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"I will not have my reputation blemished in such an ungarnered respect."
"Ungarnered? My, you think very highly of yourself."
The vampire sniffed. "Of course I do. I have standards, darling, whatever else you may hear."
Art laughed. "Oh, I don't doubt that. Pass the coffee, if you'd please."
Astarion handed over the pot. Breakfast was, as always, delicious, thanks to the wizard who diligently and (surprisingly) happily had taken up the role of cook for the party. Art had historically been more the type of person to be too busy to bother with breakfast at all, but with their schedule growing ever more active, she was grateful for the nutrition. After all, it wouldn't do to faint in the middle of battle.
The wizard was hard at work now by the campfire, frying up what smelled to be eggs and bacon and some sort of unidentifiable, enticing, spice.
Art circled back to her and Astarion's previous topic. "So, in the spirit of blemished reputations, have you ever been rightfully accused of using your charms as a means to an end?"
"Am I to take it that you believe I have charms?" He gave her a roguish smile.
"I've heard through the grapevine."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night. Or, not sleep."
"Gah! Hellsfire!"
Art and Astarion looked over to the fire, where Gale had apparently burned himself. "Alright there, walking encyclopedia?"
"Fine, thank you," grumbled the wizard, frowning into the fire. "I do believe one of you will have to forgo an egg, though."
"Are you sure you're alright, Gale?" asked Art. She studied him, noting the disgruntled tension of his frame. Perhaps he was cranky before breakfast like the rest of them. Though, he was usually more of a morning person.
"Hm? No no, I'm fine." He waved a hand, his gaze fixed upon cooking.
Art internally shrugged, then poured steaming coffee into her mug. It was strong, and rich, and tasted faintly of chocolate. "I never asked, Astarion. Do vampires need to eat? Like, normal food? Does it do anything for you?"
Astarion considered for a moment, his eyes flashing in a guarded way. "No, we don't need to eat to survive, not in the conventional way, at least. One must have something for substance, but well. There are creative ways around it."
Sensing something off, Art shifted the conversation. She gave a small smile I to her mug. "So, you're saying you didn't need to drink my blood. You just really wanted to."
He crowed with laughter. Gale dropped something else into the fire. "Oh, darling, if I'd known the members of our camp would be so open to the offer, I'd have asked many people for a snack before you."
"I'm hurt, Astarion. I thought we had something special."
"Using my own words against me. How clever."
"By Mystra's silken tresses!"
Art whirled around fully now, flying to her feet. Gale clutched his hand furiously, which was already turning bright red from a burn. "Gale! What happened?"
"I'm fine, Art, no need to--" he started but Art was already on her way to snag Shadowheart for healing. Later, she would see the hand bandaged up to the wrist, and learn that Gale had been distracted by something, but wouldn't say what.
Gale was trying not to pay attention to things that were not his business, he really was. It was hard, though, when such business decided to openly flirt every day right in front of his face. And it didn't help that they were terribly natural at it too.
He had had to let it go. Artemesia had clearly chosen who she'd rather exchange such banter with, and it wasn't him. And what had he expected? That she fawn after a man who lived his life on the basis that he could explode any day now? No, he wouldn't want to her hurt like that anyway. Better that his feelings go completely unrequited.
He'd, by now, had to accept that he had feelings for her, though what kind and of what intensity, he refused to acknowledge. Putting words to it was asking for trouble, he knew that much. What he did know was that it was entirely inconvenient, especially when Art distracted him enough that he burned his hand while cooking.
"Care to explain what had you not paying attention?" Shadowheart asked as she bound up his salved hand and wrist. It wasn't bad enough to interfere with the somatics of his own spellcasting, and they'd all agreed as a group that healing magic should be conserved for dire cases. So, the old ways of healing it was for a minor burn.
"Oh, just tired," he said. "I didn't sleep very well with the party still raging outside my tent, I'm afraid."
She snorted. "Same here. Though I enjoy Artemesia’s music, the dancing got a bit too raucous for my tastes."
At the mention of her name, in context of the night they'd celebrated with the tiefling refugees, Gale looked away. He'd had the plan to enjoy the night as a cheerful if quiet observer, but had decided to turn in early when he'd glanced over to the other side of camp and saw Art conversing with a certain vampire. The sight had soured the sheer staggering amount of wine in his stomach, and he'd waved off raised eyebrows, claiming to be tired.
That night, he'd spent it trying to sleep but failing, partly due to the noisy party, but also because of the orb. With his emotions higher than what his norm had been back in his tower, it had become a full-time job on its own to quell the surges of netherese power within. It was likely that the whole camp had seen the purple flashes of light as he'd wrestled with the gaping maw in his chest which threatened to singe his very soul to smithereens. He'd thought for a particularly perilous moment, after everyone else had finally gone to sleep, that this might be it. Thankfully, he'd quenched the abyss with his own robe he'd picked out of a phase spider's lair. He'd lamented the loss, but it was preferable to leveling the whole camp. Luckily, he still had his old purple robes.
Shadowheart was watching him with those intense eyes of hers, the kind of look which he couldn't discern from her I'm going to kill you look. "It's the orb, isn't it? Was it always this bad?"
"No," he said. "It seems to have gotten stronger recently."
"What's set it off, do you think?"
He lied. He had to. "I don't know."
Because he did know. His emotions were completely out of wack, throwing off the composed control he'd spent months trying to master. All negated within a matter of days, because he had stupid, gods-forsaken feelings.
Shadowheart was an astute individual. For all her guarded nature, she could see through anyone the way a sharpened sword could pierce flesh. But she didn't say anything, just looked up. "Oh, Astarion. Something the matter?"
"I'm afraid so. I think one of those bottles of wine was poisoned." He looked positively green.
Something foul in Gale's gut twisted at the sight of the vampire. "Are you sure you're not just hungover?"
"I'll have you know, Gale, that I cannot be hungover. One of the only perks of my--condition."
Shadowheart rifled around in her pack for an antidote while Astariom flopped down rather dramatically beside them. In addition to his green palor, his eyes were also bloodshot, and the skin under his eyes was darkened. He must not have slept much last night either.
It was that easy, that horrible, to imagine why. Before Gale could reason with himself, admit plausible deniability, the whole nauseating scene laid itself out before him. Astarion had spent the night with someone, and that someone wasn't hard to place.
The orb gave a piercing pulse, and Gale's hand flew up to it as he groaned in pain.
"Alright there, friend?" Astarion asked, leaning forward, and he looked like he might actually mean it. Somehow, that was worse than if he was indifferent.
"Fine," Gale said through gritted teeth.
"How much longer are you going to be able to hold out?" Shadowheart asked, worry lining her face. "Gale, I really don't want to think about it, but..."
"Then worry not about it. Trust me, I would not subject this group to shoulder the fate I'll meet one day. I'll be long gone from camp before it comes to that."
Shadowheart pursed her lips, but it was Astafion who spoke. He threw his head back. "Gods, you're a mood killer. Surely your goddess gave you a way out."
"She did not," he said with more bile than he meant to. No, actually, he meant it. "Mystra was merciful for sparing my life at all, mind you, even if it was only for a little while."
Astarion huffed, taking the antidote from Shadowheart. He took a swig and grimaced. "Hellsfire, that stuff tastes worse than the wine last night."
Shadowheart laughed. "What was it you compared it to? Vinegar?"
"And I stand by that." He took another swig, his palor returning a bit.
Shadowheart left them, claiming the need to restock some herbs to replenish her supply of antitoxin, and she headed toward the lake.
Astarion gestured to Gale with the bottle. "You're in a dour mood today."
"Really? I hadn't noticed. Apologies."
He laughed. "You're lucky Art continues to advocate for you, wizard. If I were the leader, I'd have kicked you out as a threat to group moral."
He eyed the vampire peevishly. "And I'm sure you know plenty of what Art advocates for?"
"Well, I'd like to think we're friends, but I could be wrong. Has she told you something?"
Had she told him something? The very idea was laughable. "No. She has not."
"Pity." He took another swig, grimacing. "Did Shadowheart mention how much I'm supposed to drink of this?"
"No. Though I'd suggest if you decide to down the whole thing, you stay at camp today. That's a dehydrant of massive proportions."
The elf paled further than he usually was. Gale had to grin with petty satisfaction.
Astarion eventually got up to return to his own tent, but before he left, he said, "You know, if you want me to stop flirting with Art, you only have to ask."
Gale nearly choked. "I'm sorry?"
Astarion rolled his eyes. "I'm undead, not blind. I didn't take you for a coward."
This bristled his nerves. "How dare you--"
"I'm only going to ask you once," the vampire cut him off with a raised palm. "Are you planning to make a move, or not? Because if you're not, there are several members here I can notify, and we can all get on with our lives."
Gale thought his brain was going to short-circuit, between the words make a move and several members. Really, such statements were plain unfair to his efforts to make sense of the world. Not to mention a certain swirling mass living within him. Not that he ever wanted to blame such matters on anyone but himself-- but it was a hard enough burden to bare alone, without feelings. Gods condemn him...
Angry heat flared in his chest. "Make a move? I thought you'd already taken a stab at that territory."
A laugh, drawn-out and wild. Then, seeing Gale's expression, Astarion's eyebrows jumped nearly to his hairline. "Oh. You're serious."
"I saw the way you two were talking at the party. And how you've been talking since."
Astarion regarded the wizard with a look that seemed intensely caught between amusement and serious concern. For a while, Gale thought he was going to make some self-righteous comment, but then he said, "Art and I didn't do anything. We haven't at all, in fact. If you want me to be frank, she's not really my type."
"You have a type?"
"Believe it or not, darling." He flashed his teeth, and Gale truly didn't know if it was a smile, or if it was meant to be threatening. Astarion turned to walk away with a sigh. "You poor thing. I'll leave you to your depressing thoughts. I apparently have a long day ahead of me."
Gale sat there, cradling both his burned hand and the throbbing orb, too stunned to speak. He didn't know what to do with this information, he truly didn't.
Nothing, he chided himself. You do nothing with it. Your time is running out.
And it wasn't as though she would ever return such feelings. Art was, among many things, a terrible flirt, but there was no way she'd-- well. Gale tried not to wallow in self-pity if he could help it, but between her beauty, her charm, her incredible wit... He'd fallen in love time and again, fallen to infatuation more than he probably should have (certain goddesses aside), but there had been no one quite like Artemesia. No one with whom he'd felt such kinship and familiarity. Mystra was hardly someone he could share proper banter with; their meetings had been grandiose, but strangely formal. Things felt easy, with Art. Too easy. And she was that way with everyone, he told himself. His clear misreadings of her interactions with Astarion were but one example. She'd charmed her way to be their defacto leader, after all, and even the prickliest of their motley crew, Lae'zel, admired her. And he had to be truly blind to not see the way a certain elven druid who'd recently joined their group looked at her-- like she was a particularly intriguing painting he wished to study further.
She was hard to read, Art, if he could misread her so. Either that, or he was just kidding himself. He resigned that he would never truly know the thief's heart-- never know what really was at the center of it, nor should he desire to.
All of this to say, no, he was not to do anything with these feelings of his. She was a friend, and a dear one at that, and that should be enough.
A sound echoed across the campsite, and Gale glanced that way. Art was laughing with Karlach, who had cracked some or another of her many jokes. Gods, that laugh. It was like nothing else in this realm. Or any other.
Like the constant reminder it was, the orb flared like a crossbow shot through his chest, and he doubled over from the force of pain.