[ The mercenaries out in front of Henselt's manor that Astarion (unwisely) left alive must have talked about them around the city, because it's only days later that they get a visit from who Iorveth so generously named Astarion's so-called siblings. It is, as all unwanted family reunions are, uncomfortable — although enlightening, too, with all their discussion of infernal rituals. He couldn't begin to understand the finer details, only that a dead vampire family equals unimaginable power, and that's really all he needs to know.
Everyone crawls into their beds after the confrontation, Astarion included, but he finds himself tossing and turning, thoughts of seeing Cazador again dominating his mind. Even the familiar sounds of Karlach's gentle snoring and Gale's mumbling somniloquence aren't enough to lull him into his trance. Finally, in the dead of night, he slips out from under the covers and shakes Iorveth into consciousness, uncharacteristically serious as he asks for him to come along and bring his weapons.
The park he leads Iorveth to is deserted at this time of night, the only sound the skitter of squirrels making noise in their sleep. Once he trudges to the center of it all, he stops and turns to face Iorveth, hands on his hips. ]
Try to kill me, will you?
[ If he can't even stand his own against Iorveth, he reasons, he'll never be able to take on Cazador. ]
[ Rites, sacrifices, ascension. Iorveth, who'd watched Astarion hold his brother to the mid-afternoon light by the neck even before this confrontation, had wondered about it all― the learned helplessness and delusions of those red-eyed spawns, and Astarion's similarly-mistaken assumption about what it means to earn his freedom.
Which is why he doesn't protest when Astarion drags him out into moonlight, and why he doesn't turn around and leave when Astarion delivers the request to him. Iorveth has been thinking about all of this, and what it means for Astarion to be confronted with the very real, very imminent nature of his fate.
("Master Cazador has known where Astarion was this entire time," the blank-eyed tiefling had said. Sickening.)
So. Bow in hand, with his head angled: ] Do you wish me to try, or to actually do it?
[ Because, as Astarion should know by now, Iorveth rarely does anything by halves. ]
[ "You've been spending more time with Gale," Karlach notes one night over drinks at the Elfsong. "Mind your own business, you incorrigible busybody," Astarion replies, although he's grinning.
He returns back to the room before the rest of their group, save for Gale, who's still engrossed in that damned book. The Annals of Karsus. A dry read, in Astarion's opinion, but dusty old tomes do seem to be Gale's favorite. He poses attractively against the wall and clears his throat; when Gale is too preoccupied with reading to notice his arrival, he huffs, walking over to Gale's seat and rudely snapping the book shut. It isn't as if Gale hasn't memorized what page he was on, anyway. ]
Hello to you, too.
[ Like a needy cat, desperate for attention. He resumes posing languidly, leaning one arm on Gale's chair. ]
I had hoped I might entice you to get out of this place for a bit. [ This, perhaps, makes his plans sound more romantic than they actually are. It's on purpose. He sighs melodramatically. ] But if you'd rather sit here with your nose stuck in that book all night...
[ At the sudden intrusion, his shoulders jump, fingers stuttering over the embossed cover. Too engrossed in his reading — in his mind, really, following winding paths to terrifying possibilities — to hear Astarion approach. Still, it’s a profoundly effective method of quieting his mind, with all the finality of slammed door.
Immediately, he’s reminded of Tara fluttering into space whenever he lingered in his study for too long. His gaze flicks up the long line of Astarion’s arm, surprise softening into familiar warmth. ]
Hello. [ With unnecessary delicacy, he lowers The Annals of Karsus to his lap and reaches out to brush his knuckles against Astarion’s forearm. ] I’d say… [ He hums, considering. ] I’m entice-able.
[ A glance behind Astarion, curious whether this invitation is for him alone. The others have twigged their newfound closeness; he’s certain. Shadowheart seemed intent on making his flush a permanent stain, when he suggested Astarion might enjoy a visit to Figaro’s. ]
[ He'd practically begged Dorian to let him tag along on his return to Tevinter. Promised to be a delightful traveling companion: charming, witty, as good with a lockpick as he is a dagger. The Imperium is hardly his first choice for a vacation—ugly business, slavery and blood magic—but with all the arcane talent there, someone is sure to know how to rid Astarion of his vampiric weaknesses. As long as he doesn't get sacrificed in the meantime, that is.
What he hadn't counted on was that to be a traveling companion, one must actually travel. Tevinter is through the mountains, past the Waking Sea, and through Nevarra. To make matters worse, they're confined to traveling primarily once the sun has set, only able to venture out during the day if they're lucky enough for overcast weather. The Frostback Mountains are, true to their name, cold, especially at night. Cold-blooded as he is, Astarion shakes like a leaf as they trudge through the snow, scowling. Not long now, and they'll be over the mountains and in Halamshiral. At least, that's what he keeps telling himself. ]
I thought you were a mage, [ he whines, arms crossed over his chest both for warmth and to express his displeasure. ] Can't you just magic up a portal?
[The mountains are definitely the most difficult part of this journey, though Dorian had mentally prepared himself for it when he'd decided to return home after all. What he hadn't accounted for was a companion coming along with him. While he'd been hesitant at first, Astarion's plea was one he couldn't ignore, not when he made some decent points about getting help with the use of magic, and who is Dorian to deny him that chance after all he's endured? Where else would he find the most skilled arcanists who specialize in all practices, and who would have the full freedom to use their magical abilities, compared to other parts of the world? Flawed as Dorian's country is, there are some benefits.
The sea would have been a quicker trip but Dorian's stomach doesn't handle the ocean well, and he hadn't planned for Astarion to be with him when he'd first made arrangements. Thus, they find themselves both miserable in the cold, Dorian hating it just as much, though Astarion's whining has been somewhat of a distraction.]
If it was that simple, I'd have conjured up a portal back at the keep and we'd be having a lovely, warm dinner in my very cozy home. With a nice vintage red too. But no, I had to specialize in Necromancy. [A dramatic sigh. Moments later, with a simple wave of his fingers, Dorian lights up a flame in his palm to hold out to Astarion, as if offering a gift.] Take this. It won't burn and you'll start to feel your little fingers again in no time.
[Traveling only at night has also proven to be difficult but Dorian has surprisingly kept his own whining to a minimum. He's been rather distracted by thoughts of what to do once he makes it back to the Imperium at last, all of the business he has to tend to with his father's assassination, the people he'll have to contact to get started on helping his elven friend, having to explain why he has a new elven friend to begin with. Thoughts for a future him who won't be stuck wading through the snow in the dark.]
One moment, Astarion is running through the crowded streets of Baldur's Gate to escape some awful bounty hunter. The next, the both of them are snatched up by even more awful creatures, things with tentacles and beady eyes that radiate spite. The ship is like something he's only read about in books (the ones he'd steal from marks and unobservant shopkeepers), filled with contraptions that seem more living being than machine.
Of course, he's hardly able to get a good look at the place, stuck behind the nigh-unbreakable casing of the mind flayer's pods as he is. It's only after all is said and done—after something slimy and distinctly alive crawls its way inside his eye, after the ship shakes and quakes and crashes—that he manages to pry the thing open and stumble out into the daylight.
The daylight. He cowers, expecting to be no more than a pile of ash in a moment, but to his surprise and delight, nothing happens.
His joy is short-lived. Not only is there still a parasite squirming inside his skull, but he's found himself the gods know where. The wilderness, by the looks of it. One direction looks out toward the horizon, a body of water he can't identify in the distance. The other direction looks toward—
"Oh, you have to be kidding me."
It's the godsdamned bounty hunter from earlier, crawling his way out of a damaged pod. Astarion scowls, hand on the hilt of his sheathed dagger.
"You're like a bad copper, aren't you? You keep turning up."
Rogue is no stranger to getting into scrapes, but this is a bit more than he bargained for. He's been hired to hunt down a vampire of note on Toril. He figured it would be relative easy, given the limited level of technology. But turns out there were a lot of other things that could cause him trouble.
The squidfaces are awful, and their ship is a lot more considerable than he'd expect. And whatever crawls inside his head... he doesn't even want to think about it. Then, shortly after, they crash.
He doesn't expect to crawl out right next to the spawn he'd been chasing. The man is unimportant himself, merely a lead on how to get to Cazador. But not exactly a friendly face, even if it's a somewhat familiar one.
"I do that," he agrees cautiously, his own hand hovering near his gun. He doesn't want to have to kill him. For one thing, he has no idea where they've ended up. The vampire might provide useful information of a different kind.
It's only after a moment that he too has a realisation about their surrounding, and specifically the time of day. "...You should be dead."
[ In the aftermath of the Netherbrain fight, Lae'zel absconds on a dragon to free her people. Shadowheart goes off to live a peaceful life in a cottage with her many, many animals. Karlach has no choice but to return to the Hells, and Wyll joins her. Gale, of course, returns to Waterdeep. And Astarion—
He doesn't have anything to go back to in Baldur's Gate. He and the rest of the freed spawn have no choice but to flee to the Underdark, where they can hide from the sun's rays. It's... fine. Minsc visits more often than Astarion would strictly like, and living with a thousands-strong commune of vampires in the Underdark is less than ideal, but he adapts. In his trance, though, he replays what it was like to step out of the mind flayer pod and feel the sun on his face. To go where he pleased instead of being all but exiled to the metaphorical sewers of Faerûn. To have real freedom.
Astarion has never been the type to let things go. It weighs on him, this desire to return to the surface world, to civilization. More than that, to experience everything it has to offer, day or night. He won't go back to hiding in the dark like a rat.
If there's anyone who can help him, it's an (ex-)archwizard. He bids his ragtag group of spawn a temporary farewell before setting out on his journey to Waterdeep. He's never been, but the City of Splendors sounds up his alley. It takes longer than he'd like, having to travel under the cover of night, but he finally sets foot in the place on one chilly evening. A glittering, cosmopolitan city, a bustling hub of trade even at night. Vendors call out to him as he wanders the streets, hawking wares he can't afford. When he passes by a shop with sparkling rings on display in the window, he makes a mental note to return and pocket one when he gets the chance.
He hasn't seen Gale in months, not since he decided to defy his goddess and keep himself in one piece. A few scattered letters have been exchanged here and there, as they have with all of his ex-companions, but that's all. He could have asked via letter, but— he feared Gale might say no. If Astarion shows up at his doorstep, he really won't have any choice, will he?
At least, that's what he's depending on as he approaches Gale's tower, which was easier to locate than he'd expected. A few descriptions of Gale given to the right people, and they'd pointed him where he needed to go. (Brown hair, sad cow eyes, earring, can't stop talking, he'd said. "Oh, you mean the wizard!" they'd replied.) He stands at the doorway now, smoothing down his vest. His clothes aren't as luxurious as he would like, bought on an adventurer's budget as they are, but he's made sure through careful tailoring that they at least look smart.
A knock, and he waits. Throughout this whole trip, he'd never once questioned his decision to show up unannounced, but now that he's in the thick of it, he can't help but feel nervous. What if Gale says 'no' anyway? What if he's upset by Astarion's impertinence? Gods, what if he's not even here? That last concern turns out to be untrue, because Gale opens the door, and— ]
[ With time his body has healed, the constant pain and weakness of the orb’s ravages easing almost at soon as Mystra removes it. In its place is an echo, a memory of its hunger that twinges now and then. A whisper beneath his scar.
His abilities, however, have been slower to return. In lieu of sleep Gale spends many of his nights running through somatic exercises, practicing the simple cantrips he gives his youngest students. He is making progress, if agonizingly slowly. At this rate he’ll be as old as Elminster before he recovers all that had once been his, as intrinsic to him as breathing. It is a fitting punishment, he knows, for what he’d nearly cost the world. Privately, it devastates him.
More than even that he finds he misses, in so many ways, the shared purpose of adventure. He misses his companions most of all, misses all of them with an ache that feels almost as physical as the absence of the orb, at times. He’d thought it was enough, once, to simply be respected by colleagues. That he could want for nothing as long as he held Mystra’s love, which as he understands now, he had never truly had at all. Nor does he want it any longer.
Only he might never have realized that had he never known what it was to be cared for by true friends. To share burdens and joys alike in a way he’d never known possible. They all deserve happiness, and that lies, by necessity, on separate paths now. Still, there are times when Gale finds himself grappling with a strangely pervasive sense of loss.
He thinks of Astarion, perhaps, most of all. Worries for his safety, of course; his well-being. Eagerly awaits (and keeps tightly wrapped in a drawer in his desk) the letters he does receive. He pens long replies, dozens of pages of scrawling thoughts and anecdotes. And then he puts those away as well, embarrassed in a way he can’t quite articulate even to himself. He drafts more sensible, far shorter responses and passes those in the direction of the underdark. He hopes Astarion will simply know that he’s thought of, when he reads them.
Gale is rebuilding, despite it all. He has students who delight him with their curiosity. A circle of friendly colleagues who have begun to welcome him back. His work is satisfying, if a bit lacking in the thornier challenges Gale has always thrived on most.
The tower alerts him to a visitor one evening, as Gale is reorganizing his study, searching for a particular book he’d borrowed some years ago from Elminster himself (Sunlight and Magic, as it happens). It’s late for deliveries, and a rare enough occurrence in itself that it startles him. He instructs his simulacrum to tidy the mess he’s made and then goes to investigate, still in his dressing gown. He starts when he sees who is standing there, his shock of silver hair, his familiar lean form. His heart leaps. ]
Astarion! [ He’s surprised, but the delight on his face is obvious, a light in his eyes. ] Indeed it is! But a most welcome one.
[ Instinct makes him reach for a hug - only to stop halfway there, not wanting to presume. Still the gesture is unmistakable, awkward in Gale’s slightly abashed way. ]
It's easy enough for Gale to tell when he has visitors. The tower is good at informing him when someone arrives. And if the tower doesn't do it, there's Tara. He suspects the tressym is chatting the ear off of their visitor, disparaging his good name in the sort of ways that only your childhood cat and closest friend can.
Gale should go down and see who's calling. But there's this one more part of the spell, one more little equation or manipulation he thinks he's pieced out. Mystra's lost piece of the Weave is within sight. He knows he can grab it. He desperately wants to grab it, return it to Mystra, finally be equal in her eyes. But manipulating the Weave to this extent is challenging—even for an archwizard like Gale of Waterdeep.
Poor Astarion gets to wait and/or gossip with Tara for ten minutes before Gale makes his way to the main sitting room. "Terribly sorry for the wait," he apologizes, with an easy smile. "You know how it is with us wizards—it's far too easy to get lost in the particulars of a spell or a twist of the Weave. Hell, sometimes I get lost in both."
Astarion smiles politely, although in truth he's annoyed at being forced to wait. Sure, this Wizard of Waterdeep is supposedly all-powerful and impossibly busy with his studies, but gods, he could stand to be a little more timely. (Not that Astarion has ever cared about being timely himself.)
He spends much of the time downstairs with the wizard's— cat? Honestly, he's not very familiar with magical beasties. She'd explained what she was when they'd met, but Astarion was too busy looking around at all of Gale of Waterdeep's very magical and very expensive belongings to really listen. Even now, he's wondering if he could fit one of those glittering crystal balls on the shelf in his pack. If he could sell something like that, perhaps he wouldn't even need to ingratiate himself with someone powerful. He could hire mercenaries to protect him instead; they'd be more loyal to his coin than anyone would be out of the goodness of their heart.
But he can't figure out how to sneak any of the artifacts away without being caught by this furry familiar of Gale's, so when the wizard finally makes his way into the sitting room, Astarion is still empty-handed.
"Oh, of course," he lies, because he doesn't really know much of anything about wizards. Might as well jump right into it, so: "That, ah— academic determination is exactly why I'm here. You see, I came all this way hoping to apprentice with a powerful wizard such as yourself."
Nothing in Baldur's Gate gives the Iron Bull such homesickness as a woman with a lot of knives around her person ordering him off on some task. "Take the Bull with you," Nine-Fingers Keene says to Astarion like it's a generous gift, flicking her good hand to where he's slouched in his seat in front of the trick bookcase. "Just in case."
The Gate is a touch cooler than he's used to, and Bull is wearing armour made of bear fur - personally, he thinks he looks like an idiot, but Nine-Fingers said it'd make him a real barbarian, whatever that means. Does make taking the sewer exit a crapshoot, with how drippy it gets. He leaves his half-finished drink on the counter, ducks through the door behind the bar, careful of his horns, and picks his way across the rock after Astarion.
This isn't ideal, but he's been walking a fine line since a rift spat him out in this city. People don't take kindly to incursions, dimensional or otherwise, and he doesn't want to go home and explain to the Inquisitor that he's started a war with a whole new set of dangerous people. His first impression of both the Devil's Fee and Sorcerous Sundries was that they would happily exploit his homeland if they knew it was a place they could portal to. So he's been laying low, amassing coin and connections the only way he knows how: spying, and mercenary work. Getting in with the thieves guild has him doing a lot of both.
A short drop (Bull making sure not to jar his bad knee, or even give any sign he has a bad knee) and a locked door. Bull studies the elf as he picks it with remarkable skill. Elves here have it pretty good, get treated near human, but there's still a hunted, haunted, malnourished look about this one that reminds him of Skinner when he first met her.
"So," he drawls, a low rumble, hint of accent though he's tried to smooth it further since apparently nobody else in Faerun talks like the Qunari. "Your boss' shipment isn't landing until after dark." Because he was eavesdropping the deal, of course. "You got somewhere in mind to wait it out?"
'Boss' is a funny word. He hates doing other people's dirty work for many reasons, but this one is as good as any: people like this think he's some low-level thug, doing someone else's bidding. Like someone tosses a few coins and he scrambles after them. They wouldn't be wrong, but he wishes they were. It's infuriating to have to scrape for everything he has, especially when 'everything he has' is incredibly fucking minuscule.
While someone more, ah, sturdy will be helpful to have around if anyone gives him trouble tonight, it's actually rather a nuisance to have this man around. (What was it— Bull? Bronco?) Case in point: he was planning on loitering around in the sewers until night falls given that traipsing around outside during the day is as good as a death sentence, but he can't just say that. It's disgusting, for one thing. This whole place stinks to the hells.
"You heard that? Your ears must be as big as those horns," he says, taking his time with the door to give himself time to think. A glance over at Bull, and— hm. Maybe Astarion can use his giant body to shield himself from the sun, if it comes down to it.
"...I hadn't thought about it just yet," he finally says. He'll have to admit something unless he wants to step outside into the Lower City and immediately burn to a crisp, and he's not dying in the Lower City. "But, ah, you should know that I'm really rather sensitive to the light. One-sixteenth drow, actually."
A shrug. "But I'm sure you can find some hole in the wall to amuse yourself in until tonight." He pauses. "Given that you can fit through the door." Horns and all.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taveren.
i'm honoured to roll on the fresh grass
[ His gift to Astarion—being the threshold for patience with the human race. ]
In your condition, I don't know that it'd be good for your health to be dead inside and undead on the outside.
rolls out the red carpet for mat
[ Just ignore the pale skin, red eyes, and fangs, thanks. ]
🍾🎊
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essea.
Everyone crawls into their beds after the confrontation, Astarion included, but he finds himself tossing and turning, thoughts of seeing Cazador again dominating his mind. Even the familiar sounds of Karlach's gentle snoring and Gale's mumbling somniloquence aren't enough to lull him into his trance. Finally, in the dead of night, he slips out from under the covers and shakes Iorveth into consciousness, uncharacteristically serious as he asks for him to come along and bring his weapons.
The park he leads Iorveth to is deserted at this time of night, the only sound the skitter of squirrels making noise in their sleep. Once he trudges to the center of it all, he stops and turns to face Iorveth, hands on his hips. ]
Try to kill me, will you?
[ If he can't even stand his own against Iorveth, he reasons, he'll never be able to take on Cazador. ]
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Which is why he doesn't protest when Astarion drags him out into moonlight, and why he doesn't turn around and leave when Astarion delivers the request to him. Iorveth has been thinking about all of this, and what it means for Astarion to be confronted with the very real, very imminent nature of his fate.
("Master Cazador has known where Astarion was this entire time," the blank-eyed tiefling had said. Sickening.)
So. Bow in hand, with his head angled: ] Do you wish me to try, or to actually do it?
[ Because, as Astarion should know by now, Iorveth rarely does anything by halves. ]
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corporeity.
He returns back to the room before the rest of their group, save for Gale, who's still engrossed in that damned book. The Annals of Karsus. A dry read, in Astarion's opinion, but dusty old tomes do seem to be Gale's favorite. He poses attractively against the wall and clears his throat; when Gale is too preoccupied with reading to notice his arrival, he huffs, walking over to Gale's seat and rudely snapping the book shut. It isn't as if Gale hasn't memorized what page he was on, anyway. ]
Hello to you, too.
[ Like a needy cat, desperate for attention. He resumes posing languidly, leaning one arm on Gale's chair. ]
I had hoped I might entice you to get out of this place for a bit. [ This, perhaps, makes his plans sound more romantic than they actually are. It's on purpose. He sighs melodramatically. ] But if you'd rather sit here with your nose stuck in that book all night...
.
Immediately, he’s reminded of Tara fluttering into space whenever he lingered in his study for too long. His gaze flicks up the long line of Astarion’s arm, surprise softening into familiar warmth. ]
Hello. [ With unnecessary delicacy, he lowers The Annals of Karsus to his lap and reaches out to brush his knuckles against Astarion’s forearm. ] I’d say… [ He hums, considering. ] I’m entice-able.
[ A glance behind Astarion, curious whether this invitation is for him alone. The others have twigged their newfound closeness; he’s certain. Shadowheart seemed intent on making his flush a permanent stain, when he suggested Astarion might enjoy a visit to Figaro’s. ]
[ brows arching, ] You’ve something in mind.
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puts on my dm hat to start this quest
cracks knuckles
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one million years later
thevint.
What he hadn't counted on was that to be a traveling companion, one must actually travel. Tevinter is through the mountains, past the Waking Sea, and through Nevarra. To make matters worse, they're confined to traveling primarily once the sun has set, only able to venture out during the day if they're lucky enough for overcast weather. The Frostback Mountains are, true to their name, cold, especially at night. Cold-blooded as he is, Astarion shakes like a leaf as they trudge through the snow, scowling. Not long now, and they'll be over the mountains and in Halamshiral. At least, that's what he keeps telling himself. ]
I thought you were a mage, [ he whines, arms crossed over his chest both for warmth and to express his displeasure. ] Can't you just magic up a portal?
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The sea would have been a quicker trip but Dorian's stomach doesn't handle the ocean well, and he hadn't planned for Astarion to be with him when he'd first made arrangements. Thus, they find themselves both miserable in the cold, Dorian hating it just as much, though Astarion's whining has been somewhat of a distraction.]
If it was that simple, I'd have conjured up a portal back at the keep and we'd be having a lovely, warm dinner in my very cozy home. With a nice vintage red too. But no, I had to specialize in Necromancy. [A dramatic sigh. Moments later, with a simple wave of his fingers, Dorian lights up a flame in his palm to hold out to Astarion, as if offering a gift.] Take this. It won't burn and you'll start to feel your little fingers again in no time.
[Traveling only at night has also proven to be difficult but Dorian has surprisingly kept his own whining to a minimum. He's been rather distracted by thoughts of what to do once he makes it back to the Imperium at last, all of the business he has to tend to with his father's assassination, the people he'll have to contact to get started on helping his elven friend, having to explain why he has a new elven friend to begin with. Thoughts for a future him who won't be stuck wading through the snow in the dark.]
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rollforinsight.
Of course, he's hardly able to get a good look at the place, stuck behind the nigh-unbreakable casing of the mind flayer's pods as he is. It's only after all is said and done—after something slimy and distinctly alive crawls its way inside his eye, after the ship shakes and quakes and crashes—that he manages to pry the thing open and stumble out into the daylight.
The daylight. He cowers, expecting to be no more than a pile of ash in a moment, but to his surprise and delight, nothing happens.
His joy is short-lived. Not only is there still a parasite squirming inside his skull, but he's found himself the gods know where. The wilderness, by the looks of it. One direction looks out toward the horizon, a body of water he can't identify in the distance. The other direction looks toward—
"Oh, you have to be kidding me."
It's the godsdamned bounty hunter from earlier, crawling his way out of a damaged pod. Astarion scowls, hand on the hilt of his sheathed dagger.
"You're like a bad copper, aren't you? You keep turning up."
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The squidfaces are awful, and their ship is a lot more considerable than he'd expect. And whatever crawls inside his head... he doesn't even want to think about it. Then, shortly after, they crash.
He doesn't expect to crawl out right next to the spawn he'd been chasing. The man is unimportant himself, merely a lead on how to get to Cazador. But not exactly a friendly face, even if it's a somewhat familiar one.
"I do that," he agrees cautiously, his own hand hovering near his gun. He doesn't want to have to kill him. For one thing, he has no idea where they've ended up. The vampire might provide useful information of a different kind.
It's only after a moment that he too has a realisation about their surrounding, and specifically the time of day. "...You should be dead."
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redound.
He doesn't have anything to go back to in Baldur's Gate. He and the rest of the freed spawn have no choice but to flee to the Underdark, where they can hide from the sun's rays. It's... fine. Minsc visits more often than Astarion would strictly like, and living with a thousands-strong commune of vampires in the Underdark is less than ideal, but he adapts. In his trance, though, he replays what it was like to step out of the mind flayer pod and feel the sun on his face. To go where he pleased instead of being all but exiled to the metaphorical sewers of Faerûn. To have real freedom.
Astarion has never been the type to let things go. It weighs on him, this desire to return to the surface world, to civilization. More than that, to experience everything it has to offer, day or night. He won't go back to hiding in the dark like a rat.
If there's anyone who can help him, it's an (ex-)archwizard. He bids his ragtag group of spawn a temporary farewell before setting out on his journey to Waterdeep. He's never been, but the City of Splendors sounds up his alley. It takes longer than he'd like, having to travel under the cover of night, but he finally sets foot in the place on one chilly evening. A glittering, cosmopolitan city, a bustling hub of trade even at night. Vendors call out to him as he wanders the streets, hawking wares he can't afford. When he passes by a shop with sparkling rings on display in the window, he makes a mental note to return and pocket one when he gets the chance.
He hasn't seen Gale in months, not since he decided to defy his goddess and keep himself in one piece. A few scattered letters have been exchanged here and there, as they have with all of his ex-companions, but that's all. He could have asked via letter, but— he feared Gale might say no. If Astarion shows up at his doorstep, he really won't have any choice, will he?
At least, that's what he's depending on as he approaches Gale's tower, which was easier to locate than he'd expected. A few descriptions of Gale given to the right people, and they'd pointed him where he needed to go. (Brown hair, sad cow eyes, earring, can't stop talking, he'd said. "Oh, you mean the wizard!" they'd replied.) He stands at the doorway now, smoothing down his vest. His clothes aren't as luxurious as he would like, bought on an adventurer's budget as they are, but he's made sure through careful tailoring that they at least look smart.
A knock, and he waits. Throughout this whole trip, he'd never once questioned his decision to show up unannounced, but now that he's in the thick of it, he can't help but feel nervous. What if Gale says 'no' anyway? What if he's upset by Astarion's impertinence? Gods, what if he's not even here? That last concern turns out to be untrue, because Gale opens the door, and— ]
Surprise.
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His abilities, however, have been slower to return. In lieu of sleep Gale spends many of his nights running through somatic exercises, practicing the simple cantrips he gives his youngest students. He is making progress, if agonizingly slowly. At this rate he’ll be as old as Elminster before he recovers all that had once been his, as intrinsic to him as breathing. It is a fitting punishment, he knows, for what he’d nearly cost the world. Privately, it devastates him.
More than even that he finds he misses, in so many ways, the shared purpose of adventure. He misses his companions most of all, misses all of them with an ache that feels almost as physical as the absence of the orb, at times. He’d thought it was enough, once, to simply be respected by colleagues. That he could want for nothing as long as he held Mystra’s love, which as he understands now, he had never truly had at all. Nor does he want it any longer.
Only he might never have realized that had he never known what it was to be cared for by true friends. To share burdens and joys alike in a way he’d never known possible. They all deserve happiness, and that lies, by necessity, on separate paths now. Still, there are times when Gale finds himself grappling with a strangely pervasive sense of loss.
He thinks of Astarion, perhaps, most of all. Worries for his safety, of course; his well-being. Eagerly awaits (and keeps tightly wrapped in a drawer in his desk) the letters he does receive. He pens long replies, dozens of pages of scrawling thoughts and anecdotes. And then he puts those away as well, embarrassed in a way he can’t quite articulate even to himself. He drafts more sensible, far shorter responses and passes those in the direction of the underdark. He hopes Astarion will simply know that he’s thought of, when he reads them.
Gale is rebuilding, despite it all. He has students who delight him with their curiosity. A circle of friendly colleagues who have begun to welcome him back. His work is satisfying, if a bit lacking in the thornier challenges Gale has always thrived on most.
The tower alerts him to a visitor one evening, as Gale is reorganizing his study, searching for a particular book he’d borrowed some years ago from Elminster himself (Sunlight and Magic, as it happens). It’s late for deliveries, and a rare enough occurrence in itself that it startles him. He instructs his simulacrum to tidy the mess he’s made and then goes to investigate, still in his dressing gown. He starts when he sees who is standing there, his shock of silver hair, his familiar lean form. His heart leaps. ]
Astarion! [ He’s surprised, but the delight on his face is obvious, a light in his eyes. ] Indeed it is! But a most welcome one.
[ Instinct makes him reach for a hug - only to stop halfway there, not wanting to presume. Still the gesture is unmistakable, awkward in Gale’s slightly abashed way. ]
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tadpoled.
Exactly! Now if you'd only show a bit more of them instead of covering up with that awful armor.
:)
Why am I so tempted?
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continue to action?
revised.
I know nothing of the sort. I'm delightful company.
<3
[ This is so much easier - and safer - than admitting his crush. Nobody ever has to know. ]
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anyname.
Oh, nothing in particular. General debauchery and degeneracy. I prefer to see where the iniquity takes me.
Sorry for MY slowness now, but yes! happy to continue
The answer can affect how much we can cram in
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forsakenfate.
Well, no. Killing people is an awful lot of work.
sorry for the delay!
np!!
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Gale should go down and see who's calling. But there's this one more part of the spell, one more little equation or manipulation he thinks he's pieced out. Mystra's lost piece of the Weave is within sight. He knows he can grab it. He desperately wants to grab it, return it to Mystra, finally be equal in her eyes. But manipulating the Weave to this extent is challenging—even for an archwizard like Gale of Waterdeep.
Poor Astarion gets to wait and/or gossip with Tara for ten minutes before Gale makes his way to the main sitting room. "Terribly sorry for the wait," he apologizes, with an easy smile. "You know how it is with us wizards—it's far too easy to get lost in the particulars of a spell or a twist of the Weave. Hell, sometimes I get lost in both."
wow this week got away from me I'M HERE NOW...
He spends much of the time downstairs with the wizard's— cat? Honestly, he's not very familiar with magical beasties. She'd explained what she was when they'd met, but Astarion was too busy looking around at all of Gale of Waterdeep's very magical and very expensive belongings to really listen. Even now, he's wondering if he could fit one of those glittering crystal balls on the shelf in his pack. If he could sell something like that, perhaps he wouldn't even need to ingratiate himself with someone powerful. He could hire mercenaries to protect him instead; they'd be more loyal to his coin than anyone would be out of the goodness of their heart.
But he can't figure out how to sneak any of the artifacts away without being caught by this furry familiar of Gale's, so when the wizard finally makes his way into the sitting room, Astarion is still empty-handed.
"Oh, of course," he lies, because he doesn't really know much of anything about wizards. Might as well jump right into it, so: "That, ah— academic determination is exactly why I'm here. You see, I came all this way hoping to apprentice with a powerful wizard such as yourself."
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The Gate is a touch cooler than he's used to, and Bull is wearing armour made of bear fur - personally, he thinks he looks like an idiot, but Nine-Fingers said it'd make him a real barbarian, whatever that means. Does make taking the sewer exit a crapshoot, with how drippy it gets. He leaves his half-finished drink on the counter, ducks through the door behind the bar, careful of his horns, and picks his way across the rock after Astarion.
This isn't ideal, but he's been walking a fine line since a rift spat him out in this city. People don't take kindly to incursions, dimensional or otherwise, and he doesn't want to go home and explain to the Inquisitor that he's started a war with a whole new set of dangerous people. His first impression of both the Devil's Fee and Sorcerous Sundries was that they would happily exploit his homeland if they knew it was a place they could portal to. So he's been laying low, amassing coin and connections the only way he knows how: spying, and mercenary work. Getting in with the thieves guild has him doing a lot of both.
A short drop (Bull making sure not to jar his bad knee, or even give any sign he has a bad knee) and a locked door. Bull studies the elf as he picks it with remarkable skill. Elves here have it pretty good, get treated near human, but there's still a hunted, haunted, malnourished look about this one that reminds him of Skinner when he first met her.
"So," he drawls, a low rumble, hint of accent though he's tried to smooth it further since apparently nobody else in Faerun talks like the Qunari. "Your boss' shipment isn't landing until after dark." Because he was eavesdropping the deal, of course. "You got somewhere in mind to wait it out?"
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While someone more, ah, sturdy will be helpful to have around if anyone gives him trouble tonight, it's actually rather a nuisance to have this man around. (What was it— Bull? Bronco?) Case in point: he was planning on loitering around in the sewers until night falls given that traipsing around outside during the day is as good as a death sentence, but he can't just say that. It's disgusting, for one thing. This whole place stinks to the hells.
"You heard that? Your ears must be as big as those horns," he says, taking his time with the door to give himself time to think. A glance over at Bull, and— hm. Maybe Astarion can use his giant body to shield himself from the sun, if it comes down to it.
"...I hadn't thought about it just yet," he finally says. He'll have to admit something unless he wants to step outside into the Lower City and immediately burn to a crisp, and he's not dying in the Lower City. "But, ah, you should know that I'm really rather sensitive to the light. One-sixteenth drow, actually."
A shrug. "But I'm sure you can find some hole in the wall to amuse yourself in until tonight." He pauses. "Given that you can fit through the door." Horns and all.
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