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Gale often thinks about how there are two people in his life – and people being a broad term, as one of the individuals is a tressym – that would mourn him if he were to die. The shops wouldn’t close, society wouldn’t collapse, but instead all would function as normal, unaware that there is one last wizard in the world. Then again, that’s all he is anymore, just some wizard, not Mystra’s chosen nor an archmage of incredible power.
If he weren’t stubborn and there wasn’t a destructive orb rooted in his chest, he wonders if would have made a stupid, impulsive, and irreversible choice by now. But he is stubborn and the Netherese orb thrums to remind him of its presence, so staying alive has been of particular importance to him, as death holds the risk of killing his tressym and mother. However, sometimes choice is violently ripped away, leaving a crater in its wake.
During an ambush by a horde of goblins – Absolute cultists, too, going by their brand – the group had been split. Astarion scurried for high ground, while Karlach and Lae’zel both readied to take the goblins head on. Gale, meanwhile, had been backed into the mouth of the cave the goblins emerged from, where he was casting spells from behind a boulder he’s using as cover. Much sooner than Gale would’ve liked, a handful of the goblins caught onto his location and began charging towards him, weapons drawn.
An arrow whizzes by him, too close for comfort, which pushes him to begin retreating into the cave. His eyes struggle to adjust to the dark. Next, a spear flies, catching his robe and causing him to trip over his feet. Hands fumble to detach himself from the spear; the goblins are now almost on top of him. Another arrow is fired – he spins to face the entrance – and lodges itself in his thigh. A gasp of pain, sudden and sharp. He panics and casts thunderwave. The goblins are sent flying; rocks tumble down the walls of the cave. “Shit.” Quickly, he finishes untangling the spear from his clothing and hobbles as far from the entrance as he can. Beginning slowly at first before escalating to a complete collapse, rocky debris falls around him. “Shit, shit, shit –”
Injured leg gives out underneath him and hands rush to stop him from hitting the ground, the impact sending a sharp pain through his left wrist. He grunts out a suppressed swear, scrambling on his hands and knees, doing his best to ignore the shooting pains from his leg and wrist. It’s moments like these that he’s envious of Astarion’s dexterity and darkvision. By Mystra, what he would give to have the rogue here – a rock slams into the back of his skull, dizzying his vision. He doesn’t slow down, can’t slow down. He fumbles to cast mage armour on himself to give him some defence. What an ironic way to die – a cave-in caused by his own sloppy magic – his thoughts drift to his mother and Tara. They would never know what happened to him. Dust is thrown into the air with each impact, making his eyes water and lungs burn. He’s sure Mystra is laughing at him, wherever she is.
It isn’t long after he’s retreated that the debris settles, air thick with dust. Heart pounds in his chest, palms stinging with cuts from his desperate scramble. He coughs to rid his lungs of dust, blinking to clear his vision, before finally allowing himself to sag to the ground with a whine. There’s stillness – an eerie, unsettling stillness; the only sounds heard are muffled yells and the clang of metal against metal.
“That could have gone better,” he grunts, beginning to stretch out his leg. A gasp is drawn from him – the pain is intense, sharp. He stills in his movement, breathing heavily. His robe is pinned to his leg with the arrow; the purple colour is darkening around the wound at a worrying rate. The past couple weeks have really shown him the importance of healing magic, an area he unfortunately never dedicated time to apart from the required practice for classes. Gently, he touches a hand to the back of his head, gasping at the tender sting that comes from the touch. He pulls his hand back and squints at his fingertips – dark, wet. The rock must have broken the skin.
WIth a groan, he leans his head against the wall behind him, careful to avoid putting pressure on his wound. He closes his eyes, attempting to gather his thoughts. Mind races. He tries to formulate a plan out of here, but it’s as if his head is filled with cotton. Moving his frantic thoughts towards a logical conclusion is proving difficult. As much as he would like to believe the others will come for him, he knows how much easier it would be to leave him. It takes all of his self-control to not desperately call out for help.
A noise echoes from deeper within the cave. His breath hitches, head swivelling and eyes opening – he regrets closing them now as his eyes fight to readjust to the dark. Voices carry, but it’s impossible to understand what they’re saying through the echo. One aspect he is quite certain of is that they belong to goblins, more of the group that they just fought. It makes sense, he muses ruefully, this is the cave they emerged from.
Panic settles in. There’s no way he can defend himself, alone, not in the state that he’s in. Carefully and quietly, he works his way to the cave-in. “H-hello?” Words are whispered. He doesn’t want to bring any more attention to himself than he already has. “Astarion?” From what he knows, the elven vampire probably has the best hearing out of all of them. That’s why he calls for him, or so he tells himself. “It’s – it’s Gale.. obviously. Um, I would greatly appreciate some assistance.”
Tears prick at his eyes; he draws a breath to steady himself. Blood continues to ooze from his leg along with a pounding head and aching wrist. “Please.” It comes out as a whimper, desperate and pained. He can’t help but notice how the sounds of battle have quieted, which means they’re likely looting and getting ready to leave. Desperation doubles, triples. He doesn’t want to beg for his life. He wants to believe he would take death with honour, understanding, but he doesn’t want to die here.
Concern regarding the voices he heard deeper within the cave vanishes as he focuses all of his faculties on whatever it may take to escape. “I need help!” He weakly claws at a boulder. “Anyone, please!” The silence afterwards is suffocating.
Then he remembers the tadpoles – maybe they just can’t hear him. He swallows, closing his eyes again, focusing all the strength that remains in him towards communicating with the others. Can you hear me? The voices from below seem to be getting closer. At least it will be a quick death.
When he hears shuffling outside, he perks up. Muffled voices yet again. This means they didn’t leave him. Hey, soldier. Oh, he could cry from relief. Never has he been so happy to hear the tiefling’s voice. We’re going to try to get you out, but you need to back away from the rocks. He’s assuming she means the cave-in. A less desperate-for-help Gale would have commented about how there’s nothing but rocks down here, but he complies. Can you do that?
Now that the adrenaline has passed through him, he’s so much more aware of the pain that joins each movement. He nods, even though they can’t see. Doing it. He’s dragging himself across the ground using his good leg, stabilising himself with the non-injured hand. It’s slow, but he can’t imagine he’s in a state to stand and walk right now. Once he’s backed far away, he communicates his eager readiness to the others.
Then – an explosion. The cave shakes, and rubble goes flying. He covers his head with his arms, eyes shutting and face turning from the cave-in. Pebbles nick his skin. The sound of rocks tumbling as the cave-in is readjusted, while dust fills the air once again. The debris settles; he coughs, a familiar routine now. A faint ringing is heard in his ears, and the smell of smokepowder hangs in the air. He thought they would approach this methodically, carefully, not with explosives. As he’s about to voice his displeasure to the group, he spots the light from a torch flickering against the wall. Again – again, please!
This time, it’s Astarion’s voice that responds. Don’t rush your rescuers, wizard. You’re lucky we’re wasting smokepowder on you.
The light ventures closer. In any other situation, he would have bit back at Astarion with an annoyed (yet witty) comeback, but all routine is gone from his thoughts. I’m not alone down here. He swallows, weakly getting to his feet, favouring his non-injured leg. His vision swims – likely caused by his blood loss. As best as he can, he readies himself for a fight, but he feels nauseous just from the effort it took to stand. He casts darkness around himself, pain radiating from his wrist with the movements, in hope to obscure himself long enough for his rescue.
The second explosion is enough to knock him back to the ground, a teary shout pulled from his throat as he hits the rock with force. The world is spinning; the pain in his leg is nearly unbearable, but – is that light? Unable to confirm from his position within his own darkness, he lets his back lay flat against the ground. “Gale?” Karlach’s voice. “Where are you at?”
“Company!” The shout is weak. The taste of blood is coating his mouth. He must have bit his tongue, he realises. The familiar sounds of a battle hit his ears. They saved him. Relief floods his body, muscles relaxing. He allows himself to stay supine on the ground, obscured by his spell, eyes blinking closed as he drifts into unconsciousness to the sounds of steel.
When he wakes up, it’s partnered with a searing pain in his leg, which pulls a shout from him. He gasps, frantically looking around to find Karlach, Lae’zel, and Astarion above him. “Silence.” He blinks at Lae’zel’s blunt order. “We are trying to help.” He slowly nods.
A potion is brought to his lips. He drinks it greedily. His mouth and throat are dry from the dust, so any liquid is appreciated, and he can tell from the taste that it’s a potion of healing which makes him only more desperate to consume it. “This is going to hurt.” Astarion comments as he finishes, and he can’t tell entirely due to the low light, but it looks like the vampire is grimacing while he says it. Before he can inquire, the arrow is yanked out of his leg.
He shoots up, hands flying to the wound as if that might stop the pain. “What – why?!”
Another potion is shoved in his face. His eyes meet Lae’zel’s gaze. “Drink.” Another obedient nod. Through heavy breathing, he gulps down the potion. He can feel the wound closing, the tenderness in his wrist dissipating, and the ringing in his ears quieting.
Karlach and Astarion help him to his feet. He finds he is heavily relying on their support as they make their way out of the cave. “Thank you,” he says earnestly, brown eyes flitting between his companions. “You could have left me – so, thank you.” He blinks as the brightness of the outdoors meets him, eyes squinting. He relishes in the warmth of the sun as it washes over his skin.
“It was considered,” Lae’zel comments from her spot a few steps ahead of them. “But having a wizard around can be helpful.”
A small smile creeps onto his face. “Do you mean that?”
Astarion cuts in. “Oh, don’t let it get to your head. Gods know you don’t need more of an ego.” Gale isn’t sure if he’s imagining it, but Astarion’s gaze lingers on him for a moment, an undetermined emotion on his face for just a moment – was it concern? No, it couldn’t be.
“Well,” Karlach and Astarion sit the wizard down on the grass. He lets his fingers run through each blade. “Whatever your motivation, I am pleased with your final decision.” Words are spoken while looking at the vampire, but he looks away before he can face the consequence of such a display.
“Don’t make me change my mind, wizard.” Words lack the usual bite. Gale looks up from his spot on the ground to find the vampire already looking at him. His expression betrays the intended message from his words. He is concerned. A feeling stirs in Gale’s chest.
“Alright, love birds,” both Gale and Astarion turn to look at Karlach, mouths agape, “we need to head back to camp so Shadowheart can work her magic.”
“Oh, we are not lovebirds,” Astarion retorts, huffing in his role as one of Gale’s crutches. Karlach and Astarion pull him to his feet again. Gale doesn’t find it within him to respond to Karlach’s comment. All he does is sheepishly smile at Astarion before focusing on careful steps forward.