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Three days. Three entire days since Tav has spared Gale so much as a polite nod, let alone conversation. He scrapes the bottom of the ‘borrowed’ cauldron from the Elfsong kitchen with rather more violence than the stew deserves. It hovers a safe handspan above the floorboards, a shimmer of heat rippling beneath, and Gale finds himself missing the honest crackle of a proper campfire.
Is this truly the sum of their bond now? Drag Mystra’s former Chosen along for the major fights, then abandon him to peel potatoes and fold laundry? There are riddles in Baldur’s Gate that beg for his mind, existential puzzles that want his particular brand of ingenuity, yet here he stands, aproned and overlooked. He ladles himself a bowl he has no appetite for and glares at the congealing surface as though it might apologise on Tav’s behalf.
Withers stands sentinel in his usual corner, his skeletal gaze fixed—with that eternal, unreadable judgement—on Karlach bellowing encouragement at Scratch and Owliver as they chase her tail in frantic circles, Lae’zel rasping corrections at Yenna’s sword grip while the girl tries (and fails) not to cry. “Your enemies will not pause for your tears, istik, strike!”
Gale sets the bowl aside, wipes his hands on his robes, and crosses through the chaos to the boney scribe. Philosophical fodder, he tells himself. A distraction from the ache beneath his ribs that has nothing to do with the orb.
“Withers,” he begins, voice low so the others won’t hear, “amid the chaos of existence, what anchors a mortal’s purpose? Deeds that echo through time, or merely the act of enduring, useful or otherwise?”
The skeleton turns his head with deliberate slowness. “Purpose is the mortal’s fond delusion, etched in fleeting breath. The body endures. The heart beats. That is enough.”
Gale opens his mouth, closes it again. He tries once more. “And if the heart questions its own worth?”
“Then it learns the worth was never in question. Existence is purpose enough.”
He walks away feeling as though he’s had a conversation with a riddle-wrapped oracle's scroll.
He sighs, rubbing at his chest, his hubris, rejection and shame in one glowing and irritating symbol and is reminded of every poor choice that led him here. The tavern's walls feel closer by the minute, pressing in, trapping him with his circular thoughts. No, stewing here will not do.
And what of Halsin and Jaheira? They never seem to sulk when Tav leaves them behind; they simply vanish into the city on errands of their own. Perhaps there is druidic wisdom in fresh air he has yet to master.
A walk, then. One foot in front of the other until the mind quiets.
Gale wanders the streets and lets the city swallow him. He grounds himself the way his mother taught him for overstimulating Waterdeep festival days—five things seen, four heard, three felt, two smelt, one tasted.
The exercise unspools slowly: cracked cobblestones, defiant weeds, a dried-up fountain, halved water-barrels hung as planters—a clever rebuke to a city that would forget its citizens—and a white cat, reminding him of Tara’s absence. He quickens his pace, a pronounced ache in his heart.
Birds still sing above the reek of fish and fear. A blister blooms beneath his new boot. The wind lifts his hair like gentle fingers and, salt from the ocean serves as a briny tonic.
Gale pulls out a hard candy and brightens as cinnamon and sugar bloom on his tongue. This takes him back to Guildhall Day festivals of his youth. His mother always tracked down a small bag of hard candies to keep his restless tongue quiet as they meandered local and visiting merchant booths set up around Waterdeep.
By the time the sugar fades, he stands before a narrow building whose sign proudly proclaims The Pussy Palace beneath the painted silhouette of a cat with an arched back and shamelessly aloft tail.
He blinks. A hybrid cat café and tea house, surely. Somewhere soft creatures will wind about his ankles and let him pretend, for an hour, that homesickness can be petted into submission.
“I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth,” Gale murmurs to no one before pushing in, the bell above the door ringing.
Primal drum beats greet him first, then walls of glittering violet. Nary a cat to be found. Only a half-elf behind a desk who looks up and smiles like sunrise.
“Hi Daddy.”
Gale sputters. The half-elf rises with fluid grace. Long chestnut hair is piled into a messy bun speared by what appears to be a knitting needle; an impressively cultivated beard brushes his bare collarbones. His cropped black shirt reveals a torso honed by something far more demanding than brewing tea, and the hot-pink glitter shorts defy every law of physics Gale has ever respected. Twenty-centimetre platform heels click as he rounds the desk and offers a languid hand, fingers down.
“Maitiú. A pleasure, I’m sure.”
Gale shakes it and tries to reclaim dignity, noting some surprising calluses. “I was led to believe there might be… felines.”
Maitiú’s laugh is bright, delighted, and entirely without malice. “Oh, honey. The only pussies here walk on two legs and choose their own names.” He gestures grandly toward the painted cat on the wall, tail curled in unmistakable invitation. “Welcome to The Pussy Palace: temple of steel, sweat, and shameless self-love. First class is in ten minutes, and it’s on the house for pretty bearded men who wander in by mistake. Care to climb?”
Gale’s brain catches up with his ears. Pole dancing. Of course. The Calishite courtesan manuals, the Sharessan devotional movements—he has read about this. In academic contexts. From a safe distance. Behind locked library doors.
"Ah," he says slowly, a flush creeping up his neck as the thumping percussion from the adjacent room takes on new meaning. "You mean... a venue for exotic dances upon poles?"
Maitiú's giggle returns, light and infectious, as he nods vigorously. "Exactly! But don't think it's just about erotic thrills. Some seek the discipline of building strength in ways the battlefield never teaches, turning soft bellies into carved marble.” He drums his well-manicured fingers on his epic core. “Others? They crave the confidence that comes from owning every inch of their body, no shame in the sweat or the sway. It's empowering, you know?”
Gale shifts uncomfortably, his thoughts drifting to the orb's scar and the way his robes hang looser these days from the toll of their adventures. The idea of exposing such vulnerabilities, of grappling with a pole in front of strangers... it is absurd. And yet, a mastery of the flesh, perhaps? Physical exertion and conditioning where the sole intent is to focus on his body? Away from camp’s prying eyes?
"I see," he murmurs, more to himself than Maitiú. "A communion with the corporeal, unburdened by judgment."
The half-elf claps his hands together, his high heels clicking on the floor as he straightens. "You've got the spirit! We've got a beginner's group today, all levels welcome. What do you say, handsome? Ready to give it a whirl?"
Gale hesitates, the ache of not being at Tav’s side still gnawing at him, but the pull of something new and reckless stirs—a chance to inhabit this traitorous body without apology. To be more than a walking catastrophe.
He hears himself say, “Apparel?”
Maitiú’s grin widens. “I’ve got you, Daddy.”
Moments later Gale stares, horrified, into a changing-room mirror. The lost-and-found has betrayed him utterly: a ripped grey crop-top blares THICK THIGHS SAVE LIVES in violent magenta; the purple shorts are little more than a suggestion. His gluteal folds are, as the youths say, fully out.
“Mystra, preserve me,” he mutters, eyes glued to the mirror.
Maitiú’s voice drifts through the curtain. “Skin grips steel, darling. Trust me.”
Deep breath.
Gale adjusts the cat-shaped kneepads, squares his shoulders, and strides into the studio before dignity can talk him out of it.
Steel poles rise like burnished trees. Coloured orbs drift overhead, shifting from rose to indigo. The air smells of pine resin and warm effort. Students of every conceivable race and build stretch and chatter. Gale claims a pole near the back and immediately regrets glancing at the mirror wall. Mystra’s mantle, was he really that hairy?
“First time?”
A halfling with a heart-shaped eyepatch and a smile bright enough to power Sigil plops down beside him. Their bright green lingerie is more string than substance, yet they wear it with the ease of a baker’s apron.
“Pimkin,” they say, offering a flour-dusted hand—actual flour, Gale realises. They must have come straight from an oven.
“Gale. Of Waterdeep,” he shakes their hand firmly, grateful for any anchor in a room full of myriad students of all different body shapes and sizes. “I must admit, I’m a bit out of my comfort zone.”
“Don’t worry, love. We all looked like newborn foals once. This instructor is wonderful. Her focus is on form and conditioning. A little gruff, perhaps, but she’ll sort you out.”
“That is a relief to hear, I must admit.”
Gale begins to casually follow Pimkin as they cycle through several floor stretches. Looking around, he is struck by the diversity in students here. Age, race, species, body type. So much bared flesh. There’s comfort in this—not being the sore thumb in class. A knot deep in his guts begins to loosen. This space feels as cosmopolitan as the Waterdeep he’s homesick for.
Clap, clap, clap.
“Morning, cubs.”
That accent. That voice.
His stomach drops through the floorboards.
Jaheira stands at the front in loose trousers and a sleeveless jerkin, scanning the room with that familiar half-smile that always made him feel twelve years old and caught stealing spell components. Her gaze snags on him for a single, devastating second.
“Some new faces. Some familiar new faces, even,” she says, and Gale swears the corner of her mouth twitches. “I’m your instructor, Jaheira, and this is a beginner class. Friendly reminder to my advanced students: no leaping ahead. No rings on my poles. No student-teachers. No magic, no performance-enhancing potions, no homebrew grip formulas. I’m looking at you, Hamlaith.” A striking, heavily inked blonde half-elf smiles, smug, eyebrows bouncing as he takes a swig from a waterskin.
She strips off the outer layers without ceremony. The earth-toned outfit beneath is still Jaheira—practical, high-cut, no nonsense—yet it leaves significantly less to the imagination than Gale has ever been forced to employ around her.
He considers spontaneous discorporation.
“You want grip aid? You buy it up front. Our pine resin powder will serve you well in climbs and aerial positions. Show-offs enjoy the spider-silk extract proprietary blend we have. It costs too much and is a nightmare to clean off my poles. You use? You stay and clean.”
Jaheira continues her introduction, touching on pole hygiene, shoulder injury avoidance, and the importance of listening to one's body before it “bites you like a displacer beast with a grudge.”
She claps again and two young bards, a well-muscled drow and a rather feline-featured high elf, rise on a small stage in the corner Gale is only noticing just now. They begin a steady drumbeat and warmup begins.
Gale flails. He separates chest from rib isolations about as well as oil blends with water. Body waves feel like an epileptic seizure performed by a poorly jointed marionette. He struggles to keep his eye on his own form, gaze often drifting to other students in the mirror, their movements connected, graceful and downright evocative. This feels all wrong in his body.
Pimkin whispers encouragement, “Breathe, Gale of Waterdeep, you’re doing better than you think”—and somehow Gale manages to gain a modicum of control over his body wave against the pole, connecting the movement a bit more.
“And for those seeking more challenge—” Gale bites back a laugh of self-defeat. “—adjust your hand grips, try reversing the direction.”
Mercifully, she moves on to floor work.
“For toe circles, I want you to imagine drawing delicate circles on a still pond’s surface with your big toes.” She demonstrates as she describes, always watching students’ form through the mirror. “Yes, but as if you draw water into your body, not pushing away. Better.”
She shifts to elbows, legs piking alternately like a river serpent. “Engage that core,” she pats her stomach firmly. And gods below, Gale does. He huffs, desperate to hide his exertion.
Jaheira turns to the class and claps to punctuate each word: “Point. Your. Toes. Soft feet undercut the entire movement—sloppy, without intent.” Gentler now, “Form over repetition. Stop if you need to take a break, saplings.” Gale waits for anyone to stop, adamant he won’t be the first. No one else stops.
Jaheira effortlessly shifts to all fours. “This next movement is a sort of push-up.”
Yes. Yes! Gale’s upper body strength has measurably improved since Waterdeep. He has stopped relying on Mage Hand to haul his most beloved tomes around. Days of hiking and hauling gear in blistering sun, along with time spent in very real combat, have increased his stamina and strength.
She dives into a serpentine floor body wave, balancing on her knees, one leg flipping up, before straightening her arms, chest out, head back. Gale’s chest sinks, less sure of his aptitude for this particular exercise. “Do not rise from hips. Round your shoulders as you reset, like this—like a cat vomiting. And dive again.”
Light laughter erupts. And she claps. “Focus. Show me.”
Gale trembles through reps, pausing as others do, softened by shared vulnerability.
Jaheira halts the music. “Your bodies may be strong in your daily routines yet still have much to learn here. That warmup series blends flexibility, flow and strength. These are not qualities to be forced, but rather learned.”
The word ‘warmup’ nearly crushes Gale. Nothing in his body registers any of this as a warmup. A conflagration is a more apt term. His feet are cramping, his abdomen is sore and his arms ache. His eyes cut to the door, weighing the humiliation of leaving mid-class against his body breaking down in front of strangers and… Jaheira.
Before he can entertain the thought any further, she continues.
"Pole climb: grip firm, thighs push, core pulls—like an inchworm." Gale manages a shaky ascent, his muscles protesting the unfamiliar strain, but a small win swells within—a reminder that his body, despite its weakness and age, can still respond.
More than halfway up, he clings, panting, and Pimkin whoops from their own pole two metres up despite being half his height.
The class progresses through poses that test limits: the mermaid, requiring a hip cant Gale fumbles until it clicks; the figure four, crossing legs and inverting while near the top in a precarious lock; and the flight pose, a horizontal hold that shoots fire through his inner thighs. It’s as though his entire weight pulls upon those sensitive patches of skin. Pain blooms, bright and honest. Not the orb’s greedy hunger, not any childhood fever’s heated ache, not the tadpole’s cold threat—this is pain he chooses. Pain that answers back when he demands strength.
“Slide to the floor. Slowly.”
Groans erupt and winced hisses fill the air, Gale’s included.
“My poor, tormented hide. Must I sacrifice yet more to this steel tyrant?” he whispers to himself.
Jaheira claps twice. “Beginner inversions. Shoulders engaged, core locked, tuck your knees, and no reliance on momentum.”
Gale struggles here. He instinctively weaves a subtle levitation cantrip without thinking, flipping upside down, effortlessly.
“Magic cheats the lesson, cub.” Her voice is low, warm with that Harper grit.
He loses his hold, startled by her unexpected proximity, only to be stabilized against the pole with her body and staggered grip.
“Let the struggle teach you who you are when no goddess is watching.”
On the sixth attempt his knee hooks, his hips tilt, and for one dizzy moment the world flips the right way up. He laughs—actually laughs—breathless and astonished.
Pimkin quietly applauds him while several other students voice congratulations, celebrating his triumph through struggle. Blood rushes to his head, covering for his blush conveniently. He dismounts with a grunt and catches Jaheira’s expression in the mirror: something warmer, even protective, emerging. She offers a subtle nod to him before clapping her hands again, summoning the bards.
Freestyle arrives like absolution. Drums and strings swell into full music, lights dim, glowing fungi installed around the studio awaken to cast an electric bioluminescent hue over everyone, turning sweat-slicked skin into something ethereal, like stars in the Underdark.
Gale lets go, his movements tentative at first but building to a flow that surprises him: climb, slide, spin, hold. His feet are still clumsy, his transitions jerky, but the body obeys. His body finally feels like an ally rather than a broken instrument.
When the music fades, his legs shake so badly Pimkin has to steady him down the last slide. Cool-down is quiet and restorative. Jaheira meanders the room, pressing shoulders down, murmuring, “Breathe into the ache. Thank your body for carrying you this far.”
The glowing orbs illuminate the room again. Jaheira claps—approval, not command—and the class disperses amid easy laughter and promises of anti-inflammatory teas.
Gale limps back through streets gone lavender with dusk. Every muscle sings. He expects to feel humiliation; instead there is a bright, unfamiliar lightness, as though the orb has lost a fraction of its weight.
At camp, Tav is mid-tale, gesturing wildly about the murder tribunal they apparently dismantled single-handedly. Gale slips past, digs for his waterskin—and freezes.
A small brown bottle rests atop his bed: arnica tincture, the label in Jaheira’s unmistakable script. No note. None needed.
Across the room, Jaheira meets his eyes. He lifts the bottle in both hands and bows, theatrical and sincere. She snorts once, soft, and turns back to sharpening her scimitar.
Gale sets the tincture aside untouched. Tomorrow the bruises will bloom spectacular colours, and he will wear every one like a badge. These hurts he earned with his own trembling hands, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, the body that betrayed him has also kept a promise.
He lies back, staring at the ceiling, and finds himself rehearsing the exact phrasing he might use tomorrow to ask Jaheira—quietly, with dignity—whether private coaching is ever extended to particularly stubborn wizards who still cannot manage a clean invert.
