Pairing: Mentor!Gale Dekarios x Apprentice!GN!Reader
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A/N: Sorry I haven't been updating this super frequently, I lowkey forgot tumblr existed for a hot second. it's all up to date on AO3, but I'll get back into posting it on here too! Also, I have commissions up on my page! There's a link to an info post on my pinned :) could really use the extra money & I'm happy to write for ideas that y'all have!!
The start of the morning went according to routine. Waking up at sunrise, fixing yourself and Tara breakfast, and tidying up the study before she awoke. While doing some light reading over a cup of hot coffee, you’re startled by a knock on the door. Soon your increased heart rate is not out of fear, but instead out of excitement. An eagerness to see a familiar face, somehow believing that he had managed to cut the trip down to only nine days. An incredible feat, but you certainly weren’t going to complain – you would be without him no more!
You’re quick to stand from the loveseat and rush for the front door, leaving the book you’d been reading on the table, far less interested in its contents when Gale had finally come back. You open the door – you don’t bother to call out, or ask who it might be, as you’re sure that you know who it is.
But Gale’s beard was certainly not that long. And not nearly as white. And his face was never as… old.
“Hello?” You stammer, caught off-guard by a completely unfamiliar elder, dressed in obvious wizard-esque attire, with a long orange and red robe and a matching hat that drapes behind him. He nods, smiling wearily and glancing behind you.
“The apprentice, I presume? I intend not to affright thee. Might you indulge an old man? I bear regards to Gale,” he speaks, his voice deep in the stereotypical elderly way, and you swear he’s far too old for a mortal human, but he looks plenty human.
“You know Gale?” You ask, hesitant to believe anything the man says, both due to your immediate disappointment that the door didn’t open to Gale, and because you know better than to immediately trust strangers.
“Indubitably. You may safely classify Gale and I as friends,” he confirms, and you realize that this may very well be Gale’s ‘old friend’ that he intended to visit. After all, he’s plenty old, and allegedly a friend. There is an instant pit in your stomach – If he is here, and notably lacking the company of your mentor, then something must be wrong.
You know that your worry shows on your face, but you don’t care. You step out of the way and pull the door open further, inviting him in. “Come in, please.” It takes a lot not to choke on your words, on your rising anxiety, on your terror. He enters, steps out of his boots, and makes his way to the study, not requiring any sort of direction – a confirmation that he’s likely who he says he is.
You follow, and he pauses in the middle of the study, motioning about the room. “A mighty toothsome abode this has become – cert ameliorated since I last bore tarriance.” He turns to look at you and waves a hand, a smile crossing his wrinkled features. “Compliments! Alas, I trekked not for flattery. Should thy curiosity bear uncertainty, I shall put to rest such indecision. Elminster Aumar, at your service.” He extends a hand, and you stare at it for a moment before ultimately taking it, and he gives it a firm shake, pushing dried wrinkles against your palm, before he drops his hand.
“Nice to meet you. Where is Gale? Is everything okay?” You question, desperately searching his eyes for answers, perhaps something more clear than his convoluted conversation will provide, but you find a barrier of blue wisdom, refusing you any peeks into his true nature.
“Enigmatic, the situation remains. Harrowing dawns are upon us, I fear. Mystra sanctioned the deliverance of a memorandum most paramount,” he sighs, and you frown, simultaneously trying to decipher his statements and search for assurance that Gale is okay. You don’t particularly succeed at either. “Cognizant am I of his absenteeism, inclusive of thy enlistment to the abecedarian chosen’s – ah, erstwhile chosen’s – service. A most discommodious concatenation has seized the deliberation of the Gods.”
There’s a few seconds of silence, but when he doesn’t speak anymore, you shake your head, narrowing your eyes. “I’m… not understanding.”
He tuts, clasping his hands together and closing his eyes, sighing yet again. “Apologies. I come bearing a–”
“By Mystra’s mercy!” Tara yowls, her tail stiffening and puffing as she emerges from Gale’s room, anxiously glancing Elminster up and down, her head shaking and her wings twitching. “Elminster Aumar? Oh, dear – whatever trouble has my wizard gotten into?”
Elminster looks at Tara, and he smiles nervously, dipping his head once more. “Tara, dearest, a delight to see you.” He clears his throat, addressing you once more, and Tara comes to rub against your calf, taking a seat between your ankles and looking up at the old man. “I desiderate not to impose you, but to entrust to you a message. A consideration, on Mystra’s part, to offer Gale redemption.”
Your eyebrows furrow, and you feel Tara’s fur bristle against your skin, both of your guards up. “Redemption? I don’t understand – where is Gale?”
“I know not his precise locale. Hence my emergence in Waterdeep. It is in your hands I allocate his discovery. Tara – grant me aplomb, will you?”
Her tail swishes, brushing over the ground in mild irritation, or perhaps worry – maybe even a combination of both. “I can find him, Elminster. Rest assured.”
“Most meritorious. Upon reconciliation, I ask you to inform him of the following. It is imperative that he understands the false deity he faces is far more dangerous than he may possibly conceive. It threatens the gods, the realm, the universe itself. Mystra believes only he is capable of its thorough destruction.” His voice is tainted with regret – as if he is apologetic for the goddess’ message. He reaches into his robe, presenting a tightly tied scroll, and you take it from him, though don’t dare to open it. “If he complies, the spell contained within that scroll will put a halt to the orb’s impending implosion. A temporary fix – all too temporary indeed. He must find the heart, and obey the ritual.”
“False deity? Threatening the gods – the ‘heart’? What are you on about?” You let out an exhale that borders on the edge of a confused, overwhelmed whine, your head shaking in an attempt to dispel the oncoming migraine.
“Set out as quickly as you can. The realm battles against time. He will understand, even if you do not.” He shakes his own head, inhaling slowly, as if to steady himself. “My sincerest apologies, child. Had I any choice in the matter, you would not be my target of burden. Alas, you know him well, and the trust is mutual. I have little time – Mystra beckons me afresh. I may only bestow upon you luck. And the best of luck it is.”
“So, he is her chosen?” You ask, sorting through Gale’s desk as you collect two pouches of gold, dropping them into a quickly-filling traveling pack.
“Has been for many a century. Oh, I do so hope to be absolved of my misery at a quicker rate than that. To live for a millenia – isn’t it plain dreadful?” She mews, kneading at the cushion of the loveseat across the room from you.
You close the drawer that you’d been sifting through, opening a different drawer filled with quills, as well as a dagger that has gone unused for longer than you’ve known Gale. You don’t have any intentions of using it, but you’re smart enough to know better than to travel unarmed. “Did you understand anything he said? All of that about Mystra and the ‘huge threat’, or whatever he called it?”
“Hardly, though I rarely concern myself with the affairs of gods. Once we find Mr. Dekarios, he will explain all. He won’t want to risk the clawing that would come with keeping us in the dark about whatever he is up to,” she replies, stretching out her back and jumping off of the couch, approaching you before hopping onto the desk, inspecting the bag you were packing. “My, quite the pile of gold you’ve acquired, dear.”
“Well, yeah. We’ll need to afford rations for the trip, there’s no telling how long it will take, and probably transportation, and–”
“Hah!” She meows, amused at your statement. “Nonsense. The trip will be a short one. With my purrrfect nose, we’ll find him in a whisker’s twitch.”
“We’ll still need to travel to him, though.”
“Ah. With my trusty sense of smell, my unbridled connection to my darling humanoid, and a sprinkling of conjuration magic, we’ll be in the… general area of Mr. Dekarios,” she assures, sticking her head into the bag and biting the tip of a gold pouch, removing it and dropping it onto the desk. “Let’s leave some inheritance for our return, yes?”
“Wait – we can just… appear there? Like, teleporting?” You chuckle in surprise, a little baffled that it would be that easy.
“Well, thirty-two years of companionship doesn’t go without its benefits! Aside from the self-warming bed, of course. I know Mr. Dekarios better than he knows himself. I’ll find him, don’t you fret. Elminster emphasized the urgency of the situation, so I best be referring to a few studies on transpositional spells. We should depart before the evening. Will you be ready?”
You think over what else you need to do, or pack, and eventually nod. “Yeah, I’m ready whenever you are.”
“Delightful,” she praises, hopping off of his desk once more and walking towards his room. She pauses, however, to look behind herself at you, her ears twitching. “Do bring along some of that salmon, would you? As much as I enjoy hunting the occasional mouse, we’ve larger missions to sink our claws into.”
“Of course. I’ll even cut it up into squares,” you tease, and she lets out a loud purr in response, satisfied with your answer. Tara disappears into his room, and you return to your packing, picking up the backpack and leaving the study, immediately preparing the salmon before you risk forgetting. You slice it into squares as you’ve been doing for the past few days, and then place those squares on a sheet of parchment paper, rolling it up and securing it before you tuck it into your bag.
Knowing that you have very little hunting experience, you make sure to grab plenty of rations for yourself, as well, though find that the bag is getting quite full. You suppose the several changes of clothes are mostly at fault for that, and you have to sacrifice two sets in order to fit what you believe will keep you fed for at least a few days. Maybe less, should you need to share with Gale, but you’d be happy enough to have found him, you doubt you’ll have room for complaints.
When you return to the study, you can hear Tara muttering incantations in the next room over, and you decide better than to risk interrupting her. You would pick out a book to keep you company, but you doubt you have the room for that, and as Tara said, you’d probably have your hands full for the next few days. Instead, you take a seat by the unlit fireplace, allowing yourself a few minutes to think – to properly process everything that has been dumped onto you in a morning. Truly, it would be nice if ‘grand reveals’ were a little more spaced out, or had some build up to them. Alas, you were smacked with concerning news flashes that rattled you for a morning, or a single conversation, and then you were promptly dropped in a sea of confusion, left to teach yourself how to swim.
Thanks in part to Elminster’s intensely coded and decorated speech mannerisms, you have no clue what you should expect. On the bright side, it seemed quite assured that he was not dead. Mystra would certainly know if he was – not only because of her familiarity with him, but likely that her connection to the weave within him would draw her immediate attention, should that connection be severed, or… exploded.
She was rather audacious, if you had to be honest. To abandon him in his time of need, to leave him wandering and hurting after everything he tried to do for her, was one issue, and a plenty large enough issue on its own. But now for her to suddenly call upon him for a mission because she felt threatened? Oh, the gall.
You couldn’t tell if it was incredibly serious because she’d called on a mortal to do her bidding, or if it was incredibly un-serious, because she had called on a mortal to do her bidding! She, a goddess, the weave incarnate, the mistress of magic, couldn’t take care of a threat to the entire universe, but Gale Dekarios, a middle-aged, objectively gauche and reclusive wizard, was capable of such victory?
It was the orb. It had to be. In no world did Gale naturally have such power at his fingertips. Even so, the weave within him is only a fraction of Mystra. Surely she is stronger? Surely she can cast such destruction tenfold, should she be so inclined.
Gale was not more powerful than Mystra. Nobody could be – not via the weave, anyways. Gale wasn’t even on a similar level to Mystra. He had a fraction – a fraction – of her power. Didn’t he? That’s what he’d told you.
You recall your own experience – pulling energy with the orb as your source. The split second of unforeseen power that you felt, that surged through you as if it was you. In that moment, you’d believed yourself unbeatable. All-powerful. An irrational thought, you’re aware, and yet such possibility intrigues.
If Mystra controlled the weave, couldn’t she remove the orb? According to Elminster, she’s capable of pausing it, and yet it remains latched and active within his body. She had to have her reasons. Mystra would not turn down the ability to be even stronger without good reason.
Again, you return to your memory – the quiet calm of the orb, paired with Gale’s utter terror. It makes you think.
“Are you quite ready?” Tara peeks her head out from Gale’s bedroom, and you quickly stand, putting on your boots and nodding, grabbing your backpack from the loveseat. You follow her into Gale’s bedroom, where a swirling purple and black vortex awaits you.
“We’ll be able to return, right?”
“Oh, of course,” she reassures, and you relax, stepping closer to the portal. You feel her rub against your ankle, and she outstretches her wings, yawning. Jumping to fly behind you, she perches on your shoulder, her tail bumping against your back. “With the assistance of a horse, but a return is a return, yes?”
You cringe, a little less sure, but give an affirmative shrug nonetheless. “Right. Here goes, I guess.”
“Prepare your feathers, dear – a quick trip through the cosmos and we’ll surely be on his doorstep! Or… somewhere in the vicinity.”
With that, and a nod at one another, you step through the portal, having to rely on your trust in Tara to recite the spell correctly and not land you in a heap of trouble.
He’d left the ruckus of the party behind him, the noise from drunken singing and laughing a little too much for him to bear. And far too sweet of an opportunity. A perfect distraction – as if it had been curated for him. He did deserve it, didn’t he?
He’d worked so hard. Slain so many goblins. Thoroughly exhausted himself, dirtied his daggers and saved lives. Heroes, they named them. As if his intentions were entirely pure – as if he felt empathy for the tieflings, as if he’d been pushed to act in their honor, as if he cared.
The wine was tolerable, at least. The company not so much. Drunk and dry. Below his standards, and far too chatty.
The boars were better than the rats. Had more sustenance to them – a little more flavor. More of a kick, too, as small as their legs were. Alas, he was hungry, and ever-so-greedy. Perhaps he’d find a deer. Or another boar – it wasn’t too wretched of an idea. If he had to compromise, he wasn’t entirely opposed to it. Hardly a fan, but blood was, ultimately, blood. A boar would hold him off for another day or two. A deer, though? Oh, certainly a week.
He finds himself traveling deeper and deeper into the forest. The party, ringing through the trees around their little clearing, scaring off the prey he so helplessly yearned for. What insatiable hunger. A hindrance, a terrible flaw, a godsforsaken craving – until he satisfied it, at least.
However temporary the satisfaction, it made the carnal desires, the churning desperation, the withdrawals – all of it, worth it, for a little while. Few things came close to the sensation of blood running down his neck, washing him inside and out, fulfilling his bone-chilling needs.
How clueless his companions remained. It granted him fragmented amusement, witnessing their utter hopelessness – gave him the slightest rushes of power, of pride. Of security. To know, and to trust, that his secret remained just that, all thanks to his carefully plucked words, his controlled smiles, his flawless manipulation. Even his kills were tidy –
Well, save for the first boar, that is. Not that they’d picked up on it, fortunately, but he supposes he could have cleaned that one up a little better. He’d been desperate, and practically starved. Trekking about in unfamiliar lands was so incredibly exhausting. Especially when he was forced to sweat under the heat of the sun – not to say he didn’t enjoy walking freely under the sun, of course he did, but the sweat he could do without.
And slaying was even more taxing on his body. Swinging, dashing, dodging – oh, catching prey used to be so easy.
At least he did it for himself now. Made the burdens far easier to bear. Free will was such a luxury, wasn’t it?
Astarion pauses, hearing movement ahead of him. He can’t hear the noise of the party anymore, nor can he see the lights, and he’s sure that his prey lies close. So he sticks closer to the denser parts of the forest, hugging every shadow that he can, moving with them as one as though he’s Baldur Gate’s best trained assassin, or a panther, slinking about the underbrush, eyes on a darling, oblivious gazelle.
He smells a fire, and then he hears quiet chattering –
His heart flutters, his fangs practically ache, and he realizes that settling for a boar would be a horrific lowball. Unfair – unfair to him.
He deserves better. He deserves real prey. He deserves payment for two-hundred years spent in a hell personalized for him. He deserves payment for having his freedom robbed from him. He deserves payment for freeing those poor, defenseless tieflings.
He deserves payment. Retribution.
He deserves real blood. Sweet blood. Thick, terrified blood – crying blood, pleading blood. Blood with a life. Blood with a soul. Blood with a personality.
Better him than a wolf, or a bear. Better fangs in the neck than claws across the torso, surely. He’d be doing this stranger a mercy. Maybe he’ll even be gentle. Maybe he’ll be kind – maybe, he’ll be the hero that the tieflings claim he is.
But he is hungry. And he is weary. And he can smell them, smell a meal, smell satisfaction. It is yards away, and he is closing in, and his fingers twitch, and he is silent. The grass does not betray him, no sticks dare to sneak under his steps, not a leaf crunches under his weight.
He is being given what he deserves, at last.
No – he is offered no gifts. Every step is a careful one, every stick is dodged, every leaf is tip-toed over.
He is taking what he deserves.
He creeps closer, finding someone getting ready for rest, curled up alone on a bedroll, unaware of the danger lurking mere feet away. They smell sweet – innocent. Had he any less dignity, he’d positively be salivating, closer to an excited mutt than an ex-magistrate. However far he’s fallen, he cares not.
His mind belongs not to him, but to his need, to his cravings, to the yearning of his fangs. He watches them, their eyes closed, but he’s sure they’re awake; moments ago, they shifted their makeshift blanket, ensuring perfect comfort.
He hopes it’s an adequate final resting place.
In an instant, he’s pounced, and he kneels beside them, a hand firmly clasped over their mouth as their eyes widen and they writhe, making his own blood rush. He shushes them, feigning some care for their comfort, but he knows that the more terrified they are, the quicker their heart beats, and the more blood that will be pumped directly into his mouth.
His other hand tangles in their hair, and he yanks them up, his mouth opening as he eyes their neck, and at last, he bites down, earning a pained squeal from his victim.
Perfect, sweet with a kick, and it warms him, far better than any blood he’s ever tasted. Animals are no match. When blood like this exists, blood that makes him feel like royalty, blood that makes him twitch, blood that consumes his mind as he consumes–
“Fiend!” A feminine voice hisses, and Astarion feels claws rake across his face, earning a hiss from himself as he stumbles off of the victim, dreadfully yanked away from his meal. That meal clutches their neck, and Astarion finds that his assailant is a winged cat, her fur standing on end, her tail thick and bristled, claws unsheathed and prepared to strike again.
“Bloody hells! What is wrong with you?!” His victim cries out, and Astarion’s eyes linger on the blood trailing down their neck, pooling in the crevice of their collarbone, painting them a perfect feast–
Once more, claws strike across his nose, and he growls, backing away an extra step and looking between his victim and the tabby. Despite his urges, and his concern for allowing a victim to escape, he recoils and retreats, believing it to be better to return to camp rather than expel any more energy in a battle.
After all, it’s quite unlikely for the pair to stay in these woods when they’re aware of a vampire on the loose – They’d have to be positively insane to stick around.
It’d been too long since he’d indulged in the bittersweet sting of wine, and he’d made up for lost time tonight. Several glasses deep, as a matter of fact, and his mind was entirely distracted from any pressing matters, and certainly drawn away from the impending regret to follow the next morning.
The river bank they camped by was perhaps the most peaceful place he’d found thus far. So it was on the bank that he sat, not minding the tickle of sand, too focused on the quiet, buried sound of the water slowly running past. Buried, that was, underneath the sound of the off-tune singing and chattering of his companions and their guests, the tieflings they’d rescued.
It isn’t half the view, but it reminds him of Waterdeep. Reminds him of the view from the balcony – the one he could share with them, no matter the time of day, or night. The breeze here was slight, but it’s enough to make him reminisce on the salty breeze he had grown so used to. The kind that’s just chilly enough to allow for him to pull them closer, wrapping an arm around their shoulder in mock defense of the cold and be safe from any possible accusations about ulterior motives. Gods forbid he be pushed to answer for what exactly his feelings on them were – he hardly knew, and he doubted anyone else, especially them, would be capable of understanding.
Tara called it love. Tara also had quite the habit of getting ahead of herself. He enjoyed their company, that was certainly a given, but toleration was quite different from love. Albeit, he was beyond simply tolerating them, but it still hardly called for such an extreme adjective. He was not, and still is not, a man who is searching for love. Even if he did possess such feelings for them – which was wildly unlikely – he wouldn’t be able to act upon such feelings. Gods, he didn’t want to even imagine the embarrassment that would follow any kind of confession from his end. Perhaps even worse, the accusations. He had not taken them in so he could pursue any kind of an intimate relationship with them. He had not mentored them with such intentions in play.
Gale knows his concerns are reasonable, and completely justified. Any such unforeseen flattery would put too heavy a damper on what they already had; a perfectly innocent business relationship, perhaps even one more akin to a professor and his student. The kind of relationship that absolutely did not, under any circumstances, have room for romantics.
Anyways, he harbored no longing for them. So it mattered none. Whatever limitations he had firmly set in his mind were not going to become tainted with regret, because there was nothing to regret. Nothing more to wish for. He yearned for survival, nothing else. Certainly not them.
Likely, the wine was to blame – mixing unpleasantly with the tadpole in his head, causing his thoughts to branch off into unsavory places. The wine and the scenery. Wishing for them, now, meant nothing. Being calmed by the waking dream of their presence beside him, it was nothing more than a result of his exhaustion from the day’s events. What little peace he experienced now, he wished he could share with them. But that was not due to love, he was a perfectly sane man, and sane men don’t fall in love with their apprentices. Unreasonable – that’s all it was. Unreasonable to miss more than their company. Unreasonable to allow himself to crave their touch, to dream of the sound of their voice.
Unreasonable to revisit the feeling of their weight in his arms, carrying them back to bed after they’d fallen asleep in the study, resting so comfortably against his chest. It had been unreasonable for him to hold them for a few moments more, despite standing beside their bed, knowing he should set them down.
Unreasonable for his mind to drift in this moment, the wine barely being strong enough for him to blame his less chaste thoughts on, conjuring up other scenarios in which he might feel their weight against his body, close and gentle, or what sorts of noises he may be able to pull from them when his hands are allowed to roam their body freely. The expressions that may come across their face, acting entirely on reactions to his saccharine teasing, playing them much like he would a lute, capable of plucking their strings enough to form only the most blissful of melodies. How pleasant such an encounter would–
“The fun is coming to an end.”
Gale’s eyes open quickly, and he finds himself gripping the base of his chalice rather tightly, causing him to gulp and forcefully relax, sitting up and turning his attention to Shadowheart, a glass of her own in her hand. He nods, cracking an awkward smile and raising an eyebrow. “Is it?”
She nods, motioning with her cup back towards the main gathering space of their camp. “Indeed. Assumed you’d want to say some goodbyes. Perhaps accept another round of praise. I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”
Gale scoffs, shaking his head and rising to his feet. “Nonsense. I was merely enjoying the quiet. Past time I submitted to sleep – fear I’ve gotten well-too deep in our wine supply for one night,” he chuckles, and Shadowheart dips her head and raises her glass in agreement, returning to the fading festivities alongside him.
