Chapter Text
Gale
Gale closed his eyes and exhaled.
He was exhausted.
Tara had repeatedly told him to finally get up and leave his tower every once in a while, but she surely did not mean this.
It has been three days since he was taken by a nautiloid and infected with a mind flayer tadpole. Their ship was attacked by githyanki – a race he knew before only from books - mounting red dragons, and a fight ensued; as a result, the nautiloid fell and crashed near some shore in the middle of nowhere. He miraculously survived the fall by opening a portal while mid-air, and by a similar miracle someone found him when, to his surprise, he got himself stuck in it.
That someone was Shadowheart, a half-elf cleric with green eyes and black hair braided with elaborate silver jewelry. A cleric of which god, Gale was not exactly sure; she kept to herself and did not engage in religious discourse when he tried to broach the topic.
Shadowheart was not alone; she was accompanied by Astarion, a pale elf with silver hair, red eyes and – Gale could have sworn that on his staff – fangs barely peeking through on occasion. There was something both alluring and dangerous about the man, but so far he had remained a mystery just as much as Shadowheart.
Soon they were also joined by Lae’zel, a tall, green skinned githyanki warrior in silver armor, who found herself in similar predicament. To be completely honest, Gale was terrified of her; once, driven by academic curiosity, he dared to ask her about the anatomical purpose of her short nose, a trait typical to all githyanki.
She responded with a stream of what he could only assume were githyanki curses.
Gale has kept his distance ever since.
Then there were visions. Apparently their tadpoles were connected in a way, as for a very brief moment, when he met his companions, he was able to see a glimpse of their consciousness as if through their very eyes. He hoped they did not see too much of his.
They all shared the same dream, too: a mysterious, armor-clad figure who claimed to be their guardian.
Taking all of this into account, they decided to look for the cure together. Gale was glad for the company. It was already a true miracle they survived the crash; there was no use trying to push their luck by pursuing the search individually.
He pondered the broken portal. Truly a failed stunt of a wizard apprentice at most, certainly not worthy of an archmage, by Mystra’s mantle! This should absolutely not have happened. Was it the tadpole or… this, finally draining the rest of his powers?
He frowned and subconsciously massaged his sternum through his robes. He needed to determine the reason as now it was not only his life, but also his companions’ at stake. He wanted to prove useful, to show that he is worthy of his salt.
That was not the only thing that worried him. It has been three days already and yet they were not showing any symptoms of illithid transformation. He often found himself stirring nervously under the scrutinizing eye of Lae’zel, ready to cut the head off of anyone looking like they were about to sprout tentacles. And yet, nothing of this nature was happening to any of them. They were all perfectly healthy, with an exception, he thought with a snark, for a certain wizard with an explosive potential, but that could hopefully remain a matter he need not explain to his new comrades before they find a cure.
He opened his eyes and took a quick glance over his shoulder.
Yes, he still stood there, quiet and motionless like a statue. Clearly alive, if one took into consideration a very broad definition of the word ‘alive’. The mummy in purple robe they found in an old, dusty crypt while they were scavenging a nearby abandoned temple for weapons and supplies. He told them to call him Withers, announced that he will now join their camp and did not even flinch when Astarion boldly threatened to ‘show this old jerky its place’. He did not seem dangerous and it was not like he gave them any choice. So he stayed.
Gale’s whole body ached; he was not used to walking this much, not after a year spent almost solely in his tower. Pestered by Tara, he did some exercises in an attempt to keep his form, but nothing could have prepared him for this. His leg muscles were begging for a break, his lungs could barely keep up with all the walking, and he developed massive calluses on the inside of his right palm from holding his staff.
It was a beautiful, sunny day.
They were now sitting in their improvised camp not far from the nautiloid wreck. Everyone was doing their own thing. They did not speak much; Astarion avoided everyone, Lae’zel and Shadowheart were openly hostile to each other for reasons beyond his understanding and Gale… Gale felt completely out of place.
Again, he thought and sighed.
Being a part of any group was not a blessing granted to a Chosen of Mystra, no. If anything, being her favorite marked him with an invisible curse, a mark that warned ‘do not touch’. In the corridors of the Blackstaff Academy he felt like an intruder, even as an archmage of such considerable renown. The ghost of the Goddess of Magic watching him whenever he went weighed heavily on his shoulders and deterred his colleagues, even those he used to be closer with in his younger days.
It did not matter to him then, as he was so deeply in love with Mystra; he could seek peace and relief in her celestial embrace and it sated him enough to blissfully ignore the rest of the world.
Until in ended.
Gale flinched and hissed as hot, gooey liquid splashed his hand.
He was cooking some semblance of a stew with anything edible he could find.
As he was stirring the pot, he reminisced about his kitchen in Waterdeep, full of exquisite ingredients and spices. He missed his tower already, this environment was not suitable for a wizard. He missed his only place of comfort, full of magic and wonders, he missed his fireplace and Tara’s quiet snoring – not that she would ever admit to it - as she often slept in front of crackling fire; he missed his library and his balcony, overlooking the Waterdeep harbor.
He missed his mother, too. Morena would be inconsolable if she knew what happened to her ‘prince’, as she often called him despite his protests.
Maybe better not dwell on it, lest he cry into the pot.
Gale looked around.
Lae’zel sat nearby in silence, polishing her sword, an impressive piece of githyanki craftsmanship. Shadowheart was kneeling in front of her tent, eyes closed, lost in a prayer. Astarion could be seen reading in a certain distance from the group; Gale could not help but wonder what the book was about.
The elf fascinated him to no end. From a scholarly point of view, obviously.
Gale had two perfectly working eyes and could not help but notice that the man is absolutely gorgeous, but his curiosity certainly had nothing to do with Astarion’s appearance. Or the poise he carried himself with. Or his charming wit.
He forced his gaze back on the stew.
There was something suspicious about Astarion. The red eyes could be explained easily, he knew it was a natural color for some elves, but fangs? If he could just take a closer look to make sure…
But then again, he was sitting in direct sunlight just now. That, and Gale had seen him earlier washing his padded shirt while standing ankles deep in running water.
On the other hand, he was acting weirdly nervous when they found the boar the other day. Poor beast was completely exsanguinated and when Shadowheart approached to examine it, he tried to convince her to leave it alone.
And then there was what looked like two bite marks on his neck. With his otherwise impeccable appearance, surely he would want to hide them, right?
As Gale was stirring the stew, he realized that during those three days he had never actually seen the man eating. Gale was not a perfect picture of self-confidence but he never doubted his cooking skills. Did their companion happen to be a vampire or just the fussiest man in Faerûn?