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The sky had grown ominously dark; a chill had settled over the area and a light rain was already falling. Gale pulled up the hood of his cloak and shivered. Up at the front of the line, Karlach’s voice boomed, calling out directions and warnings. Shadowheart followed closely behind her. Astarion, behind them, glanced back at Gale. "I am enjoying our walks together,” he called out cheerfully as they trudged onward through the increasingly muddy wilderness. “Aren't you, Gale?"
Gale frowned. "Uhm... Sure. In silence." He felt drained of all energy and was not in the mood for Astarion’s flippant remarks. Ever since Astarion had revealed his vampiric nature to the rest of the group, he’d somehow become even more insufferable. Gale was struck by the thought that the rogue had actually been holding himself back before. Gale didn’t actually care that he was a vampire - he’d even offered that he had a peculiar appetite of his own, in solidarity. It was just that the elf constantly complained and took nothing seriously.
And the orb ached.
Gale didn’t complain, dragging at the rear of the group as they moved single file along a narrow path in the woods. They wouldn’t have heard him even if he did. The rain picked up dramatically within minutes, pouring down in a torrent, drenching them as they sought out their next shelter. Visibility became poor as well; Gale could just make out the form of Astarion moving ahead of him, the wet squelching sounds of boots guiding him more than his sight.
And the orb ached.
Put one foot in front of the other. That was all Gale could do. But his limbs protested every step. What he needed was an infusion of the Weave, and that had to wait. He just had to make it to their next camp. And then see if anyone could spare a magical item. No one - aside from Astarion, naturally - had made a fuss the first time Gale had needed one, but he knew it was an imposition, and he didn’t want to seem greedy. Water dripped from his hood down onto his nose. He didn’t bother trying to wipe it away.
And the orb ached.
Mud clung to the bottom of Gale’s robes, building up as he walked - shuffled, really - along terrain that was becoming increasingly difficult to negotiate. His boots fared no better; the mud sucked at them, slowing him further, threatening to pull him under. He panted with the effort to stay mobile. How much farther? Gale dared not pull on the Weave for assistance now, not when he didn’t know what it might do to him. He was already running at a deficit.
And the orb ached.
Without warning, Gale’s foot sank into a deep hole, and he was falling. He didn’t even have time to brace himself, hitting the mud face first. Luckily, it wasn’t a hard landing; the mud embraced him almost lovingly, seeping into his mouth, his nose, his ears, while the rain continued to pummel his back.
If he didn’t move, he was going to die. He couldn’t allow that - not when the rest of his companions didn’t know the consequences yet.
But his limbs refused to cooperate. The mud was stronger than his feeble attempts, and he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t breathe….
A body was suddenly atop him. Oh, gods. Gods, someone was going to hold him down and drown him here. Maybe it was what he deserved for his foolishness.
No.
No, he was Gale of Waterdeep. Archwizard. Chosen of Mystra, whether she accepted him or not. He was not going down like this. He was not going to doom them all.
Suddenly, the weight was lifted; someone grabbed his robes at the shoulders and roughly pulled him up. Gale coughed out a clump of mud and managed a single wheezed breath before he was flipped over.
A hand suddenly pressed a wet cloth over Gale’s face; Gale fought, lashing out with both arms.
One of his fists connected with his attacker - he distantly heard a grunt of pain and he lashed out again, encouraged, his other hand closing on wet curls. Someone was cursing loudly; the rain flushed out his ears enough for him to make out words. “Let go, you fool!”
And then Gale felt the orb lurch; it was reaching for something. The Weave - the Weave was in reach. He gasped as violet light pulsed in his vision and a surge of euphoria filled his chest.
And the orb no longer ached.
“Fiat lux!” Gale spluttered as the cloth was removed.
Astarion was crouched over him, partially blocking the rain as he looked down at him, half-amused. “And here I thought you only fought with your magic!”
“Astarion?” Gale coughed again. “What were you doing? Why were you holding me down?”
“I was trying to help you, you damned idiot! I fell while trying to get to you!” Astarion was holding a soaked, muddy rag. “While I don’t need to breathe, I’m pretty sure you do, and I didn’t think all that mud was helping. But” - Astarion dropped the rag and brandished a bare hand - “it also seems that your magic did something to my gloves.”
Oh. Gale automatically pressed a hand to his chest, wide-eyed. Yes, the orb was sated - had sated itself off of Astarion’s own equipment. “Gods,” Gale breathed, looking at Astarion’s hands.
“Mmm-hmm. Feeling better now?”
Gale nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, you should be,” Astarion groused. “You punched me, you ate my gloves - but worst of all, you put mud in my hair.”
Groaning, Gale pushed Astarion away in exasperation; the rogue went willingly, but he extended a hand to help him up. Gale took it and pulled - and then Astarion let go, letting him fall back in the mud. “Hey!” he protested. His hood had fallen back in the skirmish, and now the back of his head was caked with mud. Gale struggled to sit up while the rogue moved further away and sat back on his heels, watching with his head cocked to the side. “That was completely unnecessary! I didn’t get you muddy on purpose!”
“Oh, lighten up, Waterdeep.”
Gale picked up a clump of mud and threw it at him. “Why are you like this?” It hit the rogue squarely in the chest.
Astarion looked down at himself, then back up at him, gaping. Gale felt as surprised as the rogue looked, watching his face suddenly break into a mischievous smile. “You’re going to regret that.” He dug both hands into the mud.
Gale shielded his face with both arms as the wet clumps splattered against them - Astarion had excellent aim - and then thrust out his hands. “Oh, no you don’t - invoco te!” A blue mage hand appeared, digging into the mud along with his own.
“Bastard!” Astarion ducked, but only one of Gale’s three throws hit him and he laughed. “Ah, false alarm. Seems you either need to work on your aim or on your concentration!”
The mage hand evaporated as Gale lunged at him, knocking him back into the mud. “Stop trying to provoke me!” Gale’s knees protested as he knelt at the rogue’s side, glaring down at him. “It’s childish!” But Astarion was grinning up at him.
“I think the situation calls for a little childishness, don’t you?” Astarion’s voice was surprisingly earnest. “We’re free, for now, and these tadpoles in our heads haven’t killed us yet. Live a little.” He reached up a muddy hand and planted it firmly on Gale’s face, then pulled it away before Gale could react. “Oh, no - you bear the mark!” he mocked. “Praise the Absolute!”
That, finally, was what made Gale laugh. Yes - he was free. This whole predicament was ridiculous. And perhaps Astarion had a point. “Well, in that case, you need one as well.” He pressed his own hand into the mud again and lifted it to give Astarion his own mark.
“Uh, fellas? Or should I say, True Souls? Am I interrupting something?”
Gale looked up, his hand still firmly on the rogue’s face. He removed it as Karlach looked down at them with a wide smile. Abruptly, he realized that the rain had slowed to little more than a drizzle - when had that happened?
“Knock next time,” Astarion said dryly, sitting up, and Gale snorted. Karlach laughed and walked forward to pick up a very large clump of mud with both hands.
“No, wait!” Gale spluttered as Karlach’s oversized projectile caught him right in the face.
“You dare attack a True Soul? Fear not, Gale!” Astarion returned fire at Gale’s side.
“Hells yeah!” Karlach stomped into the mud, splattering all three of them, and soon mud was flying in all directions.
“What in the hells are you three doing?” Shadowheart stood over them, arms crossed.
“Aw, Fringe,” Karlach pouted, “don’t be a stick in the mud!”
All three laughed when Shadowheart rolled her eyes.
Gale laughed the loudest of all.
And, at least for now, the orb no longer ached.