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“You’re not versed in magic, are you?”
The voice might have startled Artemesia, if she hadn’t perceived his footsteps from a mile away. It turned out that wizards, prodigy or no, were not adroit in the ways of stealth. As it was, she merely looked up from her book, a single eyebrow raised as she peered up at the wizard of Waterdeep from her bedroll in her cozy little corner of camp. “Pardon?”
“Magic. You’ve not studied it, have you?”
“Are we asking, or are we making blind statements?”
Gale, as the wizard had introduced himself (most magnanimously, she might have added), blinked at her. “I— apologies. Seems we got off on the wrong foot. What I mean to say is, are you a wizard?” He flashed a smile. “Which, apparently, you are not.”
There were several ways that Art could have responded. She could have gotten offended, pointing out that wizards were not the only ones in the world who studied magic. She could have simply clarified that no, she was not a wizard, nor did she have any inclination to be. But instead, she closed the book on her lap, crossed one leg over the other, and tilted her head to the side. “What makes you say that? Who's to say I’m not studied in magic? After all, we hardly know each other.”
“Oh? Are you, then?” He looked hopeful, and it might have been cute if he wasn’t so weave-forsaken annoying.
She leaned her elbows on her knees, smiling at him. “What do you think?”
She watched him flounder for a bit, just enough that he seemed like he was ready to burst with the lack of an ability to come up with a reponse for her. Then, and only then did she chuckle and say, “No, Gale. I’m not a wizard.”
“Oh. Well, then.” He struggled for words again, which was a delight. Art had, in their brief time knowing each other, found that she quite liked the sensation of making Gale speechless. It was a rare and impressive feat. “Thank you for clearing that up. If you happen to hear anything about any elder wizards, do let me know.”
“Have a lost connection, do you? An ex following you around? Or a former professor you still never turned an assignment in for?”
He regarded her with a look that went beyond baffled. “I— no . I merely think it might behoove us to take any good advice that comes our way regarding our little wriggling compatriots.” He pointed vaguely to his head. “I daresay an archmage would be quite the asset to our conundrum.”
“Goodness me, that’s a lot of fancy words. You’ll have to regale me on their usage later.”
“Have I said something to upset you?” He said, and Art almost felt bad at the disparing look on his face. He heaved an exasperated sigh. “Let me assure you, if I did, it was of no conscionable effort. I deeply apologize for any—”
“Gale,” Art said, resisting the urge to smile. “You’re fine. I’m teasing you.”
He sighed in relief. “Oh, thank Mystra. But why would you string a chap along like that?”
“Dunno. Maybe because you make it fun.”
“You have a rather strange idea of fun.”
“Could say the same of you,” she said, tipping her head at him. “Cozy fires and books and whatnot.”
“Speaking of— what is that you’re reading?”
Art’s hand instinctively tightened on the tome. For a moment, she was about to bite at him to leave her alone, but—
He seemed to read her expression. And though confused as to why she might be so sensitive about a book, of all things, he said, “Sorry. Well, I’d wish you a good night’s sleep, but I have the strangest feeling our wrigglers might have more of a say in the matter than I. Goodnight.”
Artemesia watched him trek back over to his tent, where he disappeared behind the flap for the night. At some point, she saw the glow of a magelight lighting from within it, casting the silhouette of the wizard curled up with a book of his own. Art watched it for a while, his hands turning the pages fluidly, a goblet of wine lifting to his lips occasionally, carried by a mage hand. At some point, she saw a faint purple glow meet the pale light, originating from Gale’s person. In a strange moment of vulnerability, she saw his hand go up to clench at his chest, book falling to the floor. The glow then abated, and he quickly snuffed out the magelight.
The stranger Artemesia was difficult to read, and Gale liked to consider himself a fairly astute individual. She was all sharp edges and impish angles, always with a cheeky word to startle or dazzle those around her. It was disorienting, to meet someone so clearly intelligent, yet with no experience nor interest in traditional book smarts. He wasn’t used to it. He wasn’t sure he even knew what to make of it.
The orb wasn’t happy with his confusion. It had started pulsing with more and more ferocity as the days went on, to the point that now, he feared if he didn’t find some means of soothing it, his next strong emotion, be it joy or anger or anything in between, might leave this side of the Sword Coast in ruins.
He needed a source of weave, and quickly.
He might have been able to sneakily pilfer some magical item during travel with this new, strange group he found himself a part in. Every time he tried, though, he came up fruitless. He just wasn’t good at getting into places where people might stash powerful magical items. They were usually hidden behind lock and key, and though Gale was a man of many (many, many ) talents, lockpicking wasn’t one of them.
There was one member of their group who was good at it, though. Two, actually, but one of them truly set his nerves on end— something about the pale elf was really unsettling, though he couldn’t say exactly what… So, he was left with the other. If she could trust him, if he could trust her .
“Can I speak to you for a moment?” he asked Art, catching a moment where he could get her aside from the group. He’d set a stew to simmer for a while, and he’d long since learned by now that a watched pot would never cook through.
Artemesia lay curled at the foot of her tent, bedroll propped under her back, with that same tome she’d had the other night open before her. She looked up at him with that infernal raised eyebrow of hers (infernal, not for her features’ relation to the hells, but for the reason that it had recently started to affect something in his nerves). “I don’t see why not. What troubles you, Gale? It’s not the spill you took earlier, I hope.”
“No, Shadowheart seemed to have patched me up just fine.” He didn’t know what to do with his hands. Gods, he’d never told this to anyone. How did one go about divulging a secret that may or may not be a death sentence? “I— wanted to ask a favor of you.”
“I’m terribly flattered,” she said, “but my lyre and I don’t usually take requests. Besides, all the fighting we’ve caught ourselves in has given me some nasty blisters.”
“What? No, I’m not… Well, not that I’d mind a bit of musical accompaniment, by any means, your playing is wonderful, I just…”
“Are you alright?” she asked, a flicker of actual concern flitting across her face. “You look a little green.”
“I’m fine. I was just thinking of that ring you found today, and I was— well, I’d like to have it, if you’re not partial to it.”
“The one I found in the harpy’s nest?” she raised an eyebrow. “Uh— sure. You think you’ll use the enchantment on it? It’s a pretty weak spell, but I suppose every bit helps…”
More than you can imagine. “Yes, the very same. I think I’ll need it.”
She furrowed her brow at him, and he knew the ruse was up. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Spill it.”
He sighed, something dropping to a place low in his gut. “You're far more astute than I gave you credit for when first we met. The truth is, I need it. Quite badly, at that.”
“Okay.” Still with one eyebrow hoisted skyward, She rifled around in her packs. He saw a myriad of things both shiny and magical, and he wondered just how much she had looted from the hobgoblin Dror Ragzlin’s chambers in their most recent scourge. She produced The ring in question, handing it over. It's deep pink stone shone with the crackle of netherese origin in a way that made the orb yearn and reach for it.
“That all, then?” Art asked. She seemed to note his stricken look, because she said, “Look, if you really want some of the loot we find, all you have to do is ask. I won't judge you for having an eye for something that might make a pretty sale for yourself.”
“Oh.” He tried to banish the sweat On his palms as the orb gave a violent pulse. “Right. Well, I wouldn't want to take the fun out of your heists.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” she said with a swish of her hand. She added in a little smirk. “Just let me know. Wouldn’t want to discover we have another thief in our midst.”
It piqued his interest, the comment. Made him wonder, for the first time, what lay beyond the exterior of this tiefling bard, what past she might have emerged from. “I never asked— what made you so good at thieving?”
“Same thing that makes anyone good at anything.” She seemed to preen, basking in the acknowledgement of her talents. “Practice. Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity.”
“Ah, yes— that famed trait of wizards.”
She teased him often about his being a wizard— his years of enthusiastic study and bookish habits, all things that apparently deemed him a ‘nerd’ in the eyes of some. Usually, it annoyed him (and Gale liked to think of himself as a fairly level-headed kind of man), but this time, it amused him. He smiled, crossing his arms. “No use denying it. Though I’d also argue being a thief also requires a fatal flaw of similar origin.”
“I’m hurt, Gale. To imply that I have flaws… ”
“We all have them, like it or not.”
“Hm…” She leaned back against her pack, which she’d been using as a pillow now that it contained some highly valuable items. Her tail flicked like a whip, though there wasn’t anything angry in the motion, strangely enough. He could have almost sworn she wasn’t wishing he’d go away already. Her warm brown skin glowed faintly in the dying embers of the firelight, not too far away, bisected only by the thin black tank top and sleeping trousers she favored. Her horns curved up and slightly inwards on themselves, so that she looked several inches taller than she actually was, several measures more fluid than she already was. Something relaxed in her posture. Perhaps it was the bottle of wine she was a good quarter of the way through. “I forgot to mention to you, earlier, since we’re on the topic of wizards and their curiosity…”
She drew out, of all things, a book. A ghastly thing, it depicted a screaming skull, its maw open and horrific, eye sockets empty and staring. The leather of the cover was made of a suspiciously thin leather.
“Found this in a basement,” she said. “Astarion wanted to open it right away, but I told him that you’d probably never forgive us if we didn’t let you have a go at trying give it a read first.”
“Great strands of Weave… what is it?” Though that great fatal flaw of wizards tugged at him, and he sat beside her. “Aside from the obvious, that is.”
“Dunno. It reeks of necromancy though, don’t you think? My theory is it’s a grimoire of some sort. It won’t open, is the problem.”
“Hm. Strange. May I see it?”
She handed the tome over, and it was like he’d been handed a ton of bricks. There was no way this thing could possibly hold enough paper to be that heavy— there was a lot of magic at work here.
“What do you know of grimoires?” Art asked. “I noticed this right here— see that notch? It’s a marker for somatic spellwork, kind of like how you put reminders of where you place your fingers on a stringed instrument when you’re first learning. I think this one’s old— like, a life’s work kind of thing. Whoever had this kept working on it from early in their years of study, all the way to whatever event caused the penner to become estranged from it…”
Gale blinked several times at Art as she went over the details of the lair they’d found the book in. She specified that the book was not only behind a locked door, but arcanely trapped. “It was a simple time-release glyph, tricky but not impossible to counter the runes. Nasty curses, though, I think I saw the traces of a fireball…”
Dear gods of Celestia. Gale had to resist his jaw wanting to unhinge as Art, seemingly completely unaware, revealed that she was, in fact, quite studied in magic. Every question he might have had about the tome— the level of security around it, the types of things that the location had also housed, the various details of its resting place— she noted everything.
She had this look to her eyes when she talked about magical items, like she understood them, like the matter of breaking and entering in order to acquire them was a mere trifle compared to the wonder one might experience once she had the arcane at her fingertips. Her eyes positively glittered with amber light, lit her rouged lips with a smile, and flushed her cheeks with delight.
Gale didn’t consider himself a very easily swayed man. Once, he’d taken Tara in a brutal debate which had lasted days, and in the end, she still hadn’t been able to change his mind entirely. The matter had been whether to spend his nights merely studying or channeling, and in the end, he’d chosen channeling, which had led him into the embrace of Mystra. Until the day he’d last seen her, they’d had to agree to disagree. So, no, his feelings were not swayed easily.
Now, though. Gale felt all the frustration of their past interactions melt away as though they’d been nothing more than a fading echo in a vast cavern. He tried to remember what exactly had made him feel such a way— perhaps it had been her smugness, or the fact that she seemed to take some sort of pleasure in teasing him. Anyway, now he couldn’t remember as he listened to this woman, this bard and thief, regale him in matters of the Weave.
It was almost too much for the orb to bear.
“ —Anyway, do you think you can figure out a way to open it?”
“Hm?” He startled back to the present.
Her brows furrowed at him, but the expression passed. “Can you open it?”
“Oh. Well, I can certainly try.” Somehow, he’d forgotten he had a book in his lap. He studied the thing, ghastly as it was to look upon, and noticed a small indentation inside the mouth of the shrieking skull. He pointed this out, to which Artemesia nodded.
“I figured something is supposed to slot in place, but we didn’t find anything in the place.”
“If it’ll help, I can cast an identify on it later tonight.”
“Thank you, Gale. I don’t happen to know that one. Real annoying, I should learn it some time…”
“I could show you.”
He’d blurted the sentence without hesitation, and at Art’s look, he almost bit his words. She looked surprised, maybe even affronted. But then— she cracked a sun-shaming smile and said, “I’d appreciate that. Later tonight, then.”
Somehow, he got up from his place seated half in her tent. Somehow, he gave her a parting nod before shuffling off to his own tent to set the book down. Somehow, Art didn’t notice him look over from across the campsite, tuning her lyre and humming softly to herself, the sound warm and silky, drifting through the air like a spell’s enchantment.
“Oi, Gale! Is the stew supposed to be bubbling over like that?” came Karlach’s voice.
Gale yelped a curse as he raced to the pot over the campfire, which he’d forgotten about entirely.