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Charade, high-arched nose and wide, square jaw, was a bulky, barrel-chested man with a height which put an impressive distance between himself and most others. He had the reflexes of a cat and the preening, judgmental attitude of one, too; far-sighted and embarrassed enough of it to have never worn glasses, he was not bookish or keen on reading music.
It was just his luck that he'd been born with a keen ear for music then, able to replicate most any sound on his fiddle within a moment of hearing it. This luck carried over in a great many aspects of his life. Daggers seemed to blow past him; the owners of suddenly light pockets rarely noticed his greedy fingers.
This had everything to do with the golden fiddle he carried with him, though his companions were none the wiser.
This luck had not, however, aided him in his endeavors at Briel's School of the Arcane, where his illustrious wizard of a mother had studied in her own youth. Her reputation preceded both herself and him, and when her great success and many connections drove her to travel to the underdark to help a friend, his mother disappeared without a trace -- leaving him with four little sisters to care for, no income, with academy fees piling up.
Some might be keener to call it running away, or giving up, but he preferred to call it a very impressive example of his ability to escape through tower windows undetected. No, Owain Tavlahan Paurakis was never going to be a wizard, and certainly not one of Baldur's Gate. The call of music (and the coin it could provide when played well) was too tempting.
So he ran off and became someone new; Charade Paurakis, the slyest Bardic charlatan with the smoothest voice on the Sword Coast. It wasn't the most lucrative job, but he played music for room and board as much as he could, and his grimy days spent on the docks of the Gate playing card tricks, gambling, stealing, lying, cheating, and doing just about any task asked of him helped him to get by.
The unfortunate circumstances of his subsequent indentured servitude upon a pirate ship -- which did successfully support his sisters, though it cost him his freedom -- dampened his passion for music for a while. That was of course until he bartered with a devil called Laurelain in exchange for his fiddle -- a golden specimen which could loosen the pockets, lips, and inhibitions of any listener.
It was in all these ways that his life differed quite radically from Gale of Waterdeep, who had in many definitions of the word bewitched him. Charade couldn't quite put his finger on the how or the why, but he liked the way the man talked his ear off about nothing; liked how his eyes twinkled when he got into a topic that had him excited.
Sure, maybe his initial romantic advance had come on a little strong. Projecting a crystal clear image of oneself passionately ravishing someone with a kiss to their mind via telepathy was quite the bold move, and he surely wouldn't have tried it with anyone else.
Something told him, though, that this man was not reserved in matters of the flesh. Least not in fantasies about it.
Ah, fantasies – Charade had quite enough of those to go around.
He stood several feet behind Gale, watching intently as he practiced spell gestures, hands flicking to and fro, tiny sparks flashing off his fingertips as he mouthed silent words to himself. The night hung heavily about them. The Shadowlands seemed to snuff out the light of the stars themselves, leaving only the camp's firelight and enchanted lanterns to illuminate the night.
Charade sucked in a breath, gathering his confidence before sitting heavily on the log beside Gale, who just about jumped out of his skin.
“Ah!”
Charade held out a hand. “Sorry–! I'm so –”
“No, I– you just caught me by–”
“Terribly fucking rude!”
“ – surprise!”
They stared at one another, breathing hard.
Gale swallowed. "It wasn't rude, per say, I just prefer a little warning before -- well."
Charade couldn't help it. A rakish smile crossed his features. "I'll be sure to ask nicely before I get into your personal space next time."
Gale, bewildered, cleared his throat and tried to pretend that comment didn't have him sweating already. “Hm! I, ah.."
They sat silently for a moment, Gale shifting to pull his robes straight again from their dishevelment. Then he sighed. “I must apologize for my lack of spatial awareness. It seems I have a lot on my mind.”
Charade nodded. “That I can understand. A lot in it, too.”
Gale had a rather solemn look on his face, hands clasped. Then he inhaled sharply and, casting a sidelong glance at his companion, said; “That was a terrible joke.”
"You wound me."
"I thought you claimed to be a comedian."
"I am!" He gasped, clutching his chest mockingly. Then he flattens his hands in the air, gesturing with a shrug. "But I never claimed to be a good one."
Gale couldn't seem to help himself; he playfully elbowed Charade, leaning into him. “And here I thought we may finally have a serious conversation. Color me mistaken, my comedy-keen companion.”
It wasn't every day he met someone so eloquent and yet so terribly easy to tease. Charade smiled at him, tilting his head to one side. “How serious are we talking? I could be convinced, depending on what I might get out of it.”
Gale glanced around the camp. Most of their companions were either minding their own business or already bunked down in their tents for the evening. Something in the straightening of his posture and the sparkle in his eye spoke well of their possible romantic prospects this evening.
“Quite serious,” he murmured conspiratorially. “It is for this reason I might ask to whisk you away somewhere more private.”
Charade was actually taken aback by the boldness of this statement, unused to being the one propositioned in such a way. He wheeled his mind back out of the gutter fast as he could, attempting to school his face into something neutral – it wouldn't do to let his unbridled excitement shine through just yet. He would do just about anything to get this man alone, whether just to talk, or…
“How private are we talking?” He said, leaning in a tad closer. “Deep in the forest, private, or would my tent suffice?”
It was Gale's turn to school his face. Through the tadpole, he felt for an instant an overwhelming mixture of shock, embarrassment, and unbridled glee. Charade relaxed, keeping his eyes on his.
“Um– your tent would suffice, if it's no trouble to you.” Gale shrugged, slowly standing up, his back cracking as he stretched. He cast a wary glance at the woods around them. “Of course, I mean no untoward advances, only – the forest in these parts is rather unsuited to a nighttime stroll.”
Charade reached out to link their arms at the elbow, ever the gentleman. Gale flinched just a bit in surprise but quickly eased into it, keeping in step with him as he was led back to the tent. “I thought I overheard you the other day saying you'd developed a ‘taste for chaos.’ Is this only conditional?”
Gale held up a finger. “You heard correctly! Make no mistake, I do enjoy a good thrill – only, however, when there is something to be gained from it. I find wandering off into the shadow curse with no goal nor party of ready and willing companions may prove more folly than adventure. Surely such activities would not be conducive to anything but the unpleasant sort of chaos.”
“I see,” Charade said, lifting the panel to his tent as he released Gale from his hold, bowing dramatically. “Do come in, my most esteemed guest. I'll do what I can to ensure only the pleasant sort of chaos might occur.”
Gale ducked into the tent.
What awaited him inside was an outright mess of goods. A tipped over backpack spilled out goblets and plates they'd nicked from their most recent escapades, beside it a stack of notes, books, and various enchanted items, some perched most precariously atop one another. In another corner lay his collection of weaponry, all in various states of cleanliness and upkeep– the only orderly corner of the tent was his neatly folded bedroll and the small table beside it, upon which his golden, shining fiddle lay on a clean rag, glimmering in the dim light.
With a snap of his fingers, Charade awoke the enchanted lantern inside, casting a shimmering blue glow over the two of them. “Sorry,” he murmured, a bit sheepish. “Would've sorted this out if I'd expected company.”
Gale shook his head vigorously. “No, I– this is just fine. Make no mistake, there is an order to my own mess, but a mess it is nonetheless. Have you seen the precarious stacks of books growing both in and outside my own lodgings? I can hardly brag of orderliness myself. Besides, it's – there's a charm to it.”
“Ah!” Charade perks up, scrambling for the pile of books in the corner. “That reminds me. Books. I – if you've an interest, I've come across a few I thought you might like. Here, just..”
Gale peered over his shoulder, accepting the small stack of dusty tomes he deposited in his waiting hands with wide eyes. He quickly brushed them off, blowing away the years of neglect to read the titles. He peeled the first one open, ever so careful not to damage it, giving the first page an appraising look. “These are perfect.” He blinked, looking up at his taller companion. “You're sure?”
Charade shrugged. “Yeah. Not much one for books myself; I thought – thought maybe they'd make you smile.”
As if on cue, Gale grinned from ear to ear. He held the books a bit closer to his chest in a childlike gesture of excitement. “Yes, I – well, there's not much to smile about as of late. I'm grateful.”
He gently set the books down by the door to return for later.
Ever so curious as to what Gale wanted to discuss, Charade circled around him towards the bedroll, sitting with a sigh and patting the spot beside him. “You wanted to talk?”
Gale nodded stiffly, wringing his hands. He stayed by the door. “I, uh… yes.”
It wasn't often the wizard was stumped for words. Concern overtook any other emotion he'd been feeling and Charade sat up a bit straighter, balancing his hands on his knees. “You okay?”
They'd already discussed Elminster's ominous message. Charade had given the old man quite the earful for it, too; terribly rude, it was, to come into someone's camp, eat all their cheese and urge them to kill themself! If he hadn't been of such importance to Gale, he might not have let him leave their camp at all.
“Yes. No, I'm – sort of.” Gale shook his head, still frozen in place, hands flexing at his sides. “I just…”
Charade softened his voice. He curled his tail around to tap it against the floor beside him. “Come over here and sit with me, please. If you feel comfortable.”
He immediately followed his instruction, stepping over with haste to plop down beside him. Gale was obviously tense. He turned towards Charade and, suddenly, there was a pressure against his brain; a subtle, probing question.
He was asking for permission to enter.
Charade acquiesced and, as the barriers between their minds fizzled out and dissolved, he was overcome with a wave of anxiety; guilt painted thick black strokes over all prospects of excitement, curdled by fear, coated with a hyper-awareness of self, a hunger to impress, a desperation to live; a bone-deep fear trembled beneath it all, starved for affection or reassurance.
The instant their brains disconnected, Charade fell forward to grab Gale in a most unceremonious, crushing embrace.
Gale squawked. He flinched and flailed in the hug before stilling, stunned.
Charade cupped the back of his head as he held him to his big, broad chest, leaning down so they were at the same height. Then he pulled back just as abruptly, hyper aware of his own social faux pas. It didn't normally do to go around grabbing other men in aggressive hugs. He looked quite sheepishly at Gale but pushed through the embarrassment, hoping his intense gaze conveyed only the deepest empathy and concern. “I'm sorry. Sorry, I – I got ahead of myself. I hope you don't mind.”
“No, it's –” Gale smoothed his hair, still a bit shaken. “It's alright. I don't mind. Just a bit surprised, I must admit – it's not every day I am embraced with such… zeal.”
It was Charade's turn to be embarrassed. He flushed, running his hands down his face. “I did tell you I'd warn you before I got in your personal space again, didn't I?”
Gale waved his hand. “Eh, it doesn't matter. You've seen the inside of my brain. I'm not quite sure we can get any closer.”
“I've several suggestive quips at the ready for such a statement, but I'll go ahead and withhold them in the interest of sincerity.”
Gale actually laughed at that, throwing his head back. His chest shook with the intensity of it. When he was done, face flushed, hands brushing his hair from his face, he was still grinning. “You certainly do make a brave effort to make me laugh even in the darkest of circumstances.”
“I am to please.” More calmly, then, he murmured; “You should know, however – and I mean this earnestly – that I'll do whatever is in my power to help you, Gale. You know that, right?”
Gale just swayed a bit, nodding noncommittally.
“You must know that. I'm not sure what I've done to earn your trust, or to deserve your company, but I know I will do what I can to make up for it all. I'm here to help you, and here it is I will stay, until you ask me to go. We will find a solution, Gale. One that requires no grand sacrifices.”
“Isn't that what all the stories end with?” Gale lamented, looking down. “It's quite rare to hear a tale in which the hero dies not in a blaze of glory but quietly, a few decades following the grand defeat. It lacks the pomp and circumstance.”
Charade shook his head. “As a Bard I am very tired of that cliché. It's about time someone wrote a different end.”
“Mm.” Gale released a long, slow exhale. “Sorry. I'm sure you expected more fun of me, and a lot less – this. I cannot claim to be the best of company right now, circumstances considered; I understand if you'd like me to leave you to your sleep. I'm more than capable of going off and griping in my own tent.”
“But I quite like hearing your griping,” Charade said, flashing him a wink. “Besides. Who am I to turn away a man keeping my bedroll warm?”
Gale chuckled, shifting somewhat self consciously where he sat upon said bedroll. He tried once or twice to reply, most likely with some charming quip, but stopped himself each time before finally, solemnly saying; “Thank you, Charade. For always being so terribly kind to me, even – and especially – when it is most undeserved.”
“There's nothing to apologize or thank me for.” Charade hummed, leaning on one hand as he regarded his wizard. “Anything for the pleasure of your company.”
That was it. It took very little to break the thin dam holding back each of their excitement.
Charade, true to his word, warned; “I'm going to kiss you.”
“Please.”
The final straw fell fluttering to the ground as the two abruptly swept towards one another, each gripping the other man's face in their hands as their lips met. Charade moaned at the touch, shocked by his fantasy becoming reality, moving to cup the back of Gale's head with the utmost tenderness so he might kiss him better. A hot jolt scalded Charade and they parted, seized each other by the shoulders, and embraced again, squeezing the breath out of each other, whispering, gods, and each other's names, and then gods, gods, again, and easily as the right key turns the lock tumblers, their mouths came together with the utmost passion, beards rasping together, wet saliva welling as they panted into one another's mouths, gasping for air.
Their bodies clinched, chest and groin and thigh and leg making contact. The touch was so overwhelming after months without any consensual touch that Charade trembled. Eventually they pulled apart to gasp for air and Charade, breathless, murmured; “Darling.”
Gale, chest still heaving, tenderly cupped Charade's face with one hand, gently grasping his left horn with the other. The charms dangling there jingled softly. In his eyes Charade could see the sort of affection he'd often envied but never been the subject of; his heart ached something terrible.
“That's new,” chuckled Gale, tilting his head so he could nuzzle into Charade's palm. “I've never been called that one before.”
“A dire error which we must rush to resolve, darling.”
The deep blush spread from Gale's face all the way to his neck. “You certainly know how to flatter me. Do you treat all the men this way, or am I your new subject of experimentation?”
Charade just smiled. “There are no other men. Not when I'm with you.”
Very slowly, as if struggling to part from one another, the two of them shifted so they might sit hip to hip, their hands still intertwined on Charade's lap.
“I must say,” said Gale, “that vision you showed me in the weave– of – of us – lovely as it was, it actually pales in comparison to the real thing.”
His heart swelled with affection, and a fair bit of mirth. Charade couldn't say he wasn't proud, titillated by the challenge of constantly driving Gale a little bit more mad. If it was within his ability he would certainly try. “I aim to impress.”
Then he sobered, reaching out to gently touch Gale's chin and turn his face towards him so he might look into those big, beautiful, sad eyes of his which he liked so much. “You really don't mind, do you? I'd loathe to trample your boundaries. Should you prefer it remain a fantasy I'll –”
“No!”
Charade laughed.
The look on the wizard's face was one of obvious distress; grasping Charade's face in his hands once more, he pulled him close in an embrace, peppering his cheek and jaw with kisses as he held him. “No, I– I must admit I quite like it. A lot, in fact – perhaps more than like it, though I'd surely do well to restrain what extensive vocabulary I do have to explain my exact feelings on the matter, for propriety's sake. It's just.. new.”
Charade pressed a gentle kiss by Gale's ear. Their cheeks brushed, eyelashes fluttering against one another as they held one another. “I’m so relieved.”
Gale gently drew back, searching his face. “You didn't think I'd reject you?”
It was his turn to be sheepish, turning his eyes towards his hands in embarrassment. He was more bark than bite, admittedly, when it came to such things, and though his reputation as a vagabond and a scoundrel preceded him in most situations he found it offered him no confidence in such earnest matters of the heart. Charade shrugged.
“You're a well renowned wizard. I'm afraid a Bard like myself – though admittedly dashingly handsome and a devil on the fiddle, of course! – cannot truly compare.”
Gale glanced over at his fiddle before turning fully to him, practically sitting in his lap as he leaned up to get into his personal space. “I am hardly the person you should be comparing yourself to. I couldn't play a single note if my life depended on it, much less – much less manipulate the weave through such beauty. Though different in application, your skills are no small matter and certainly not any reason to doubt my affections towards you. What kind of man would I be if I held you to such impossible standards!”
His posture relaxed, the tension slipping from him as he forced himself to accept Gale's insistent claims as truth. It wouldn't do to deny himself this indulgence because of his own petty self-doubts. He just sighed, eyes closing for a minute before he reached out for Gale's hand, squeezing gently.
“I could teach you,” he murmured, winking. “I'm sure there's much we might learn from one another. I wouldn't mind seeing you put those practiced fingers to good use.”
“I've more practiced appendages than just my fingers, I can assure you.”
Charade barked a laugh, pushing him playfully. “I meant teaching you a song, you filthy man.”
“Fine, fine!” Gale's face flushed again as he shook his head, laughing, running his free hand down his face before he tipped forward to drop a kiss on Charade's cheek. “I'd be most honored; but only if you allow me to return the favor. I sense we have much to learn from one another.”
Charade smiled softly, rubbing his thumb along the back of his hand. “That we do.”