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He remembers plummeting and helplessly flailing his limbs, desperate and hopeless – after all, humans aren’t known to survive hitting the ground at groundbreaking speeds – but when a shimmer of purple catches the corner of his eye, he expends all of the Weave available to him to propel himself in that direction. The difficulty is similar to that of hitting a bucket of water from a cliffside, but Gale of Waterdeep is known for being stubborn, and he hopes, remarkably intelligent.
Time both moves overwhelmingly fast and agonisingly slow, and he’s sure he’s making noise – yelling, crying out for unattainable help, all of the above – yet all he can hear is the rush of wind hitting his face, making it difficult to even keep his eyes open. In the last moments, it takes stubborn will-power to keep his eyes open – he needs to keep the portal in view, but he knows the chances, and oh, how he wants to shut his eyes in the face of the inevitable.
Then – a strange pins-and-needle feeling washes over his body before he emerges in a purple, crackling void of nothingness and everything all at once. The Weave tickles his skin, spreading a warmth over him – yet in the face of that comfort, his heart starts to pound and a dread begins building in his gut. The warm hug shifts into cold, unflinching fear.
He takes in his surroundings – empty, buzzing – and looks for an exit, only to spot the portal he came through, clearly not accessible from this side. Shoulders sag, ambitious denial and hopeless acceptance fighting a war in his head.
He’s grateful that he didn’t splat on the ground – even if the death would have been quick and painless – because it would have wrought destruction to any individual or civilization, and while he has always wanted to go out with a bang, perhaps not that kind of bang. To his knowledge – although the orb doesn’t exactly have tomes to study regarding its behaviour – if the orb explodes in here, the destruction shouldn’t reach the physical plane. Though, he grimaces – his death won’t be quick or painless, either. Days upon days of waiting, hunger and thirst growing, until finally his body gives out; he supposes, too, the experience will only be worsened by the illithid tadpole in his head. Hopefully he will die before that becomes a problem.
He carefully navigates the void, but decides it’s best to stay near the portal. Someone may come save him, the last shred of hope he has.
It feels like days when the portal finally crackles – a sign of being interacted with – and he swiftly makes his way over. Muttering an incantation, it allows him to stick his hand through. That uncomfortable pins-and-needle feeling returns, bothersome and a tad painful. “A hand? Anyone?” Anxious impatience has him fidgeting.
“Who are you?” A voice asks, trepidation clear from the tone. He supposes that’s only fair after a hand comes at you from an unstable portal of unknown origin.
“All in due time – of which I hope there will be –” hand is accompanying his words with motion. “The simplest answer is that I am a wizard who got myself into an inconvenient situation, and unfortunately, my rescue depends on the help from a kind stranger.” Silence – a worrying amount of silence. He points his index finger up. “I will add that I am an acclaimed wizard. If you help me, I can put in a good word to the Weave.” A quiet chuckle to himself as he appreciates his joke, surely one that only he thinks is funny.
After a beat, a hand clasps around his forearm – and he grabs the other’s forearm, as well, to strengthen the grip – and they pull. As his body is pulled against the portal, the pins-and-needle feeling spreads – warm, aching and uncomfortable. “Just a little more!” he strains. Then – he flies out of the portal, landing roughly on his hands and knees. Relief floods through him – solid ground. He stands up, grunting at the stiffness in his joints, placing his hands on his lower back and twisting in an attempt to crack it.
Once he’s finished stretching, he looks at his mysterious rescuer. The first thing he notices are his eyes – a striking red, piercing and curious – and then his hair – pure white and curled at the edges, framing a fantasic jawline and pointed ears. His complexion is pale, worryingly so – and Gale thought he never got in the sun. The man raises an eyebrow and he takes that as his cue to introduce himself. “Hello!” He gives a wave. “I’m Gale of Waterdeep.” He steps forward, taking one of the elf’s hands into his own and giving it a solid shake. “Normally I’m better at this.”
The elf adjusts his stance – Gale can’t help but think about how it mirrors a stance he often sees in art, giving the man an almost untouchable beauty about him – before speaking. “Acclaimed wizard,” the stranger repeats, gaze slowly taking in all of Gale in a way that makes him self-conscious.
“Um, yes! I am quite accomplished!” A pause. “Enough about me - I don’t believe I caught your name.” Before the stranger has an opportunity to speak, a sharp, imposing pain claws at his skull. Eyes squeeze shut, hands flying to his temples as a last ditch effort to relieve the pain. He blocks the elf from his thoughts with disciplined ease using mechanics similar to a Detect Thoughts spell. Still, his tired mind still receives flashing images – dark, busy streets – partnered with a feeling – hunger, desperation, and a desire for freedom. When he comes to, he’s gasping. He catches the stranger recovering, as well – Gale wonders what he saw before he blocked him out.
Mouth opens to ask, but before he can, a blur of movement flies towards him, tackling to the ground with a knife at his throat. “What did you do to me?” It’s a growl. Gale gulps, frozen, hands fidgeting next to him, holding back the urge to cast a cantrip.
“I didn’t do anything. You attacked me.” Knife presses harder, blade nicking his skin.
“No, you messed with my head. Don’t play dumb.” A sharp laugh, sudden and dry. “I should have known better than to save a wizard. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re working with them.” Gale wiggles slightly but it only encourages the elf to apply even more pressure. He stills, expression hardening.
“I believe what just occurred was a result of the tadpoles – I’m not at fault. I have one, as well, and it’s of the utmost importance that we find a healer.” The elf relaxes slightly but doesn’t move the knife. “And before you consider killing me just because, I strongly recommend that you don’t.” A beat. “Not a threat, just an observation.”
After a moment of consideration, the knife is removed. Gale lets out a breath he had been holding, climbing to his feet. The elf regards him curiously. “Tadpoles – you received one, as well.” Not a question, a statement. The knife is sheathed, and Gale can’t help but notice the strength hidden within the elf’s frame, judging by how easily he tackled him. Then again, he isn’t exactly the paramount of athleticism, though he is still quite a large man. “I saw it.” Ah, so that’s what he saw. “If you’re an acclaimed wizard, prove it. Do you know what these things will do to us?” Gale is, once again, brushing dirt off of his robes.
“Well, I’m not sure why being a wizard is the qualifier for this knowledge, but luckily I do know.” He straightens, preens almost. His broad intellect and skill in magic tend to give him the guise of self-confidence. “Back in Waterdeep, I studied mind flayers enough to be knowledgeable on ceremorphosis and its effects. Most notably, our bodies will begin to disintegrate; we’ll develop fevers and tentacles. In short, we shall become an illithid like the one that inserted this tadpole into our brains.” Certainly not a favourable outcome. “Which is why finding a healer – and soon – should be our top priority.”
Another sharp laugh from the elf, hands thrown in the air. “So, what you’re saying is, I’m going to become a monster – of course!” There's a flash of something in the elf's eyes; his tone is difficult to read.
In an attempt to remind that it isn't entirely hopeless, he pipes back up. “Only if we don’t find a healer, which – I am assuming you’re not?” The elf glares at him.
“No, I’m not.” He’s entirely unamused.
Gale nods. “In that case, how about the two of us journey together? Power in numbers and all.” A short pause. “And I still haven’t caught your name.”
The elf pauses to consider his options before – “My name is Astarion, and I was planning on tackling this on my own, but I suppose having someone around who knows what these tadpoles will do isn’t a bad idea.” Gale grins. He would never admit it, but a joy courses through him at that response. In truth, he’s relieved to not be tackling this alone.
“Well, Astarion, nice to meet you – and, I suppose, thank you for not killing me.”
“Don’t count on it.”