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It had been about four days since everybody found out about Astarion’s vampirism. Thankfully, nobody was mentioning it. They were all entirely too busy travelling around the forest just outside of the Emerald Grove and trying not to die.
Needless to say, their time together had been unpleasant. The towns were full of goblins. The hills were full of gnolls. Their heads were full of worms. And they had only just discovered that Waulkeen’s Rest was full of fire. Most recently, they had lost an additional three days of exploring because of the rain: a good thing for Waulkeen’s, a bad thing for them.
Wyll had the hair-brained idea to split the party to start searching outside of the grove in a wide radius, just to make sure nothing scary had wandered in with the storms. They planned a little foray out to previously explored locations, just to get a lay of the land again. Lae’zel and Wyll were headed further north, hoping to find a lead on the whereabouts of the githyanki. Shadowheart and Karlach were headed back towards the abandoned town where they had slaughtered a bunch of the goblins.
That meant that Astarion was stuck with the wizard, and normally, this wouldn’t be a bad thing. More often than not, the wizard was at least good company. Although he was a do-gooder like most of their ragtag bunch, he was less tolerant of senseless acts of gallantry; it felt good to commiserate with each other, sharing hidden eye rolls or exasperated stares when the others leapt into action to save the next maiden in distress.
Except this time, instead of entertaining the rogue with debate or discussion, the wizard was too busy kneeling in the only spot of dry ground in the whole godsdamned bog, to study a mushroom of all things. Gale had pulled the mushroom off a gnarled, dead log, split it in half, and had the cap resting on top of a blank page of the journal he usually carried around. Idly, he was taking notes on the adjoining page while he waited for something – like for the sun to explode, perhaps.
The journal had become a permanent fixture, almost as inextricable from Gale as that awful purple was. It was big and bulky, bound in plain, unadorned leather. It must have contained over a couple hundred pages, and it seemed to be mostly used up. Gale was currently working through what looked like to be the last third of the journal.
Or at least, Astarion supposed. He couldn’t see diddly-squat from where he was steadily sinking into the bog water. As futile of an endeavour as it was, Astarion shuffled his feet to stop himself from sliding further into the slip. This was miserable. Not to mention all the new rain had brought forth a torrent of freshly-hatched midges. Despite not having much blood to spare, the vampire was getting absolutely eaten. And most unfairly, the magician was just sitting there, entirely unbothered; Astarion blamed it on the magic. Everything about this was getting on his last nerves.
“Gale, if you’re quite done, can we keep moving? We’re supposed to be looking for trouble, not fungi. If you’re going to do this…” Astarion gestured wildly at the wizard’s set up, voice frayed between an annoyed whine and a growl of displeasure. “-can we at least get out of the mud for heaven’s sake?”
“Drier land doesn’t have this kind of fauna.” Gale answered in a matter-of-factly way. It made the vampire ebb ever closer to strangling him. The wizard continued, despite the impending danger steadily surmounting closely behind him. “I’m trying to see if this is a specimen of rogue’s morsel. If it is, we can collect the bunch and make healing potions for later.”
“Or, hear me out,” Astarion retorted, keeping his tone pointed and as even as possible. “We leave the stupid fungus behind, because need I remind you, this is the hag’s bog and this could be a cursed mushroom or something. It could turn us all into toads like that creepy, pale frog we saw-“
“You thought he was kind of creepy? I thought he was kind of cute. I am rather fond of the patterning, something about his big eyes and pale face just-”
“You are incorrigible, Gale. Do not make me beg, it won’t be enjoyable for either of us, I’m sure. Let’s just go,” he whined, swatting away another midge. Three more seemed intent to take their fallen brethren’s place.
The wizard, regardless of if he was complete or not, sighed and pulled the mushroom off the paper. He studied the imprint that was left behind, a ruddy mark that mirrored the pattern of the mushroom’s gills, and marked it down on the corresponding journal page. After, he referenced a smaller field book that he had pulled out of his satchel, compared notes back and forth for a while and finally jotted in a few last footnotes before closing the journal up. He returned the little field book to his satchel, collected his journal and stood up.
“Unfortunately, this is a different species. I think we can find more rogue’s morsel closer to the river.” Gale noted, as if Astarion had any interest in anything the wizard was blathering on about.
“Whatever you say, you old fool, let’s just get out of here before I die of blood loss.” Astarion huffed, turning on his heel. His boot damn near slid out from under him; rather ungracefully, the rogue struggled to catch his footing in the mud. However, once he had his bearings, he wandered back towards the pathway headed towards the abandoned town. Hopefully they would meet up with Karlach and Shadowheart sooner rather than later, lest he have to explain why the wizard was lying exsanguinated on the side of the road somewhere.
The wizard fell into pace with him, still clutching his leather-bound journal in his arms. Annoyingly, Astarion could hear the rustle of pages behind him. Was he in his book again for some reason? While they were walking ? He couldn’t be bothered to look back, not if he wanted a fighting chance of not tearing that book asunder; he barely reacted when the wizard spoke at him. “You can still die of blood loss?”
“I still have a heart, wizard. Need something to stake after all.” The vampire responded finally. Unsurprisingly, he heard the familiar sound of pen flitting over paper as Gale presumably wrote that tidbit down in his journal as well. Astarion had to suppress an eye roll. At the very least, he wasn’t sitting in silence anymore; it gave him something to think about instead of how all of his new bug bites were starting to itch.
He could really use a poultice or something to help soothe the aggravated skin; as loathe as he was to admit, maybe Gale was onto something about making potions after all. “So, I didn’t take you as the type to dabble in the druidic arts, Gale. I thought being a wizard was all about reading books, locked away in the confines of a cushy tower, not roughing it in the howling wasteland. Think you could make a poultice? A salve or something?”
“For the bug bites?” Gale said. From the corner of Astarion’s eye, he could see the wizard eyeing up a particularly nasty bug bite swelling up on Astarion’s cheek. “I could try, but I’d have to research more. Although I am a prodigy in almost everything arcane, I will admit: I only have a basic grasp of the druidic arts and alchemy. As you’ve said, I’m more of an indoor cat, shall we say. I do like to research though.”
The wizard continued before Astarion could stop him. “There are some beautiful botanical studies in a book I read when learning about anatomy and herbalism. I borrowed it from Master Halsin’s library and I thought I’d try my hand at it. Consider it a hobby of mine, and-“
“We’re all about to die via illithid parasite, and you’re out here collecting hobbies.” Astarion huffed incredulously, rolling his eyes. Astarion stared at Gale accusingly, quickly directing his ire from the wizard to the fact he was still writing at something in his book instead of even looking back at Astarion, let alone watching the road ahead of him. What was so interesting in that book that was keeping the wizard so rapt? Astarion tipped his head upwards, trying to peer into the pages.
Gale, annoyingly, swivelled his body away. “Excuse you!”
“It’s the very least you could do if you’re so adamant on ignoring my company. Let me see.” Astarion chased the wizard trying to peek, Gale would spin away, causing them both to spin in a little circle; the vampire in pursuit, the human trying to hide his work. It was like Astarion was trying to cheat on a test. Of course, goody-goody Gale wouldn’t let him look.
Eventually, the wizard slammed the page closed, frowning deeply at the vampire. “You’re incorrigible.”
“It takes one to know one.” Sure, it wasn’t his finest jab. However, Gale made it so easy to taunt and tease; it was like the wizard was a little girl on the school yard and Astarion suddenly had a thing for pulling pigtails. He chuckled to himself a little at the thought, but eventually elected to leave the wizard alone about it. “Come on, we should try to find Shadowheart and Karlach.”
Gale nodded the affirmative, falling into speed beside Astarion. Although Astarion doubted the snively little goblins had repopulated the village, there was still a lot of road left unexplored. That would be a tomorrow issue probably, but if the goblins had truly taken Master Halsin, they were destined to explore it. The archdruid may be their only cure and the travelling party had to chase every opportunity they could to prevent ceremorphosis. Hopefully the girls had found some leads forward.
Approaching the village, the soft murmurings of a conversation were heard: the soft sound of the cleric’s melodic timber chatting away with a louder, more boisterous one. Their teammates were ahead. Finally, Gale tucked his journal back into his satchel and walked ahead; this time, it was Astarion that had to work to keep on his heels.
The journal made its reappearance at camp that night when they were back at the grove. Shadowheart and Gale had returned with an old set of books depicting the brief history of the ruined town. The wizard had taken it upon himself to fastidiously pick through the books, writing out any important details he may have found. Occasionally, the wizard would steal a glance up at Astarion, then go back to writing in the book. It was odd, but Astarion tried to not let it bother him; he focused on cleaning and sharpening his daggers for the many battles ahead.
A few days later, when they had finally infiltrated the goblin camp and were masquerading as True Souls, Astarion caught Gale hovering over a mysterious meat on a cooking spit. He was chatting with the goblin steadily turning the din, taking notes while the rest of the group worked to get intel. Humorously, for reasons unknown to Astarion, the wizard suddenly blanched and darted away as quick as his feet could carry him. Astarion wondered what that was about.
When they learned the goblins were preparing an ambush on the Emerald Grove, they had all scurried back to the druids with their tails between their legs and the newly released archdruid on their heels.
The next couple of days were spent creating defenses. From where Astarion was on the ground, digging pits to conceal explosives, he could see Gale talking with a line of archers on top of the wall. The damned book was in his arms again. He would speak, hold his thumb out to help gauge distance, scribble something else in that book, and then go back to talking to the archers to coach them about how to cover their angles better.
A few days after that, when the resulting tiefling party was winding down, Astarion was spending most of it bristling in his tent. Although he had tried desperately, Astarion had not been able to convince Gale to step away from the party to lay with him in the woods. The wizard mentioned something about not wanting to upset Gale’s already volatile condition; it felt like a lame excuse, and Astarion was – perhaps a little unjustly – bitter about it.
As retaliation, Astarion had specifically settled for the other wizard instead. As they left, Astarion made sure to trapeze the tiefling past Gale’s tent, leading Rolan to the woods by a hand pressed low on the jut of the magus’ hip. As the elf predicted, the dark glare fixed on Rolan’s back almost made it worth it. However, it was short lived: Astarion caught Gale scribbling something furiously in that damned book just before they left.
No matter what Astarion did, no matter what atrocities were happening around them, Gale simply would not put the book down.
Needless to say, that ridiculous journal was becoming a staple in Astarion’s mind. Every time he sees the damn thing, it lit up his brain like a beacon, occupying his thoughts with the mysteries contained within. Astarion’s curiosity was becoming a beast to contend with.
The end of the tiefling occupation similarly ushered the group out towards the epicentre of Absolute activity: Moonrise Towers. The now seven of them walked back towards the goblin camp, Wyll chatting with Halsin at the front, Karlach acting as a buffer between the two other girls in the middle still bickering between themselves about anything under the sun.
And as was becoming increasingly common, Astarion was left in the back with Gale.
“So, wizard, tell me: what are you writing in that book of yours all the time?” Astarion started, keeping the conversation light at first. Gale just barely opened his mouth to respond, however, he was swiftly cut off by Astarion. The vampire’s tone came off a little more accusatory than he had intended, but he kept his face neutral. “Surely it must be interesting if you’re going to turn me down for a night alone, stuck between the pages of a journal instead of stuck between my sheets.”
The wizard’s mouth clicked closed. “You know the nature of my condition. It is inadvisable to engage in such proclivities right now.” If Astarion was permitted to speculate, he thought Gale’s tone seemed more pointed and bitter. At the very least, it was more than he had heard on the wizard before. Was the book really that important to him?
Astarion felt a pang of frustration ripple through him; if Gale was so defensive now, perhaps he best not press further into the events of the tiefling party. It would save them both the headache. Instead, the elf veered the conversation towards whatever it was that held the wizard’s attention so rapt. “Regardless, what are you writing in there anyways?”
“A plethora of things.” The wizard’s tone lightened; Astarion was grateful for that at the very least. Gale started into this long-winded speech about a discussion he had earlier on with the young tiefling couple, Bex and Danis, about their plans for when they finally settled. Gale noted some of Zevlor’s details about their time in Avernus. He jotted down some spells shared by the other wizard that even Cal and Lia were impressed by. He even wrote down a limerick from the bard Alfira and her friend Lakrissa.
Astarion noticed that Gale didn’t address Rolan by his name. It was odd, but it was probably because the wizard was too wrapped up in discussions about Mystra and magic to really pay attention to smaller details like his name and what not. Either way, if Astarion lingered too long without interrupting the wizard, they’d be talking about this forever. He jumped in, “So, it seems you wrote a lot last night?”
“Bits and bobs, but not enough to be noteworthy.” Gale admitted sheepishly. “I was a little too in my cups last night to give it much attention to be honest with you. I tried a little, but I wasn’t able to get anything of note down on paper.”
Astarion bemusedly rolled his eyes, “Then you still haven’t told me what you’re writing in there. You’re always squirrelled away in that damn book, wizard. Tell me something. Anything!”
“Well, then it might just be for me to know. I do have a great appreciation for privacy after all, especially my own.” Gale continued. He shuffled his pack to a better position on his back as they walked. The pack on Gale was bulkier than Astarion had expected – it looked uncomfortable, and Astarion had no idea where or how he managed to carry a telescope of all things around him or where it was now even. It must have been enchanted or something.
The pack on Astarion’s back, almost half the size of Gale’s bag, dug uncomfortably into the elf’s shoulders; he adjusted his own pack trying to get it to a more comfortable spot. There was still so much distance left to travel. Astarion would have to ask him about it whenever they did settle farther in for camp again.
That night at camp, after Gale had slapped something together into some kind of stew of sorts, the companions were all engaged in conversation. Shadowheart had retired to tinker around with that strange artifact and surprisingly, she seemed to be asking questions to the githyanki about it. Frankly, it was a boring - but welcome - improvement from when they were trying to kill each other about it. Karlach and Wyll were asking the druid questions around the fire, answering his questions about the group in turn.
Astarion had taken to lying on the ground through most of the meal, on his bedroll, watching the sun covetously. He watched it slip from its spot high in the sky to just above the treeline. These days, it wasn’t unusual to find the vampire sunbathing. It had become a tiny ritual for Astarion, an afternoon act of rebellion against his bastard sire. However, this time was purposeful.
After a particularly ill-advised moment of kindness, Astarion had thrown his back out when helping the others dig up some kind of cache of items right before the first goblin outpost. An errant dig of the shovel collided with a chest of sorts and the pack on his shoulders tumbled off, wrenching his back funny. He had spent most of the afternoon supine about it.
His vampiric healing, the old druid’s restoration, and a little rest would ensure he’d be right as rain come morning. However, he would still have to carry that damn pack of his and risk doing it all over tomorrow. If only somebody had tips on how to lighten the load…
Astarion glowered into the wizard’s tent, eyeing all of the fun little treasures Gale had amassed all to himself. Inside the canvas tent were piles and piles of books, each stack at least eight tall. Not to mention the brass telescope that Astarion knew was going to make a reappearance. Gale had seemed entirely unencumbered on the way to the goblin encampment. Even Karlach had started to struggle with hauling her smattering of belongings around. Gale had not.
Astarion was convinced it had to be magic. There was simply no other explanation.
That settled it. Astarion would have to bully answers out of the wizard. The elf fondly remembered the image he conjured back when this whole debacle with the journal began, of being the little school boy pulling Gale’s pigtails. Frankly, the wizard made it too easy to be mean to him.
Astarion collected himself before moving towards the wizard’s tent only to find it woefully empty. He gave a precursory glance around the camp: companions were just starting to section off for the evening, heading back to their respective tents. The only people that Astarion noticed still in the common area were Wyll and Karlach, still sitting and chatting around the embers of the fire, whispering hushed amongst themselves.
It was cute. Something jealous in Astarion made him rankle, and he quickly scuttled over to Gale’s tent to avoid them. When he got there, however, there was no sign of the wizard.
He huffed disappointedly, eventually deciding that he would spend the evening annoying both of his other companions instead of his first intended target. Astarion turned to leave when he noticed that stupid leather-bound journal, precariously perched on one of the assorted book piles. This same book that Gale had consistently chosen over Astarion for the past tenday or more, left unattended, unguarded...
Curiosity demanded and sticky fingers prevailed. The rogue dipped inside, tucked the journal under his arm, and then stole it away to his own tent. Once there, Astarion elected to sit on a vacant tree stump just close enough to the fire so he could actually read the damn thing. Honestly, he didn’t care all that much about what was written inside; it was enough to even flaunt that he had managed to take it. If the journal was boring, he could sit there and revel in the way Gale would fluster about having had his precious journal stolen.
Astarion delicately unwrapped the leather cording that kept the journal securely closed. When it finally fell open, he set to flipping idly through the pages trying to find what jumped out at him.
Generally, the pages were yellowed – some sticking in areas – and it indicated this journal was well used. Some pages were dog-eared, some were torn, but nearly every page was littered in cursive, looping scrawl. Mostly writing, mostly boring jargon about researching magical tomes, the occasional comment about Mystra and some bullshit she pulled that even made Astarion bristle.
He eventually stumbled across a page that had an ink splotch on it, like the bottle had tipped over and spilled across it. Immediately after this point, the handwriting looked different. It was less clear. The first instance of the word Netherese popped up followed by a bunch of question marks. The writing was less free flowing, the penmanship decreasing considerably. An uptick in jargon about textbooks, tomes, reference numbers, and a growing tally on the top of each page.
It was becoming harder to read as the sun started to dip beyond the treeline. Astarion had to eventually move from the stump to the now recently vacated log pulled over to the dwindling fire. The vampire mindlessly tossed another log on the embers just in case the light went out.
Astarion turned through a couple of other pages, watching that tally crawl across the top of each page to completion, finally starting another row. Finally, when he had gotten about two-thirds of the way into the book, the tally mark suddenly stopped.
The writing seemed less analytical. There were a couple of notes here and there. The name Shadowheart came up once. Mentions of the Emerald Grove and a transcription of the note that Astarion found locked away in Kagha’s chest. Gale had scratched the words ‘Shadow Druids’ underneath. Notes about Master Halsin, and the books that he found at his workshop next to the autopsied drow.
And then curiously, what looked like a doodle of a parasite. They had seen enough of the little blighters lately that Astarion could recognize even a crude drawing of one. The next page looked similar to the other page but was host to a much more detailed sketch of a parasite in a bottle; one that looked very similar to the one they found in Halsin’s library. Some notes about the books that Gale found there. A sketch about some of the botanical studies.
The next page, more drawings and less words. Some commentary about an anatomical book that Halsin had that Gale had pilfered and promised to return eventually. Considering Astarion had definitely seen said book in Gale’s book pile, he doubted the validity of that promise.
A couple of aborted attempts at hands, drawn from the artist’s perspective. Astarion, although endlessly amused at the wizard-turned-artist, had to admit that the human wasn’t half-bad. Though Astarion was not an artist himself, he had been around long enough to appreciate the markings of a half-decent sketch.
The next few pages had some sketches of the locations they had all been at. The way the Grove looked right by the elevator. The exterior of one of the buildings in the abandoned village right where they had killed the bugbear. A horrendous picture of a gnoll. A happy little picture of the little domesticity the group was afforded: the background was of one of their earliest campsites and Karlach was in the foreground attempting to teach somebody how to make a fire.
The drawing was very light-hearted and lovely; Astarion could not stop the ghost of a smile flitting to his cheeks. He wasn’t quite sure who that was she was talking to considering that almost everybody in the camp knew how to make a fire. The only body who didn’t have some sort of battle or outdoorsy experience was…
Him.
Astarion blinked, looking at the little figure sitting in front of a pile of logs, back turned to the artist. Sure enough, he recognized the points of elf ears poking out from a mess of curly hair. The billowy sleeves of Astarion’s white, camp shirt. All of sudden, Astarion’s heart was in his throat; he swallowed futilely against it.
He shakily turned the page.
In the corner of the right page was a book review of the Curse of the Vampyr, a book that Astarion recognized from the library of the forgotten church. It detailed some facts about vampires which Gale had in list form. Some of them were crossed out. Some of them seemed to be added on in post, in a different color of ink that Gale had purchased from the halfling merchant in the grove.
Astarion had teased him about writing in purple. Purple comments etched into the list about how vampires still had hearts and could die of blood loss. Purple comments about how vampires could still eat, unlike what was detailed in the original list. That tidbit had been scratched out and updated: food wasn’t inedible, and rather, unpalatable and more like eating ash.
Astarion’s attention was on what was slightly below the list.
There were portraits of the elf, at least ten on these two pages alone. Some of them were of Astarion, still looking away, but full body sketches: one in that doublet that he had abandoned for the drow armor. A few of Astarion’s hands rolling a coin over the knuckles. Details of his face, lips quirked into a smirk, fangs just barely poking out. A couple details of his eyes, so sharp and fierce.
Every picture he flipped through felt like Astarion was getting a little part of himself back.
He couldn’t help but touch one of the portraits. This one depicted the time when Astarion was desperately trying to feel out the pattern carved into his back. It hurt to see himself like that, but the scars were… a lot less pronounced than Astarion expected them to be. He had anticipated them to be carved down the whole length of his back based on his clumsy attempt of feeling them out. If they were still small like this, he could easily hide them with a-
“So, I see we’ve taken to stealing things from campmates as well now, have we Astarion?”
At the sound of Gale’s voice, Astarion shot to his feet like a startled cat, slamming the book closed. From across the fire, Gale was watching him wearing an expression that was hard to decipher: he was frowning, but those hazel eyes of his were still so soft. It was hard to meet Gale’s gaze. Astarion looked to the ground, clearing his throat before he spoke. “Well, when you leave me to fend for myself, where else am I going to find entertainment?”
“You could always ask some of the others instead of helping yourself to my things.” Gale’s frown deepened a little more, an ebb of frustration slipping into his voice. When Astarion finally managed to look at the wizard, he pieced together that Gale had just come back from a bath. The wizard’s hair was wet; strands of it curled down his face, looking closer to black in the moonlight. Rivulets of water dripped down cords of neck.
Astarion swallowed dryly, playing it off with a dramatic huff. “And attempt conversation with some of these neanderthals? Nobody knows how to bore somebody to tears quite the way you do, wizard. Do not sell yourself short.”
Gale rolled his eyes before holding his hand out expectantly. “So you say, Astarion. It does not matter now, just, give it back. The journal, I mean. If you please.”
Flustered, Astarion thrust the book back into the wizard’s hands, both of them fumbling over the suddenness of it. Gale managed to catch it before it went careening into the dwindling fire. This time, the human seemed to glare a little harder at Astarion. Gale wore something closer to proper irritation, and it made Astarion itch. The rogue shifted uncomfortably, searching for any reason to get out of this conversation. “Well, with that, I do think I’m going to retire. It’s pretty late, and I best get my beauty sleep if I’m going to contend with the others.”
“Astarion, you don’t sleep. You’re an elf.” Gale started. Astarion could watch the gears slowly start turning in that big brain of his, pulling the start of a bemused smirk to that aggravating face. All of a sudden, Astarion was on the back foot; he felt like he was getting his pigtails pulled.
With another dramatic huff, Astarion turned around to skulk back to his tent. He got only a few steps away from the wizard before he called out casually over his shoulder. “Gale?”
“Yes, Astarion?”
“You’re not bad, you know. At drawing, at least. You should keep practicing.” He said with finality. And with that the vampire finally left the conversation to his tent.
The next morning, the vampire was late to rise. His meditation had stopped early, but considering last night’s events, he was feeling rather reluctant to leave his tent. For some reason, something in the mischievous lilt in the wizard’s eyes last night was particularly aggravating. Like it meant that Astarion was on the wrong end of the joke for once. The elf was never on the wrong end of the joke; it meant something in him was growing soft, too used to his team, too used to wizards who probably only looked at him like a sort of scientific experiment or magical anomaly.
He couldn’t stay hidden away forever. At some point, Astarion would need to leave the safety of his tent and join the others at breakfast. Despite not being able to eat, his olfactory senses still worked and something smelled delicious. It smelled woodsy, a little gamey, but with enough spices, even a malnourished boar could make for a sumptuous meal. It must have been delicious at the very least; Astarion saw the way Karlach devoured Gale’s cooking.
This meal, however, was a little less fragrant. A bird of sorts, Astarion presumed. With any luck, there would be at least one carcass left that he could steal before the chef had squandered the only part he could actually eat by cooking the damn thing.
Astarion pushed his tent flap aside, stepping out into the morning sun. The teammates were already circled around the fire. That probably meant he was too late to the meal to get a good score. The vampire refused to show his disappointment, but regardless, headed towards the campfire to confirm if he needed to go for a quick morning hunt or not.
The elf does not make it far. As he was passing the vacant stump that he had been perched on last night, he spotted something peculiar: a little wooden bowl full of wonderful, coppery blood had been left out on a sort of parchment. Curiously, he picked the blood up, sniffing at it before he took an exploratory sip. He had been correct: it was pheasant. Somebody, most likely the chef of the bunch, must have collected it for him.
Astarion tossed a glance over to the group, finding Gale in conversation with Shadowheart and Lae’zel. Shadowheart seemed at least idly curious with what the wizard was blathering on about; Lae’zel was probably only still listening because the wizard was tethered to the stew pot and making breakfast for them all. Gale was focused on taking care of them all, entertaining, cooking, and entirely too preoccupied to notice Astarion’s staring.
The vampire hid a growing smile by taking another sip from the bowl before turning his attention back down to the log and the lonely piece of parchment on it. A weathered, yellowed paper, torn along one side – a torn-out page from the journal.
All too quickly, Astarion picked it up and unfolded it, revealing a picture of him sitting by the fire with the journal pried open in his lap. He folded it up and ducked back into his tent, bowl in one hand, drawing in the other. Finally, Astarion squirrelled the paper into his pack of things, alongside all of the other treasures he had collected.
He smiled softly.
This was the best drawing of him yet.