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Night has fallen over their encampment. A cluster of charcoal clouds drifts across the waxing crescent moon, shining through the night and the stars freckling the darkness.
Gale flicks his wrist, casting a simple cantrip to clean up the remnants of dinner, with a waver of a few purple tendrils of the weave. The mess of his culinary efforts disappears and his oversized cook pot returns to its rightful place in his tent. He casts the remains of carrots, cabbage, and potatoes to the forest floor with a series of dull thuds, leaving leftovers for the scavengers and foragers. Perhaps, as a bit of bait to draw easy prey for a certain campmate. Failing that, maybe Wyll or Lae’zel will score a rabbit or boar for tomorrow’s dinner.
A sumptuous bouillabaisse with crusty sourdough bread and a treacle tart served as their meal that evening. The bread came from one of the tieflings in the Emerald Grove. Bex, Gale remembers, one of the many refugees. And the treacle tart? Well, Tav had acquired that from somewhere unknown, possibly pilfering it from a basket in the Hollow or somewhere else along the way.
A haughty laugh pierces the air, followed by an admonishment from Tav’s song-like voice. Astarion, dressed in his leather pants and ruffled lace-up shirt, has perched next to the young human and smiles at her. His eyes gleam, dark and predatory, as he talks to Tav. She holds a worn lute in her lap.
Gale frowns. If that treacle tart is any indicator, it appears their leader is picking up some habits from their most unscrupulous companion.
He focuses on Astarion, the slight tilt of his head and the smirk that only lifts one side of his mouth. His teeth, those suspicious canines, are hidden. After the incident in the cave, where Astarion stumbled into a field of swarming toadstool and drank the suspicious poison, Gale had procured some blood for the vampire. Astarion was in no shape to hunt and needed sustenance. Knowing this secret, Gale provided enough blood from a dead goblin to get Astarion by. Thank the gods for mage hands.
Gale straightens the sleeves of his robe and approaches the campfire, listening to Tav strum a series of major chords and pluck a few notes in quick succession.
“That is a lovely ditty, Tav,” Gale comments, sitting down.
He glances to Astarion, who rolls his eyes at his very presence and shifts back, crossing his arms. Despite Gale knowing full well what Astarion is after that little cave adventure, the vampire has been standoffish and even more aloof than usual. But Gale only smiles at him with his most kindly and simpering grin.
“Thank you, Gale,” Tav says. “I’m actually trying some ad-libbing. I was thinking of some lyrics.”
“Ah, creating art extemporaneously, putting your poetry to music, as they say,” he replies.
He adjusts the skirt of his robe and leans his elbows on his thighs, warming his hands near the fire. The night air keeps little of the day’s heat.
“Maybe you could help me,” Tav says. “What are some of your favorite things? I think that would make a lovely song.”
“Oh gods,” Astarion sighs, exasperated. He makes a dismissive gesture toward Gale. “Tav, are you sure you want that list? It’s going to be dreadfully dull, don’t you think?”
Tav shushes Astarion and turns back to Gale, her dark eyes curious. The elf picks at his nails with the edge of his dagger, sulking. Gale clears his throat.
“There are a great many things I enjoy,” he says. “But if we are to keep this concise, perhaps you should narrow it down.”
“Well, with all your complaining, we know you like the luxuries,” Astarion interjects.
“I won’t deny that a soft bed, a hot, drawn bath with lavender, and a nice glass of Arabellan Red alongside a particularly good book are amongst my favorite things,” Gale says.
Astarion merely purses his lips, the white paleness of his skin painted orange and red by the occasional flicker of the fire. A particularly striking image. It’s a shame he cannot see himself, Gale muses, before swallowing and burying that thought. There are other things to think about.
“And you do always go on about Waterdeep,” Astarion adds, rolling his eyes again.
“If you’re not careful, your eyes will get stuck that way, Astarion,” he teases, wagging a finger at the elf.
With a harrumph Astarion pulls his legs in and bends forward at the waist, narrowing his eyes on Gale.
“If you’re not careful, your tongue will be cut out,” the rogue hisses.
Gale’s eyes widen and Astarion blinks, as though stunned by his own venom and the slip of his tongue.
Tav coughs and strums a dissonant chord, a telltale sign of her trying to break the tension. She has a particular set of notes she plays when Shadowheart and Lae’zel get too baneful with one another. Clever, using music and her voice to break the tension or add an air of humor.
“That was a bit dramatic, Astarion,” she says, this time turning a pout to the vampire.
“I forget myself sometimes,” he murmurs, glancing off into the fire, away from either of their gazes.
The fire crackles, another bit of tinder disintegrating and feeding the flame.
He’s probably hungry, waiting for them to disperse so he can hunt, Gale realizes. In his own chest, the Netherese orb pulses, though recently sated by a magic necklace that Tav gave up with little question. It is always pulsing, a reminder of his own hubris. Tav knows, but she doesn’t really know his foolishness, the depths to which it dooms him. And possibly all of them.
“It is true, though. I love Waterdeep. It is the City of Splendors, after all,” Gale adds.
“Okay, so soft beds, wine, books, the Weave, lanceboard, and Waterdeep,” Tav says. She taps a beat on the ribs of her lute with one hand and positions her other fingers on the neck.
“I hardly think that summation captures all the intricacies of my rich inner life,” Gale says.
“Shh,” Tav presses a finger to her lips. “I have something . I call it ‘One Night in Waterdeep.’”
She picks the strings and music pours forth from her instrument, filling the night air. Then, she sings, her voice ringing out over the crackle of the fire and the lapping water over the river.
One night in Waterdeep, The City of Splendors
There’s a wizard’s tower with rooms aplenty
With a soft feather bed for a man so tender,
He reads a book from his library
With a glass of wine or sherry
One night in Waterdeep, where only fools could fumble
There’s much between the harbor and the streets
One night in Waterdeep, makes a Baldurian humble
You can’t compete with Blackstaff Academy
I can feel Mystra’s Weave next to me
Astarion sits up, out of his slouch, a grin splitting his face and claps. Then, he stands and rounds the fire. With mirth bubbling out of his chest, he throws back his head as he cackles. Gale rolls his eyes at Astarion, but he has to admit that Tav’s off-the-cuff lyrics are amusing enough. Likely better than anything Volo could come up with on the spot.
“That first verse is perfection, Tav. You have really captured Gale’s proclivities, though, perhaps we could do without the talk-singing bits?”
“Just trying something a bit different,” she says with a shrug. “Sorry, Gale, I didn’t mean to pick on you. Or Waterdeep.”
“Oh, pish posh. I enjoyed it very much. And if I cannot appreciate a little jabbing, well, my skin is much too thin,” Gale says. “Besides, I believe it’s Astarion’s turn.”
“Turn for what?” Astarion peers down at Gale, blinking.
“Why for a song! As long as you are willing, Tav.”
“Of course.” She smiles brightly and tosses her hair over her shoulder.
“Well, I am not willing,” Astarion adds, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting back down on the log, a pout on his delicate lips.
“Be a good sport, won’t you? It’s helpful for me to develop my improvisational skills,” Tav says, her eyes soft and sad, a look that Gale doesn’t expect to work on Astarion.
Surprisingly, the vampire just scoffs.
“Fine.” He leans back, kicking at the dusty earth, and pretends to look away.
“So what are Astarion’s favorite things?” Gale asks the bard.
Tav crosses her arms atop her lute, gazing upwards thoughtfully. The firelight glints across her tanned face as she gnaws on her lip.
“Well, bloodshed, for one,” she says.
“Is that all, darling?” Astarion barks a laugh.
“Oh, I’m sure we can come up with a few more things,” Gale says, teasing.
“Okay, go on then, wizard and bard. How well do you think you know me? Hmm?” Astarion quirks a brow and glances between the two of them.
“Well, based on the missing tomes in my collection, you seem to relish a good read just as much as I do,” Gale says.
“We are in the middle of nowhere, sleeping on the ground. There’s hardly anything to do when we’re not stabbing goblins and having brain worms,” Astarion protests.
“You also love lock-picking. It’s like a puzzle–” Tav starts.
“Oh no, dear, I hate puzzles,” Astarion replies. “Do try again.”
“Okay. How about flirting, then?” Tav gets a saucy little smile, a rosy color rising to her cheeks.
“Hmmm,” the elf puts his hand on his chin, stretching out his long slender limbs, and crosses his ankles, the leather of his boots creasing. “I suppose that is not untrue.”
Though he has not exactly been the target of Astarion’s flirting, Gale has certainly witnessed it enough. There were those awful, corny lines he’d tried on Shadowheart, which she rebuffed with critical ease. And that ‘pointy ears’ nonsense he used with Tav. Astaron seems determined to win the bard’s favor. Tav mostly laughs it off and ignored him. It was, of course, an act. The same way the cock of his hip or tilt of his chin could signal a change in the tide as Astarion transformed into his seductive, but charming charlatan persona.
What is real with Astarion? Gale is not so sure. Other than the red gleam of his eyes, the hunger, and, well, the fangs. Other than the bloodlust in battle, the pure and unadulterated joy in chaos as he plunges a dagger into the back of a goblin or bugbear. Or human.
“Gale?” Tav is looking at him, chin lifted.
Ah, yes. They were having a conversation.
“I think we can still add lock-picking and generally roguish activities to the list,” Gale replies.
“So that’s bloodshed, flirting, lock-picking and other rogue-like behaviors.” Tav counts on her fingers. “Being sarcastic. Gossiping.”
“That’s just rude,” Astarion protests again.
“Sneaking around in the dark.” Tav adds her other hand, extending a finger.
Astarion’s red eyes widen and he glances away momentarily. Gale clears his throat. In the background, Lae’zel’s whetstone against her blade makes a shink sound. Wyll and Karlach are down by the river and Shadowheart is in prayer, at her tent away from the campfire.
“Well, Astarion’s incredible light-footedness is a boon to us, but it’s not necessarily his favorite thing,” Gale says. “How about the morning sunrise breaking across the river? Rays of warmth touching bare skin? The dappled kiss of the sun’s rays through a canopy of trees?”
Tav pats her hands on the body of her lute, the sound reverberating through the hollow wooden instrument, and raises an eyebrow. Astarion, though, is staring right at Gale, his face nearly unreadable, having lost the sneer Gale has grown accustomed to. The firelight reveals his raised brows and surprise. As though he has been seen by someone he hadn’t intended on revealing himself to from the shadows.
Tav strums, plucks a few notes, and hums to herself. She fiddles with the tuning and tries again, quietly.
Reading books and things that are written
Daggers of metal and making girls smitten
Sunrises and rivers fresh like spring
These are Astarion’s favorite things
The lyrics are not quite hitting, but Gale can appreciate the minor key of the song. It gives it a slightly wistful edge. Astarion listens, his long elven ears twitch slightly at Tav’s melodious timbre.
Bringing down goblins, dashing and brutal
Thieving the whole kit and caboodle
Sunlight on skin and amethyst rings
These are Astarion’s favorite things
An off-key twang sounds and then a snap comes from the lute. Tav grimaces, dropping her fingers from the frets. Shaking her hand, she sucks on her index finger and winces. One of the strings has snapped, likely from overuse or just age. The lute itself wasn’t in the best shape when they found it in the Emerald Grove.
“Ah, I’m afraid you’re saved from my songs tonight,” she says. “I’ll seek out Alfira for a new string tomorrow.”
Standing with her instrument in hand, Tav lets out an enormous yawn and cracks her neck. While the fire still crackles, its flames licking up the sides of the remaining tinder, she blinks slowly and rolls her shoulders back. Gale can feel the ebb of her sleepiness, but ignores the tide of exhaustion–he has books to read, scrolls to examine, and an orb that often keeps his sleep cycles interrupted.
She bids them a good night, heading toward Karlach’s tent with no sort of shame as she seeks the tiefling woman.
Gale leans back on the log and gazes up at the night sky. From their campsite, there is a clear view of Amaunator’s Belt glittering overhead between the sparse clouds. Crickets, frogs, and other creatures dot the soundscape with chirps and croaks, amidst a gentle breeze that rustles the trees surrounding them.
The tickle of Astarion’s gaze pricks on his skin, like a cold match of an eternal flame held merely a quarter inch away, threatening to scald with an unnatural burn. Or maybe like the points of fanged teeth. Gale lowers his head and meets the vampire’s ruby glare across the fluttering flames.
Astarion sits, one leg crossed over his thigh, his elbow planted and chin cradled in his hand. His curls are luminous as white as the moon. Gale recalls a pair of silver elves he met at Blackstaff Academy, tall and slender and, well, ridiculously beautiful. Teu-tel-quessir . They had come for a few weeks for a session on illusion magic and to explore the wonders of Waterdeep.
Astarion carries many of the same features: radiant, nearly ice-blue skin, silvery white hair, and that preternatural grace. The elves at Blackstaff had eyes of pale green and bright blue with flecks of gold and amber. What color were Astarion’s eyes originally? Before… well, before all of this. Before he was turned.
Gale bites his tongue. He will never ask. To be intrigued by a charlatan and fall into Astarion’s web is foolish and dangerous.
For all of his supposed gifts and brilliance, Gale does love to be foolish.
Astarion’s red gaze flicks across Gale’s face, trailing along the more prominent purple veins, down his neck, and then it settles where the orb sits dormant in his chest. For now. The elf reaches to his belt, loosening the strings of a leather pouch, and removes a plain gold band.
Immediately, Gale feels the pulse of magic in it as the orb seeks the weave across the campfire. Though he has been recently supplicated by Tav’s generosity, the orb flares and the arcane hunger pangs in his chest. He’s glad for the light-dampening properties of his velvet overshirt.
“Curious,” Astarion says, “how you note such things about me. What did you say?”
Gale gulps, but does not look away. He often can’t when it comes to Astarion–he is too beautiful , like an ivory carving that has come to life. And after a year alone in his tower, with the illusions he conjured for himself and the limited company of Tara, Gale is drawn to Astarion as moth to flame. Despite all of his reading and education, he cannot think of a more fitting metaphor, however cliche. He wants to flutter closer, just as he had with Mystra. He wants to burn in Astarion’s icy blaze.
“The dappled kiss of the sun’s warmth through a canopy of trees ,” Astarion repeats, his voice teasing. He holds up the gold ring between his index finger and thumb and looks through it at Gale. “Poetic.”
Poetic. And perhaps pathetic. Gale’s cheeks flush, concealed, he hopes, by the fading fire.
“I have tried my hand at poetry, many a time,” Gale says, slowly. “I cannot say my work is necessarily exceptional, though.”
Astarion says nothing, just makes a little ‘hmph’ sound. He tosses the ring up, letting it spin in the air. It reflects the light of the fire as it twirls. Without breaking his gaze with Gale, he catches it in his hand. He then leans back and slides it onto his ring finger.
Gale stares at Astarion’s hands, pale and slender and so very capable. At the gold band. It could’ve been someone’s wedding ring. A dowry ring, infused just with barely enough magic to cast a light and lead a pair of newlyweds to each other on the first night of their coupling.
But something more powerful calls to him from the plain band. Something hot and molten curls in his gut at the sight of it on Astarion’s elegant hand. It might simply be Astarion himself, though.
The elf clears his throat and stands, stretching. “Well, as delightful as the music and conversation have been, I must take my leave.”
Gale glances behind him toward the dark, beckoning forest. Astarion quirks a brow and smiles.
“Good night, Gale,” he says.
On near silent feet, Astarion saunters toward the edge of a copse of trees. He pauses, gazing up at the sky to the constellations, the profile of his dignified face glowing against the leafy darkness.
“Happy hunting,” Gale says.
Astarion looks at him, eyes narrowed. Gale’s heart pounds in his ears, elevated and strong. Then, a feral grin splits Astarion’s pallid face. Without another word, or sound, Astarion turns and slips beyond the line of trees into the night.
Gale remains at the fire, casting a light gust spell to keep it alive and flickering, and wonders about shades of blue and green and flecks of amber and gold. Whether he’d prefer that, or if an incandescent, gleaming red has become his new favorite thing.