[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.]
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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.]