale apologized.

Velim took the chipped cup from the center of the table, long fingers domed over the top so the steam billowed into the palm of their hand and held it like that on their side of the table until Gale sipped his.  They savored the rich warmth against the chill of the encroaching autumn, then set it down with their fingers still resting on the rim.

“I’m sure I’ve been a topic of discussion already,” Gale began, “but I know very little about you, besides what Madame told me.  This whole process happened in such haste, I hardly remembered your name when I stepped out the door today.”

“Velim, if you need the reminder,” they rattled off their qualifications, “Vulture, surgeon, and author.”

“Of course, Velim,” he considered their name, matching the sound of it to their placid face, “a Vulture, you said?  With the Waterdeep Public Health Corps, I’d imagine?”

Velim inclined their head, urging him on.

“A perilous occupation, how long have you been in it?”

They tapped on the table, counting the years.  “15 years, give or take.”

“15 years?” Gale’s eyes widened.  Madame Toussau also took notice of the statement and leaned in.  Gale stuttered out his disbelief, “Gods, are you under some divine protection?”

Velim shrugged.  “Perhaps just lucky, there are more tenured plague doctors than you may expect.  ‘Survive the first two years, work another ten,’ the saying goes in the industry,” they changed the subject, “I hear you’re a researcher at Blackstaff.”

“Once, but no longer,” he held his espresso in front of his mouth, a barrier between himself and Velim’s probing gaze, “I’ve been on an extended sabbatical.”

“What did you research?” Velim pushed past his shield.

“Ah, well, are you familiar with the Empire of Netheril?” Gale asked, “I don’t imagine your studies make many forays into archaeology.  It once soared the skies above where the deserts of Anauroch sit today.”

Velim leaned forward.  “I know very little about Netheril,” they admitted, “a magocratic empire based out of floating cities.  That’s about all.”

Gale set his espresso down and forgot about it as he flourished his hand in introduction.  “Then you may be interested to learn that the current state of magic in Faerun -- and, indeed, the world over -- is connected intimately with the fall of Netheril wherein the Archwizard Karsus attempted to wrest control of the weave from Mystryl and destroyed him entirely in the process in an act known today as Karsus’ Folly.”

“Himself, or Mystra?” Velim cocked their head to the side.

“Mystryl,” Gale corrected, “the god of magic preceding Our Lady of Spells, and the reason we mortals are bound to the limits we are when practicing her Arts.”

“Mystryl,” Velim glanced up at the gutter around the roof where an intrepid pigeon eyed the finger sandwiches on a neighboring table, “can you find remnants of those floating cities in Anauroch?  I imagine you could, deserts preserve such things.”

“Well, yes, but my particular area of study lies elsewhere at the moment,” Gale bloomed under the rain of questions, “I’ve been studying the works of an Archmage known as Ortenkus who lived some thousand years before Karsus’ Folly.  He was instrumental in the annexation and settlement of territory near the western border of the empire -- if a floating empire can be said to have a border, but I digress -- the suspected site is in the Silver Marches.  Recently, I’ve been investigating a tale regarding a military victory.  During Ortenkus’ lifetime, a small nation whose name has long since been lost became a wall to Netheril by inverting their magic.”

Velim’s mind added a new observation to their catalog, relieved that they might observe him unwatched as long as they kept him talking.  His spinning wheel earring possessed no mechanism for removal.  He reeked of magic, and it crackled against their skin as static because he spoke with gestures pronounced enough to waft it across the table.  Every few seconds, he stole a glance at them with a kind of bashfulness in his eyes as though asking for permission to continue.

Gale continued on, a train rolling down the tracks of his thoughts.  “Ortenkus, as the main strategist for the King at the time, was tasked with laying the nation low.  He spent twenty years and twenty days in the great libraries of Palter -- an enclave known even among the Netherese as a bastion of knowledge -- and when he emerged, he descended to the earth with an object that the texts describe as an egg.  The word used could also refer to a large seed, but that’s splitting linguistic hairs.  He disguised himself as an old man and walked into the foremost bastion of the country, left the egg beneath the center of their government, and walked back to Netheril. 

“Within a year, the capital city lay in disarray without even the knowledge that they were once allies with any of the other groups within the land.  The infighting destroyed them, and with each fracture Ortenkus led the armies of Netheril in to seize the lands, starting with --”

“Wait a moment,” Velim interrupted.

Gale’s speech stuttered to a stop.

“How, exactly, did Ortenkus initiate memory loss on such a mass scale?  The erasure of an entire culture suggests psionic impact on the level of…” they trailed off, unable to think of a comparison, “well, regardless, what could mediate such a thing?  The focus must have been enormous, like the ones they used to power their cities.”

“Yes, the mythallars,” Gale nodded sagely, then leaned on the table as though sharing a secret, “but I haven’t the slightest idea how he did it.  No mention of anything but an egg within any translation or account I’ve come across,” a smile tugged at the corner of his lips and he lowered his voice, “my personal theory is that he made use of a living creature of some sort.  Perhaps something of ilithid origin, given their psionic capabilities.  A sufficiently powerful ilithid placed at the center of a society may cause enough neurological fallout to destroy the whole thing down to the very bolts.”

“Ilithid,” Velim repeated, “no archeological sites for this event, I imagine.”

Gale sat back and ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a greying strand that fell against his forehead.  “One, possibly, but it’s out in the Silver Marches.  Difficult to reach under ideal conditions…”

“Which the Silver Marches do not possess,” Velim finished.

Gale leaned in again.  “So you’ve been?”

Velim glanced at Madame Toussau, and she blinked at them reassuringly.  They picked at the chip in the rim of their espresso cup.  “A year ago, for diphtheria.  We lost a whole crate of antitoxin and a horse to the mud before we even reached the center of the outbreak.”

“Gods, what a fetid wasteland it is.  Even hags avoid the place.” Gale chuckled to himself, “you mentioned you were an author?”

“Just textbooks.  Peiotr’s been looking for a publishing house that might take my fiction, but no such luck as of yet,” Velim explained, “the matchmaking is itself for research.”

Gale thought of his mother’s demand for cooperation and felt a pang of relief as the expectations lifted from his shoulders.  “What are you writing that would require you to employ a matchmaker for research?”

“You’ll laugh,” Velim’s smile this time was genuine but muted, “it’s a romance about an accidental match with a devil.”

Gale did laugh, just a little.  “What makes a devil lovable?”

Velim shrugged and finished their coffee.  “It would be my job to find out.”

Gale’s voice ached, and yet Tara sat on the bench beside the door and swished her tail at him with expectation.

“It went well, Tara,” he assured her, scratching behind her ears the way she liked and sitting beside her to doff his shoes.

“Nothing strange about them?” Tara demanded, “no scales or claws?” she sniffed him tentatively.

“No such thing, Tara,” Gale huffed, “I did bump into a dragonborn on my way home.”

She sniffed again.  “Possible.  Morena asked me no less than four times if I had heard from you.”

“You visited my mother four times?  Tara, you must quit pestering the poor woman,” Gale scolded, his voice soft.

Tara flicked her ear at him.  “She was concerned.  You were gone for hours.  I was under strict orders to report back as soon as you arrived, but I only expected you gone a short time.  We both did, and look --” Tara trotted to the glass doors to the balcony and sat pointedly in front of the reddening sky.

“Then it went much better than either of you expected,” Gale stretched and shrugged off his vest, “Velum is a surgeon with the Waterdeep Public Health Corps of 15 years, and as though they had the time to spare, they’re also an accomplished author.”

Tara met him at his desk and settled on the shelf he set up above it just for her.  “And did you give them time to speak about being a decorated plague doctor, author, and surgeon, or did you simply talk their ear off until you were hoarse?”

“They kept asking me questions, Tara,” Gale collapsed into his desk chair with a sigh, “thank you for talking me into going.”

“Do you need me to fetch you something?” Tara purred, the scolding out of her voice.

“No, Tara, thank you,” Gale smiled at his ceiling, “I’m feeling just fine.”

Velim closed the door of their flat behind them and slid all three deadbolts into place before their shoulders slumped.  They sat on the bed, pulled off their boots, and tucked them beneath the bedframe, then fell back into the unmade blankets.

They pulled their gloves off one finger at a time, then plucked the Ring of Mortal Guise off and dropped it into one of the gloves for safe keeping.  Their scales reappeared, glossy black in the low light filtering in from the sunset.  They studied the shine on their hands, their claws filed as short and flat as they could get them without hitting the quick.  They ran their hand up their arm until it caught the edge of a scale coming loose and plucked it off, leaving a pale green patch of skin underneath.  Blood beaded up jewel-like where it had been anchored.  

There was only one library left in Waterdeep they hadn’t scraped to the very bottom of the barrel: Blackstaff Institute’s restricted research library.  They pushed their chair out from their desk with a frustrated huff, knocking over another pile of books.  One fell open, sending a shower of sparks into the air.  They kicked it closed, useless thing cost them 180 dragons.

No correspondence from Gale.  A tenday since the Liar’s Masquerade.  A tenday since they pressed their bare hand to his chest and felt the magic raging inside him.  Ten whole days of agonizing over checking in or leaving him space, of wondering if he was dead and devoured in his tower by the roiling weave trapped inside his own body like a harpy in a birdcage.  Ten days of dense academic text, of leads to nowhere, and of trying to find a single book about Mystra that wasn’t so far up her ass it may as well have been an enema.  They shrugged on their coat and slammed the door behind them.  Their neighbor glared at them, and they glared back on their way down the stairs.

The reference desk at Blackstaff commanded respect.  The counter of polished mahogany reflected the stacks on the mezzanine above.  The gray-haired librarian looked at Velim over her spectacles as they set the copy of Mystra-ryl: An Account of Mystra’s Works From Apotheosis to Present in front of her.

“Find what you needed?” she asked.

Velim sighed.  “No,” they unpinned their Vulture’s badge from the inner lining of their cloak, “I’m afraid what I’m looking for might be a darker issue.”

She studied the enamel badge, pursing her lips at the four black stars that marked Velim’s decade plus of service to the Waterdeep health corps.  She slid the badge back across the counter to Velim.  “I can’t let you into the restricted sections without a senior mage’s signoff, regardless of your tenure.  My apologies, doctor.”

Velim’s expression pinched.  “It’s a matter of life and death, sera, can’t you make an exception?”

She looked them up and down.  Their stomach growled audibly in the quiet of the library.  “Rules are rules, sera,” she said.

Velim stared at her.  Their eyes burned for lack of sleep, bloodshot and bruised even through the illusion.  The librarian took the book from the counter and began checking it in.

“My stars, is that Velim?”

Elminster’s booming voice made Velim’s shoulders tense.  They turned, and in a hushed voice said, “Elminster, you’ve got good timing.”

“Do I, now?” Elminster stopped at the desk, not bothering to lower his voice despite the librarian's tsk, “how have you been, dear doctor?”

“Fine,” Velim said, “listen, Elminster, I’m working on a case.  I’ve exhausted every avenue, and I think I might find what I need in the restricted research section,” they nodded to the librarian, “I’ve been told I need the approval of a senior mage for access, no exceptions.”

Elminster stroked his beard.  “Have you now?  And what case is this, doctor?”

“A critical case of spell parasitism.”  Velim looked at him pointedly.

“Very well,” Elminster agreed.  The librarian produced a separate logbook for Elminster to sign, and locked a shackle with a key attached around his wrist.  Runes glowed around it, “I’ll accompany you, I hope you can find what you’re seeking.”

“Nothing leaves the restricted section,” the librarian warned, “as you well know, Mr. Aumar.”

Velim nodded, following Elminster as he turned in a rustle of robes and led them to a heavy door in a back corner of the library.  It opened into a windowless gray room.  

“Dismal place,” Velim commented, glancing around at the wrought iron cages and unadorned sconces.

“Yes, well,” the joviality drained from Elminster, “some of these volumes pollute mundane symbols and imagery in their proximity, so we must forego any visual interest.”

Velim chewed on that.  “I see.”

“Come now, wyrmling, what you're looking for is over here,” Elminster led them to a glass cabinet, “what should you have done had i not arrived?” He wondered aloud. 

Break in, Velim thought.  “I don't know, glad you showed up when you did.”

Wards etched into the cabinet door hummed as he held up his shackled wrist.  He handed them a black tome, “I’ll warn you at the top, dear wyrmling, that you can't fix him.”

Velim flipped through the pages: written in draconic script, but a language they didn't recognize. “Why?  What ails him?”

Elminster closed their book so he could stack two more on top of it.  “It's not within your power.”

“All due respect, you have no idea what's within my power.” Velim's arms ached under the weight of additional books. 

Elminster closed the glass and led them to a simple table with two chairs.  “Now you sound like a proper dragon,” he bade them set the books down and tapped their forehead, “keep your wits about you, wyrmling.”

The sweet vibration of magic sang through them.  “What did you do?”

“Read and see for yourself,” the old wizard sat across from them and pulled the brim off his hat low over his eyes, “I’ll indulge myself in a catnap, if you don't mind.”

The old wizard started snoring before Velim opened the first volume: Spellplague Accounts from the Court of Karsus -- which they could now comprehend, they realized.  They began taking notes. 

Netheril, flying empire of arcane might, crumbled beneath emperor Karsus’ botched apotheosis.  In his folly, he unwound magic itself.  Titans fell, billions perished across the nine realms, and his court became trapped in agony as their broken minds upheld the pillars of arcana until a new goddess rose from the roiling chaos.  Born from a mortal girl, her body sacrificed and torn asunder, Mystra’s new form knit itself together from raw magic. 

Newborn Mystra locked the door on the grand magic of Netheril, but parts of it remained stranded beyond mortal grasp.  The magic of Netheril was mortal -- mortal accomplishment, mortal folly -- and could only ever return to her if delivered by mortal hands.  In dark corners of the nine realms, fragments of old Netheril remained, awaiting a mortal wielder.

Velim's stomach growled again.  They closed the last book, their head throbbing. 

“Sounds as though you could use some dinner.”

Velim startled, they'd forgotten Elminster was there. 

He gathered the books.  “Come on, wyrmling, you've been at this for hours.”

“Have I?” Velim blinked, picking up a couple tomes and following behind. 

“Four, to hazard a guess,” Elminster locked the cabinet, “did you find what you were seeking?”

“Maybe,” Velim said. 

Elminster walked them back to the reference desk and bid them goodbye, with the added insistence they pick up dinner on their way home.

Two meat pies and a bottle of sherry later, they found themself on Gale’s stoop.  They stared at the warded door and smoothed their hair, trying to argue themself out of this misstep.

“Excuse me.” A woman’s voice, demanding.

Velim started and searched for it's source until they landed on the prim and plump tortoiseshell tressym sitting at their feet.  “Gods,” they sighed, “you scared me, love.”

“Can I help you?” her tail twitched, “Gale is not seeing visitors right now.”

“I -- um --” He’s alive, at least.  Alive in spite of the gods.  Velim patted the bundle under their arm, “yes, I thought as much.  I brought him some dinner.  After everything that happened at the party… well, I wanted to see if he was alright.  It would be a black mark on my reputation as a doctor if I left him to his own devices too long.”

The tressym narrowed her eyes.

“Are you Tara?” they asked.

“I am,” her tail twitched again, “I’ll let him know you’ve come.”

Tara jumped the railing, her wings flicking out as she flew up and out of sight.  Velim tapped their foot on the wooden porch, scolding themself for coming by.  He clearly didn’t want visitors but -- their mind went to the hot meat pie -- who doesn’t benefit from a hot meal and bracing drink?  Just something to keep his strength up.  Something to keep the Netherese magic smothered.

They'd buried more lively plague victims, they thought as Gale opened the door.  Dark circles hollowed his eyes against his pallid complexion, and black scar lines stood out on the agitated skin of his face, trailing down his neck.  His left eye squinted, a twitch in the eyelid.  Even in his exhaustion, he lit up when he greeted Velim.

“Hello, Velim.  I’m sure I must be a sight,” he pressed a finger to the corner of his left eye, like he wanted to rub the twitch out, “I’m afraid my condition’s been a smidgen more problematic than usual.”

“I suspected as much,” Velim pulled back the cloth protecting dinner from the winter chill rapidly taking hold of Waterdeep, “I thought you’d benefit from a hot dinner.”

“I’m afraid I can’t --” Gale ran a hand through his messy hair.

Velim held up their hand to stop him.  “I don’t need to come in, just take the food off my hands.”

Gale’s face dropped, as though all the energy flowed out of him in a single breath.  “Thank you, Velim.  I’m sorry I’ve worried you.”

A stiff wind would blow him apart, and Velim resisted the urge to ask if what ailed him was, in fact, a fragment of Netherese magic.  Instead, they handed him a warm pie and the sherry.  “It’s not something you can help.  I’m a worrier.  Part of the job.”

Gale lingered in the doorway, reluctant to close it even though neither of them could find something to talk about that wasn’t the malevolent force lodged in his chest.  Velim’s fingers twitched again, their mind running through his symptoms for a way to cut it out.  Chest pain, magic overflow -- inflammation of what may be pathways of magic in his body, fatigue.  Nothing new to learn without full examination, some blood, maybe some bile.  Nothing Gale would offer willingly.  Nothing they could do if they didn't know the exact pathways and exact angle of scalpel.

“Thank you, Velim.  Thank you again, your visit’s been a balm to a bad day,” Gale gave them a sad smile, “I’ll call on you as soon as I feel well enough.”

A blush rose in their cheeks.  He still couldn’t see it, but they looked up at the porch roof anyway.  “I’ll call on you before then.  I won’t be able to leave it be, life’s boring without you keeping me busy.”

“That’s,” Gale’s body attempted a blush, but was too bloodless to do anything but bring a little color to his cheeks, “I would like that, seeing you.  Even if it’s just at the threshold.  Thank you for dinner, Velim.”

“My pleasure,” they said.

Gale still hesitated to close the door.

“I’ll see you soon,” Velim pulled the remaining pie close to their body against a cold gust of wind, “I need to go.  I’ve got errands to run before the dark sets in.”

“Of course.  Goodbye, Velim,” Gale still waited before he closed the door, some part of him wishing Velim would demand answers.  The orb throbbed in his chest, greedy tendrils reached for them across the threshold.  He closed the door, then.  The wards sealed with a whoosh.  

Velim stood there, dinner in hand and a walk across the Trade Ward ahead of them.  They descended the spiral staircase and merged with the crowd milling around the entrance to a tavern on the opposite side of the street, eating the second meat pie before it had the chance to get any colder.  They popped the collar of their jacket and did up the top button with one hand.

The streets grew dim as they ventured further into the city.  Passersby kept their heads down and the beggars didn’t bother asking for change bundled in their motheaten woolens, pointedly ignoring the Vulture.  Velim took a shortcut through a narrow alley and emerged a different person, their world now tinted with the magic of an additional disguise spell.  No one looked at the elven man with his hood pulled up as he ducked into an apothecary storefront and locked the door behind him.

The alchemist looked up from his book, clutched in one taloned hand.  His red scales shone darkly in the candlelit shop, and he flashed the elven man a toothy grin.

“You’re late,” the shopkeep set the book on the table.

“Held up.”  Velim spoke with a voice that made their hair stand on end even when it came from their own throat.  They pulled a glass vial containing seven shining black scales from their pocket and set it on the table.

The shopkeep’s grin widened.  “Your friend paid out, I see.”

The elven face twisted into a cruel smile to match the alchemist, one Velim knew well enough from their nightmares. “Of course.”

The alchemist took out a metal tray, delicate filigree scissors, and an amber bottle with a rubber dropper from beneath the counter.  Velim took pains to appear bored as he cut a sliver from one of their scales and let it drop.  He recorked the vial, then dropped a bead of clear liquid from the amber bottle into the tray.  Both men leaned back as a green flame shot between them, leaving another layer of black soot caked on the ceiling.

The alchemist hid the tray below the counter and cupped the vial of scales in his hand like a delicate bird.  He produced a heavy leather coinpurse and pushed it across the counter towards the elven man.  Velim tucked it away in their coat 

“Nice doing business with you,” Velim said with the voice they hated.

“Always a pleasure, Everon.” The alchemist chuckled at the dragon scales clutched in his talons with cannibalistic joy.

Velim pulled up their hood and shoved their hands deep into their pockets, refusing to look anyone in the eye.  They ducked into another narrow alley and emerged on the other side without the secondary illusion.  Clouds gathered overhead, blowing a chill mist off the sea.  Those left on the street scattered in anticipation of rain, but Velim kept walking.

Most of the market was gone, the tents taken down and wares boxed up.  The bookseller at the end lingered.  She perked up when she was Velim’s dark figure cutting a quick pace down the street.

“Took you long enough, Vulture.”  She leaned on the cart with her crates, her horse huffed impatiently.

“Held up,” Velim apologized, “you still have it?”

“Is this a good idea, Gale?” Tara asked, lording over him from atop the wardrobe.

“Yes,” Gale insisted once he drew in a deep enough breath, “I promised Velim the Liar’s Masquerade.  Orb be damned, I’m keeping that promise.”

“Don't overextend yourself,” Tara huffed, “I won’t be there to help you.”

Gale affixed the gold cufflinks and swung the heavy velvet cape around his shoulders.  He clasped the gold chains in the front and turned himself around for Tara.  “What do you think?”

“Magnificent, but your wheel mask won’t match.” Tara tucked her paws neatly beneath her.

Gale held up a finger and picked up a box from his desk. He unwrapped the mask from the tissue paper and held it out to Tara, who sniffed the leather and studied the gilded detailing.  The ribbons hung loosely to either side as Gale studied his masked face in the mirror.

“Fits perfectly.” He grinned.

“Aren’t you going to shave?” Tara demanded, stretching.

“Hardly time for that now,” Gale tied the mask and adjusted his half-do to hide the knot, “and I think Velim likes a bit of scruff, anyway.”

Tara scoffed and jumped softly down, sitting herself in the pool of sunlight in front of the balcony.  

Gale flourished his cape in the mirror.  “I have a good feeling about this, Tara.”

Velim tugged the crocodile skin gloves up until the leather pulled taut.  They traced the scutes on the back of their hands, polished to a shine equaling the real thing, and secured their green shirt with brass cufflinks.  The black brocade of the doublet shimmered as they tugged their sleeves until green showed through the slits.  Satisfied, they affixed the scalloped shoulder cape with a brooch in the shape of a dragon’s wing and tested the look of the ensemble with their skull mask in the mirror.

They turned and admired the clean lines of their body, smoothing their neat braids.  They leaned in, pushing the Ring of Mortal Guise out of place so their eyes flashed acidic through the mask, scales like pebbles carved the contours of their face, their hair went deep black and glossy for just a moment before they pushed the ring back into place.

This wasn’t a good idea.  Even if the ambient magic at Blackstaff disguised their presence, even if scales were part of the costume, it still wasn’t wise.  Their inner child wailed in upset, but they snapped back at it to shut up and locked the door behind them, tying on the skull mask as they walked.  

             A carriage waited on a waterfront street, a black stain against the sunset.  Gale leaned out, nearly toppling over in his enthusiasm.  He steadied himself on the doorhandle, the velvet cape flowing around him.  

He caught Velim’s eye and blushed.  “Velim, you look like the specter of death itself.”

“Thank you,” Velim climbed into the carriage and tucked his cape out of the way, “red suits you.”

Gale’s heart stuttered.  “Burgundy, yes, thank you.”

“Burgundy, right,” warmth pricked at their ears, but they knew it wouldn't show through the illusion, “a masquerade isn’t my usual affair, I’m trusting you to guide me through the intricacies.”

“Gladly,” Gale chuckled, “I'm a prince with a draconic retainer -- you need only stand at my side.  Are you fond of them?  Dragons, I mean?”

“I am,” Velim watched the people in paper masks make their way from one festival block to another, “Maybe I'm just envious of their wings.”

“Brilliant and potent creatures, indeed,” Gale agreed, “perhaps you relate to them?”

Velim’s stomach flipped and they fidgeted with their cufflinks.  “In an aspirational sense.”

The sound of the ground beneath the wheels changed from cobblestone to smooth brick as they traversed the bridge to the towering obelisk of Blackstaff Tower.  The carriage turned to a stop in the long round driveway in front of the main doors where lamps flickered with arcane fire.  

Velim stepped down from the carriage, extending their hand.  Gale took it and dropped in a flourish of burgundy fabric, thumb tracing the scutes on Velim’s glove before releasing them.  Velim slipped their arm into his, and the blush that started at their ears reached their face.

A translucent specter drifted over holding his ghostly lantern aloft.  Wisps curled around him as he pointed them towards the gardens and ballroom entrance with a gnarled finger.  They fell in line with the crowd, masked figures draped in fine brocades and lace.  The long trains of ladies’ dresses drifted, flowing on an unseen breeze.  Eyes behind masks acknowledged them with curiosity, and one of the specters passed them goblets of wine.  Gale held his out in a silent toast and Velim met it with the chime of crystal.

Shifting frescoes of the gods, each wearing a mask befitting their domain and internally luminescent, adorned the vaulted ceilings of the ballroom.  Mystra held court above the other gods with a distaff in one hand and a drop spindle in the other, twirling a silvery strand of weave on and on and on.  Her dispassionate eyes watched Velim cross the floor, and they fought the urge to shrink away.

A tug on their arm drew them back to Gale.  He watched them, eyes soft brown and hopeful.  They straightened as he led them through the crowd.

“I’d like to introduce you to some of my colleagues,” Gale suggested, “I hope Martha is in attendance, she’s a magical disease specialist and I think you’d get on like wildfire.”

Velim scanned the crowd, people gathered in corners or spun with partners on the wide dance floor.  Their stomach turned, feeling eyes on the back of their neck.  “It would be my pleasure.”

Gale’s face lit up as he spotted a conical gray hat rising above the banquet tables.  “Come on, there’s someone I must introduce you to.”

He cut through the crowd, locking Velim’s arm with his so he didn't lose them.  The man in gray robes to match his gray hat looked up and gestured wide with his pipe in one hand.  Fog cascaded from his hat brim in a thick curtain, obscuring his face.

“Gale, my boy!” his gruff voice puffed out. He remained faceless behind the falling fog besides the end of his long gray beard.

Gale embraced the older man, momentarily vanishing in the mist.  “Elminster, I thought you were bound for Menzoberranzan until next year!”

 “And miss the mischief of Liar’s Night?  Perish the thought,” he held Gale at arm’s length, “you’ve donned a new mask, I see.  How have you fared?”

“I thought it time for a change,” Gale ignored his second question, “Elminster, allow me to introduce you to my companion,” he placed his hand on Velim’s back and ushered them forward.

Velim ignored the skipped beat of their heart and shook Elminster’s hand firmly.  “Doctor Velim Tav, a pleasure to meet you, Elminster.  Your ecologies saved me more than once in the field.”

“Who among us does not owe our survival to one volume or another,” Elminster waxed, “I should thank you for bringing Gale back into the fold.  You know he’s never brought a date to the Masquerade before?”

“He said something like that,” Velim shot Gale a crooked grin, noting the blush creeping over his collar with satisfaction.  Elminster’s magic washed over them like a wave on a calm beach, far from the storm Gale produced.  The assured power of it sent a chill down their spine.  Elminster held their hand for a little too long.

“And what do you do that my ecologies serve you so well, doctor?” Elminster asked.  His pipe disappeared beneath the curtain of fog and a series of four smoke rings pushed back out.  He swayed like he was already a couple drinks down.

“I'm a senior Vulture with the health corps,” Velim explained, “a surgeon, but most of my job is just contact tracing.”

“Fascinating!  No easy task, chasing down the plagues that terrorize the gentle folk,” Elminster exclaimed, “I see why Gale brought you along, I sense a formidable mind.”

Velim grinned, but their smile faltered when they noticed Gale rubbing his chest.  “I won’t deny it.”

“Elminster, could I bother you to take Velim off my hands?” Gale asked, “I need to step out for a moment.”

“Gladly!” Elminster offered his arm to Velim, “come, I’ve much to ask you, wyrmling.”

The coy nickname felt like a blade to their throat, but they kept their face calm and easy as they slipped their hand through the crook of his elbow and let him lead them to a sofa upholstered in violet suede.  He snatched a glass of wine from a tray that floated about unattended, and the glass disappeared beneath his mask of fog before reappearing empty.  He set the empty cup on the side table.

Velim lifted their glass to their lips, but barely took a sip.  “I’m starstruck,” they feigned embarrassment, “this event is fancier than anything I expected, and now I'm drinking with a Weavemaster.”

“And what were your expectations, wyrmling?” Elminster asked.

“Researchers and teachers, but no one so lofty,” they inclined their head to Elminster, “I’ve only known Gale a couple months.  I didn't realize he kept such formidable company.”

Elminster leaned back and wispy smoke starlings fluttered toward the ceiling.  Velim thought they caught Mystra looking at them when they followed the smoke up. 

Elminster’s voice grabbed their attention again.  “My, my, don’t you work quickly!  To think, an entire year of absence, and all it takes is a month of you to bring Gale back into the fold.  I thought that condition of his would turn him recluse forever.  Pray, how did you come together?”

“You’ll laugh,” Velim warned.

Elminster leaned forward.  “Oh, please tell.”

“His mother signed him up for a matchmaker.” Their lips twitched in a smile.

Elminster let out a sharp laugh.  “And he allowed her?” then he looked at Velim, “and you?”

“Doing research for a book,” they waved the notion off, “I didn't have experience with matchmaking, and thought going through the motions might inject some realism into the project.  Found a matchmaker who was amenable to the idea.  I think she said she specializes in ‘niche cases’.”

“And haven’t you found yourself in a sprawling narrative,” Elminster prodded, “Gale’s quite storied himself.  The epic you could write about him!  Oh, Mystra, the man is more than you’d believe.”

Velim plucked another goblet of wine off a tray as it floated by and handed it to Elminster.  “Is that so?”

“Indulge me in some fatherly concern, would you, wyrmling?” Elminster’s head tipped to one side.

“Please.” Velim waved him on.

“What are your intentions with Gale?” he held his glass up to stop them from answering, “I only wish to save him from additional heartbreak.  I can tell he's fond of you already.”

Velim thanked the ring for hiding the blush creeping up to their neck.  “Perfectly platonic,” they assured him, “I’m only looking for a like mind and a little company.”

Elminster’s head remained cocked to the side, the cascading fog obscuring his expression.  Velim settled the twitch in their fingers by drinking again.  Elminster finally lifted his glass beneath the veil of fog.

“Good!  Good.  After all that’s transpired, a friend will do him well,” he rested his hand on Velim’s arm, stronger than expected, “I believe you, wyrmling.”

“I don't know much about why he retreated from public life in the first place,” Velim admitted, resisting the urge to pull away.

The brim of Elminster’s hat dipped conspiratorially.  “The folly of a man in love,” he leaned back, “Mystra, forgive him.  I’m so relieved he’s returned,” he clasped Velim’s hand in his, “thank you, Velim.  Truly, I worried about him.  He's refused all visitors since -- well, never mind.  I'm glad for him, that's all.”

“My intervention is a happy accident,” Velim smiled at him, “may I ask you something?”

“Of course.” Elminster leaned in for the conspiratorial question.

“Do you know what his condition entails?  My curiosity is both professional and personal,” Velim explained.

Elminster sat back, serious.  “My dear wyrmling, I’m afraid his condition is not mine to reveal.  It lies between him and Mystra alone,” his joviality returned, “may I ask you a question?”

Velim gnawed on the rebuttal.  “That seems fair.”

“What brings a dragon to Blackstaff?” Elminster’s voice dropped so low they had to cock their ear toward him to hear. 

Velim's mouth opened and closed.  They threw back the goblet of wine and hunched forward, cradling the empty glass between their knees.  “I wanted to see what it looked like inside.”

Elminster barked a laugh and his voice drew the attention of other bejeweled partygoers.  “Is Gale aware of your --” he sent a smoke dragon gliding to the ceiling, “condition?”

People gravitated toward the sofa.  Velim straightened and deposited their empty glass on a passing tray. “I'd appreciate it if you kept it between us.”  They breathed deeply.  Just a dragon, yes, just a normal dragon.

Elminster puffed out more smoke rings.  “Your secret’s safe with me, wyrmling,” he raised his voice, “Lyle, my boy, get over here!  How’d you like to meet a Vulture?”

Gale clutched his chest as the orb surged against his ribs.  A faint violet glow bled through the fabric of his shirt.  “Why?  Why now?” he choked, “Why must you act up now?”

He groaned at the pain driving him into the depths of his body, leaving his extremities numb.  His heart spasmed against the pressure.  He sucked a cooling breath between his teeth, forcing his lungs to inflate until they suffocated his racing heartbeat and held it until the orb’s spasm died down.  The violent magic pulsed up his neck and face, sparks scattering in his vision.  Slowly, his body resolved.  He worked feeling back into his fingers and the orb settled as a knot of pain against his heart.

Gale breathed long and slow, wiping the sweat from his clammy forehead.  He pushed onto the balcony and let the cool air wash over him.  The wind caught the conversation and jaunty music exuding from the ballroom, it drifted to the city below.  The tremor in his hands slowed, and he returned to the din of the ballroom to rescue Velim from Elminster’s probing questions.

He found them surrounded by a throng of people, Elminster officiating the conversation as a halfling peppered them with questions. Gale dimly recognized him as Lyle Thornberry, an expert in healing invocation.  Lyle pressed them on specifics of mechanical treatment for invocation hyperplasia.  Velim considered the small man with their back straight and their drink full.

“The best way I’ve found to prevent recurrence involves understanding the arterial anatomy of the afflicted area and a strong grasp of necromantic magical principles.  I rarely come across both in the same person, but a few years ago during an outbreak of Proudrest’s disease in a duergar settlement north of Cairnheim I had the pleasure of working with a drow necromancer on a particularly nasty case of IHP,” they swirled their wine in the glass, making sure no one looked too sick yet, “an inexperienced druid treated the patient ten years previous: gutshot by an arrow tainted with bloodbloater venom.  The druid somehow rerouted what remained of his bowel, but the residual invocation caused the tissue to proliferate.  By the time I arrived, it took him a month to digest a single meal and the extra bowel weighed so much he was bedbound.”

Gale joined the crowd.  Some of his colleagues had gone a little green.  Velim shot him a smile.

Velim continued, “So the drow and I, a bit sick of feeding porridge to Proudrest patients, decided we’d take a shot at solving his problem.  We got him sedated and open and spent the next two hours mapping out the extra lengths of intestine -- his duodenum alone measured about ten feet long.  To remove it all, we sectioned each piece off in two foot lengths.  She killed the vascular tissue, and I removed the ischemic section of bowel.  Some fifteen hours later, we had a mountain of dead bowel and a duergar with a normal digestive system.”

“And the duergar survived?” Lyle pressed.

“Ate his first meal and passed it within six days of the operation.”  Velim nodded as though that was that.

Lyle’s eyes went wide.  “You wouldn’t happen to have this drow’s name?”

They shook their head.  “No name, she insisted.  Told me she didn’t care to share personal information with someone who could be raw material tomorrow.”

Lyle seemed crestfallen, but the others around him murmured in sick wonder at the feat.  The band slowed one song, and Gale saw his opportunity to steal them back.

He cleared his throat, and Velim looked at him with soft relief.  “Velim, I hate to whisk you away so abruptly, but perhaps we could have that dance?”

Velim set their glass down on the table and swept between his colleagues, nodding at Lyle and Elminster as they took Gale’s arm.  “Yes, please.”

The crowd remained pressed around Elminster as the pair extricated themselves.  Velim saw the tension around Gale’s eyes through his mask.

“Are you feeling alright?” they asked.

“I am now.  Shall we?” Gale offered his hand as he stepped onto the parquet dance floor.

Velim hesitated, their eyes darkening with concern.

Gale closed his fingers around their’s.  “Just let me lead.”

The violin struck up first and Gale guided Velim’s other hand to his shoulder.  His fingers trailed over the back of their arm before resting at their waist.  Veilm’s heart rocketed into their throat and they swallowed it down by looking at their feet as they began to move.

“Your feet aren’t going anywhere,” Gale said, drawing Velim’s eyes back to his face.  A little jolt of disappointment crossed his mind, their face as unflappable as always.  How was it that they made him fumble and blush with a single look, but he couldn’t unsteady them at all?

Velim ignored the unsteadiness at their core and yielded to Gale’s lead as he spun them.  The music picked up, the rest of the string section taking hold of the melody with a rapid rising and falling rhythm.  Velim’s heart stuttered in their chest as they leaned into the heat of Gale’s body.  Magic flooded off of him, leaving Velim buzzing down to their fingertips.

The music slowed to a gentle waltz, dancers pulled one another close.  Velim found themself gazing into Gale’s soft brown eyes and a spark of fear shattered their enchantment.  They pulled away instead of pressing closer.

The orb stuttered in Gale’s chest and he winced.  Velim’s hand slipped out of his, and he followed them off the parquet and into a corner.  Gale drew the gazes of his colleagues in their own conversations.

“Would you like to show me around?” Velim suggested, tugging at the collar of their doublet, “I could use some air.”

“Yes, I would.” The tension at Gale’s temples relaxed and he pulled Velim’s arm tight to his body.  

He led them out of the ballroom and into emptier and emptier parts of the tower.  The sconces on the wall lit as they passed.  Velim looked over their shoulder at the dark hallway behind them, the chatter of the ballroom gone around four corners and a staircase.  When they tracked their path back, they couldn’t remember if the third turn was a left or right because they’d been too busy looking at the embroidery on Gale’s robes.  Velim resisted the urge to pull away as Gale led them onto a balcony sitting area spotted with other pairs sheltering from the busy ballroom.  The wind gusted into Velim’s face.  They swayed with the dark sickness of vertigo as they glanced at the black horizon. 

Gale paused when they pulled away and approached the railing of the balcony. They braced both hands on the wrought iron and looked over the edge and into the glittering abyss.

“Velim,” Gale’s voice was lost in the wind, but he rested his hand on their shoulder.  They startled, shoulders pinching at his touch, but he squeezed and they relaxed slowly, “come on, I've got somewhere warmer in mind.”

“Where are we going?” Velim hoped their voice wasn’t too tight.

Gale’s warm smile and the gentle press of his hand against their’s soothed them.  “The rare books library.”

Velim counted the turns back to the ballroom, and still couldn’t remember the third turn.  They counted their breathing.  5 seconds in.  5 seconds out.  Gale stopped in front of a blank wall and turned around to face them.  Their heart blocked their throat, but he held both his hands out with palms up.  When they took them, he stepped backward through the solid wall.  Velim stumbled into the low-ceilinged room lined with stacks of books locked behind filigree brass grates.  Gale released their hands to gesture at the room around them.

Velim sucked in a breath of dry, cool air.  They turned around, the shelves lit with a dim sunset-toned light that glanced off the brass and dark wood and Gale’s hair and skin, turning everything gold.

“For preservation,” Gale explained, his voice low with near-religious reverence, “but to remarkable effect, you’d agree.”

Velim peered between the brass bars at the books on the shelves inside.  Everything from gilded volumes to crude leather wraps around stacks of mismatched parchment and paper.  Some had characters on their spines that Velim didn’t recognize.

“The grimoires of every headmaster of Blackstaff and many of their most famous alumni rest here,” Gale pointed at a deep brown leather book, the spine frayed at both edges, “that one belongs to the original founder of Blackstaff Academy, Khelben Arunsun.”

Seeing true lust in Gale’s eyes over the ratty book relaxed Velim some.  Safer, once they were certain the possession in his voice was directed at an inanimate object.

“Do you intend to donate your own, one day?” Velim wondered.

Gale pulled away from the grate.  “You flatter me.  I don’t believe I’d make the cut.”

“Somehow, I do.” Velim turned, tracing the ridges of filigree around the next shelf.

They peered at a thin paper volume behind the bars.  Gale followed, tentatively tracing the brocade at the nape of Velim’s neck.  They suppressed a shiver.

“Gerund Isaac recorded his spells in a shorthand he developed himself,” Gale tapped the brass filigree in front of the slim volume, “some say there are more arcane secrets in that little pamphlet than in the whole rest of the collection.”

“Some shorthand,” Velim chuckled breathlessly, wondering how hard they had to blush for it to show through the illusion, “I’d like to learn it, might come in handy someday.”

Velim’s breath caught in their throat as they turned around, the tight aisle leaving no space between them.  Gale’s hand trailed the collar of their doublet.  Their face burned, finally appearing through the illusion.  Gale’s lip twitched, suppressing the satisfied grin.  Velim rested their hand on his chest, letting his magic surge through their fingers and light up their body.

This was a bad idea.  They knew it.  They couldn’t let this happen, even as he started to lean in and they didn’t stop him.  He’d feel their teeth, feel the scales and ridges along their cheeks.  They’d be caught.  Their heart raced.

Gale’s knees buckled.

Velim took his weight against their shoulder and eased him onto the floor.  The magic coming off him grew hot and violent, tendrils whipping against their face.  A faint violet glow emanated beneath his robes, singeing the fine fabric in a perfect circle.  Gale’s face twisted in pain.

“Go, you have to go,” he choked.

“No.” Velim pushed through the surging magic and leaned him against the bookshelf.  His head lolled back, pulse pounding in his neck as they undid the fastenings of his robe and pulled open the neckline of his shirt until the source of the magic storm was exposed, throbbing with violet light.

“Gale, my boy, are you in here?” Elminster’s voice drifted over the stacks.

“Elminster, here!” Velim yelled, their voice razor sharp.  They tried to probe the glowing thing and winced, their fingertips threatening to vibrate apart.

Elminster whipped around the stacks.  “Gods,” he breathed.

“Please go,” Gale begged.  He arched his back, vision coming in and out of focus.

“No,” Velim said again, “Elminster, what is it?  What do I do?”

“I cannot intervene.” Elminster’s voice was tinged with panic.

“I can.  Elminster, tell me what to do!” Velim snapped, bearing their razor teeth.  Their scales shone through the illusion as the orb ate away at the weave in the Ring of Human Guise.

Elminster swallowed hard.  He knelt down next to Velim.  “Do you have something to draw blood?”

Velim ripped off their glove and bit into the pad of their thumb with a grunt.

Elminster nodded too fast.  “Gather your weave, and hold it --”

“Right,” Velim skipped ahead, assuming the next steps, and thrust their pierced thumb into the scorching light until the light swallowed their hand.  The weave burned up their arm, attempting to rip the scales away from their flesh.

Suddenly, the torrent reversed.  The light dimmed, drawing weave out of Velim.  They sucked in a breath, the room airless as the thing in Gale’s chest ripped the magic out of their body.  Elminster yanked them back as their vision tunneled.  The rare books room fell silent but for the sound of their panting.  Velim laid on their back, swallowing down the nausea that came with overextending themself, flesh too tight around their bones.  The illusion of the ring snapped back into place.  Gale sucked in gasping breaths, tears of relief running under his mask.  

Elminster stood and dusted off his robes.  “I’ll go call your carriage.”

He vanished in a flurry of sparks.

“Thank you,” Gale said finally.

Velim grunted, still warding off vertigo.

“It came on so fast,” Gale’s voice hitched, “I’m sorry, I never would have put you at risk if I’d known --”

“It’s fine,” Velim said.

“I could have killed you,” his voice broke, “I’m sorry.”

Velim finally got up, sitting beside Gale and leaning into his shoulder.  “I got it.”

Gale sobbed, curling inward on himself.  Velim found their discarded glove and pulled it back on so they could run their fingers through his hair until the tremors in his body slowed.  Their burnt arm sang with pins and needles.

Elminster returned.  He helped both Velim and Gale to their feet and through the portal to the driveway.  

Velim saw Gale into the cab before climbing in themself, and resisted the urge to ask him additional questions.  They lasted nearly to the Trade Ward.

“What is it?” Velim asked.

Gale sighed.  “Please, Velim.”

“If you just told me what it was, I could help,” they implored.  The horses’ hooves clicked along on the cobblestone, drowning the noise of the continuing Liar’s Night festivities.

“The burden is mine to bear.”  Gale massaged his chest, threads of weave reaching across the cab for Velim.

“I can help you bear it.” Velim folded their hands in front of them.  They had discarded their death mask on the bench beside him and looked at him with plain intensity.

“You can’t,” Gale insisted, “the pain is mine alone.”

Velim sat back with a scoff.  “Do you hear yourself?  Pain isn’t ‘your pain’, it’s just pain, and I’m a doctor.  If anyone -- anyone in the world -- could help you bear it, it’s me.”

“Why can’t you believe me?” he argued, anger causing the orb to shove his lungs, “Velim, you cannot fix what ails me.”

“I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what it is,” a muscle in their jaw twitched, the contours of their face sharp in the gloom, “that kind of mentality kills people.”

“What mentality?” Gale resisted the urge to open the door and roll out, maybe die in the gutter.

Velim’s lip curled in a snarl, their teeth sharper than Gale remembered. “You know it.  ‘No one can help me, no one understands,” they mocked.

“That’s hardly my mentality,” Gale protested.

“It is, I’ve seen it.  I’ve seen other Vultures murdered over it, because people can’t bear to accept they might not know everything.  Can’t see that -- hey -- maybe someone who deals with this shit for a living could know something that helps, but an outsider is an outsider and they’d rather bury us and the fucking problem,” Velim ranted, then clenched their jaw shut again.

“... I don't intend to kill anyone,” Gale said, taken aback, “least of all you.”

“That’s not what I --” Velim ground their teeth, “I know, I know that’s not your intention,” they smoothed a hand over their braids, “just… consider telling someone about it.  Anyone.  It doesn’t have to be me.  Pain is just pain.  Other people are going to bear it with you whether you want them to or not.”

Velim stared at him in the dark, their eyes strange and luminous.  The carriage shuddered to a stop in front of his tower.  He stood on shaky legs as the driver opened the door for him.

“Quite a gloomy day,” Madame Toussau commented by way of greeting, crossing her legs as she reclined against the arm of the couch and spotting Tara on a high bookshelf, “well hello, Tara.”

Tara preened, her tail swishing out a steady metronome.  Peiotr followed Madame Toussau’s eyes and did a quick double take.

“Gale’s tressym,” Madame Toussau explained, “I understand she goes where she pleases.”

Morena set her embroidery on the coffee table.  “She keeps me company.”

Peitor approached Morena, who offered her hand.  He took it and smiled from beneath his red moustache.  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Dekarios.”

“Morena is fine, thank you, Peiotr,” Morena returned her hand to her lap, “please, sit.”

Peiotr’s nose flushed.  He cleared his throat and situated himself on the couch, sinking into the cushions.  He leaned forward for his teacup, grunting with the effort.  The handle all but vanished between his meaty fingers, and he slurped self-consciously.

“The tea’s very good, ma’am,” he grunted.

Morena turned her eyes to Madame Toussau expectantly.

“Well then, to business,” Madame chirped, producing a sheaf of paper from her knapsack, “I know you’re both wondering how the match fares.  Luckily for all of us, Dr. Tav agreed to provide me with a copy of their notes.”

Peiotr chuckled at some inside joke.  “Sly little bastard.”

“From what I understand, this is only a fraction of all they’ve written.  They mentioned omitting the planning for their novel, among other things,” Madame Toussau licked her finger and shuffled through the pages, ignoring the rise in Morena’s brow, and handed individual pages to both Morena and Peiotr, “there’s plenty here to give we curious onlookers some insight.”

Peiotr’s brow furrowed as he read, and Morena skimmed the neat slanting hand impassively.  Peiotr guffawed suddenly, prompting Morena to glance up.  He stood up and leaned over the table, pointing out the passage to her.

“Means nothing to you, I’m sure ma’am, but Vely ain’t one for overstatement.” His eyes crinkled, the delight in his voice unsuppressed.

“Do read aloud, I’m curious,” Madame Toussau implored, leaning forward.

Morena sighed and straightened to speak.  “‘I find him inexplicably easy to get along with.  We spoke at length about my work with diphtheria in the Silver Marches, and he kept asking questions even knowing the answer would disgust him and would not allow me to sanitize my response at all,’” a smile tugged at the corner of Morena’s drawn mouth, “yes, Gale refuses to let anyone leave out the details.  Drove his professors mad.”

“Vely doesn’t talk about their work much,” Peiotr took the page back, “they worry it puts folks off their supper.  If he’s got them talking already, I think we oughta plan the wedding.”

Madame Toussau chuckled, covering her mouth.

“Let’s not be hasty,” Morena scolded, “they’ve had only four meetings,” even so, her expression softened, “Peiotr, how did you meet Dr. Tav?  I understand you aren’t related.”

“‘Course not, ma’am,” Peiotr cleared his throat, “excuse me.  Met them when one of my kids -- all adopted, Helena can't have kids, but she wanted a big family so I got her one -- anyway, he brought home this book.  Called Under the Eye of the Sun about an outbreak of Rugloes’ disease on the High Moors.  You know what Rugloes’ is?”

Morena shook her head.  Madame Toussau hummed in a way that meant no.

“A disease, far as I understand it, that makes trees out of people.  Vely explained it to me better once, but I can’t ever remember the specifics,” Peiotr waved the explanation off with a grimace, “I know talent when I see it.  Went about hunting the author down to see if they were signed, and found Vely giving a talk at the big hospital on the hill.  Invited them to dinner and never let them leave, now we got eight kids.”

Madame Toussau smiled. “I’m glad Dr. Tav found themself a family.”

-------------------

The bronze guise of Silvanus reached an arm across the marble arch for Mielikki, and she on the other pillar pulled her bowstring taut.  The plaque above their heads announced “Waterdeep Botanic Gardens”.  An old couple sat on the benches beneath the gate, shoulders close together behind the half-sodden pages of the Waterdeep Digest.  The manicured meadows beyond swayed straw and scarlet against the mist that blew in from the ocean.  Gale sat on the vacant bench across from the old couple and pulled his robes tighter around him as the damp worked its way through the wool.  He dug a pamphlet out of his pocket.  The thin paper stuck together, the cover advertising the 10th release of the Journal of the Netheril Archaeological Society.  He glanced at the entrance after each line of self-important text until Velim appeared on the path, and went to meet them.

Velim looked both ways as they crossed the entryway, then pulled off their hood and smoothed the neat braid behind their head.  A shy smile crossed their face.  They buried their hands in the pockets of their duster, the leather worn light at the elbows and shoulders.  

“Sorry I’m late,” Velim waited for Gale to fall into step beside them, “not really my neighborhood.”

“No matter, it puts us back on even footing,” Gale smiled back to put them at ease.

“It’s my own fault for leaving on time.  I should have planned to get lost,” they pulled a gloved hand out of their pocket to run their finger over the water condensing on the arched railing of the bridge as they crossed the creek.

“I assumed you had a great sense of direction.” Gale inhaled the wet autumn day as they stepped onto a path covered in leaves falling gold from the ginkgo trees above them.

Velim’s eyes turned toward the canopy.  “Can't read a map to save my life, I'm afraid.”

Gale offered his hand as they climbed a steep stone staircase, but Velim kept their hands in their pockets and he pulled it away.  “Do you travel with a companion, then?  Someone less directionally challenged?”

They shook their head.  “I find my way.  Would you like to grab lunch in a bit?  My treat.”

“That’s not necessary,” Gale said.

“Let me buy you lunch.  I just got the advance for my next publication. Something to work the chill out of our hands isn’t going to hurt, and I was late this time,” Velim insisted.

“Is that so?  Which publication?” Gale asked, “something grand?”

“No, not my contribution,” they brushed the fine hairs on the underside of a cherry-red leaf and read the stone with the name of the plant engraved upon it, sanddusk creeper, “but the illustrations are something else entirely.  It’s a textbook documenting the physiological impacts of magic mediated illness.  The artist -- Darien Pourtier is his name -- he does the finest copper etchings I've ever seen.”

Gale remembered an old school friend, his skin running down his face in flabby drops when a healing spell intended to clear his acne backfired, and imagined his condition painstakingly etched in copper.  The thought made him queasy.  “Are you an expert in magic mediated ailments?”

“No,” they leaned over the railing where fish swarmed at the banks of the pond, begging for food in flashes of red and gold, “maybe I am now.  I’m the ghost writer, just translating for the experts who can't be bothered.  The only magical ailment I’m intimately familiar with is invoked hyperplasia.”

“Because the only intervention is surgical, yes, I have no doubt you would be,” his expression tightened, the oozing face of his school friend stuck in his mind, “a terrible condition indeed.”

“Healing invocations are dangerously deceptive,” Velim considered their words, “an inexperienced caster sees a wound close, and believes it's turning back time on the injury, but it's just magic accelerating natural processes.  Fail to remove all the magic, and the body devours itself,” they sighed, “I find its continued prevalence exhausting.  It seems every cleric learns cure wounds and thinks that a lack of pain is a lack of risk,” they worked the top button of their coat with one hand, “but I don’t mean to be a critic.  Were you a student here?”

“I spent a great deal of time as a joint researcher between the archaeology department and the Blackstaff Research Institute, but I was always destined for Blackstaff’s program.  In fact, an old colleague of mine in the archaeology department was the first person to show me this,” he gestured to the turning leaves above them, catching the mist and releasing it as heavy droplets, “for the record, some critique would not go amiss when it comes to reckless use of magic.  You're right to say so.”

“I'm glad you agree, I've met plenty who don't see it my way,” Velim watched droplets slide off a dome of magic above themself and Gale.  When had he cast that spell?  Now that they were paying attention, they could feel the threads of weave leading back to him.  Effortless.  A small voice in the back of their mind wondered if he might teach them, “you’re quite skilled.”

Gale followed their eyes to the shield above them as the rain pattered softly on the canopy.  “What, that trick?”

Velim couldn’t cast a shield spell with that ease -- not at all, as the acid eaten holes in the floor of their apartment would attest.  “I didn’t see you cast it.”

“Are you familiar with the Arts?  Past the consequences of ill-used healing spells,” Gale asked, admiring his own work as other walkers on the path scrambled for cover in the intensifying rain.

Velim let the pause drag on too long, “I only learned enough to avoid burning myself, really.”

Gale’s eyebrows rose.  “A sorcerer?”

They shoved their hands into their pockets again.  “Yes, but you can skip the parentage questions.  I have no idea where I got it.”

A flush rose to Gale’s cheeks, turning them redder than the cold already had.  “My apologies, I don’t mean to suggest -- I’ve met many sorcerers with less intellectual acumen, if you’d allow me a smidgen of judgment.”

Velim smirked at him, but their hands remained firmly in their pockets.  “The best of us don’t attend arcane academies.”  Gale was too distracted by his own embarrassment to notice the bitterness in their expression was directed at themself.

“Neither of your parents were gifted?” Gale recovered.  The shield above them never wavered.

“I can’t say, I don’t know them.” Velim waited for Gale to press further.

Gale shuffled his feet through the fallen leaves.  “I see.  I’m sorry.  I lost my father before I could remember, myself.  Do you mind if I ask how?”

His condolences gave Velim time to filter their past.  “I don't know if they're dead, actually,” they watched Gale’s face change in surprise, “I fell off a watchtower when I was 11, severe head trauma.  Woke up in a hospital during quarantine.  I couldn’t leave, and I had no way to tell anyone who I was or where I came from, so I began my apprenticeship as a surgeon as soon as I had hands that worked.  A bit of an ‘all hands on deck’ situation.”

“No one came looking for you?” Gale pressed.

Velim shrugged.  “Of course not,” they changed the subject when they saw Gale’s expression of concern, “when you were working on that joint committee with your colleague, were you investigating that site in the Silver Marches?  The one with the egg?”

“The project was to map the annual travels of each known enclave in Netheril based on historical accounts and weave traces modified by the mythallars.  No time for old Ortenkus, I’m afraid,” he turned, the grin of a teacher about to drop knowledge on his student forming at the corners of his mouth, “the towns of the Silver Marches, you know they follow the paths of the enclaves?  The very roads of northern Faerun mirror those ancient cities.”

Velim returned his smile, grateful to put their past back where it belonged.  “I didn’t.  Did the mythallars raise the earth out of the swamp, or is there something further at play there?  It seemed nigh-impassable to me.”

“Unfortunately not,” Gale trailed off when he noticed Velim wasn’t looking at him anymore, their focus on a pair of arguing voices obscured by the trees between paths, “probably just a lover’s spat.”

Velim cocked their head to one side.  “Probably,” they echoed.

“Are you concerned about someone seeing us together?” Gale’s voice dropped, hoping worry that the time they spent together may be complicated by his own past came out as concern for Velim’s well-being instead.

They shook their head.  “No, not at all,” and turned to him, “just an old habit.  Few folks like when a Vulture shows up.  You learn to keep an eye out for people who might make a bad choice.”

Gale’s posture loosened.  “I see, and those two are about to make a poor decision, in your estimations?”

Velim glanced through the trees, trying to catch a glimpse of the arguing pair.  “Maybe.”

“Speaking of Vulturing,” Gale began, “isn’t this the start of your busy season?  With the winter sniffles rearing their heads and the veil thinning.  Are you expecting dispatch soon?”

Velim hummed.  “No, I’ve been on leave since spring.”

“Nothing bad, I hope?” Gale pulled them away from the arguing voices, coaxing them into a quieter part of the garden.

“Some fallout, some politics,” Velim plucked a loose leaf off the tree above and studied the pattern of veins on the underside, “a near-miss with a botched phylactery.  Ended up killing the mayor and two other vultures, got carted out and placed on medical leave, then Unger got it in his head to get back at me by filibustering my return.”

“Phylactery as in lich?  Gods, you’re lucky you’re alive.” Gale laughed.

“Always am,” Velim agreed.

“Who is Unger, if you don’t mind me asking?” Gale prodded.

Velim sighed again, this one far more exasperated.  “Unger the Gold, a former fledgling of mine.  Third job in he contracted Rugoles’ and I had to amputate both his legs to keep it from spreading.  Guy hates labwork, blames me for not letting him die like a real orc in the bush.  I tried to make it up to him by recommending him for the council position, but…” they shrugged.

“I see,” Gale winced at the thought of waking up without his legs, “why do they call him Unger the Gold?”

“His brother’s a tinkerer, built him a pair of brass prosthetics.  Unger the Gold sounds better than Unger the Brass or Unger the Legless, I guess.  You know how orcs are about their monikers,” Velim shook off the conversation, “how about we grab some lunch?”

“Sounds like a fine idea, this way.” Gale led them down a path that cut between the trunks of two thick maples twined together through some feat of magic or botany.

Velim hesitated at the path’s start, but jogged to catch up before they got caught in the rain.

“I have something to ask you, and you may feel that it’s coming on a bit strong, but I assure you that my intentions are purely platonic,” Gale waited for Velim to match his stride before continuing, “do you have plans for Liar’s Night this year?”

“None I couldn’t be persuaded to change, I'm walking with the rest of the Vultures in the parade,” the path narrowed and Velim bumped Gale with their shoulder, “are you in need of a plus-one?”

“No -- well, yes.  Blackstaff Tower holds a Liar’s Masquerade annually.  Normally I attend alone, but considering my extended absence I thought I might benefit from some company.  Of course, if you aren’t comfortable you need only say the word and I won't mention it again.”  Gale leaned into them, following Velim when the path widened again and they pulled away.

Velim kicked through a pile of wet leaves before responding.  “I find it difficult to believe you’ve never had a date for the masquerade.”

“I never left alone, I simply arrived alone,” Gale waved the notion off, but his face grew redder, “Once I had a full dance card.  It’s only that after a year away, things that once were second nature are no longer.”

“I’d be happy to accompany you,” Velim assured him, “you’ve really never brought a date?”

“Not for any lack of experience.” He pulled the collar of his coat up.

“Happy to be your first, then,” Velim shot him a crooked smile that made birds flush in his chest, their teeth sharper and eyes greener for just a moment, “I’m sure I’ll make some poor soul jealous.  Are we planning to match, or let the cards fall where they may?”

Gale feigned a cough to keep his voice from cracking.  “No time to draft up something new, we may as well don the costumes of yesteryear.  I expected you to need more convincing.”

“Oh, no, I adore a masked party,” Velim buried their hands deeper in their pockets, but their step skipped ahead and stretched the shield that carried them both beneath a curtain of rain, “they make for good people watching.  I should warn you that I can’t dance.”

“I’m not exactly in prime shape myself,” Gale ran a hand through his hair, the smell of cooking meat wafted from a covered walkway scattered with food carts, “I’ll survive a crushed toe or two if we find ourselves in a dancing mood.  I didn't think you the type for parties.”

“You thought right,” Velim admitted, ducking into the walkway, “but variety is the spice of life, and I’ve never been to Blackstaff Tower.  You might show me around?”

The rain continued falling long after both their bowls were in the bin of dishes beside the noodle cart.  Velim leaned on the railing separating the walkway from the cobblestone paths of the garden and watched the rain slide off the roof in thick rivulets.  Gale leaned against the column beside them.

“Quite the day for a stroll in the garden,” Velim glanced sideways at Gale, “I’m tempted to ask you to walk me home.”

“I would be honored,” Gale said with a little bow, “shall we take the path less traveled?”

The deluge parted for them as they stepped into the rain together.  Gale looked at them with a sly glint in his eye.  They didn’t notice so much as a twitch of his fingers, and realized he never dropped concentration.  They had no time to process his feat as Gale stumbled on the uneven path.  His knees buckled as the orb spasmed in his chest.  

Velim caught his elbow, his weight dropping them both for a sickening second before Velim used their weight to shove him upright again.  They searched his face for the ailment, noting the pinch of pain at the corners of his eyes and braced him with one hand firm on his arm.  They supported their own shoulder with their other hand as the weakened muscles strained.  Gale blinked hard, his mouth opening in silent apology.  Velim dragged him to a bench and sat him down.  The chilled rainwater soaking into his coat soothed the tearing sensation radiating through his chest.  The orb grasped frenetically for Velim’s hand.  He pulled away.  

They sat apart, Velim’s hands tucked safely back in their pockets as they waited for the tension in his body to ease.  Gale massaged his chest as he sat back against the bench and let the chill slip over him.  Raindrops fell fat and heavy against his hot skin.  He spoke the word, circled his fingers in the air, and the shield reappeared above them.

“Has this happened before?” Velim asked.

Gale took a deep breath, his lungs straining against the pressure.  “Yes, occasionally.  It’s no trouble, really, I’m sorry to bother you with it.”

“Rain check on walking me home,” Velim joked, their bedside manner snapping into place, “have you seen a doctor about it?”

“Yes,” the affirmative was always the correct answer, “nothing for it, I’m afraid.”

“How long do these episodes typically last?” Velim ran down their list of questions, filtering the ones that seemed too personal for a concerned exchange between friends, “and do you have something to take for them?”

“Not long,” Gale’s voice wavered, “I’m afraid I don’t have the medicine on my person.”

Velim searched his face, and Gale thought with a jolt that they knew he was lying until they blinked and glanced at the mosaic of leaves dotting the path.

“Very well,” they conceded, “when you’re ready, I’ll hail you a cab.”

Gale considered refusing, but he knew a command when he heard one.  He dragged the last moments out, the rain cascading over the shield spell and turning the world into a watery smear of red and gold.  “Shall we?”

Gale stood up before Velim could offer their hand, so they kept them in their pockets and matched his slow pace.  The rain drowned the sound of their footsteps, mixing with the sloshing of the puddles that gathered at low points in the walkway.

“My apologies for cutting our time short,” Gale said once the pressure dissipated into an uncomfortable ache, “I enjoy our time together, if I had my way we'd be out past dark -- and don’t think my outburst is in any way related to a lack of desire to see you home safely.  Please.”

“I enjoyed myself,” Velim assured him as they entered the courtyard, the dead wildflowers giving off the aroma of sodden hay, “and I imagine I’ll enjoy the Liar’s Masquerade just as much, but promise you’ll get some rest and see your doctor beforehand.”

“I promise.” The orb pulsed hot in his chest.  Liar, liar.

Velim flagged down a carriage on the street.  They pulled up their hood and saw him safely inside, then tried to offer the driver payment.

“No, no,” Gale pushed a few nibs into the driver’s open palm, “not after you bought lunch.”

Velim put their change back in their pockets.  “I’ll see you on Lair’s Night, Gale.”

“You will.  I promise you, you will.” Gale sat back in the cab as the driver kicked the horse.  He dug his fingers into the scar, the faint black lines of the mark molten beneath the surface of his skin all the way up to his eye.  His vision blurred with each hard beat of his heart.

The shield spell vanished with Gale and the rain resumed falling on the oiled leather of Velim’s duster, pressing the cold through the waxed seams.  They waited for the carriage to turn out of sight, scolding themself for offering to let Gale walk them home in the first place.  They should never have considered extending that offer to someone who knew them not at all.

The cold pulled the scars on their chest taut.  They rubbed along the line of them, from sternum to clavicle on each side, smoothing the scales and the prickling scar tissue beneath.  Their shoulder ached where Gale’s weight strained the weakened muscles.

Velim closed and deadbolted the apartment door behind them, standing over the letter slipped under their door.  Water dripped off their hood onto the envelope as they bent to pick it up.  They turned it over, studying the wax seal: Waterdeep blue, but sealed with an amateurishly carved defensive cat.  They opened it, still dripping in the entryway.

I hope you’re enjoying your enforced vacation.  

Velim smiled at the looping script, recognizing Georgie’s handwriting immediately.

The investigation goes as well as you might expect.  Unger’s running out of things to stall over.  Yesterday he audited your finances and tried to accuse you of fraud for spending less than your allotted funds on the zombie job in April.  Two days ago, he brought in a witness he’d coached to say you experimented on her.  She broke within three questions, I think the one that got her was “can you provide any physical evidence of harm done by a surgeon” and then couldn’t identify your sketch.  I’ll be the first to admit you vanish in a crowd, but it’s not like you’re a shapeshifter.  Pretty clear she’d never seen you before in her life.

The other council members are peeved.  I overheard Harold discussing a vote for expulsion if he doesn’t drop the issue by next tenday.  We may have you back in time for sick season yet, gods know we could use you.  It's making the other Vultures skittish.  They figure if you’re getting it this bad after 15 years, there’s not much reason to stay in the job.  We all got into this field because we don’t like working under a taskmaster, and gods know we’ve all got demons on our asses.  If anything, this whole investigation just went far enough to show off how squeaky clean you are compared to the rest of us.  I sure as hell wouldn’t have held up to half the shit Unger’s thrown at the bench.

Don’t know what you were thinking when you wrote that recommendation, but that’s what you get for pitying this bastard.  Better get back soon, don’t know if I’ll survive the next plague outbreak without you keeping me sane.  I’m up for dispatch in two weeks now.  I hope this wraps up by then, but I’ll keep you posted long as I can.

Your (grateful) fledged,

G

Their stomach churned at Unger’s accusation of malpractice.  They crumpled the letter in their pocket, tossed their boots aside, hung their sopping coat up, and sat hard in their desk chair.  The wood creaked.  The gloom cast the room in premature darkness, and they breathed in the cold and damp coming through the poorly sealed window until their stomach settled.  If the experimentation and finance gambits didn’t work, he might start looking further, and he clearly possessed no respect for the fact that a Vulture supposed to be dead to their old life upon signing up.

They begrudgingly admitted that Georgie was correct.  Writing Unger a recommendation was the worst thing they could have done, even worse than just taking the position themself when Harold offered.  Poor guy, now he was dealing with Unger instead of them -- not that they would have made his life much easier.  They wondered if Unger considered the recommendation an additional slight, barring him once again from fieldwork.  At least Unger hadn’t brought up their draconic blood, but who knew if it was orcish honor or a basic inability to make it seem incriminating that prevented him from doing so.

Madame Toussau waited for Morena’s assessment, always best to let the client find the first words.  Especially one as particular as this mother -- single mother, if the portrait of herself and four children on the wall was any indication.  

Morena finally set her cup down on the saucer.  “Please, drink your tea,” her command practiced, and Madame Toussau found the cup in her hand as soon as Morena asked.  Morena continued, “if I may be frank with you madame, a matchmaker is my last resort.  This process brings me no pleasure, but I’ve tried every avenue to return my son Gale to society.  There is no more I can do on my own, and so I am forced to --” she rolled her wrist, “-- If he will not make social connections, then I must make them on his behalf.”

“So, are we seeking a spouse?” Madame Toussau asked.

Morena gave a curt shake of her head.  “I will not impose such a thing upon him.”

Madame Toussau finished her tea and set the cup down.  Morena filled it again, topping her own cup up as well.  Madame Toussau considered the lines of Morena’s face, the worry pulling at her mouth.

“Then a companion,” Madame Toussau ventured, “someone he may get along with, avoiding the mention of marriage.”

“You are capable of such a thing?” Morena watched her face for any twitch or doubt.

“Under the correct circumstances.  Why don’t you tell me about your son?” Madame Toussau prompted.

Gale leaned back in his desk chair, massaging the expanding ache in his chest.  He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the expansion of his lungs with each slow breath he took.  Sometimes, the orb eased away if he just let it file its complaints and breathed through the ordeal.  Sometimes it would spasm like a crack of thunder through his ribs, hungry and threatening to suck him and the whole of Waterdeep into the abyss if it was not fed.  This, this was just a grumble.

The ceiling beams melted together in his vision when he opened his eyes.  His pulse throbbed hard in his neck, and he missed the first knock at the door because it mixed with the sound of blood in his ears.  He muttered a curse when he heard the second knock, fumbling for the drawer in his desk where he kept the enchanted trinkets Tara managed to pilfer and picking apart the tangled chains of amulets.

The orb throbbed harder, reaching for the weave within the locket.  Gale pressed it to his bare skin, the magic peeling his flesh away and sucking the locket dry of magic until it was hot in his fingers.  He tossed the spent thing beneath his desk and wiped the sweat from his forehead before answering the door with black spots still dotting his vision.

“Mother?” his vision resolved on Morena’s stout frame, then on the tall and thin outline of a second woman, “and a guest,” he smiled politely, “to what do I owe the honor?”

Morena’s eyes stared pointedly past him and into the flat.

Gale stepped aside.  “Please, come in.  I apologize for the mess, I wasn’t expecting company,” he bent down and kissed his mother’s cheek as she stepped across the threshold, “should I make some tea?”

“That would be best, Gale,” Morena’s voice assured him that what followed would not be a request, “I must discuss something with you.”

Peiotr cleared his throat for the third time, his legs dangling uncomfortably off the rattan chair not built for dwarves.  Velim barely glanced at him, tapping the page of their notebook with their pen to feel the muted round of it against the barrier of their fine lambskin gloves, and laid down another line of notes about the ins and outs of matchmaking as Madame Toussau had described.  A loose strand of dull brown-black hair fell out from their ponytail and they tucked it behind their ear.

“Should I not be the nervous one?” Velim teased in their trademark deadpan.

Madame Toussau chuckled, disguising her laughter with a cough when Peiotr’s nose grew redder.  “It’s not unusual for those doing the matching to experience more nerves than the matched,” she assured Peiotr, reaching to squeeze his hand across the table.

“And you’re my agent, not my father,” Velim reminded him as the flush reached his ears.

Peiotr crossed his arms.  “I just want to see him for myself.”

Velim glanced at the clock tower peeking above the buildings.  “Might have decided against it, he’s late.”

“Perhaps nerves on his part, too,” Madame Toussau chimed.

“You intend to get lost once he arrives, don’t you, Peiotr?” Velim asked, dotting a spot of ink on his freckled arm.

He scoffed and tried to wipe the ink away, leaving a black smudge on himself.  “Aye,” he grunted.

Madame Toussau straightened up, her long neck craning over the crowd on the street.  “There he is,” she waved to a man making his way through the crowd.

The man gave her a shy wave back, and Velim closed their notebook to catch a better look at him.  Brown hair slicked back, brows drawn close in concern and a couple weeks’ worth of a beard, tall enough to see over the crowd and well-dressed in the way of a man who stepped out of the house too quickly to consider pressing his shirt.

Peiotr hopped down from the chair as Gale jogged up the stairs with a breathless apology prepared.  Peiotr intercepted him before he reached the table.

“Peiotr Ironfoot,” he extended his hand and shook Gale’s in a crushing grip that left his niceties a pained grimace, “Velim’s agent, good to meet you Mr. Dekarios.”

“Peiotr,” Velim leaned forward on the table and waited for him to look at them so they could mouth “get lost” as they wiped the remaining ink off their pen.

Peiotr cleared his throat and released Gale’s hand, glancing back up at the man’s face, but he was already fixated on Velim.  He met their muddy green eyes and looked away as though burned, then looked back and ran a hand through his hair.

“Shall I get us some coffee?” he asked, “my treat, for making you wait.”

Velim sat back in their chair, assessing him.  “Sure.”

“Nothing for me, thank you, Gale,” Madame Toussau said, “I do no indulging on business.”

“Not even coffee?” Velim asked, flashing the sharp white canines wood elves sometimes possessed.

“Not even coffee, sera,” Madame Toussau made a shooing motion at Velim, “now, you know the rules.  Behave as though I am not here at all.”

“A difficult thing to do,” Velim commented, ignoring her rules as Gale glanced back at them one last time before ducking into the cafe, “where did you find him, anyway?”

Madame Toussau laughed soft, like windchimes.  “I could ask you the same.”

“Peiotr?  He’s the only stranger willing to take a chance on me based on the letter I wrote him, that’s all,” they waved her questions away, “how’d you make your way into matchmaking?”

Madame Toussau scanned Velim’s still face, their skin smooth and flawless when they dropped the practiced facial expressions.  “I used to be a madame of a different sort,” she watched for a reaction.

“Got sick of making yourself the match, then?” Another practiced half-smile.

Madame Toussau restrained herself from scolding Velim for their packaged expression.  If the pair was good, they would begin to emote properly.  Gale returned with two espressos in small cups and a glass full of water, which he placed in front of Madame Toussau.

“Forgive me, my mother raised me better than to leave a lady without refreshment of some kind,” Gale apologized as he sat across from Velim.

Velim took the chipped cup of espresso from the center of the table, long fingers domed over the top so the steam billowed into the palm of their hand and held it like that on their side of the table until Gale sipped his.  They savored the rich warmth against the chill of the encroaching autumn, then set it down with their fingers still resting on the rim.

“I’m sure I’ve been a topic of discussion already as punishment for my tardiness,” Gale began, “but I know very little about you.  This whole process happened in such haste, I hardly remembered your name when I stepped out the door today.”

“Velim, if you need the reminder,” they said, “half-retired Vulture, surgeon, and author.”

“Of course, Velim,” he rolled their name around in his mouth, matching the sound of it to their placid face, “a Vulture, you said?  With the Waterdeep Public Health Corps, I’d imagine?”

Velim inclined their head, urging him on.

“A perilous occupation, how long have you been in it?”

They tapped on the table, counting the years.  “15 years, give or take.”

“15 years?” Gale’s eyes widened.  Madame Toussau also took notice of the statement and leaned in.  Gale stuttered out an excuse for his disbelief, “Gods, are you under some divine protection?”

Velim shrugged.  “Perhaps just lucky, there are more of us highly tenured plague doctors than you may expect.  ‘One who lives the first two years will live another ten,’ the saying goes,” they changed the subject, “I hear you’re a researcher at Blackstaff.”

“Once, but no longer,” he held his espresso in front of his mouth, a barrier between himself and Velim’s probing gaze, “one could say I’ve been on an extended sabbatical.”

“What did you research?” Velim pushed past his shield.

“Ah, well, have you ever heard of the Empire of Netheril?” Gale asked, “I don’t imagine your personal studies take many forays into archaeology.  It once soared above where the deserts of Anauroch sit today.”

Velim leaned forward.  “I know very little about Netheril,” they admitted, “an empire based on magic with floating cities.  That’s about all.”

Gale set his espresso down and seemed to forget about it as he flourished his hand in introduction.  “Then you may be interested to learn that the current state of magic in Faerun -- and, indeed, the world over -- is connected intimately with the fall of Netheril wherein the Archwizard Karsus attempted to wrest control of the weave from Mystryl and destroyed him entirely in the process.”

“Himself, or Mystra?” Velim cocked their head to the side.

“Mystryl,” Gale corrected, “the god of magic before Our Lady of Spells, and the reason we mortals have the limits we do with her arts.”

“Mystryl,” Velim glanced up at the gutter around the roof of the building, where an intrepid pigeon cooed and eyed the finger sandwiches on a neighboring table, “can you find remnants of those floating cities in Anauroch?  I imagine you could, deserts preserve such things.”

“Well, yes, but my particular area of study lies elsewhere at the moment,” Gale bloomed under the rain of their questions, “I’ve been studying the works of an Archmage known as Ortenkus who lived some thousand years before Karsus’ folly.  He was instrumental in the annexation and settlement of the western border of the empire, near the Silver Marches.  Recently, I’ve been investigating a tale regarding a military victory he wrought.  During Ortenkus’ lifetime, a small nation whose name has long since been lost became a wall to Netheril by somehow inverting their magic.”

Velim’s mind added a new observation to their catalog with every word he spoke, relieved that they might observe him unwatched while he spoke.  The spinning wheel earring he wore had no mechanism for removal.  He reeked of magic, and it crackled over them as static because he spoke with gestures pronounced enough to waft it over them from across the table.  Every few seconds, he stole a glance at them with a kind of bashfulness in his eyes as though asking for permission to continue.

Gale continued on, a train rolling down the tracks of his thoughts.  “Ortenkus, as the main strategist for the King at the time, was tasked with laying the nation low.  He spent twenty years and twenty days in the great libraries of Palter -- an enclave known even among the Netherese as a bastion of knowledge -- and when he emerged, he descended to the earth with a strange egg.  He disguised himself as an old man and walked into the foremost bastion of the country, left the egg beneath the center of their government, and walked back to Netheril. 

“Within a year, the country lay in disarray without even the knowledge that they were once allies with any of the other groups within the land.  The infighting destroyed them, and with each fracture Ortenkus led the armies of Netheril in to seize the lands.”

“Wait a moment,” Velim interrupted.

Gale’s speech stuttered to a stop.

“How, exactly, did Ortenkus initiate memory loss on such a mass scale?  The erasure of an entire culture suggests psionic impact on the level of…” they trailed off, unable to think of a comparison, “well, regardless, what could mediate such a thing?  The focus must have been enormous, no smaller than the ones they used to power their cities.”

“Yes, the mythallars,” Gale nodded sagely, then leaned forward on the table as though sharing a secret, “but I haven’t the slightest idea how he did it.  No mention of anything but a strange egg within any translation or account I’ve come across,” a smile tugged at the corner of his lips and he lowered his voice, “my personal theory is that he made use of a living creature of some sort.  Perhaps something of ilithid origin, given their psionic capabilities.  A sufficiently powerful ilithid being placed at the center of a society may cause enough neurological fallout to destroy the whole thing down to the very bolts.”

“Ilithid,” Velim repeated, “no archeological sites for this event, I imagine.”

Gale sat back and ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a greying strand that fell against his forehead.  “One, possibly, but it’s out in the Silver Marches.  Difficult to reach under ideal conditions…”

“Which the Silver Marches do not possess,” Velim finished.

Gale leaned in again.  “So you’ve been?”

Velim glanced at Madame Toussau, and she blinked at them reassuringly.  Velim picked at the chip in the rim of their espresso cup.  “A year ago, for diphtheria.  We lost a whole crate of antitoxin and a horse to the mud before we even reached the outbreak.”

“Gods, what a fetid wasteland it is.  Even the hags avoid the place.” Gale chuckled to himself, “you mentioned you were an author?”

“Just textbooks.  Peiotr’s been looking for a publishing house that might take my fiction, but no such luck as of yet,” Velim explained, “the matchmaking itself is for research.”

Gale thought of his mother’s demand for cooperation and felt a pang of relief as the expectations lifted from his shoulders.  “What are you writing that would require you to employ a matchmaker for research?”

“You’ll laugh,” Velim’s smile this time was genuine, but muted, “it’s a romance about an accidental match with a devil.”

Gale did laugh, just a little.  “What makes a devil lovable?”

Velim shrugged and finished their coffee.  “If there’s anything to love, I’ll find it.”

Gale’s voice ached, and yet Tara sat on the bench beside the door and swished her tail at him with expectation.

“It went well, Tara,” he assured her, scratching behind her ears the way she liked and sitting beside her to doff his shoes.

“Nothing strange about them?” Tara demanded, “no scales or claws?” she sniffed him tentatively.

“No such thing, Tara,” Gale huffed, “I did bump into a dragonborn on my way home.”

She sniffed again.  “Could be.  Your mother asked me no less than four times if I had heard from you.”

“You visited my mother four times?  Tara, you must quit pestering the poor woman,” Gale scolded, his voice soft.

Tara flicked her ear at him.  “She was concerned, you were gone for hours.  I was under strict orders to report back as soon as you arrived, but I only expected you gone an hour.  We both did, and look --” Tara trotted to the glass doors to the balcony and sat pointedly in front of the reddening sky.

“Then it went much better than either of you expected,” Gale stretched and shrugged off his vest, “they’re a surgeon and work with the Waterdeep Public Health Corps, and as though they had the time to spare, they’re also a published author.”

Tara met him at his desk and settled on the shelf he set up above it just for her.  “And did you give them time to speak about being a decorated plague doctor, author, and surgeon, or did you simply talk their ear off until you were hoarse?”

“They kept asking me questions, Tara,” Gale collapsed into his desk chair with a sigh, “thank you for talking me into going.”

“Do you need me to fetch you something?” Tara purred, the scolding out of her voice.

“No, Tara, thank you,” Gale smiled at his ceiling, “I’m feeling just fine.”

Velim closed the door of their flat behind them and slid all three deadbolts into place before their shoulders slumped.  They sat on the bed, pulled off their boots, and tucked them beneath the bedframe, then fell back.

They pulled their gloves off one finger at a time, then plucked the Ring of Mortal Guise off their ring finger and dropped it into one of the gloves for safe keeping.  Their scales reappeared, glossy black in the low light filtering in from the sunset.  They studied the shine on their hands, their claws filed as short and flat as they could get them without hitting the quick.  They ran their hand up their arm until it caught the edge of a scale coming loose.  They pinched the edge between their thumb and forefinger and plucked it off, leaving a pale green patch of skin underneath.  Blood beaded up jewel-like where it had still been attached.  

He crossed his ankles and dug a pamphlet out of his pocket.  The pages felt thick and sluggish in the humidity when he turned them, the cover advertising the 10th release of the Journal of the Netheril Archaeological Society.  After each line of self-important text, he glanced at the entrance until Velim appeared on the path and stood up to greet them, retaining nothing from the pamphlet.

Velim looked both ways as they crossed under the entryway as though they thought someone may be lurking at the corners, then pulled off their hood and smoothed the neat braid behind their head.  A shy smile crossed their face, but they buried their hands in the pockets of their coat.  

“Sorry I’m late,” Velim nodded into the meadow so that Gale fell into step beside them, “not really my neighborhood.”

“That just puts us back on even footing,” Gale smiled back to put them at ease.

“Yes, well, it’s my own fault for leaving on time.  I should have prepared to get lost,” they pulled a gloved hand out of their pocket to run their finger over the water condensing on the arched railing of a bridge crossing a creek.

“I didn’t take you for one to lose your way.” Gale inhaled the wet autumn day as they stepped onto a path between the trees covered in the leaves falling gold from the ginkgo trees above them.

Velim’s eyes turned toward the canopy.  “I contain multitudes, including a chronic inability to read maps.”

Gale offered his hand as they climbed a steep stone staircase, but Velim kept their hands in their pockets and he pulled it away.  “You must travel with a companion, then?”

They shook their head.  “I find my way regardless.  Would you like some lunch?  My treat.”

“That’s not necessary,” Gale said.

“Nonsense, let me buy you lunch.  I just got the advance for my next publication, something to work the chill out of my hands is hardly going to break my finances, and I was late this time,” Velim insisted.

“Is that so?  Which publication?” Gale asked, “something grand?”

“Not my contribution,” their fingers brushed the fine hairs on the underside of a cherry-red leaf and read the stone with the name of the plant engraved upon it, sanddusk creeper, “but the copper etched illustrations, well, those are quite grand.  It’s a textbook documenting the physiological impacts of magic mediated illness.”

The memory of a wizard Gale once knew flashed before his eyes, the skin of his face melting due to a backfiring healing spell intended to clear his acne.  “Are you an expert in such things?”

“No,” they paused and looked over the side of the pond where bright orange fish swarmed at the banks, begging them for food, “well, perhaps I am now.  I was selected as the ghost writer, each article is informed by the true experts of the individual ailments.  The only magical ailment I’m intimately familiar with is invoked hyperplasia.”

“Because the only intervention is surgical, yes, I have no doubt you would be,” his face tightened with concern, the memory of his school friend stuck in his mind, “a terrible condition indeed.”

“People have difficulty wrapping their mind around healing invocations,” Velim began, each word considered before being voiced, “they see a wound close, and believe they’re seeing some process reverse bodily damage when the truth of the matter is that the invocation is a calling forth of cellular regeneration.  A less-than-precise use of such a spell leads the body into devouring itself to feed whatever retains a splinter of the invocation,” they sighed, “forgive me, I see it so often that I find its continued prevalence exhausting.  Were you ever a student here?”

“I spent a great deal of time as a joint researcher between the archaeology department and the Blackstaff Research Institute, but, no, I was always destined for Blackstaff’s program.  In fact, an old colleague of mine in the archaeology department was the first person to show me this,” he gestured to the turning leaves above them, catching the mist and releasing it as heavy droplets, “I’m sure she’s industrious as ever in Baldur’s Gate, but I do miss her.  She makes a brilliant collaborator.”

“Always a shame when a great researcher moves out of reach,” Velim looked above them and watched droplets slide off a dome of magic above themself and Gale.  When had he cast that spell?  Now that they were paying attention, they could feel the threads leading back to him.  Effortless.  A small voice in the back of their mind wondered if he might teach them such a thing, “you’re quite skilled.”

Gale followed their gaze to the shield above them as the rain finally reached them from the sea in a soft patter on the leaves.  “What, that trick?”

Velim couldn’t cast a shield spell with that ease -- not at all.  They had tried and splashed their apartment with acid.  “I didn’t see you cast it.”

“Are you at all familiar with the Arts?” Gale asked, admiring his own work as other walkers on the path scrambled for cover in the steadily intensifying rain.

Velim considered their answer, letting the pause drag on almost too long before responding.  “I learned only what kept me from discharging magic accidentally.”

Gale’s eyebrows rose.  “A sorcerer?”

They shoved their hands into their pockets again.  “Yes, but I couldn’t tell you from what source.”

A flush rose to Gale’s cheeks, turning them redder than the flush that cold already brought to his face.  “My apologies, I don’t mean to suggest -- well, I’ve met many sorcerers with less intellectual acumen, if you’d allow me a modicum of judgment.”

Velim smirked at him, but their hands remained firmly in their pockets.  “The best of us don’t attend arcane academies.”  Including themself in that number felt wrong, but Gale was too distracted by his own embarrassment to notice the bitterness in their expression was directed at themself.

“Neither of your parents were gifted?” Gale recovered.  The shield above them never wavered.

“I can’t say, I don’t know them.” Velim waited for Gale to press further.

Gale shuffled his feet through the fallen leaves.  “I see.  I’m sorry for your loss.  I lost my father before I could remember, myself.  Do you mind if I ask how it happened?”

The time he wasted on apologies gave Velim time to set the pieces of their story in order.  “I’m not sure if they’re dead,” they watched Gale’s face change in surprise, “I fell from the roof of a building when I was 14, took on a severe head trauma.  I can’t recall anything before waking up in a surgery in the middle of a quarantine for fever.  I couldn’t leave, and I had no way to tell anyone who I was or where I came from, so I began my apprenticeship as a surgeon as soon as I had hands that worked.”

“And they never came looking for you?” Gale pressed.

Velim shrugged, unwilling to twist any more of their past into something fit for consumption.  “When you were working on that joint committee with your colleague, were you looking to investigate that site you mentioned in the Silver Marches?  The one involved with the Ortenkus story?”

“The project was intended to map the annual travels of each known enclave in Netheril based on historical accounts and traces of weave modified by the passage of the mythallars.  No time for old Ortenkus, I’m afraid,” he turned, the grin of a teacher about to drop some semi-secret knowledge on his student forming at the corners of his mouth, “The towns that dot the Silver Marches now, you know they follow the paths of weave left by the mythallars?  The very roads of northern Faerun follow those ancient cities.”

Velim returned his smile.  “I did not know that.  Did the mythallars raise the earth out of the swamp, or is there something further at play there?  It seemed nigh-impassable to me.”

“Unfortunately not,” Gale trailed off when he noticed Velim wasn’t looking at him anymore, their gaze following a pair of arguing voices obscured by foliage, “probably just a lover’s spat.”

Velim cocked their head to one side.  “Probably,” they echoed.

“Are you worried about someone seeing us together?” Gale’s voice dropped, hoping the worry that the time they spent together may be complicated by their inescapable pasts came out as concern for their well-being.

They shook their head.  “No, not at all,” and turned to him, “just an old habit.  Few folks like seeing a Vulture in their village.  You learn to watch for people about to make a bad decision.”

Gale’s posture loosened.  “I see, and those two are about to make a poor decision, in your estimations?”

Velim glanced through the trees, trying to catch a glimpse of the arguing pair.  “Maybe.  Shall we find somewhere dry for lunch?”

“Sounds like a fine idea, this way.” Gale led them down a path that cut between the trunks of two thick maples twined together through some feat of magic or botany.

Velim hesitated at the path’s start, but jogged to catch up before Gale noticed the delay and they got caught in the rain without the shield spell for an umbrella.

“I have something to ask you, and you may feel that it’s coming on a bit strong, but I assure you that my intentions are purely platonic,” Gale waited for Velim to match his stride before continuing, “do you have plans for Liar’s Night this year?”

“None I couldn’t be persuaded to change, though I will be walking with the rest of the Vultures in the parade,” the path narrowed and Velim bumped Gale with their shoulder, “Are you in need of a plus-one for a party of preeminent citizens?”

“No -- well, yes.  Blackstaff Tower holds a Liar’s Masquerade annually.  Normally I would attend alone, but with my extended absence I thought I might benefit from some company this year.  Of course, if you aren’t comfortable with such a thing you need only say the word and I will not mention it again.”  Gale leaned into their weight, following Velim when the path widened again and they pulled away.

Velim kicked through a pile of wet leaves before responding.  “I find it difficult to believe you’ve never taken a guest.”

“Well, I was never alone, I simply arrived alone,” Gale waved the notion off, but his face grew redder, “I once had a full dance card.  It’s only that after a full year of absence, the things that once were easy are no longer.”

“I’d be happy to accompany you, of course,” Velim assured him, “you’ve never brought a date?  Truly?”

“Not for any lack of experience.” He pulled the collar of his coat up.

“Happy to be your first, then,” Velim shot him a crooked smile that sent feathers fluttering through his stomach, their teeth sharper in the expression, “I’m sure I’ll make some poor soul terribly jealous.  Should we plan to match, or let the cards fall where they may in terms of dress?”

Gale feigned a cough to keep his voice from cracking.  “No time to draft up something new, we may as well don the costumes of yesteryear.  I expected more resistance to the idea.”

“Oh, no, I adore a masked party,” Velim buried their hands deeper in their pockets, but their step skipped ahead and stretched the shield that now carried them both beneath a curtain of rain, “They make for good people watching.  I only warn you that I can’t dance.”

“I’m not exactly in the practice of it myself,” Gale ran a hand through his hair and breathed in the smell of wet earth as they approached a covered walkway with scattered food carts meant to feed the students and staff of the university, “I’ll survive a crushed toe or two, should we find ourselves in a dancing mood.  I wouldn’t have thought you the type for parties.”

“Then you thought right,” Velim admitted, walking ahead of him and into the cover of the walkway where the smell of cooking meat swelled beneath the roof, “but variety is the spice of life, is it not?  And I’ve never been to Blackstaff Tower, you might show me around.”

The rain continued falling over the botanical gardens long after both their bowls were empty and replaced in the bin of used dishes beside the noodle cart.  Velim leaned on the railing separating the walkway from the cobblestone paths of the garden and watched the rain slide off the roof in thick rivulets.  Gale leaned against the column beside them.

“Quite the day for a walk in the garden,” Velim glanced sideways at Gale, “I’m tempted to ask you to walk me home with that shield spell of yours.”

“I would be honored,” Gale said with a little bow, “shall we take the path through the trees?”

Velim watched Gale as they stepped out into the rain together, the deluge parting.  Gale glanced back at them back with a sly glint in his eye.  They didn’t notice so much as a twitch of his fingers, and realized he had never dropped his concentration.  

They came under cover of the trees, and Gale stumbled on the uneven path.  His knees buckled as the orb spasmed in his chest.  Velim caught his elbow, his weight dropping them both for a sickening second before Velim pulled him upright.  They searched his face for the ailment, noting the pinch of pain at his temples and corners of his eyes, one hand firm on his arm to hold him steady and the other bracing their shoulder against his weight.  Gale blinked hard, his mouth opening in silent apology.  Velim dragged him to a bench and sat him down.  The chilled rainwater soaking into his coat fought the tearing sensation radiating through his chest, the orb grasping frantically for Velim’s hand on his arm.  He pulled away.  

Velim sat on the bench beside him a few inches apart, hands back in their pockets.  They waited for his back to ease out of its tense arch, his hand massaging his chest as he sat back against the bench and let the chill slip over him as raindrops fell fat and heavy against his skin.  He spoke the word and circled his fingers in the air and the shield reappeared above them.

“Has this happened before?” Velim asked.

Gale took a deep breath, his lungs straining against the pressure of the orb.  “Yes, occasionally.  It’s no trouble, really, I’m sorry to bother you with it.”

“Rain check on walking me home,” Velim joked, their bedside manner slipping into place, “have you seen a doctor about it?”

“Yes,” the affirmative was always the correct answer, “nothing for it, I’m afraid.”

“How long do these episodes typically last?” Velim ran down their list of questions, filtering the ones that seemed too personal for a concerned exchange between friends, “and do you have something to take for them?”

“Not long,” Gale’s voice wavered, “but I’m afraid I do not have the medicine on my person.”

Velim searched his face for something and Gale thought with a jolt that they knew he was lying to them until they blinked and glanced at the mosaic of leaves dotting the path.

“Very well,” they conceded, “when you’re ready, allow me to hail you a cab.”

Gale thought to deny the offer, but he knew it was a command and not a request.  He dragged the last moments out, watching the rain cascading over the shield spell and turning the world into a watery smear of red and gold.  “Shall we?”

Gale stood up before Velim could offer their hand, so they kept their hands where they were and matched his slow pace.  Their footsteps were drowned out by the rain and puddles were beginning to form in the low points of the walkways.

“My apologies for cutting our time short,” Gale said once the pressure in his chest eased down to a flutter, “I did very much enjoy it.  Don’t think my outburst is in any way related to a lack of desire to see you home safely.  Please.”

“I also enjoyed it,” Velim assured him as they entered the courtyard at the entry, the dead stalks of wildflowers giving off the aroma of sodden hay, “and I imagine I’ll enjoy the Liar’s Masquerade just as much, but promise you’ll get some rest and see your doctor again before the event.”

“I promise.” The orb pulsed hotly around a tightening in his chest.

They arrived at the street and Velim flagged down a carriage.  They pulled up their hood and saw him safely inside the covered cab, then tried to offer the driver payment.

“No, no,” Gale pushed a few nibs into the driver’s open palm, “not after you bought lunch.”

Velim put their change back in their pockets.  “I’ll see you on Lair’s Night, Gale.”

“You will.  I promise you, you will.” Gale sat back in the cab as the driver kicked the horse into gear.  He massaged his chest, the faint black lines of the mark pulsing as molten metal beneath the surface of his skin all the way up to his eye where his vision blurred with each hard beat of his heart.

The shield spell vanished with Gale, and the rain resumed falling on the oiled leather of Velim’s duster in a way that pressed the cold into their skin through the waxed seams.  They waited for the carriage to turn out of sight to begin walking, scolding themself for offering to let Gale walk them home in the first place.  A foolish idea, and something they should never have considered extending to someone who knew them not at all.

“Good to see you, Noelle,” he gestured to the stairs, “I assume mother filled you in.”

“I’m minding Del and Dot while she’s running errands,” Noelle sighed, “they act like you’ve gotten them a puppy and will not allow them to pet it.”

Gale chuckled.  “I highly doubt Velim would tolerate petting.  Have you seen them?”

She shook her head no and adjusted her son on her lap.  His pudgy hand reached for her teacup, but she kept it expertly out of his reach.  “In your room all day.  Resting, I’d imagine, though they did have Tara retrieve some things for them earlier.”

“And Tara?” Gale gathered his stack of books back into his arms.

“Playing sentinel.”  Her son whined, reaching for the pretty cup.  Noelle picked a wooden cup off the table and handed it to him.  He promptly began chewing on the lip.

“Thank you, Noelle.  Will you be joining us for supper?” Gale asked.

She shook her head again.  “Evrett and I have a previous engagement, but I will be back to help you pack tomorrow morning.”

“Does Evrett know?” Gale shuffled his feet.

“No.  You know he’s a terrible gossip,” Noelle flashed him a tired smile, “would you please convince your dragon to reveal themself to Dot and Del?  Del is becoming unmanageable, and Charrel is running out of chores to busy her with.”

“I’ll do my best,” Gale assured her, hauling the books up the stairs to the bedrooms.  He stopped in front of his bedroom door and knocked.

Tara poked her head out of the porthole set high on the wall.  “Mr. Dekarios, there you are.”

“Hello Tara,” Gale greeted as she hopped down, “should I leave the books?”

“They’re awake, if you’d just give them some time to compose themself,” Tara scolded, rubbing against his ankles, “how did your meetings go?”

“Very well.  They already sent an inquisitor,” Gale clutched the books to his chest as the orb tightened, “even so, I worry about the attention it might attract if I was connected to it.  I’ve asked them to keep my name out of it.”

“Will they?” Tara asked.

Gale’s expression tightened.  “I don’t know.”

“What did you bring them?” Tara stood up against his knee and sniffed at the books in his arms.

“Just some reading material.  I can’t imagine my old schoolbooks are Velim’s preferred mode of entertainment,” Gale knocked on the door again and leaned in to call through it, “Velim, I understand if you don’t want to see me.  I’ve brought you some things, I can leave them at the door.”

Tara tsked and twitched her tail at him disapprovingly as he set the stack of books down and massaged the deadened ache in his chest.  He laid his palm on the door.

“Are you going to introduce them yet?” Del demanded from her door at the end of the hallway.

“Cut it out, Del,” Dot hissed, “leave them alone.”

“I’m not going to leave them alone, they’ve been up for hours and we haven’t seen Gale in a gods-damned year,” Del yanked her arm away from Dot, “are you going to introduce us, or not?”

“Enough eavesdropping,” Tara hissed, cutting Gale off before he could scold Del himself, “put yourselves away and leave them be.”

Gale pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Yes, Del, be patient.”

Del put her hands on her hips and set her feet.  “What do you mean ‘be patient’?  You bring a stranger into our house, they wear our clothes --”

“They are borrowing Noelle’s clothes, which she does not use,” Gale countered, “it is none of your business, Del.”

“None of my business?” she scoffed indignantly, “I live here!”

Dot wrapped her arms around her sister’s waist and Del squealed as she was hoisted off the floor and dragged back into the bedroom.  Dot peeked out as she was closing the door.

“Sorry Gale.” She smiled apologetically, then locked the door behind her.  The arguing continued behind it.

Gale sighed, accepting that Velim would not be making an appearance following the ruckus Del caused, and began walking away.

Velim pressed their forehead to the cool wood of the door and sucked in a steadying breath before swinging it open into the hallway.  They picked up the stack of books on the floor, leaning them weight on their uninjured arm.

“Gale, wait,” Velim watched the floor, unable to look up at him.  They gestured into the room with their head and retreated.

Gale followed, closing the door softly behind him.  Velim set the stack of books on the desk with their back turned toward him.  Black scales with a liquid shine crept up the nape of their neck following the tense lines of their back, and their jet black hair fell behind them in a glossy braid.  They drummed their claws on the worn wood of his old desk.  When they turned the desk chair around and sat facing him, he noticed the puncture marks on the skin of their throat and his heart clenched.

His eyes drifted down, resting on the twisted scaled-over scars running the length of their collarbones down their sternum before vanishing into the low neckline of the shirt.  They grimaced, flashing their jagged teeth and pulling the neckline of the shirt closed.  

Gale averted his eyes, staring down at the worn carpet beneath his feet.  His stomach took a plunge off the edge, the room taking on a surreal quality with the muted arguing of his sisters behind one wall and the dragon sitting in his desk chair.  They cut a sharp, dark shape out of the space that he couldn’t bring himself to reach for, but he forced himself to meet their eyes anyway.  He owed them at least that much.  Their eyes looked back at him roiling acidic green, set deep and ringed with inky scales, and they burned away his thoughts.

Velim dropped their gaze to their hands, pressing down on the puncture wound between their thumb and forefinger until it ached.  

When Gale found his voice, it was low and rough. “Did Tara tell you we were looking for you?”

“She said something like that.”  They croaked around their sandpaper throat.  They pulled the collar of their shirt closed again until the fabric sat tight against their neck.

“I am so sorry.  About all of this,” Gale’s voice shuddered, “this shouldn’t have happened.”

Velim’s head tilted.  “The parasite in your chest, how did it respond to my blood?”

Gale’s heart leapt into his throat.  “Wh-what?”

“The parasite,” they cleared their throat, “the thing in your chest that needs regular doses of weave.  I know Lonzok was handing out vials of my blood to interested buyers.  I know you didn’t find me because you were looking for me, so indulge my professional curiosity.” They studied the color rising to his face and the rapid rise and fall of his chest.  He kept meeting their eyes and then looking away again.

Gale swallowed hard.  “I should have known better.”

Velim’s heart fell, filling in the remainder of the statement: I should have known better than to let you live.

“You would have unraveled me on your own, given enough time.  Gods know you were already well on your way.  I should have told you sooner, but I was,” he coughed around the tightness in his throat, “I was afraid it would drive you away.”

Their heart shot back up and their ears went hot.  “My investigation unraveled us both, then.  But the parasite, how did it react?  I really do want to know.”

“It ended the episode,” Gale rubbed the orb, which had settled into a dull ache, “but you deserve the full story.”

Velim leaned forward and nodded to encourage him.

Gale’s eyes rested on their hands, talons filed down, and thought better about reaching for them.  “I was once Mystra’s chosen, and walked at her side on the heavenly planes of Elysium.  Perhaps Elminster let slip as much at the masquerade,” he glanced up and felt their gaze pierce him, soft and focused on him in a way he had never experienced before.  Gale wondered at how much the illusions flattened their presence and expression, it seemed so obvious now.  He felt a pang of inadequacy -- He, of all people, should have recognized the limitations of a disguise spell long before this point, “she showed me the landscape of the weave, taught me how to play upon it, encouraged my research into Netheril’s fall for the sake of understanding -- well, I suppose I never understood the hubris of Karsus.  Not really.”

Velim’s gaze drifted, settling on his shoulder where a pale red stain soaked through the fabric of his shirt.  Discharge, they recognized, from a large chemical burn on his upper arm.  They wondered if he would let them fix the wrapping.

Gale noticed their focus shift.  He tugged at the fabric of his shirt.  “Yes, I deserved that, as well.  I seem to have a bad habit of harming those I cherish most.”

That brought some color to Velim’s cheeks.  “You cherish me?”

“Gods, more than anything,” Gale breathed, “you’ve been a light in the darkness these past few months.  I was only so desperate that,” he ran a hand down his face to compose himself, “you were gone, and the orb -- it’s a fragment of Karsite weave, no point in keeping that from you now -- it pained me so badly that I couldn’t look for you properly.  I needed a quick solution.”

“So, when you were offered access to Tiamat’s spawn…” They trailed off and waited for him to finish the thought for them.

He saw again the needle mark in their throat and wished with irrational fervor that he could return the blood he’d already used.  “I only needed enough to find you, I swear, my intention was never to kill you.”

“Only to harm,” the corner of Velim’s mouth pulled into the hint of a mirthless smile, “but if you had the opportunity?  If it hadn’t been me?”

Gale fell silent.  He clasped his hands in his lap and stared at the lines of his knuckles, terrified that Velim would see the answer in his eyes if he looked up.  A knot tightened in his throat.  

As he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, the impulse to reach for him struck Velim again.  They cocked their head to the side, thoughts drifting, and returned to Gale’s silence already reaching for him.  They covered his clasped hands, which opened until he cupped their hand in his palms.  He studied it, dragging his thumb down the scales until the bandage across their hand interrupted the progress.

“You had more to tell me,” Velim prompted.

Gale sniffed and wiped his eyes with one hand.  “Yes, the Karsite weave.  I’m sorry, I -- it’s the consequences of my own actions.  When Mystra brought me into the fold, I sought nothing less than to be her foremost pupil.  There were doors she would not open to me, for good reason, but I thought that if she just understood my adoration for her and her works that I might cross that threshold into her innermost sanctuary.  If she just knew how much I could truly learn from her…”

Velim wondered if they were lovers, or if he simply spoke of her in the nearly pornographic ways devotees describe their gods.  Based on their own experience, gods seemed inordinately fond of metaphorical penetration.

“So I sought a fragment of the magic Karsus stole away.  I wanted only to return a single tiny diamond to an imperfect crown, and prove my adoration to her,” Gale sighed bitterly and touched his free hand to his heart, “and I proved only my own fallibility in her eyes.”

“What did she expect from you, exactly?” Their eyes bored into him with the same heat as the orb in his chest.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Gale cleared his throat, “she expected restraint, wisdom.”

“Curiosity?  Exploration?” Velim filled in, “the most predictable qualities in mortals,” they leaned in, their nose scrunching up in satisfied disgust, “Lady Mystra looked at Gale Dekarios and expected no grand gestures?”

Gale dropped their hand.  “Be that as it may, I am no longer in her good graces.”

Velim accepted the separation, pressing mindlessly on the wound in their palm.  “Has your mother spoken to you about the house?”

Gale sighed, relieved for the change in subject.  “Yes, she has.  I never thought I’d see the day that blasted place was anything but a burden to her.  Does that mean I’ve no need to convince you?  I had quite the speech prepared.”

“I’ve already decided to go, but you can still say your piece if you’d like.” Velim pretended at disinterest by studying their claws, but couldn’t suppress the smile.  They forgot the throbbing ache in their body.

Gale straightened up, imitating the conversation he had expected to have.  “You may have heard tell of my father -- whom I have never met -- the illuminated Lord of Willow Valley Manor set upon the moon-drenched moors of Reddenhyde.  A magnificent structure that has housed not one, not two, ben ten generations of Devons.  A place dripping in history, set on the very borders of Low Netheril, beautiful in the severity of its landscapes, and so remote that none will be able to follow us.”

“And surrounded by frozen swamps a black dragon might easily disappear into, should conditions deteriorate,” Velim added.

Gale chuckled.  “I hadn’t considered that, though I sincerely hope you’re not planning to leave me alone in a very haunted manor.”

“That would be up to you.” Velim nodded to him, the energy draining out of their body again.

He watched their shoulders slump, and the pit in his stomach opened again.  “Gods, you must be exhausted,” he stood up, “I’ll leave you be.”

“Yes, I have to contact Peiotr.  I’m sure he’s worried sick,” Velim said.

“I’ve already taken care of that,” Gale assured them, lingering in the room.

Velim’s eyes went wide and frightened.  “Gods, what did you tell him?”

Gale held his hands up.  “Just that you were safe.  I couldn’t be certain how much he already knew, I swear to you I told no one.”

Velim’s head bowed and they ran a smoothing hand over their braid.  “Thank you.”

“The least I could do, Vel.”  Gale closed the door behind him, hearing the last breath of their sigh intertwine with the creak of the hinges.  Down the hall, a door slammed.  He stalked towards Del’s room and shoved open the door with his shoulder, pushing past her as she tried to hold it closed.

“Delores, why do you insist on being difficult?” Gale demanded, panting with the exertion, “Velim has been through quite enough without you dogging their steps.”

Dot covered her face as she laid back on the bed.  “Sorry Gale.”

“Dot!” Del hissed, “Don’t apologize to him!  He hasn’t even bothered to speak to us in a gods damned year, and now there’s a dragon in his bedroom?  Where’s your spine, girl?”

“Velim is not a dragon,” Gale protested, “they are draconic, there is a difference.”

“‘Draconic’, oh please,” Del rolled her eyes, “I know damn well mother didn’t set you up with a dragon.”

“Not intentionally,” Gale argued through clenched teeth.

“My gods, she did!” Del laughed, “I told you the matchmaker gambit would work, Dot.”

“I told you, actually,” Dot corrected.

Del waved at her dismissively.  “I’m sick of waiting for you to get your shit together.  Are you going to fill us in, or not?”

“Allow me to fill you in,” Velim smiled at Gale from the doorway when he turned around.

Del opened and closed her mouth.  Her face flushed red.  Velim leaned against the doorframe while they waited for her to gather her thoughts.  Dot got up from the bed and offered her hand to Velim.

“Dorothea, I’m sorry for bothering you,” she introduced herself.

Velim took her hand.  “Velim, and it’s fine.”

Del regained her composure.  “I have questions.”

“You must be Delores.  You can ask three,” Velim dropped Dot’s hand.

Del scoffed.  “Ten.”

“Delores,” Gale found his voice and put it to work warning his sister off.

Velim bowled over him.  “Four.”

“Seven,” Del countered.

“Five, final offer.”

Del reached for Velim’s hand, but had to switch which she was using when Velim offered their uninjured left hand.  It made the shake weaker and less sure than Del wanted it to be.  “Deal.  Are you actually a dragon?”

Velim shrugged.  “It’s complicated.  Technically.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Del demanded.

Velim held up two fingers.  “It means that my body is fully draconic, but I can’t be a dragon because I’m not yet strong enough to maintain that form.”

“How did you meet Gale?”

Velim held up three fingers.  “Through a matchmaker.  Your mother didn’t tell you?”

“I told you so,” Dot sing-songed.

“Shut up Dot,” Del snapped, “She did so tell me.  Why were you going to a matchmaker?”

“Research for a book.”  Four fingers.

“You’re a writer?” as soon as she asked, Del’s face twisted in dismay, “No!  Don’t answer that, it’s not my fifth question!”

Gale had sat down on the bed with his hot face in his hands.  Dot sat next to him cross-legged.  Velim tapped their injured hand with four raised fingers, waiting for Del to think up her final question.

“Are you going to marry Gale?” She asked with full serious sincerity, her face going redder when Velim laughed.

“Gods,” they held up their open hand, “that’s five.  No.”

“Why not?” Dot piped up from the bed, then dropped her voice to a stage whisper, “are you worried about Mystra?”

“I said five questions,” Velim reminded her.

“Not to me,” Dot countered, “come on, what’s wrong with him?”

Gale groaned in embarrassment.  “Dot, please.”

“Fair.  Nothing’s wrong with Gale.  I already tried marriage once and it didn’t work out,” Velim crossed their arms over their chest, “acceptable introduction?”

Gale straightened up, still flushed.  “Yes, I think that’s quite enough,” he stood beside Velim, a warm presence between them and the twins, “I’m sorry, Velim, they can be true terrors.”

Velim shrugged.

“I’m a terror?” Del laughed, “Velim, did you know Gale blew up the house when he was seventeen?”

“It was technically just the kitchen,” Dot corrected, shrinking when Del shot her a glare.

Velim knocked into Gale with their shoulder, blocking his path out of the room.  “Did he?”  They caught a whiff of sour herbs and iron from the stain on his shirt.  Their brow furrowed.

“He tried to make the kitchen automatic for mother’s birthday,” Del explained, “but he blew the place up instead.  She came home from market and the house was on fire.”

“I’ll have you know, I very nearly succeeded!  There are archwizards who would struggle with that kind of complex multi-spell circuit work, and I accomplished it at the tender age of seventeen.” Gale set his back defensively.

“You accomplished it until the stove exploded.” Dot nodded sagely.

“It was not my fault that one of the burner circuits was set in the wrong direction, I did not enchant the stove,” Gale insisted, “it would have worked just fine if whoever enchanted the burners in the first place was not an utter buffoon.  And should I remind you that I spent the next three years doing nothing but tutoring talentless hacks at Blackstaff to pay for the rebuild.”

Del opened her mouth to say something else, but Velim took Gale by the arm.  “Forgive the interruption, but I’d like to take a look at that burn before it gets infected,” they nodded at Del and Dot, “it’s good to meet the two of you.”

Gale brushed his shoulder, pulling back his fingers when he felt the damp through the cloth.  “I -- yes.  Of course.”

“See you at dinner, Velim.” Dot waved, and elbowed Del to do the same.

“Yeah,” Del said reluctantly, “see you.”

Velim’s face fell as they pulled Gale into his childhood bedroom and closed the door.  They pointed toward the bathroom.  “Take off your shirt.  Did Charrel treat your burn last night?”

“Oh, you were serious?” Gale pulled at the fabric sticking to the soaked bandages.

“I am.  Let me take a look, then I’ll set you free for whatever it is you’ve left to do.  It shouldn’t take more than a minute.”  Velim dug for a new roll of bandages in their coat and extracted a pair of silver-handled scissors from their roll of surgical tools.

Gale shed his shirt and sat at the edge of the stool.  Velim dragged the water basin over and studied it -- drained of dirty water while they weren’t looking, but they couldn’t find the mechanism to refill it.

“Allow me.” Gale touched a rune on the side facing him, and fresh water filled the basin.

“Thanks,” they dunked their hands in and scrubbed them thoroughly with soap first, then emptied the basin and refilled it with fresh water again, “chemical burns like that aren’t treated the same way as a heat burn you might get in a kitchen.  Charrel had no way of knowing, but the balm will do more harm than good if we don’t wash it off.”

They slid one blade of the scissors under the soiled bandages and cut them away.  Gale’s pulse raced at the chill of the metal against his skin, then the cold air of the bathroom on the burn.  The sour balm mixed with the copper stink of blood plasma.  Velim dunked a clean towel in the water and waited for it to saturate, then guided Gale by the elbow until his shoulder was positioned over the basin.  Gale hissed as they wrung the water out over the wound.  They repeated the process until the basin was cloudy, and blotted the cleaned wound with the towel.

“Did you really put together multiple spell circuits at seventeen?” Velim asked, “I nearly destroyed my apartment when I tried to put two together.”

Gale sucked in a pained breath through his teeth as Velim wrapped his arm with fresh bandages.  “Yes, I did.  It was an ambitious and stupid thing to do.  I didn’t realize you were studying arcane circuitry?”

They tucked the bandages flush and washed their hands again.  “Just a curiosity.  Perhaps I’ll explain more once I’m less anemic, but my notes may as well be gibberish to me right now.”

“I’m more than happy to teach you,” Gale picked his shirt off the counter and waved his hand over the stain.  It vanished, “we’ll have plenty of time to get your magic skills up to par at Willow Valley, if you’d like.”

Velim studied his face, and Gale became aware that he was half-naked before them again.  He hastily pulled his shirt over his head, and they turned away to organize their surgical tools.  “That sounds like a good use of our time.”

“Unless you have a better use for our time in mind?” Gale regretted the question as soon as he heard it in his own voice, cautiously hopeful and fully not what he meant to imply.

Velim chuckled.  “We’ll see.”

“Right, well, I have much work to do.  We leave in the morning, should I grab anything for you?” Gale asked, “should I have Tara grab anything for you, I mean?”

They patted their coat.  “I’m always packed.”

“Good, good!” he ran a hand through his hair, “I’ll see you at supper tonight.”

“Yes.  Gale,” they waited for him to turn, “drink some water.  Burns like that dry out the body, you’ll need more fluids than you’re used to.

He nodded.  “Thank you, Velim.  I’ll stop by the kitchen before I go.”

Velim turned in after supper, along with every other member of the Dekarios family exhausted by the breakneck pace of last minute travel arrangements.  They spent the rest of the evening watching the window, staring into slivers of dark and then the gray dawn until Dorothea knocked on their door and called on them in a voice heavy with sleep.  They rolled out of bed and made it to the sitting room downstairs with their coat and boots on before Gale was out of his housecoat.  He sipped blearily on a cup of coffee, and Charrel swept past and handed Velim one of their own.

They stood next to Gale, who was slumped on a sofa, and picked a hand-written pamphlet off the coffee table.  Charrel’s neat handwriting laid out the travel plans with meeting windows, arrangements for rest, and contact locations for changes in transportation.  Seven at least.  Velim sipped the coffee, letting the warmth chase away some of the dread of a complex travel schedule before dawn.

“Your carriage will arrive in some twenty minutes,” Charrel said, “you got the travel plans, good!”

Velim nodded.  They watched a sequence of women emerge from the depths of the house and bid Gale goodbye, the last his mother who held his hands and spoke low and seriously to him.  Del and Dot gave him a simultaneous hug that threatened to yank all three of them to the floor, and Noelle was called away by her son crying upstairs before she said her proper goodbyes.  She made Gale promise to write, even though the letters wouldn’t arrive until the roads opened again in spring, and Velim piled him into the carriage.  Within minutes, he had dozed off in the seat beside them.