Tell the “What in the sweet hells were you thinking activating that lance” dialogue without saying it:
Darling, not to be rude or anything, but you are literally a wizard! I— you— of course it’s okay to do magic in bed! What kind of madness is this? Did you think I’d clutch my pearls and scream, ‘Good gods, no! How dare you bring your unholy sorcery into the bedroom!?’ I mean, come on! You’ve spent half our camping trips waxing poetic about magic being your entire existence.
‘Magic is my life! Magic defines me! I am but a humble vessel for the arcane!’ And now you’re acting like you’re smuggling contraband fireballs into the sheets? Did you think I’d roll over and say, ‘Well, that’s one step too far, Gale. The sparkly lights are fine for campfires, but not where we sleep.’
I mean, really! You can bend the weave of reality itself! Reality! And you’re sitting here like, ‘Oh no, what if I lightly enhance our evening with a prestidigitation or two? What if I cast a cantrip in the bedroom? They might never look at me the same again!’
Gale, if you can make this experience both magical and memorable, then by all means— enchant me. I’m not saying I need a fireworks display, but if there isn’t at least a minor illusion involved, I’m going to be personally offended. I want to be impressed. I want to walk away thinking, ‘Wow, that’s a man who knows how to wield a staff.’
And for Mystra’s sake, stop looking at me like I’m going to judge you! You’re the one who turned campfire stew into a poetic monologue about the laws of transmutation! This is your time to shine! Go big, go bold, and for all that is holy, Gale— if you can float, now is the time to prove it.”
“I think… I was worried you’d think I still had feelings for Mystra if I used magic in bed.”
Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.
“Gale. Gale Dekarios. Let me get this straight. You—you—thought I’d take offense at magic because of Mystra? As if I would ever stop you from being your gloriously wizarding self? I mean, who do you think I am? Some insecure banshee shrieking, ‘Oh no, not the weave, Gale! It reminds me of your EX OF A GODDESS!’
“If there’s anyone I’d have a problem with, it’s bloody Mystra herself! Oh no, not you. Her. If she popped in, mid-incantation, to toss a ‘just checking in’ glance at your performance? Then we’d have a problem. Then we’d have words.
But you? Doing magic? In bed? That’s like saying I’d be mad at a bard for singing or a rogue for picking locks. It’s who you are, Gale! Magic is your thing! You’ve got books, spells, your snazzy robes— I like the snazzy robes— and I’ve accepted all of that because it’s you. And because, let’s be honest, I’m mildly impressed you haven’t set the tent on fire yet.”
“So, let’s get one thing crystal clear: I do not care about Mystra. She’s old news. She’s the dusty tome at the back of the library no one reads anymore. You? You’re my wizard. You can light up the room, turn the bed into a floating island, or conjure a fireworks finale— I don’t care.
But if I ever see her smug face peering over your shoulder while you’re holding your staff, I will personally find a way to kick a goddess out of the Outer Planees— Elysium whatever it’s fucking called. Godhouse. Bloody what’s it called— Olympia.”
dailybridgerton
blakekathryn
gracieabrams
theartofmadeline
2087
