[It's Gale's turn to pause as he decides just how much he wants to talk about himself. It's a fantastic topic when it's in a flattering light - otherwise, not so much.]
When I realized the orb was having... adverse effects on my body, I took it upon myself to do some testing. To find out exactly what was happening to my physically as opposed to magically.
[He holds still while Astarion works, well distracted by conversation. He prefers it to the silence.]
It seemed as good a starting place as any. It was easy enough to figure out that it was tainted with necrotic energy. What to do about it was the real problem I ended up facing.
I must confess I'm not at all familiar with how a little thing like this—[he taps Gale's chest, roughly over where the orb is.]—can seep into one's blood.
Magic doesn't just seep into the bloodstream like a poison, Astarion. It doesn't travel through the veins or organs of the body.
[He rubs where Astarion prodded him absentmindedly, his expression faltering.]
When this orb became a part of me, it- [hesitation, the span of a heartbeat] it first severed my connection with the Weave. Devoured it, and most of what command I had over it. It tainted my very aura.
As someone whose entire life revolves around the Weave, to say it was dramatic is putting it lightly. I've been able to command it since before I could talk, and suddenly, it was... gone.
[Gale almost misses the gesture; he's wrapped up in memories of the feelings he had at the time, almost all of which have been largely unresolved. They were only the start of his problems.]
[Gale opens his mouth to say something, but finds himself at a loss for words when his eyes finally return to Astarion's face; he recognizes the hint of understanding that crosses the vampire's pale features, subtle and barely perceptible, and only then notices that lingering touch to his cheek.
He doesn't pull away, but his eyes set themselves somewhere on the floor behind Astarion, shame lacing into his brow.]
[The barest smile tugs at Gale's mouth, one born of sobering - but sincere - camaraderie. A beat passes; he allows himself to linger in it for a moment longer.]
It's not- the same, of course. What happened to you is a tragedy, while what happened to me, I did to myself. Poisoned by my own hubris, devoured from the inside by a desire to prove myself a goddess' equal.
[Finally, he releases Gale with a soft sigh, glancing away. It's a dangerous thing, letting Gale see this much of him, know this much of him. There's nothing seductive in knowing that he's broken.]
[There may be nothing seductive about Astarion's vulnerability to someone only after good looks and an even better lay, but to Gale, it's beyond intriguing - it's compelling. Their group thus far has been relatively sympathetic regarding his condition - they provided him artefacts to keep the orb stabilized, and upon finally reaching the Heart of the Absolute, insisted he was worth more alive than dead, that obliterating himself wasn't the answer.
In truth, his ultimate fate with the netherese magic buried in his chest is more than just the inevitable explosion: there's also what it did to him upon entering his body, what it continues to do the longer it remains. The tendrils from the mark on his chest didn't used to trail all the way up to his eye.
His eyes trail back to Astarion's hands as they leave him; he wants to reach out in some way, but isn't sure how.]
Well, I was kidnapped by mindflayers and infected with one of their parasites.
[He's trying to deflect, certainly. But at the heart of it, it's true. The parasite has given him the ability to do so many things that he couldn't before.]
[That was glib enough to make Gale's brow knit, but he sees the deflection for what it is.]
It was a genuine question, Astarion. I've not tested my blood since infection, but as far as I know, the parasites have done nothing for me in regards to the orb, save for posing a new threat that could cause its sudden and terrible detonation at any given moment.
[Astarion looks back to him, eyes narrowed, his gaze assessing. The question carries more weight than he thought, then. It's Gale seeking a solution to his own problems, not just his desire to pry into the more private corners of Astarion's life.
It would be a perfect chance to forge a stronger connection, to be someone Gale could rely on, if only Astarion actually had any answers. But his honesty hasn't been met with revulsion or reticence. If anything, Gale's allowed him closer because of it. It may be worth the risk.]
In that regard we aren't the same. The infection has returned to me parts of my life that were lost for over two hundred years. Sunlight, running water, seeing a world that isn't cloaked in darkness.
Before this adventure of ours, I didn't have much of a choice as to how to manage the pain my transformation caused. Cazador controlled me. I could only seek solace in the fleeting moments where I had power of my own. When his compulsions and perversions were focused elsewhere.
I have lost everything of who I was before becoming his. It still hurts.
[A part of Gale wishes he could be jealous, truly envious of having the tadpoles grant freedom rather than serving as some new way to die, taking everyone he's come to care for in the detonation. Even with the potential for power the tadpoles offer, he can't find it in him to think of them as much more than a lit match in a room full of firewine. However, Astarion is right: they aren't the same, and there is no comparison for the torture he endured, no trade worth centuries of misery. In that regard, a short life and sudden demise seems positively generous.
Gale's eyes remain on Astarion, meeting his assessing gaze with one of quiet sympathy.]
Do you worry about what will happen should we get rid of the tadpoles?
[He's fairly certain he knows the answer, but he wants to know if Astarion will humor him - will allow him that much.]
[Astarion knows very well what sympathy looks like in the eyes of others. It's not something he relishes in, not something that brings any sort of comfort or calm to him. Sympathy is an empty hope. Sympathy can't kill a vampire lord. Sympathy never freed him from his torture or captivity. He has to look away as a sour taste rises in his throat. If he can't make this work, if he can't play Gale the way he wants to, none of it will mean a thing. Gale will just become another person who pities him for the life he's been forced to live with no power, no will to change a thing.]
I don't linger on the thought of it. I'll either burn up in the sun, or spend the rest of eternity running from Cazador. Killing him matters more to me.
[Gale lets it go for now, stifling a sigh; however, Astarion's insistence he not linger on the thought only encourages the wizard to do just that. He never has been one for doing what he's told.
He mentally files it away as one more problem to solve. He has plenty of his own issues to deal with, sure, but no easy solutions for any of them, save for following Mystra's commands. Perhaps, with what time he has, he can help the others instead. He can make himself useful - useful enough to keep. Obliterating himself along with the Netherbrain would have been far easier than what they'll likely be dealing with when they start digging into the city proper. He'd rather the rest of the party not ponder that, growing to resent him in the process.
Ah yes, don't linger on the thought of it they would insist, whether it's about Astarion's life beyond the tadpoles, or Gale's value as a person. Perhaps they're more similar than he thought.
Gale attempts to offer Astarion a reassuring look.]
Let's make sure we kill him then, and after that, we can worry about how you'll stay in the sun. But for now, I suppose we should tackle my beard. Seems best to start with the smallest step, and the one we know how to deal with.
[Small blessings for Gale to give him the out, to bring them back around to what Astarion had wanted out of this entire encounter. But one word catches Astarion like a hook, abruptly pulling him from his anger, his past, all of it. His gaze searches Gale again, trying to find if it was just a slip of a tongue or something more.]
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[He finishes wiping his hands and reaches for a clean cloth, wetting it from a ewer of water.]
Though it did make me wonder just how you knew such a thing.
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When I realized the orb was having... adverse effects on my body, I took it upon myself to do some testing. To find out exactly what was happening to my physically as opposed to magically.
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[He reaches back to hold Gale's chin in his hand as he wipes away the excess oil on his beard.]
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It seemed as good a starting place as any. It was easy enough to figure out that it was tainted with necrotic energy. What to do about it was the real problem I ended up facing.
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[He rubs where Astarion prodded him absentmindedly, his expression faltering.]
When this orb became a part of me, it- [hesitation, the span of a heartbeat] it first severed my connection with the Weave. Devoured it, and most of what command I had over it. It tainted my very aura.
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[He brushes a thumb across Gale's cheek, a soothing gesture, clearly nothing to do with tending his beard]
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[Gale almost misses the gesture; he's wrapped up in memories of the feelings he had at the time, almost all of which have been largely unresolved. They were only the start of his problems.]
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[His touch lingers. For a moment he sees himself in Gale, and it startles him.]
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He doesn't pull away, but his eyes set themselves somewhere on the floor behind Astarion, shame lacing into his brow.]
I suppose it was.
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I suppose I can understand how that feels.
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It's not- the same, of course. What happened to you is a tragedy, while what happened to me, I did to myself. Poisoned by my own hubris, devoured from the inside by a desire to prove myself a goddess' equal.
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[Finally, he releases Gale with a soft sigh, glancing away. It's a dangerous thing, letting Gale see this much of him, know this much of him. There's nothing seductive in knowing that he's broken.]
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In truth, his ultimate fate with the netherese magic buried in his chest is more than just the inevitable explosion: there's also what it did to him upon entering his body, what it continues to do the longer it remains. The tendrils from the mark on his chest didn't used to trail all the way up to his eye.
His eyes trail back to Astarion's hands as they leave him; he wants to reach out in some way, but isn't sure how.]
How do you manage it? That hurt.
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Well, I was kidnapped by mindflayers and infected with one of their parasites.
[He's trying to deflect, certainly. But at the heart of it, it's true. The parasite has given him the ability to do so many things that he couldn't before.]
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It was a genuine question, Astarion. I've not tested my blood since infection, but as far as I know, the parasites have done nothing for me in regards to the orb, save for posing a new threat that could cause its sudden and terrible detonation at any given moment.
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It would be a perfect chance to forge a stronger connection, to be someone Gale could rely on, if only Astarion actually had any answers. But his honesty hasn't been met with revulsion or reticence. If anything, Gale's allowed him closer because of it. It may be worth the risk.]
In that regard we aren't the same. The infection has returned to me parts of my life that were lost for over two hundred years. Sunlight, running water, seeing a world that isn't cloaked in darkness.
Before this adventure of ours, I didn't have much of a choice as to how to manage the pain my transformation caused. Cazador controlled me. I could only seek solace in the fleeting moments where I had power of my own. When his compulsions and perversions were focused elsewhere.
I have lost everything of who I was before becoming his. It still hurts.
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Gale's eyes remain on Astarion, meeting his assessing gaze with one of quiet sympathy.]
Do you worry about what will happen should we get rid of the tadpoles?
[He's fairly certain he knows the answer, but he wants to know if Astarion will humor him - will allow him that much.]
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I don't linger on the thought of it. I'll either burn up in the sun, or spend the rest of eternity running from Cazador. Killing him matters more to me.
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He mentally files it away as one more problem to solve. He has plenty of his own issues to deal with, sure, but no easy solutions for any of them, save for following Mystra's commands. Perhaps, with what time he has, he can help the others instead. He can make himself useful - useful enough to keep. Obliterating himself along with the Netherbrain would have been far easier than what they'll likely be dealing with when they start digging into the city proper. He'd rather the rest of the party not ponder that, growing to resent him in the process.
Ah yes, don't linger on the thought of it they would insist, whether it's about Astarion's life beyond the tadpoles, or Gale's value as a person. Perhaps they're more similar than he thought.
Gale attempts to offer Astarion a reassuring look.]
Let's make sure we kill him then, and after that, we can worry about how you'll stay in the sun. But for now, I suppose we should tackle my beard. Seems best to start with the smallest step, and the one we know how to deal with.
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"We" can worry about that, is it?
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Well, yes. We might only be companions in this endeavor, but better we work together than alone, whether it's against tadpoles or tyrants.
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I assume I'm not the only one who will stand beside you when we face your former master. Karlach will surely be there. Wyll, too.
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But I meant the second part, darling. The sunlight.
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