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Tonight, Gale suspects, will go down in history as one of his worst moments.
Possibly the worst, save for when he first acquired the Orb. Well. On second thought, considering he is currently dealing with the Orb alongside a mind flayer tadpole, constant threat of death, and the fresh sting of rejection, maybe it deserves first place.
Or that's the wine talking.
It is probably the wine talking.
He frowns at his goblet, swirling the blood red contents like the dregs will tell him some sort of secret. He never was good at tasseomancy in school. Divination always seemed so uninteresting compared to other schools of magic. Why divine a future that may not even happen when you had fireball? Perhaps he should've studied harder.
It should be a happy occasion. With the goblin leaders slain and Halsin safely rescued, the tieflings are free to continue on their way to Baldur's Gate without fear. As are he and his companions. Everyone is all smiles and revelry, dancing in the center of camp to the tune of Alfira's lute.
Gale, however, doesn't much feel like celebrating.
Not when he can see Tav and Shadowheart whispering to one another whenever he dares look near the fire. There is a smile on the drow's face, serene in a way that he's never seen before. Utterly smitten.
Bile is creeping up his throat and he has to fight the sudden ill feeling that settles in his stomach.
Gale pours another goblet full of wine and takes a hearty swig. It only makes the nausea worse.
He feels a little pathetic, sulking so much over something so trivial. But it's been a while since he felt any sort of way about someone. Not since Mystra. So he allows himself a little brooding. He had hoped, in a naive and arrogant sort of way, that Tav would have returned his affections. Or at have least spared some time to share in a moment of magic with him. To experience the Weave in the way that he did.
But they had made their disinterest evident. Not unkindly so, mind, but evident nonetheless.
A shame. He had thought… well, it doesn't matter what he had thought. What's done is done.
He has too much respect for both Tav and Shadowheart to make it their problem either, so sulking at his tent it is.
Wonderful.
Maybe he can content himself with watching Rolan's little magic show that Karlach is currently enthralled with. It's not bad all things considered. Though the tiefling could stand to work on his form. He's letting his elbow drop too low and his pronunciation is off. He should be putting more emphasis on-
“Ah! My good fellow!” A booming voice startles him out of his musings and Gale nearly spills wine down the front of his shirt. A man with a full beard and perfectly curled mustache walks up to him, feathered quill and parchment in hand. Volo. “Could you spare a moment of your time? I need a second opinion on this passage you see— and I am afraid your leader is rather preoccupied. I tried querying your Gith friend over there but her additions were, ah, lacking. She suggested I come to you!”
And so she passes this problem off to me, Gale thinks, glancing over at Lae’zel.
Her sulfuric yellow eyes lock ever so briefly with his. They are just as stony as usual, and one of her eyebrows cocks as if daring him to try and send Volo back. He will do no such thing of course. He values his life too much.
Gale sighs.
The evening can't get that much worse, he supposes. He may as well humor him.
“Very well. Though I warn you I am out of practice editing. I haven't published anything in an age.”
Volo's already broad smile only widens. “Oh! A fellow author?”
Gale ignores him. Instead, he takes the parchment from the man's hands and looks it over. The words swim around the page in loose, swirling patterns until he forces his eyes to focus properly.
Maybe he should ease up on the wine.
The passage is a flowery description of their battle against the goblin leaders. Considering Volo wasn't even there, he supposes it could be worse, but it is far from accurate. The goblins are wearing full plate armor, riding worgs into battle in an army hundreds (if not thousands, Volo has added in the margins) strong. Minthara has acquired a dozen drow bodyguards that Gale certainly doesn't remember existing, and the defunct temple to Selune is instead a looming spire built solely to worship the Absolute.
But there is one inaccuracy that rankles. One, tiny detail that had Gale been wholly sober and less wretched, he probably would've just ignored. He'd have been the bigger man and ignored it. In his current state it lances through in his already bruised pride.
Gale is entirely absent! There are countless descriptions of Tav and their unrivaled skill, beauty, valor, etc. There's even a few throw away lines about an elf with skin like moonlight and a muscled Gith with a sword of sterling silver.
But nothing of him.
“Do you think I described your leader's armor accurately? I could not decide between ‘shone like luminous crystal’ and—”
“I was there, you know,” Gale cuts him off.
Volo blinks. “Why of course.”
“Mhm. I just fail to see where I am mentioned.”
The other man's laugh sounds like metal scraping against stone. “Ah, I see the confusion! You are right there, my friend.”
He plants one finger on the paper. Right on a line buried in the middle of a truly horrifically long paragraph about how Tav fought off twenty drow warriors single handedly. Hadn't it been just a dozen a few sentences ago?
The line is so irrelevant Gale must have skimmed over it at first. ‘ Inspired by his leader's relentless ferocity, a haggard, dying man used the last of his strength to light up the room with a flurry of sparks, paving the way for the Great Hero, Bane of the Absolute, to prepare to deliver the final blow…’
His mouth nearly falls open.
“Haggard and dying?!”
Volo at least has the decency to look mollified. “Well, your companions did say you fell in battle.”
“While delivering the killing blow!” Gale exclaims. Really, haggard?
Volo looks at him skeptically. Gods help him, he is not having this conversation right now.
“Minthara had been backed into a corner by Tav and Lae'zel, I won't discount that, but if memory serves it was my firebolt that finished her off. And quite thoroughly!”
“Well,” Volo shifts his weight back and forth on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. “It's only natural to want to add a bit of flair! Having Tav be the one to slay her, as the hero of the hour, is much more fitting, no? As an author yourself, surely you understand the need for dramatics.”
If Gale has to hear about how great Tav is one more time he might wind up actually exploding.
“I— By the Nine Hells, I am not an author. I haven't written a publication in years. But I would like to point out that those were accurate and well researched! Elminster would have had my head if I'd produced this drivel.”
His voice echoes through camp, crashing through the pleasant din of chatter and music with all the grace of a thunderwave. Ah. That was louder than he had intended it to be. A few of the tieflings are looking at them now. As are a number of his companions. Astarion in particular looks intrigued by the idea of new entertainment at Gale's expense.
Gale flushes. It's more embarrassment than alcohol. He's only tipsy, really, but he always does get loose lipped when he’s drunk.
Volo, to his immense shock, doesn't look offended. Just surprised.
“My apologies, that was uncalled for—”
“You know Elminster?” Volo cuts him off.
Gale scrambles to come up with a response that’s coherent. Whether he succeeds is questionable. “Uh— Certainly. He's a friend. Of sorts. More of a mentor really. Both. Both of those things.”
Inexplicably it appears this was the right thing to say, as Volo looks delighted. “Oh wonderful! How is he these days? I haven’t had the good fortune to run into him again, good to see he hasn’t let age get to him quite yet!”
“You know him? Gale says, startled.
“Certainly! He assisted me in editing a number of my guides. I didn’t agree with all of his corrections of course, but his help was invaluable.”
Some slow, addled part of Gale’s brain begins turning. Guides? Elminster had never mentioned anything of the sort in recent memory, and Volo looks to be about Gale’s age. Surely he would have heard of…
Wait.
Guides. Gale blinks. He takes in Volo’s appearance. Gaudy clothes, pompous hat, expertly styled facial hair that Gale admittedly is a bit jealous of. He’s heard of a man (a wizard!) from nearly a century ago that matched that very same description.
One who’s controversial guides on magical workings and different areas of Faerun he had endlessly picked apart during his time at Blackstaff academy.
Truthfully, he should have noticed this from the jump. How many damn Volo's are there out in the world?
“You’re Volothamp Goddern? Hells, you should be dead!”
Volo brightens even more. A slight rosy hue spreads across his cheeks as well, and he lets out a good natured chuckle. “Ah so you’ve heard of me! Good to see I am still recognizable. Had a nasty run in with an imprisonment spell , you see, tricky business. Kept me in stasis for a number of decades. But I am back to business as usual! Alive and well.”
Hells, he must have missed the entirety of the bloody Spell Plague!
Gale takes another long drink from his goblet. Volo’s guides were controversial for good reason; they are full of inaccuracies and tacky purple prose. Just as bad as the passage Volo had him read just now. He should just give him a lame apology and pawn this ridiculous man off to someone else.
But something stops him from turning him away. Because as much as he loathes to say it, he is… intrigued. Volo is a wizard after all, and Gale has been so deprived of stimulating conversation he is getting desperate. His companions are all lovely, in their own strange ways, but none of them are learned in magic.
And there is the faintest of hopeful glimmers in those wide brown eyes, like Volo has found something promising in Gale. Has found kinship. And the thought of squashing that hope makes him squirm.
So he decides to extend an olive branch and sets the parchment aside.
“Well then, I suppose there’s a great deal I could fill you in on. Have you heard of what some are using evocation for in Athkatla recently? Automated weather control! Quite fascinating really.”
The mans eyes light up and Gale offers him the wine bottle as he takes a spot next to him.
The night goes by faster than Gale expects.
He quickly finds himself too wrapped up in his and Volo's conversation to really notice, sense of time further blurred by the wine. They bounce back and forth between Gale explaining magical advancements since Volo's time in stasis and the other's adventures while writing his guide books. Gale refrains from sharing his personal opinions of Volo's work (which are…poor) aside from the occasional correction. He's pleased when Volo takes it in stride. All in good fun. They even swap stories about Elminster. The sorts of things one would never say in such a powerful wizard's company, but are readily passed along between the two of them.
It's shockingly tolerable. Enjoyable even, swapping stories and opinions on magical workings. Volo regales him with endless tales of strange magics he's stumbled across, from his time in Thay to the Jungles of Chult. Gale simply sits and listens.
When Rolan does one final magical sequence, Gale takes great satisfaction in critiquing it with Volo this time around, safely out of earshot of the tiefling himself.
“Hmm he is mispronouncing ‘lux’ and he should be putting more emphasis on ‘fiat’,” Volo muses as Rolan casts one final flurry of dancing lights.
“Exactly my point! He is a skilled caster in his own right, don't misunderstand me, but I can't imagine where he learned to say it like that.” Gale gestures as he talks, waving his empty goblet wildly in front of him.
Volo has drained most of the rest of the bottle himself.
The night is winding down, tieflings returning to their encampment in preparation for the long day of travel ahead. Alfira, along with Rolan, is one of the few still remaining. Her song choices, at first rowdy and exuberant, have slowed down considerably.
It’s peaceful.
For the first time in hours— since the start of the party, even— Gale realizes with a start that he hasn’t been focused on Tav at all. Or, should he say, the lack of them. They are gone by now, off to who knows where with Shadowheart in tow, but he hadn’t even noticed them leaving.
The fresh, familiar sting of rejection burns in his chest. But it’s weaker now. Like picking at a scab rather than a fresh wound. He hums.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Whatever for?” Volo has a soft sort of grin on his face. Presumably from the alcohol.
“I needed a distraction. Desperately so, at risk of sounding, ah, a bit pathetic. And you provided.”
“The pleasure is all mine! It’s not often I run into such a kindred spirit on my travels.”
A silence settles between them, and despite being two painfully chatty individuals, it’s oddly natural. As if they have always been like this, swapping stories like life long friends. He’s not even so comfortable with the people he shares a parasite with.
Hmm. How strange.
“I am sorry. Truly.” he says after a pause. “What I said to you earlier was horribly rude of me.”
“Consider it water under the bridge, my friend,” Volo replies and shifts his gaze from the center of camp wholly to Gale. He hesitates a moment, before he adds: “your criticism was… more insightful than I initially gave it credit for. My work could be improved. Ever so slightly.”
“Make sure you capture my heroism properly in your second draft.”
“Precisely my point!” Volo laughs. It’s more tolerable than Gale remembers it being earlier. Or perhaps it's just the wine again. “Trust when I say I'll be making some sorely needed corrections.” The man reaches for his parchment and quill, missing the first few times until Gale grabs it for him despite being only marginally more coordinated.
With the sort of self-important gusto only wizards possess, Volo takes his quill and strikes out the entirety of the passage in one fell swoop.
He taps the feathered end against his jaw, thinking. His expression is one of utmost concentration. A bit ridiculous, considering the sort of thing he's writing, but Gale finds himself oddly endeared. This is a man who is clearly passionate about his craft. To dedicate oneself so completely to their work is admirable. And achingly relatable.
“I hope you're not thinking of more ways to describe my haggard appearance,” Gale says with a playful smile, “I actually look very dashing while bleeding out, you know. I'm told it's my best angle.”
“Ha! I doubt it's your best angle, but dashing, I can accept,” the reply is so fast it seems to tumble out of Volo's mouth before he has the chance to think it over.
The man's jaw snaps closed with an audible click and he keeps his eyes glued to the parchment even as his quill stills. Gale cannot help the way he stares, a faint heat creeping up his neck.
“Was that a compliment?” He blurts out. He promptly has to resist the urge to slap himself at his own sheer idiocy. Yes, of course it was, and a flirtatious one at that. He’s not that socially oblivious. Usually. Still, it shocks him enough he is compelled to double check.
“Ah. Yes.” The reply he gets is strained.
Gale, in all his alcohol assisted wisdom, pauses to consider this.
It’s not the turn he expected this conversation to take, certainly, but he is not so naïve as to pretend he doesn’t like flattery. He likes it far too much actually. And, well— Volo is charming in his own way. Gale appreciates a flare for the dramatic! Not to mention quick wit and taste for a good vintage. Volo may be a bit bumbling, academically questionable, and incredibly ridiculous but that doesn’t mean he’s opposed to—
Gods, he is too sober for this. Or not sober enough.
He decides, possibly against good sense, to forget the rationalizations. He wanted a distraction, didn’t he?
“Well then, I hope that means this time you’ll devote as much effort to describing me as you do Tav’s armor.”
Volo laughs, full bodied and relieved. “I certainly will. You’re a much more interesting subject.”
“I’d hope so. I’d be poor company if I wasn't, and a poorer excuse for a wizard.”
Volo chuckles, lifting his gaze from his writing and turning it back on Gale. His brow furrows ever so slightly and his gaze flicks around Gale's person. Like he's being studied. “Fear not, you're excellent company.”
Another wave of heat warms Gale's cheeks even after Volo's focus returns to his work. “Same to you.”
“Would you say your robes are royal purple? Or brilliant violet instead?”
“Oh, most definitely the ladder. Though they were a bit bloodstained at the time, so maroon might be more accurate.”
“Well lucky for you my friend, accuracy comes second to spectacle.”
They continue on like that for a while. Gale recounts a completely factual and unbiased account of his party's defeat of Minthara, and Volo— ever the dedicated scribe— writes it down. The finished product will likely be just as bad as before but Gale can’t say he minds. His ego certainly doesn't.
He tries several times to sneak a look at what Volo is actually writing down, but the words vanish straight off the page every time he gets close, only to reappear in the corner of his eye when he looks away. Some anti-plagiarism enchantment, but he can’t for the life of him figure out what spells have been used to create it. Or maybe it’s something Volo made up entirely on his own. Even more intriguing if that is the case.
By the time he is done with his newest draft the moon is high and everyone else has (sensibly) gone to rest.
Even Astarion has settled down to trance, having returned from the woods with suspiciously red stained palms that Gale suspects is not from wine.
Gale himself can feel exhaustion tugging at him. His eyelids droop dangerously low every time he dares to blink, and the Orb is beginning to radiate low, aching pain throughout his chest. A sign he should get some sleep and, for good measure, find a magic item to consume come morning.
But tonight is not a night for wise decisions. And he has had something clawing at the back of his mind all night.
An idea, first just an errant thought, has grown itself into something new over the last several hours. He had a plan for this night when it began. Why not stick to it.
So he watches as Volo puts down his quill and speaks before his good sense can stop him.
“Can I ask something of you?”
The other man beams. “Of course!”
“May I share a moment of magic with you?”
After a stretch of increasingly tense silence, he hastens to add: “Quite literally! I mean. I intended to show one of my companions what it was like to truly wield the Weave. A brief lesson in magic. It is such a profoundly unique experience— ah, as you know, of course— but they are attending to… other business. With you here I thought perhaps you’d be willing to indulge me. Even if just for a moment.”
He expects a no.
It feels both too juvenile and too intimate to ask such a thing of this man who only a few hours ago he was virtually shouting at. But Volo just grins (it’s even wider somehow and Gale wonders how it doesn’t split his cheeks.)
“I’d be delighted too, my dear friend.”
A flutter of excitement rises in Gale's chest.
He rises to his feet first, pulling the other up with a helping hand. He will get his magical night after all, then. Even if it is not exactly what he had imagined.
He leads Volo a little ways away from his tent, not wanting to accidentally wake the others, and begins the ‘lesson’ in earnest.
Volo is more than familiar with the movements and words, that much is clear. His technique is markedly different, however. It has a theatrical flare to it. Each gesture is grand and attention grabbing; the verbal components are spoken accurately but with such conviction Gale is taken aback. It’s like he’s performing. Reading the spell aloud as if there is an audience, just waiting around the corner to applaud. To see someone put the same effort towards spell casting as one would a stage play is… enthralling.
Gale has always thought the handling of the Weave to be an art form. That wizards are as much composers as musicians; as much artists as painters.
His own, fluid way of casting, smooth from years upon years of practice, is akin to music. The words spill from his mouth in rhythmic succession. They have the cadence of a poem. Lyrics that follow the melody of the Weave.
The two styles compliment each other strangely well.
“ Ah-Thran Mystra-Ryl Kantrach-Ao.”
The words fill the air and Gale is temporarily overwhelmed as a wave of warmth overcomes him. The embrace of the Weave, ever familiar and yet always a wonderful surprise. It’s tinged with a hint of something dark; an undercurrent he hasn’t been able to shake since he was disgraced as Mystra’s chosen, but he doesn’t focus on it.
He’s far too occupied by the swath of swirling color before him.
There are familiar wisps of purple, yes, but intertwined with them are streaks of striking blue. Like the petals of a cornflower. They mix together as if Gale and Volo’s magic combined is paint on a palette.
There is a faint scent of rosewater, sweet and comforting, but Gale can pick up hints of something else underneath. Salt water? And something that reminds him of hours spent in the Blackstaff library surrounded by parchment and ink.
He stares, open mouthed.
“ Brilliant,” he murmurs, and Volo looks equally as dumbfounded.
The colors reflect off of the other wizard’s brown eyes, glittering. Like the stars, Gale thinks unbidden.
He opens his mouth to say something, though he's not entirely sure what, when he is suddenly stopped.
There is a rush of feeling. The threads of the Weave intertwining them tug, bringing their minds together in a way that’s more personal than even the tadpole could manage. In his mind's eye Gale can see a series of images; can feel them as if they are his own experiences. Forming a connection like this in the Weave is not unordinary, but it feels so strong.
Rawkus laughter and stories shared in whispers by firelight. Hands intertwined and dinner in a far away place, away from mind flayers and cults.
A brush of soft lips.
All at once, everything is too close. Too much. They are an arms length apart but they may as well be embracing with how claustrophobic it is.
The connection snaps.
Gale is left, feeling all of a sudden incredibly warm in the face and wrong footed, in the bitter chill of the night.
Ah.
Well.
Volo is staring at him. He imagines he probably is as well. What a mess he's made of this night.
Volo is the first one to speak. “That was— A novel experience. Thank you. Truthfully.”
And of course, like he's been feeble minded, Gale can't muster up more of a response than a polite ‘ of course!’ as Volo turns tail and bids him good night.
Oh by every hair in Elminster's beard, if he could cast disintegrate on himself he would.
But despite the embarrassment, he watches the other wizard retreat into the distance with a growing sense of lightness. His heart is pounding, his face is flushed, and he knows already he won't be getting the sleep he so desperately needs.
But for once, it wont be because of Tav.
Oh.
Oh, hells.
Quite a distraction indeed.