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Gale of Waterdeep is not a vain man. This is the case, it really is, despite any appearance to the contrary. It is what's inside a man's heart, or more importantly his mind, that really counts. Not something so superficial as skin-deep beauty.
Which is why it smarts when Astarion catches him squinting at his mirror image’s chest and dissolves into peals of laughter.
“It's not what it looks like,” Gale says, annoyed. He shrugs his robe back on.
“Admiring your assets, my dear?” Astarion manages between snickers. “I can hardly blame you. How does a scrawny little wizard like you manage to fill out like that, anyway?”
“That's none of your business,” Gale snaps, dispelling his double with a wave of his hand. “Now would you leave me alone? Not like that!” he adds, when Astarion looks set to go off again.
Astarion pouts. “Why, Gale,” he simpers. “You're normally so accommodating. What if I actually came to ask you something?”
Gale gathers himself together. “Well. What can I help you with, then?”
“Oh, I didn't,” says Astarion. “But what if I had?”
“Go away,” Gale groans.
“No, but now I have to know,” Astarion says, sidling closer. “What were you doing? If you're just feeling lonely and unadmired, I could help you with that, you know.”
“Finally decided I'm useful enough to seduce?” Gale asks.
“Darling, I'm hurt.”
“You're a shrewd man, Astarion,” Gale says sharply. “As am I. I won't have any part in your games.” He sighs. “If you must know, I was examining the orb.”
“Oh?” Astarion looks suddenly curious. “Would you finally let me see it? I've been ever so curious.”
“There's no need for that,” Gale says hurriedly, wrapping his robe more tightly around his chest. Astarion's looking a little hungry. Not for Gale's blood, surely, he's made that mistake once already–but that gleam returns to his red eyes whenever the orb's power comes up.
Astarion's eyes glint. “But something's changed,” he decides. “Or why would you be studying it so intently now?”
Astarion is a shrewd man. Gale sighs.
“If you must know,” he says reluctantly. “It's bruising.”
Bruising. Mottled bluish purple right in the centre of the damned thing. Gods only know why, if even then. It's a mark of Netherese magic, not some common wound of the flesh. Bruising .
Gale is not a vain man. Seeing the ugly blotch on his skin puts a little hole in his gut.
Astarion is watching him, expression inscrutable.
“Are you unstable?” he asks. “Is it time to put you far away from the rest of us and screw up our eyes and ears?”
“No,” says Gale. “Nothing else has changed. I'm quite sure of that. It feels the same as it always has. It's just… unpleasant to look at.”
He waits for Astarion to make a snide remark, but the vampire is uncharacteristically silent.
When Astarion does speak, it's to say something wholly unexpected. “I have some ointment in my tent,” he says. “It's tinted. A little too pale for you, darling, but it might do the trick. It's… effective… at covering bruising.”
Gale blinks. “Are you doing something nice for me?”
“It's been known to happen,” says Astarion, somewhat wolfishly.
He fidgets. Thoroughly wrong-footed, Gale stares at him.
“It's, erm,” he says, “well, thank you. No need to waste such a thing on something so trivial. Beauty is rarely skin-deep, as they say.”
“As rubbish as anything else they say,” Astarion says gamely. “But it's not a waste. Bruises and scars aren't just cosmetic, dear. They're reminders. I can hardly begrudge you… wanting to forget, for a moment. The burdens you carry.”
For a moment, Gale runs over his mental defences. Checks for cracks and chips that Astarion might have slipped through with the help of that blasted tadpole. He finds nothing. Astarion's gaze is piercing. The man's intuition is frightening.
Astarion hasn't moved. Still as a statue, waiting for Gale to react.
Slowly, Gale says, “I've grown accustomed to the sight of the orb on my chest. Or, I thought I had. It's such a stupid thing, the bruising. So inconsequential. You could barely notice it. But watching it change… get worse…”
“It makes one feel helpless,” says Astarion.
Gale swallows.
Astarion tilts his head. “I'll fetch that ointment, shall I?” he says, businesslike. “We may need to rub it in past all that hair on your chest.” He winks.
Gale blanches. “ We will do no such thing,” he calls after Astarion. “I'm more than capable of applying it myself, thank you.”
Astarion is still laughing when he returns with the little tub. With a flourish, he hands it to Gale.
“Take your time with it, darling,” he says. “As you may have noticed, I haven’t had the need for it lately that I once might have.”
“Ah,” says Gale. “Thank you, Astarion. Truly.”
“Anytime, dear,” says Astarion breezily. “You could thank me with a glance at the…?”
“Still no, Astarion.”
“Drat. Worth a shot.”