[As Gale walks hand-in-hand with Astarion through the streets, he relaxes, his heart lighter the farther away they get from the former camp and the still-fresh memory of what happened. There's safety in numbers, he considers, the bustle of the midday crowds masking them: no one would conceivably think they were a fallen Chosen and a vampire spawn, two people who were going to help save the world from the Absolute or die trying.
But that's for another day, a day that's coming simultaneously too soon and not soon enough. It's just them for now, individuals who found the world in each other.
As Astarion leads them toward the north side of town, Gale has to admit that while he'd hoped they might find some quiet spot, the graveyard isn't at all where he'd expected to end up. He understands quickly enough though, particularly when he sees why Astarion led them here, his eyes scrutinizing the inscription once it's revealed. Though he's no longer buried there, it's a sobering sight, especially in light of what came afterward.
Gale's gaze is drawn to the flower, recognition warming his heart, cutting a smile across him as he steps up to kneel beside Astarion. As his knee hits the grass, he leans forward to collect the cup-shaped blossom, holding it gently in his palm for inspection.]
Ah, a moonflower, though we call them 'blueshines' in Waterdeep.
[Color dusts along his cheekbones and across his ears as he brushes a finger against the curling petals, his smile softening with a private fondness - one he's not aware isn't so private anymore.]
These are actually quite rare in these parts, but very appropriate for you, if you ask my opinion.
Yes, you were going on about them in your sleep the other night.
[The way Gale flushes and cradles the flower would be an easy distraction in any other situation. But something about the flower, its placement, the half-blurred memories it stirs in him has him on high alert. His gaze cuts across the graveyard, but they're alone in the moment. Besides, the flower was clearly placed there years ago. By someone, or something.]
You didn't put it there, did you? Is this your doing?
[He reaches for the blossom in Gale's hands, taking it carefully. But he holds it less like a treasure and more like a poisoned blade or a lit satchel of smokepowder.]
[And that's all he says in regards to Astarion's initial statement, that smattering of color deepening. Anticipating (or rather hoping) that Astarion might ask for a follow-up, he'd been prepared to launch into an explanation of why he thought they were an appropriate choice; however, his nocturnal lecturing apparently did it for him. Gods, what else has he told Astarion in his sleep without knowing?
Thankfully, he doesn't get to ponder that too long, his eyes following the flower as Astarion takes it before flicking tot he vampire's face.]
This wasn't my doing, no. How could it be?
[But that does beg the question of how such a suspiciously appropriate bloom did make its way to Astarion's grave.]
[He frowns down at the blossom, running his thumb across the edge of one petal. There is a faint hint of the arcane emanating from it, some sort of magic preserving the bloom. Which only means it's near impossible to tell how long it's been sitting at Astarion's grave, waiting.]
I—I hadn't told anyone about this place. I've never even been here myself, not since the night when Cazador killed me and I crawled out through the dirt.
[He flicks his eyes up to meet Gale's gaze, anxiety written across his features, a paranoid worry of just what the flower might mean.]
If it wasn't you—then who? Who in the hells would have done it? What were they trying to achieve?
[Gale meets Astarion's gaze with alarm of his own; he tries to subdue it, but it weaves into his brow, manifests by pulling his mouth into a thin line.]
I don't know, Astarion.
[But perhaps they can find out something, if they can keep paranoia from eating them alive. He steels himself with a breath, examining the flower more closely. The magic that imbues the petals is faint, barely strong enough to give them a gentle glow; unfortunately, not enough remains to trace who might have cast the enchantment, and when.]
I'd ask if anyone would have visited your grave to place it, but without knowing how long this flower has been here, that limits our suspects.
I don't know who would have placed it. I can hardly think that anyone who I knew in the city before I died would have cared so much as to make a gesture like this.
[He gestures flippantly towards the flower, like its very existence offends him. His eyes flick back towards the headstone, the letters carved there are chipped and faded, but still legible. For a moment they grab Astarion's attention, rooting his gaze to them as the crease between his brows deepens.]
It—the only other ones who could have...
[His voice trails off as he reaches up to trace the Thorass lettering. 'AncunÃn.']
[Gale's eyes go from the flower in his hand to Astarion's face, then follow them to the letters. Knowing the subject of his family is a touchy subject, Gale hesitates; he resorts to gesture instead of words, placing a hand on Astarion's wrist to give it a reassuring squeeze.]
[The gesture may be small, but it's enough of a distraction to bring Astarion's attention back to Gale. He looks back to the wizard, his expression softening a moment as he slips his hand into Gale's, squeezing in return.]
And to think, I brought you here to carve over that name.
[He makes a huff, letting out a rough breath through his nose. After a pause he speaks, his voice quieter.]
[The touch soothes Astarion more than he'll admit. Having Gale at his side is an anchor. Something to keep his mind from flying off on impossible tangents. But it's not quite enough to still his mouth.]
But if it had been them, they would have been here. In the city. They—they would have come here.
[It's said in a tone that doesn't paint it as something good or bad, but rather as something Astarion wouldn't have even thought possible mere moments ago. It's like his world has tilted on a new axis and his feet haven't yet hit the ground.]
Perhaps they were paying their respects to a fallen loved one - someone they missed more than you might have anticipated.
[And was that loved one a child? A sibling? A distant cousin? He's almost afraid to ask, and so, he approaches the topic tentatively, ready to back off should he push Astarion too far. This revelation has no doubt rattled him as it is.]
[The questions are helpful, even if Astarion's tone is more biting in his reply. But he still hasn't let go of Gale's hand. If anything, he's holding more tightly now.]
My mother and father. At least one cousin. An uncle. Though his wife's long dead for sure.
[He looks back to the name, seeking answers in it.]
My grandparents weren't...they were elsewhere. I don't know where.
[The fact that Astarion hasn't let his hand go is what reassures Gale to ask more.]
I assume your parents at the very least knew you were here.
[Because who wouldn't tell their parents nearly everything going on in their lives (unless it involves a fragment of corrupted Weave stuck in one's chest)?]
[He scratches at his beard with his free hand, pursing his lips as he thinks.]
We could ask around. Given the vines, their visit could have been a couple of years ago, or a couple of centuries. I doubt there'd be any records going back quite that far, but we'll never know unless we try.
And what if they do? I can't just tell the truth about that sort of thing.
[The uncertainty in Gale's eyes only serves to heighten Astarion's anxiety. He waves his free hand in a nervous gesture, as if it could encapsulate the worry gnawing at his mind.]
And what, pray tell, is a reasonable excuse for finding who left flowers on a grave that's two centuries old?
[He huffs. It's a silly idea. And it's certainly not his own discomfort with the thought of his parents grieving for him, mourning him in this very spot that's putting him ill at ease.]
I'll either look mad or like some sort of criminal.
[Gale would argue that Astarion technically is a criminal already, and likely mad for agreeing to marry him, but decides against it for the time being, given his obvious discomfort with the very notion his parents might have come to Baldur's Gate to mourn him.]
We needn't ask about the flowers. Just if any nearby recall their faces, or ever seeing them. Some inns even keep a record of guests. Perhaps they'll recognize the family name.
And suppose they did, hm? Suppose we track down the record of them, where they stayed and when they came and went. Then—then what?
[He can't keep the hitch in his voice from the last two words. Then what? What happens next? What does it mean? He's spent so long convinced that no one cared for him, no one mourned him, no one answered his cries for help. That when he died he became nothing more than an object for Cazador's use. But Gale and the rest have proven him wrong in so many ways. They've shown him he still has a life that he can live. What if he was wrong about being forgotten as well?
He blinks suddenly, rapidly, trying to chase away the wet sting gathering at the corners of his eyes.]
[Hearing that change in Astarion's voice, seeing the way he fights back his brewing emotions, Gale can't help but want to soothe him; he squeezes his hand again, letting his fingers trace the side of Astarion's chin to draw those crimson eyes to him.]
Then we know who left the flower and when, and nothing more. You'd have to seek them out for any further answers.
[He waits a beat, his gaze not leaving the pale face before him.]
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But that's for another day, a day that's coming simultaneously too soon and not soon enough. It's just them for now, individuals who found the world in each other.
As Astarion leads them toward the north side of town, Gale has to admit that while he'd hoped they might find some quiet spot, the graveyard isn't at all where he'd expected to end up. He understands quickly enough though, particularly when he sees why Astarion led them here, his eyes scrutinizing the inscription once it's revealed. Though he's no longer buried there, it's a sobering sight, especially in light of what came afterward.
Gale's gaze is drawn to the flower, recognition warming his heart, cutting a smile across him as he steps up to kneel beside Astarion. As his knee hits the grass, he leans forward to collect the cup-shaped blossom, holding it gently in his palm for inspection.]
Ah, a moonflower, though we call them 'blueshines' in Waterdeep.
[Color dusts along his cheekbones and across his ears as he brushes a finger against the curling petals, his smile softening with a private fondness - one he's not aware isn't so private anymore.]
These are actually quite rare in these parts, but very appropriate for you, if you ask my opinion.
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[The way Gale flushes and cradles the flower would be an easy distraction in any other situation. But something about the flower, its placement, the half-blurred memories it stirs in him has him on high alert. His gaze cuts across the graveyard, but they're alone in the moment. Besides, the flower was clearly placed there years ago. By someone, or something.]
You didn't put it there, did you? Is this your doing?
[He reaches for the blossom in Gale's hands, taking it carefully. But he holds it less like a treasure and more like a poisoned blade or a lit satchel of smokepowder.]
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[And that's all he says in regards to Astarion's initial statement, that smattering of color deepening. Anticipating (or rather hoping) that Astarion might ask for a follow-up, he'd been prepared to launch into an explanation of why he thought they were an appropriate choice; however, his nocturnal lecturing apparently did it for him. Gods, what else has he told Astarion in his sleep without knowing?
Thankfully, he doesn't get to ponder that too long, his eyes following the flower as Astarion takes it before flicking tot he vampire's face.]
This wasn't my doing, no. How could it be?
[But that does beg the question of how such a suspiciously appropriate bloom did make its way to Astarion's grave.]
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[He frowns down at the blossom, running his thumb across the edge of one petal. There is a faint hint of the arcane emanating from it, some sort of magic preserving the bloom. Which only means it's near impossible to tell how long it's been sitting at Astarion's grave, waiting.]
I—I hadn't told anyone about this place. I've never even been here myself, not since the night when Cazador killed me and I crawled out through the dirt.
[He flicks his eyes up to meet Gale's gaze, anxiety written across his features, a paranoid worry of just what the flower might mean.]
If it wasn't you—then who? Who in the hells would have done it? What were they trying to achieve?
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I don't know, Astarion.
[But perhaps they can find out something, if they can keep paranoia from eating them alive. He steels himself with a breath, examining the flower more closely. The magic that imbues the petals is faint, barely strong enough to give them a gentle glow; unfortunately, not enough remains to trace who might have cast the enchantment, and when.]
I'd ask if anyone would have visited your grave to place it, but without knowing how long this flower has been here, that limits our suspects.
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[He gestures flippantly towards the flower, like its very existence offends him. His eyes flick back towards the headstone, the letters carved there are chipped and faded, but still legible. For a moment they grab Astarion's attention, rooting his gaze to them as the crease between his brows deepens.]
It—the only other ones who could have...
[His voice trails off as he reaches up to trace the Thorass lettering. 'AncunÃn.']
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And to think, I brought you here to carve over that name.
[He makes a huff, letting out a rough breath through his nose. After a pause he speaks, his voice quieter.]
Do you think it could have been them?
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Are they from Evereska, by chance? If I recall correctly, that's where blueshines are usually cultivated for export.
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I think so. Unless I've completely lost my mind, which is certainly a possibility after two hundred years.
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[He pauses again as he rubs his thumb along the side of Astarion's hand gently, comfortingly. It's clear the gears are turning behind his eyes.]
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[The touch soothes Astarion more than he'll admit. Having Gale at his side is an anchor. Something to keep his mind from flying off on impossible tangents. But it's not quite enough to still his mouth.]
But if it had been them, they would have been here. In the city. They—they would have come here.
[It's said in a tone that doesn't paint it as something good or bad, but rather as something Astarion wouldn't have even thought possible mere moments ago. It's like his world has tilted on a new axis and his feet haven't yet hit the ground.]
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[And was that loved one a child? A sibling? A distant cousin? He's almost afraid to ask, and so, he approaches the topic tentatively, ready to back off should he push Astarion too far. This revelation has no doubt rattled him as it is.]
Do you remember your family? How many there were?
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[The questions are helpful, even if Astarion's tone is more biting in his reply. But he still hasn't let go of Gale's hand. If anything, he's holding more tightly now.]
My mother and father. At least one cousin. An uncle. Though his wife's long dead for sure.
[He looks back to the name, seeking answers in it.]
My grandparents weren't...they were elsewhere. I don't know where.
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I assume your parents at the very least knew you were here.
[Because who wouldn't tell their parents nearly everything going on in their lives (unless it involves a fragment of corrupted Weave stuck in one's chest)?]
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[He shakes his head again, as if he could dislodge his own memories from where they're buried.]
Gods, but they came. That would mean they came here.
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We could ask around. Given the vines, their visit could have been a couple of years ago, or a couple of centuries. I doubt there'd be any records going back quite that far, but we'll never know unless we try.
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[His gaze snaps over to Gale, nervous and worried. His hand twists where it holds Gale's, his whole body coiled tight like a spring.]
At least. Not yet. If we start poking around then people might start asking questions.
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What sorts of questions? Surely they won't suspect a long-dead son-turned-vampire looking for his family?
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[The uncertainty in Gale's eyes only serves to heighten Astarion's anxiety. He waves his free hand in a nervous gesture, as if it could encapsulate the worry gnawing at his mind.]
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I'm sure a skilled liar such as yourself could come up with a reasonable excuse for such an inquiry.
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[He huffs. It's a silly idea. And it's certainly not his own discomfort with the thought of his parents grieving for him, mourning him in this very spot that's putting him ill at ease.]
I'll either look mad or like some sort of criminal.
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We needn't ask about the flowers. Just if any nearby recall their faces, or ever seeing them. Some inns even keep a record of guests. Perhaps they'll recognize the family name.
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[He can't keep the hitch in his voice from the last two words. Then what? What happens next? What does it mean? He's spent so long convinced that no one cared for him, no one mourned him, no one answered his cries for help. That when he died he became nothing more than an object for Cazador's use. But Gale and the rest have proven him wrong in so many ways. They've shown him he still has a life that he can live. What if he was wrong about being forgotten as well?
He blinks suddenly, rapidly, trying to chase away the wet sting gathering at the corners of his eyes.]
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Then we know who left the flower and when, and nothing more. You'd have to seek them out for any further answers.
[He waits a beat, his gaze not leaving the pale face before him.]
If you wanted to do so, of course.
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