At times, like with color, Gale remembers Miraak is all a storm. No, Gale hasn't his story, but he would wager most everything that Miraak's his share of battles. Unfortunately, nursing such thunder, a break or a shattering is destined to spring. He imagines those windows that would gleam upon the temples. Crack. Shattering in a river, it pours and pours.
It smacks around the tiles. It peals on down the halls.
Gale looks to this fury, his blistering, biting words howling high past the shelves, and the pretty painted glass lies gleaming all about them. It's a good a guess as any who will pick them up.
But maybe! Maybe in time, Gale, familiar with his breaks, will. He had pressed too longly perhaps, complacent as he's become with their fortuitous...something. He would see him as a friend, two rapacious little scholars with a hankering for spells, and he had nearly forgotten that he had never been invited. Or asked for. Right. Eyes widening, Gale, finally realizing, is all an interloper.
But that can't be right, can it?
"Oh. I'm, well, I'm relieved to hear it. In fact, I argue overjoyed may be a more fitting word," he grasps, his timbre achingly vulnerable. Why is he so bare? A weeping wound? It's terrible for his health! He bleeds out anyway. "I resent entirely the idea that this may surprise you, but there are few things I value more than our time together. That said," he nods, "my time is yours -- give or take the clumsiness. I suppose my hunger for reading goes beyond books at times. Understand, I hardly expect you to part with your secrets in an effort to sate my curiosity. As it were, there would be no end to it." He approaches. "You're a mystery, one I can respect." / @bendwill, continued from here.
