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Contrary to popular belief, a group of Gales is not called a gaggle. After much debate, and a few threats of blowing up in the sake of petty stubbornness, the Gale support group finally agreed that a group of Gales is called a profit as many of them are professors and the world generally profits from having a Gale around.
But not all Gales agreed on this for some had self-worth issues.
“Perhaps we should go with something more subtle, like a garden of Gales,” suggests Singer Gale. “Plus, there’s alliteration, and what kind of Gale doesn’t appreciate a little alliteration?”
“Just because there can be alliteration, doesn’t mean we have to add it in,” Songwriter Gale softly interjects. “While the ‘G’ sound is nice, we can look outside that repertoire of naming creation for other options.”
“That’s a very kind way of saying the name sucks,” Professor Gale Two says.
“I’ll have to write that down next time I need to say no to Astarion without starting a fight,” Professor Gale One agrees.
Singer Gale glares at the three other Gales. “I’m not hearing any good ideas from you three.”
“As my Astarion always lives by, if you don’t have a better idea to give, don’t say anything at all,” Sub Gale says.
“Does he really say that?” Time Loop Gale pulled out a notebook during the squabble, hand at the ready to write down whatever wisdom he thinks is about to leave the other Gale’s mouth.
“I don’t kiss and tell,” Sub Gale replies.
“Apologies for interrupting.” Cook Gale sets down a tray of freshly baked cookies, the smell of chocolate wafting teasingly throughout the small room. “But what about a symposium or a babble of Gales?”
Rich Gale looks up from his own pot of ginger tea he’s brewing in the side kitchen, an encouraging smile on his face. Cook Gale doesn’t speak up often in these meetings, opting instead to stay in the kitchen with Rich Gale, Singer Gale, and Werewolf Gale, but when he does voice his thoughts, they’re always well-thought and interesting. “I like those, especially a symposium of Gales. Has a good ring to it.”
“I’m thinking of making sourdough bread,” Werewolf Gale says before another argument can break out. “Any takers?”
This blatant display of trying to change the subject, something that would work quite easily on their Astarion counterparts, has no effect on these Gales, and the words of Werewolf Gale are quickly drowned out by a cacophony of polite yelling.
This goes on for a few minutes, voice getting louder and louder until, “Enough!” yells Professor Two Gale. The sound of one of the quieter Gales raising his voice quiets the rest of them. They all turn to stare, and Professor Two Gale blushes. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear myself think it was so loud in here.”
“Besides,” Roommate Gale smoothly interjects, “we’re better than this. We’re Gales, for Hell’s sake. Let’s act like it.”
“Yes, let’s have a bit of decorum,” Regency Gale One says. “Can’t have anyone finding out how indecisive we are.”
“‘A bit of decorum’, says the one who gave his Astarion a blowjob in the middle of his gardens,” Regency Gale Two hesitantly speaks up.
“Like you’re much better, Mister 'Let's fuck in an abandoned greenhouse' Dekarios.”
“My one regret is the lack of knee cushions for Astarion.” Regency Gale Two turns his head as if in haughtiness, but the slight flush of red could still be seen by most Astarion’s before he could fully turn away.
“How about a spitfire of Gales?” Professor One Gale bravely says.
Actor Gale shakes his head. “Think of the image that would create of us. We need to be more careful with our branding here.”
“As much as I hate to agree with a beardless Gale, he’s right,” says Singer Gale. “What is a Gale without his image?”
“Happy?”
Like a shitty 144p compilations video with too much slowmo added in to create tension for a pair of characters who are clearly never going to get together even as the creator delusionally believes and rants in the comments that this is the endgame pair for the show, all the Gales turn at once to look at Time Loop Gale.
“Who invited this guy?” Roommate Gale jokes, and the tension in the room breaks into nervous laughter.
“Who needs a silly thing like image?” Composer Gale tacks on to the track of more nervous chuckling.
The laughter dies down quicker than Astarion plunged his knife into Cazador’s chest. Water boiling on the stove and the scrape of a whisk through thick batter are the only sounds that break the silence.
“Well,” Composer Gale says, “since we can’t come to a conclusion on what to name a group of ourselves—”
“For the fifth meeting in a row,” Roommate Gale adds in.
“—we’ll just have to move on to the next item on the docket: how to help our Astarions.”
The kitchen Gales all turn and begin to whisper to each other at this. Cook Gale particularly looks distressed as he heatedly whispers back to his counterparts.
Werewolf Gale, the current de facto leader of the group, turns back to the group at large. “Some of us believe that we could be phrasing that better. To consider Astarion to be ours feels…” He trails off, unsure how to word it.
“Possessive,” Singer Gale helpfully chimes in from behind Werewolf Gale. “Astarion is his own person, and it would be detrimental to the Gale/Astarion relationship to consider otherwise.”
“It’s not always a possessive thing,” says Sub Gale. “And even if it was, I wouldn’t mind being called his and vice versa.”
Regency Gale Two shuffles forward. “As one of the ‘in a relationship with Astarion’ Gales, I feel it prudent to point out that designating Astarion as ‘our Astarion’ isn’t meant in a degrading way at all. Astarion is mine as much as I am his. Consider it a freely given, freely taken sort of relationship.”
“But what of us not in a relationship?” Rich Gale asks.
Actor Gale nods his head in agreement. “Or those of us who have had, ah, quick relations with no strings attached? Calling him ours without his consent does not bode well with me. I don’t want to push him away.”
Composer Gale pinches the bridge of his nose, brow furrowed in exasperation. “It was not my intention to make the phrasing feel possessive. I was simply referring to how each Gale has an Astarion we’re paired with in each of our own universes. The pairing itself is not necessarily romantic, possessive, or–” he pauses here, eyes lingering on Roommate Gale and Sub Gale, “sexual in nature. Friendship and the respecting of boundaries are what the Gales should stand for, after all.”
“Gales, Gales,” Roommate Gale smoothly intervenes before the infighting starts up again. “Let’s get our collective thoughts back onto the agenda. To rephrase what the lovely Composer Gale said, how have each of us been helping the Astarion we know?”
Time Loop Gale raises his hand. “I helped him understand that sometimes he has to let go of control to be in a better place.”
Some of the Gales nod at this, while others seem confused on the concept.
“Give up control?” Rich Gale lets out a low chuckle. “We have very different Astarions then. While I don’t think I'm the driving factor for this, Astarion has slowly learned to take control of his life in my universe. Seeing his strength through such tough times is awe inspiring.”
“The Astarion in my universe has gone on a similar journey,” Singer Gale pipes up. “I’m proud to say that he’s my friend.”
“Just a friend, hm?” Professor One Gale gives a gentle smile. “Give it some time, and it’ll blossom into more.”
Singer Gale is spared from responding by a hesitant hand from Songwriter Gale. Eager to change the subject, Singer Gale points to Songwriter Gale and says, “Yes? Do you have a question?”
Songwriter Gale rubs his hand against the back of his neck, a nervous tic many of the Gales seem to share. “I think my predicament is a bit more delicate than me simply offering or giving help. I hate to bring up the c-word, but a certain someone is making my Astarion’s life quite difficult, and I’m unsure how to proceed without incurring more wrath on me or him. Any tips?”
“Let your friendly fae eat him through plants,” Werewolf Gale says.
“Marry him so that he’s no longer under that bastard’s control,” Regency Gale One and Two say.
“Just stab him,” Time Loop Gale suggests. All the modern Gales stop what they’re doing and turn to look at him. Most have a contemplative look, but it’s quickly shaken off when they realize the real-life implications of prison. “What, did I say something wrong?”
“Is Cazador not a friend in your universe?” Cook Gale asks. The chorus of ‘No’s is loud and clear from the rest of the Gales. “Hm, interesting. Perhaps there’s a chance he isn’t in mine either…”
“Best to get him away from the bitch as soon as possible,” Actor Gale says. “I can’t imagine any universe where one of us wouldn’t want to punt the motherfucker into the sun.” He pauses for a moment, blushing. “Ah, excuse my language, gents. My last role had me swearing like a sailor to boot, hard to break the habit.”
“Speaking of universes, when are you growing a beard back in yours?” Regency Gale One inquires. “This whole clean-shaven look has unsettled many of us Gales. It’s not like one of us to not have a beard.”
“As I said in the previous meeting , it’s for a role. I’ll be able to grow it back after.”
“I think we look quite nice clean shaven,” Singer Gale says. “It’s how I started my career, after all, and my fans seemed to like it.”
“And yet, here you are,” Professor Gale Two says, “depression beard and all.”
“You’re one to talk.”
Professor Gale Two sniffs. “I didn’t say I was excluded from the sentiment. I was merely pointing out a fact.”
“To get back to Songwriter Gale’s predicament, I have a suggestion," Rich Gale says, "although it’s more of a thought experiment I’ve had rather than something I’ve enacted myself. He Who Sucks is in jail in my universe. Perhaps there’s a way to frame him for a crime and allow Astarion to break away from him through the use of the legal system.”
Songwriter Gale considers the idea for a moment before shaking his head. “An interesting idea, but one I’ll have to pass on for now. I appreciate the, erm, enthusiasm of responses and will have to ponder my next move between meetings.”
Amidst the talking of how to commit and get away with crimes, the kitchen Gales are having their own secretive discussion.
Their heads are leaned together; Werewolf Gale, Cook Gale, Sub Gale, Regency Gale One, and Singer Gale. Werewolf Gale, the accidental main antagonist in getting the group kicked out by Withers each night they met, is in the middle of the, well, gaggle of Gales, fingers carefully moving between several positions a few times before he adds a verbal component into the mix.
It’s here that things go horribly wrong as Sub Gale enthusiastically joins in on the demonstration and a huge ball of fire shoots through the, blessedly empty, middle of the room and into the next, one, two, three walls, burning a large hole through each of them until it fizzles out right as a hole burns into the Astarions’ meeting room.
They all froze as Withers appeared between the two rooms, a frown on his face that says, ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed,’ bringing all the Gales to sheepish shame, even those who had nothing to do with the explosion.
“ Gale ,” the Astarions all utter at once, some with groaning exasperation, others with more fondness than the air can handle.
“Thou hast reached the farthest ends of my patience!” Withers booms. The sound settles into the bones of the Gales, and they shudder instinctively. “I shall not have thee attacking thy compatriots at mine support group!”
Before any of the Gales could protest or mention how no Gale-on-Gale action happened and the fireball was merely a mistake of overenthusiastic Gales trying to teach the modern kitchen Gales how to cast magic, all of the Gales and Astarions pop out of existence from the therapy rooms and back into their respective universes.
Quiet descends on the empty rooms as the last Astarion is sent back. Withers sighs to himself as he inspects the still smoldering walls. “The Gales are nothing if not good at blowing up themselves. Mayhap magic will be banned from mine charges at the next meeting.”
With that savage statement lingering in the emptiness of the smoke-filled rooms, Withers waves a hand and repairs the walls, ready to go back to his silence between the chaos of what he dubs the 'Bloodweave Therapy Sessions'.