🔮 exsanguinated (with @sangwhine)

[mystracal]

tfln | invitations | and there was only one bed | undermountain alurlyath | what could be | blood bond | the price of freedom
it wore his face | dinner with morena dekarios | rediscovery

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@sangwhine

[mystracal]

((From here.))

[It's early afternoon when Gale comes by Astarion's tent, the vampire's shirts tucked under his arm. He did say he'd bring them back, after all, and they're in better condition than when they were stolen borrowed, if you ask him. How does the Wizard of Waterdeep keep those velvety camp clothes clean? Enchantments. Soil, wine, and even blood just rolls right off them with the proper command - and now will off these two particular shirts of Astarion's, too.

But he's not just here to return the shirts. He's here for the help Astarion so graciously offered for his meeting with his mother. Love his mother as he may, Gale is almost certain it will go terribly, no matter what he does. However, it doesn't hurt to put his best foot forward, so here he is, getting help.]

Your shirts, as promised.

[sangwhine]

[Meanwhile, Astarion's spent the day doing...something in his tent. It's hard to tell exactly what it is, but it does entail a basin of water, oil, fresh wash cloths, and a small variety of alchemical components. Of course, it does all beg the question of why is he going so far for a man who stole his clothes and refused to apologize. But if Gale's meeting with his dear mother goes well, he'll be quite indebted to Astarion for his assistance, won't he?

He's waiting outside the flap of his small tent when Gale approaches, a disarmingly welcome smile on his lips.]

A wizard of your word. Thank you, dear. Why don't you step inside? Then we can get to work.

[mystracal]

[Gale does as he's told stepping into the tent, eyeing all that Astarion has set out. He's not sure he liked that smile coming in, but he's going to have to put his trust in the vampire for the time being. Beggars can't be choosers, after all.

He offers the shirts - folded, tied with the same string as before - to Astarion.]

I have to ask what kind of work we'll be doing. I'm sure your methods of preparation differ quite a bit from mine.

[sangwhine]

[Astarion takes the shirts, inspecting them a moment before setting them aside atop a small chest in the corner of the tent. He turns back to Gale, giving him a very critical once over.]

I'm certain they do. Now, Gale. When was the last time you properly bathed? And cantrips don't count.

@sangwhine

[mystracal]

((From here.))

When Astarion and Gale show up in one piece (relatively) after an entire night away, it's cause for a little celebration. Wyll and their leader had managed to make it back during the night by themselves, leaving everyone to worry just where the vampire and wizard were - no one was certain if they'd gotten caught by the Steel Watch, by Cazador, or if they were even still alive. Given the numerous dangers to their group present in the city - a list that seems to grow daily - their return is treated as a minor miracle. The two of them are told to stay back for now, to get some rest while the others continue to make their way through the city in search of potential allies.

So Gale does just that: he has his ribs healed, gets clean, brushes his teeth enough times to get the taste of dandelions out of his mouth, and allows himself some restful study before making his way to Astarion's tent early that evening. While it's impossible to put what Astarion said completely out of mind - and just as difficult to ignore how much the very thought of being used wounded him - Gale feels he might be trying to make up for it, in earnest.

And despite everything, that's a second chance he's willing to extend to him. They should move forward, he insists inwardly. Besides... he would like to see more of the real Astarion, a man he feels he hardly knows, but glimpses of whom have left Gale utterly intrigued. And there's good wine to be had, so what's the harm?

He announces himself, not wanting to just walk in. It's appropriate to have an invitation before one steps inside, vampire or not.]

Not Gust, not Shale, but Gale here, as promised.

[sangwhine]

[A very thorough bath and some healing does wonders for Astarion's mood. Being relegated to camp also affords him the opportunity to slip out and do a little hunting. Thankfully, the area around Rivington is a veritable buffet of domesticated animals let loose by petty owners who would rather return their livestock to nature in hopes of reuniting sometime in the nebulous future rather than surrendering them to the Flaming Fists or the City Watch. Astarion tracks down a woefully confused pig and makes a very filling meal out of it.

Unfortunately, the hunt doesn't last him quite long enough to occupy his entire day, so he's still left some time alone with his thoughts before Gale's arrival. Normally he'd devote such idle time to arguing with spirits over Thayan Necromancy, but that's in Gale's hands now too, isn't it? So instead he finds another book in the party's shared inventory, some expose on the sordid history of Baldur's Gate, and tries to let the book distract him from thinking about his impending visitor.

It's only half a success. His mind is very happy to replay the events of the night before for him, leaving a twisting feeling in his gut and a tightness in his chest by the time Gale announces himself at the entrance. Still, he was the one who extended the invitation, and he has no intention of being anything but a gracious host. It certainly doesn't hurt that hearing Gale's voice puts a warmth in his chest that eases some of the tension there.

He puts the book aside, stepping over to the tent flap and brushing it aside to usher Gale in.]

I'm glad you kept your promise. Come in, darling.

[mystracal]

[He steps inside, and it seems he thought the fact he'd be coming empty-handed - and thus made sure he wasn't.]

I've more manners than to promise an appearance, only to not appear.

[He offers Astarion a book, a certain Thayan tome that's been in his possession for long enough.]

Your book. I don't recommend we summon any spirits tonight other than those we'll be drinking, but my studies are elsewhere these days. Should I decide to practice more necromancy in the future, I'll be asking for this again, but for now, it's best kept with your belongings.

[sangwhine]

[Well, it's been an eventful few days for their merry little band of adventurers, hasn't it? Following Gale and Astarion's recovery from the sewer debacle, they're able to successfully convince their leader that it's time for a short detour to Sorcerous Sundries for some research and intelligence.

They're not even through the front door before things take a turn for the interesting. Two reunions, one wizard murder, and a very lucrative vault raid later, Ramazith's Tower is under new management, Dame Aylin in is avenged and both Gale and Astarion have new additions to their libraries. Astarion's also left with an odd sense of disquiet following Aylin's victory, the circumstances too close of an echo to his own confrontation that lingers on the horizon.

He tries to ignore the feeling at first, throwing himself back into Thayan Necromancy once they return to camp. He hopes that his newfound knowledge might give him any additional insight into the schemes of his former master. But instead the disquiet gnaws at him, driving him to distraction and frustration until he finds himself unable to stand still in his own space, alone with his thoughts. Without thinking, he finds himself standing outside Gale's tent, empty handed.

It's an annoyance, losing himself in this, losing his awareness of himself. Still, something draws him to Gale in this moment. A need for comfort, perhaps, or understanding. A test of the limits of the fragile thing they've started building together, to see if it can stand the strain that Astarion's anger and need to avenge himself could cause. His mouth sours at the thought. What would he do if it broke under that burden? If somehow all that Cazador had done to him could steal this away?

He nearly turns to flee, to retreat to his own tent, his anger and turmoil be damned. Instead his feet carry him forward, one hand closing over the fabric at the edge of Gale's tent flap.]

Gale, dear. Can I join you?

[mystracal]

[It has been an interesting few days. Even without Karlach's help, news of Gale and Astarion's growing interest in one another has spread at the camp. It's obvious at times: the two of them sit closer at dinner, their chatter mixed with intermittent flirting; a fresh smile crosses Gale nearly every time the vampire says his name, and he finds his hand occasionally straying to brush against Astarion's pale fingers. The wizard has been keen to make time for his new paramour, hardly able to keep his eyes off him.

Well, until they returned from Sorcerous Sundries - until he got a hold of the Annals of Karsus.

Whereas Astarion has been struggling to focus on his Thayan Necromancy, Gale has been unable to tear himself away from the Annals of Karsus since they arrived back at camp. His mind turns with the possibilities. The crown is imbued with power, strong enough to control an Elder Brain, and with the pieces and the stones... he's confident could forge it for himself. He could have the powers of a god - he could have the power to help people in the way the gods refuse to. He could be better than them.

Moreover, something about the book calls to him. He can feel it in his heart, its beat so strong it challenges the thrum of the orb; they both pulse, hungry. Even Elminster's sudden appearance, with word that Mystra herself wanted to see him, could hardly tear Gale from the tome.

But as for who can? His eyes flick to the flap of his tent, to the book before him, then back; he finally closes the tome, forcing himself away from it as he calls back.]

Of course, Astarion. You're always welcome with me.

[He goes to greet Astarion at the front of his tent; his excitement over his studies is - unfortunately - palpable.]

You've been doing some reading, I trust?

[sangwhine]

[Astarion's hand flaps in the air in a so-so sort of gesture as he makes a vaguely noncommittal sound in reply.]

Perhaps not as much as I'd like. I'm certain I'm not enjoying it nearly as much as you are.

[He pushes past Gale into the tent, his eyes clocking the Annals of Karsus where it rests before dropping him down into a seat. After a moment's consideration, he extends a hand towards Gale in invitation. He wants the wizard close.]

There's something else on my mind.

[mystracal]

[Gale's neck was sore the night prior due to the marks Astarion left, bruising kisses placed deliberately so Mystra would see them, envy them; his neck is sore now because he got bitten.

After meeting with Mystra in the morning, their party had searched the flophouses, eventually coming upon Astarion's kin on the hunt. They were surprised the wayward spawn had returned; they were eager in equal measure for him to join them in the Black Mass, the terrible ritual that would let Cazador ascend into a new being of phenomenal, untold power. It had not been a happy reunion, cut short by Astarion threatening them within an inch of their unlives, but his aggression got results.

Unfortunately, Gale's mind was elsewhere at the time, already preoccupied with what he'd learned from his conversation with Mystra. Though he told Astarion the night before that she did not define him, here he was, allowing her to consume his thoughts once more. The Karsite Weave. She'd known that was the true nature of the orb; she'd known all along and did nothing. She only spoke to him via Elminster - a purposeful choice of which Gale had not missed the significance one bit - once she had a use for him. She'd wanted him to rid the world of the Absolute, himself, and the Karsite Weave all at once.

She commanded his death not because she wanted to forgive him, or even because she saw a way for him to redeem himself; she wanted him dead because of the beast that hungered within his chest, a piece of Karsus' own Weave rather than a Netherese orb, as he initially believed. He was certain she ordered his end because if he could get control of that Weave, he could defy her in ways he never thought imaginable. He truly could usurp her. It was no longer mere speculation, but certainty.

Those were the thoughts that were on Gale's mind all day, and well into the night. As such, he was one of the few awake in the camp when the attack happened.

He was writing down what he'd learned, recording it in case it should be important in his ascent to godhood, when something tripped his magical wards, silent alarms alerting him to an encroaching, unwelcome presence in the camp. He barely had a chance to rouse anyone before he heard Astarion yelling, already fighting them off. They swarmed him, flanked him - they were trying to take him.

And in that instant, Gale saw red in a way he never had before. He called electricity to his hand, the sleeve of his violet, velvet shirt seared as curled the energy into a ball and hurled it at the nearest intruder, bolts of crackling magic jumping from one to the next. He beelined for Astarion, fully intending to open a portal, to spirit him away to somewhere safe; however, Gale got caught by one of the vampire kin along the way. He was pulled back, felt teeth dig into the flesh of his neck - but the attacker got more than he bargained for, quickly discovering that Gale's blood was like poison. When he yanked his fangs from the wizard's skin and pushed him away in the same motion, he nearly tore Gale's neck wide open in the process, blood spilling down the front of his camp clothes.

Though Shadowheart managed to heal him enough to stop the bleeding during the attack, Gale is still bruised and sore. A night's rest will do him wonders - and yet, his mind is already turning again, though no longer on the subjects of Mystra or the crown. In the immediate aftermath of the attack, he's far more worried about the target the vampires were after: Astarion. While the rest of their group checks on one another, Gale goes to Astarion, his shirt still covered in his own blood.]

Gods, I thought they would take you from me. Are you all right?

[sangwhine]

[Astarion hasn't been blind to Gale's distraction following their meeting with Mystra. For all the time they've been spending with one another, he's learned very well how to know when the wizard is lost in his thoughts, distracted by some matter of arcane contemplation. He would have confronted Gale about it, were it not for the much more pressing matter of his siblings, his master, and the looming threat of the ritual. Although he couldn't have anticipated the way that Cazador had twisted his ascension in the eyes of his other spawn, it's hardly surprising. Knowing that he would have been lied to in the exact same way is almost as frustrating as seeing his brothers and sisters so easily swayed by Cazador's lies.

But, of course, he barely has time to contemplate it before he has yet another unwanted family reunion. The insults flung at him are nothing he hasn't heard before, being called the runt, called weak, reminded of all the times he was left tormented, whimpering in pain. He's perfectly ready to show his siblings just how much stronger he is now, but Gale's interruption changes everything. Seeing so much of Gale's blood spattered across the ground, the red of it on Leon's teeth drives Astarion into a frenzy. He gives a shout, his blades flashing with lethal brutality, but each blow that should have laid his siblings low instead only ends with an explosion of dust and blood as Cazador recalls them to his palace.

In the end, Astarion is left with nothing to show for his anger but his own cuts and bruises and a wizard near death. His attention snaps to Gale as he approaches, grabbing him with both hands by the bloodied collar of his shirt and all but shaking him.]

Am I all right? What in the hells were you thinking?! You nearly bled to death, you damned fool! I wasn't about to fall to them and I damn well didn't need you to fall in my place! What was I going to do if you'd fallen?!

[mystracal]

[Thoroughly chastised, Gale's brown knits, his worry still focused on Astarion.]

I—

[He immediately reconsiders, if only for a second. Astarion presented a very reasonable concern, after all, but one for which there was a relatively easy solution - much easier than being captured by one's vampire kin. He keeps his tone soft by contrast, hoping to defuse the situation.]

I'm all right, Astarion. Certainly light-headed, bruised more than I like, and that might be the end of this shirt, but Shadowheart made sure I'm in one piece. Your safety is what's paramount. It's you they were after.

[sangwhine]

[After the charming reunion with Astarion's family it is, of course, only a matter of time before the matter of Cazador must be dealt with. Yet like most things in the adventures he's encountered over the past few tendays, nothing goes quite as expected. They gain entry to the palace by duping Cazador's thralls easily enough, but that is where it begins to unravel. The mysteries of the ballroom door lead him back to the kennels, to Godey, and the destitute dormitory where he spent most of his time while not out on the streets. The memories are unpleasant, but being able to return his tormentor to nothing but a pile of bones does bring some cold comfort.

Gaining access to the ballroom, however, only brings more questions to the forefront. Werewolves are not an alliance that Astarion would expect Cazador would make. It hints at something more, something beyond what he knows, what Raphael has deigned to tell him. He's still determined to find his master, to seize the power of the ritual for himself. Even as their discovery of the elevator down seems leaves a nagging feeling at the back of his throat of all he doesn't know. Of course Cazador would keep his own secrets, he was their master, after all. Servants had no right to know the full extent of his dealings. But nothing could have prepared Astarion for what he found below.

The sight of Sebastian shakes him more than he wants to admit. He thought he'd forgotten the targets from his earlier days of enslavement, that they'd all blurred into a mass of featureless shadows that only haunted him when he allowed them in. Sebastian's voice cuts straight through that delusion, wedging itself between Astarion's ribs and into his heart like a cold blade. He still felt guilt, back then, wished for a way to escape, to free himself from the sick torment of using his body to lure innocent fools to their death. That guilt is unearthed here, brought back just as fresh and hurting as the day he felt it those hundreds of years ago.

Astarion can feel his resolve crumbling, even if he won't allow his companions to see it. Sacrificing his siblings was one thing. They were always cruel to him. They looked down at him and disparaged him. He would gladly let their deaths be the sacrifice needed so that he might rise. Sacrificing Sebastian was nothing like that. So many of the faces he saw in the cages were those who had flattered him, smiled for him. They trusted him and showed him kindness even though it meant their undoing. What would he be if he returned that with more violence?

Yet, they were spawn. Hungry spawn, at that. Spawn who likely had not eaten in years. If he convinced himself that they were too much of a danger, maybe he could justify their deaths to himself. After all, he wasn't the one who had made them like this. The blame for that rested solely upon Cazador.

That anger, the indignation at what his master had kept from him fueled Astarion onward to the site of the ritual. He was going to take back what had been stolen from him, his revenge was at his fingertips—but he had forgotten Cazador was more than just a vampire lord. He had forgotten that a mere flick of a staff and a surge of arcane power was enough to render him utterly helpless, tadpole or not. Panic welled in his throat as he found himself held still, the arcane bindings piercing through his skin as they began to draw his power, and the power of all those he had brought to his master, into the ritual itself.

But he was not alone. He had Gale, he had their leader. This ragtag band of adventurers bound by nothing more than their unfortunate shared circumstances were enough to interrupt a ritual that had been centuries in the planning. All of Astarion's doubts and fear were forgotten the moment he felt the bindings release and saw the cloud of smoke that was Cazador seep back into the coffin that was his resting place. His time was now, the chance to seize his power, to cement his vengeance was at hand.

Yet he was not the only one whose mind had been tormented by the sight of the thousands of innocent souls whose sacrifice was necessary for the ritual to go on. It was a moment of clarity, of Gale's words breaking through the power hungry bloodlust that had consumed Astarion that painted his actions in stark clarity. There were two paths before him: to become something more than Cazador, something more twisted, more sinister, more evil, or to reject it. To be better. This was his chance to prove not only to Gale but to himself that he could be the man they had all hoped he could be. That small mote of potential was inside him. Not one of them above the other, but equals. That was what they had wanted.

So he turned the blade on his master. The moments blurred together in a haze of tears and blood. By the time they returned to camp, Astarion could barely even remember freeing the thousands of spawn, telling his siblings to take them to the Underdark. He felt like he was floating, walking through a haze that dogged his every step. His skin prickled with gooseflesh under the caked and drying blood even as he stood before the warm basin of water that had somehow appeared in his tent so that he could clean himself of everything that had transpired.

Cazador was gone. The power that the ritual promised was forever lost to him. Yet as soon as he turned his thoughts to it, he only felt a heavy weight in his chest that threatened to drag him down through dirt and stone until he was buried again. He stared at the water, watching the steam wick from its surface, utterly at a loss for what to do next.]

[mystracal]

[To say Cazador's palace was a place of nightmares is an understatement. Beneath the aristocratic facade and decadence were the kennels where Astarion was tortured by the malicious Godey, the prison where thousands of spawn were kept in perpetual agony and hunger... and further down, Cazador himself, and the ritual he'd been preparing for centuries. From the moment they entered the doors, Gale had stayed close to Astarion not only to support him, but to keep his own anxiety at bay. He wasn't sure it could get any worse than when they found Astarion's former prey - hundreds upon hundreds of victims, many of whom remembered his face, his name, what he had done to them - in cells beneath the palace, all kept there for the sake of the profane ritual they were there to stop.

No, not stop. To seize control of so Astarion, rather than Cazador, could become a vampire ascendant. Their sacrifice would allow for his ascension.

For Gale, the most horrific moment came when they attacked the vampire lord himself. Astarion had rushed forward in anger, only to be bound by arcane magic, hurled into place for the ritual to commence. Gale felt his horror overcome by furious determination: as their companions spread around them, the wizard crossed the platform in an instant with magic, placing himself at Astarion's side. Unfortunately, he hadn't a chance to help him before being attacked himself by a lycanthropic Gur; he barely got his staff into the creature's mouth before it snapped, its fangs the size of daggers. They were not going to let anyone disrupt the ritual.

And Gale was not going to let Astarion die, be sacrificed for this vile spell. He'd called lighting to his hands, flashes of crackling energy all around him as bolts rained from the air above, the electrical force tearing through the bodies of Cazador's minions. It wasn't until they were dead at his feet - some smoldering, some sparking, but all corpses - that he felt he could breathe. He'd then turned and set Astarion free while their leader dealt with Cazador.

But it wasn't the end. Someone had to deal the killing blow, and only Astarion could do that. Only he could finish the ritual, take power for himself, gain that freedom he'd craved for so long... but if he did, what would he become? Though his heart hammered in his chest as the rogue took up the blade, poised to the kill, Gale believed wholeheartedly that Astarion had the capacity for good within him to not just be a better vampire than Cazador, but a better person than he realized was possible. However, with the haze of blood, the torment resurfacing, and the danger of releasing thousands of hungry spawn on his conscience, Gale wasn't entirely certain of what Astarion would do - what choice he would make. They all knew he'd be sacrificing his siblings, but the unspoken cost against his soul was yet to be seen. All he had to do was complete the ritual.

But... he didn't. He instead lashed out against his former master, ending him once and for all; he freed the spawn, his siblings, sending them into the Underdark to a fate unknown - but a fate where they might have a chance. He denied himself the ritual, and with it, any hope of power, of being free of his thirst, of being certain he would see the sunrise each day for the rest of his existence.

The journey back to camp was long, but uneventful; Gale hadn't heard Astarion say a word the entire time, staying close until he was ushered into his tent. Wyll had gotten him a basin, Karlach some water, which she warmed - even Lae'zel had moved her tent to be within eyeshot of Astarion's, keeping an eye out for him during the night, just in case there should be any retribution from lingering remnants of Cazador's loyal servants.

Finally, everyone returns to their bunks. Wyll offers to make dinner for the evening, allowing Gale and Astarion some time alone. While Gale thanks him for the gesture, he can't think of what to say to Astarion. He's simultaneously incredibly proud and profoundly sad on his lover's behalf, pondering over what he must be feeling; however, it's not something with which he's sure he can ever truly empathize. That power he so coveted is out of his grasp forever.

And Gale's not sure what that means for him down the road with the crown. Reasonably, he should continue to seek it, to gain its power so he can become a god people deserve, one who will help... but at the same time, he remembers what he told Astarion, the loose vow they made to one another. They would be equals.

He steps inside, letting the flap close behind him before he speaks.]

What you did today... that was not easy.

[Another understatement, one just as grievous as any charitable assessment of Cazador's palace.]

[sangwhine]

[Astarion seems startled to hear Gale, as if he didn't notice his entry. Gale had been at his side on the path back to camp, hadn't he? It feels like a blur now. Astarion turns to look at him, the hollow anguish written on his face for a brief moment before he looks away to steel himself. Though after a moment he holds a bloodied hand out to Gale, beckoning him closer.]

I imagine I couldn't have done it if I was on my own. Without you there. Without the faith that you've had in me.

[mystracal]

[By the time they return, Gale is not at the camp.

And yet, he is there. He greets them upon arrival, chats with Halsin by his tent as Wyll handles dinner again, fastidiously adjusts his robe in front of the mirror as he rubs away pain from the mark on his chest. As they all eat, he listens to the report of the day's adventures, speaks of related topics and places to continue the search for the Stone Lord, gesticulating all the while in his normal way. He has Gale's mannerisms, his diction, even his penchant for wordplay as he makes a pun, garnering a laugh from Karlach and a groan from Lae'zel.

But it is not Gale.

The party was warned of shapechangers among their enemies days ago, but with the skirmishes involving the Steel Watch and the Fists, Lorroakan and his tower, their investigation for the Guild, and finally Cazador, they've had their attention otherwise occupied, resources stretched thin as it seems everyone in the city needs their help. That means things slip through the cracks - perfect for infiltration, for a creature wearing Gale's skin. As he talks to Wyll and Shadowheart after dinner, it seems that no one notices anything is amiss. No one can detect that this man is not Gale of Waterdeep. The disguise is flawless.

Well, save for something that cannot be hidden, that cannot simply be covered by changing one's face. There's only one person in camp who could detect such a tell, who could smell the heat and malice and iron as opposed to the scents of ink and parchment, decay and petrichor.

Gale had given Astarion a warm smile when the party returned to camp, but had said nothing to him aside from that all evening, busying himself with his books and spells, practicing his usual gestures as he occasionally glances toward their leader in the distance. Even without vampiric senses, chances are high that the person who knows Gale best can tell something is off.]

[sangwhine]

[Oh, Astarion can tell. He knows the scent of murder and blood all too well. The only thing that stops him from leaping in and ripping the damn shapeshifter's throat out the moment he senses something off is the thought that acting too rashly might endanger Gale. That and the deep uncertainty of exactly what Bhaal's chosen is plotting.

Fortunately, Astarion knows how to play dumb quite well. He does his very best at putting on airs of his usual demeanor throughout dinner and the discussions that follow. It's not until he corners their leader under the guise of needing a drop of blood to top himself off that he lets it all break down. He's frantic, worried, and bloodthirsty in turn, but their leader manages to calm him down enough to come up with a plan.

They need to know what Orin's plotting first and foremost, to determine where Gale's been taken. If she has any demands, if there's a way to take her out and secure their wizard then they take it. The plan is communicated to the remainder of their group via tadpole, so Astarion will have their eyes and ears on him as he confronts their unwelcome visitor.

That is how Astarion finds himself making his approach to Gale's tent later that evening, all smiles and flirtation.]

Darling, I can't help but feel that I've been given a cold shoulder this evening. Whatever have I done to deserve such treatment?

[mystracal]

[The supposed Gale's eyes flick Astarion's way, a smile crossing him - it's warm and touches his eyes, just enough to seem genuine.]

Nothing at all, Astarion. My mind has simply been elsewhere, pondering our latest predicament involving the Stone Lord. And of course, what we'll face after him, and if we have the capacity to face it. Despite our tadpoles, there's so much more we could be doing.

[mystracal]

You're sure this tie looks all right?

[Gale paces across the bedroom, gesticulating more than he normally does before fiddling with said tie again - and given it's him, that's saying a lot. He's been nervous since the day prior, since they arrived at his tower in Waterdeep; he's only done a middling job of hiding it. His hands shook as he made lunch, he spent entirely too taking a bath and trimming his beard, and now he's nearing hour two of simply getting dressed for dinner.

Not just any dinner, though - dinner with Morena Dekarios. Casual as he is when talking about her most days, he's a jittery mess when he's about to be faced with her after his long journey. It'd be one thing if it were just him catching her up, finally telling her about the orb and the tadpoles and the part where he and his friends saved the Sword Coast from an elder brain; however, he's not going to dinner alone. He's taking his boyfriend with him.

Correction: fiancé. Betrothed. Intended. Practically married in every way but legally binding. He still loves the sound of all of those, but they make his stomach turn for some reason when in conjunction with the dinner date. His mother only cares about his happiness, and always has; surely she'd be approving of anyone he gave his heart to?

Well, not Mystra. She hadn't liked Mystra much. Nor anyone he'd courted before her. No one had cared for Gale beyond his magic, his phenomenal talent and intellect his most attractive and worthy features in the eyes of potential lovers - and for so long, his only features he thought worthwhile. Astarion is different - Astarion truly sees him, loves him regardless of what he can do. Surely she'll think well of him and not immediately judge him as just as manipulative as everyone else Gale has ever loved.

Then again, she might, and she's not a woman who changes her mind easily once it's made up.

He pads across the plush carpet of the bedroom another time.]

Perhaps I should go with a white one. Something more striking.

[sangwhine]

Darling, you've gone through half the closet in the last half hour. What happened to trusting my judgement in this, hm?

[Astarion, meanwhile, is in all honesty doing no better shape than his fiance. He's just better at hiding it. He's probably buttoned and unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve a dozen times just to have something to do with his hands that isn't tugging at the collar of his shirt to make sure it covers the rather obvious bite marks.

Fussing over Gale is the perfect excuse to ignore his own nerves in this situation. After all, the brain being defeated and their skulls blissfully tadpole free just means that Astarion's regained all the natural qualities of a vampire spawn the little parasite suppressed. Although Gale's ring now sits snug on his finger, the enchantments aren't quite complete yet, so he's been relegated to the shadows ever since their arrival in Waterdeep. That's not to mention the rather intimidating prospect of entertaining the mother of his future husband. He has every confidence that he'll be able to charm her, as he has so many times before, but on the same hand this is completely unlike anything he's ever done before. He's a master of seduction, of deception, not of making a good impression on his future mother-in-law.

Best to ignore that for now, though. He rises from where he's been lounging on a chaise, watching Gale wear his carpet bare with his pacing. He closes on Gale, putting one hand to his shoulder while the other fixes his tie in place.]

The white would wash you out. Just leave the purple on, why don't we? It brings out the loveliest color in your eyes.

[The tie sorted, he catches Gale's chin with his fingertips, tilting his lover's head up to meet his gaze with a smile.]

[mystracal]

[That gets Gale's attention. He meets Astarion's eyes and leans forward to press a gentle kiss to his lips; he's wearing his own smile as they part, his hand placing itself upon Astarion's to clasp his wrist.]

You were the one who helped me look best for her last time. Your expertise is ever-appreciated. I want her to think I'm doing well - to know I'm doing well.

[Better than he was when she last saw him in Baldur's Gate, when he'd insisted she go back to Waterdeep as swiftly as possible for reasons he couldn't quite explain. The brain that had threatened them all is gone now, as is the cult lead by the Chosen of the Dead Three, but the orb...

Well, it sleeps now. Uncomfortable with giving Mystra the crown and no longer interested in pursuing godhood himself, they'd ultimately left it in pieces in the Chionthar; however, the blight lodged within him doesn't seem to bother him anymore, as though sustained off his own satisfaction with his circumstances and himself. He can't explain it, and frankly, he's not sure he wants to aside from telling his mother that he's no longer at threat of immediate and catastrophic detonation. She'll find out about the orb and have it put to rest all in the same day.

Which just leaves the topic he really wants to discuss with her. He can't help but steal another kiss even though they should be leaving any moment.]

[sangwhine]

[Life in Waterdeep has been treating Astarion and Gale quite well for the past several tendays. After overcoming the initial nerves and anxiety over meeting Morena, they've managed to rather quickly reveal all pertinent details regarding Astarion's condition, which has in turn led to a much more comfortable atmosphere around the dinner table for their regularly scheduled gatherings. The ever innovative Mrs. Dekarios has even taken to offering a selection of options and personally curated blends of blood at the dinner table, much to Astarion's unending delight.

So it is that when a request comes via Tara for the presence of Gale and his intended at dinner on a night outside of their usually scheduled affairs, trepidation and worry aren't the first place Astarion's mind goes. It's still there, to be certain, but the quiet days and good conversation have made it easier to just box that worry up and shove it away to some dark corner where it belongs.

After all, there's far more pleasant thoughts to occupy his mind, like the warm touch of Gale's arm in his, or the selection of fabric swatches he received earlier in the day for a set of new outfits for their upcoming nuptials. It's only by the time they approach the gates of the Dekarios home that his mind turns to wonder about what might have spurred Morena to send an unexpected invitation.]

So, what do you suppose it is that your mother has in store for us tonight, my dearest?

[mystracal]

I haven't the faintest idea.

[Or rather, Gale has a lot of ideas of what his mother wants to talk about so unexpectedly, but no concrete evidence favoring one of those ideas over the others. Morena has involved herself thoroughly in planning their wedding: she's sent invitations to the rest of the Dekarios clan, volunteered to handle the food and catering (with only a smidge of protest from Gale, who was hoping to do that himself), and even met with a few different Waterdhavian tailors to ensure that the fabric for their wedding outfits was of the finest quality, arguing that she'd 'drop dead before her son and his beloved were dressed in anything less than the finest silks this side of Anauroch.'

In good news, she'd thought to ask said son about his suggestions for flowers a few weeks ago, and Gale had enjoyed listing some blossoms he thought would look good against Astarion's skin and hair, ones that complemented the red of his eyes. He'd then had to explain to his mother why he got so dreamy-eyed, his imagination having wandered off as he pondered the ceremony, their vows, him getting to call Astarion Mr. Astarion Dekarios genuinely for the first time.

He is so sickeningly smitten with the vampire, and he knows it. Morena knows it, Tara knows it, and no doubt the rest of his family will know it soon enough. What's more, the two of them have been more open in the private moments, experimenting, finding their boundaries in ways they hadn't before - all in all, Gale would say he's the happiest he's ever been.

And yet, there's that feeling in his gut that it won't last - that he'll overstay his welcome, cross some boundary he ought not, will do something to ruin all of this, as he's always done. He has to force that notion away, knowing it isn't true, no matter how it authentic it might feel when it grips him.

He squeezes Astarion's hand, running a thumb along his fingers; with his other hand, he waves the gate open with a flourish of magic.]

If I had to guess, I'd say she found a new dish she wants us to try, and, hoping to perfect the recipe, thus invited us over here to get an opinion on it.

[sangwhine]

Perhaps a new dish for you, my dear. Although I must say that I never would have thought that mixing a quail's blood with that of a rothé would be so delightfully piquant. Your mother has an inspired palate.

[Just the thought of it brings a smile to Astarion's face, his hand squeezing Gale's in return as they tread the familiar pathway up to Morena's doorstep. The recent days and flurry of activity leading up to the wedding has only served to foster Astarion's implicit trust in everything and anything Morena Dekarios does. The two of them have shared many late nights poring over embroidery and debating the drape and silhouette of various outfits and quickly bonded over their desire to have perfection in every aspect of the celebration.

So it only feels natural to simply see himself in once they make it to the doorway. Astarion pushes the door open with a flourish, announcing his arrival only to be stopped partway through by what he finds within.]

My darling Morena, you have summoned us and we are here at your—oh? What's this?

[There, on a table just within the entryway sits an exquisite floral arrangement: sprigs of lavender, a spray of aster flowers, and in the center of it, a bundle of faintly glowing blueshine. But as quickly as Astarion's eyes are caught by the flowers, they move just beyond to the figure standing in the entryway.

Before the two of them stands an older half-elf, her silvery curls bound up into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, bright blue eyes taking in the two men standing before her. There's a beat, a fraction of a breath when her eyes meet Astarion's and narrow, something passing behind them before she offers a polite smile in greeting.]

Ah, you must be the happy couple.