Just a thought. I was reading Steinbeck’s East of Eden recently and thought this quote captured Gale Dekarios’s core wound perfectly.
And in our time, when a man dies—if he has had wealth and influence and power and all the vestments that arouse envy, and after the living take stock of the dead man's property and his eminence and works and monuments—the question is still there: Was his life good or was it evil?—which is another way of putting Croesus's question. Envies are gone, and the measuring stick is: "Was he loved or was he hated? Is his death felt as a loss or does a kind of joy come of it?
[…]
In uncertainty I am certain that underneath their topmost layers of frailty men want to be good and want to be loved. Indeed, most of their vices are attempted short cuts to love. When a man comes to die, no matter what his talents and influence and genius, if he dies unloved his life must be a failure to him and his dying a cold horror. It seems to me that if you or I just choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to our world.
Gale’s pursuit of power, forbidden knowledge, the Netherese orb, even becoming Mystra’s Chosen are not driven by purely hubris. They are driven by the hope that if he is extraordinary enough, he will finally be loved in the way he longs for. Power becomes a language he uses to say, “Am I enough now?” Every “mistake” he makes is an attempt to close the distance between himself and affection.
I consider Gale to be genuinely good-hearted. But he wants to matter. He wants his goodness to be seen and chosen. Mystra’s love being conditional, distant, divine turns that desire into something brittle and dangerous.
Gale is terrified not just of death, but of meaningless death, of being brilliant, talented, devoted, and still disposable. That’s why I think sacrifice feels tempting to him: dying usefully feels better than living unloved.
I believe that much of Gale’s moral failure (The orb or even compliance during evil runs) stems from not necessarily evil choices but lonely ones.
Named!Tav missed the Nautiloid ship but managed to make it at the worst possible time
Author’s Note: The draft graveyard grows. This was one of my ideas for entering BG3 canon from a different angle. But as usual, plans changed and characters are not always where I expected them to be. Maybe I’ll find a use for it one day, but until then, enjoy this little piece of imperfection 🥰!
Displaced
GalexNamed!Tav, minor GalexShadowheart
Firelight painted the grove in amber hues, transforming humble druid dwellings into palaces of warmth. The celebration had started at sunset and showed no signs of abating as midnight approached. Victorious tieflings danced with grateful druids, their horns wreathed in vibrant wildflower crowns.
Gale sat at the heart of it all, perched on a log beside the main bonfire, his familiar draped across his shoulders like a living stole. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed this freely. Certainly not since the orb had made its home beneath his sternum, a cold certainty always pulsing against his ribs. Tonight, though, even that persistent chill seemed distant, overwhelmed by victory, community, and the warmth of terrible ale.
“And then,” Karlach was saying, her eyes reflecting the bonfire so brightly they seemed to burn from within, “Gale just walks up to this goblin priestess, cool as winter mint, and says—“
“I believe your theological interpretation contains several fundamental flaws,” Gale supplied, mimicking his own scholarly tone with exaggerated dignity.
“Right before blasting her with a lightning bolt!” Wyll added, raising his tankard in salute.
Laughter erupted around the fire. Scratch barked excitedly, circling their makeshift bench with tail wagging in sympathetic joy.
“Had to admit, Gale, I didn't expect that level of showmanship from you when we first met,” Wyll said.
Gale inclined his head, accepting the compliment with a small smile. “One adapts to the company one keeps.”
“Don’t blame us for your bad theater, Gale of Waterdeep,” Shadowheart's dry voice cut through the merriment, though her expression held none of the coldness it once had. “I’d sooner bet you were enjoying the spotlight after your academic obscurity.”
“The spotlight?” Gale pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “My dear Shadowheart, I'll have you know entire curriculums were reformed based on my published word. My personal lectures at Blackstaff Tower regularly drew standing-room-only crowds.”
“Standing room only?” Astarion drawled from across the fire, one arm lazily draped around Alfira’s shoulders. “What a marvel. I suppose mandatory attendance does wonders for one’s popularity.”
“Hearsay,” Gale sniffed, taking another drink.
Tara shifted, her wings flexing with contentment.
He stroked her fur absently, gaze drifting over the celebration. The tieflings who would have been slaughtered now danced beneath the stars. The druids who had been divided now broke bread together. And through it all moved his companions, these strange, broken people who had somehow become... family.
Was that what this feeling was? This sense of belonging that had nothing to do with divine favor or academic achievement? Just people who witnessed him at his worst—tadpole-infected, orb-cursed, adrift without his goddess—and stayed anyway?
Movement at the edge of the clearing caught his eye. A shadow where there should be none, watching the revelry from the darkness between trees. For a moment, the silhouette seemed almost familiar, something in the set of the shoulders, the angle of the head. Then Karlach clapped him on the back, nearly sending him sprawling from the heat alone.
“Another round!” she declared. “We've earned it!”
When Gale looked back, the shadow was gone. Just a trick of firelight, perhaps. Or some celebrants seeking privacy from the celebration's crush. Nothing that required his attention on a night dedicated to triumph rather than trouble.
Mystra knew they deserved it.
Tonight he would allow himself these simple joys: the warmth of the fire, the comfort of companions, and the rare, precious certainty that he was exactly where he belonged.
***
Lyanna pressed her back against rough bark, breath held as Gale's gaze swept past her hiding place. After months of searching, after dimensions crossed and deals struck, after pain and sacrifice and desperate hope, she'd found him.
And he was laughing.
The fire's glow caught in his beard, now neatly trimmed where it had grown wild in Waterdeep. His shoulders, once hunched with the orb's burden, now carried only a winged cat and the easy confidence of a man among friends. Even his voice sounded different. Warmer and unburdened by all the formalities that had defined him when they'd met.
He didn’t need to be saved.
All these months she'd imagined finding him alone and fading, surrendering to the orb's consumption or at a mindflayer’s mercy. She'd practiced speeches, planned arguments, prepared a dozen ways to convince him life was worth fighting for. But the man before her needed no such convincing. He had found purpose, his home.
The dark-haired woman—Shadowheart, they'd called her—drew close enough to him that their shoulders touched. He flinched briefly but didn’t move away, comfortable and flushed in a way Lyanna had never seen him.
Oh. That hurt.
Gale smiled at her then continued to examine some druidic artifact a tiefling child handed him. His fingers traced the object’s contours with delicate precision while his body swayed off-beat compared to the bard’s lively tune. He was squinting now, that familiar crease forming between his brows.
The woman and tiefling child sitting next to him leaned in.
He drunkenly adjusted nonexistent spectacles, then blinked in confusion at finding no glasses there. The others giggled, and after a moment’s hesitation, he laughed too, a genuine sound.
Lyanna swiftly turned away, eyes narrowing at fallen wood chips, her expression hardening against the ache beneath her ribs.
That one deleted BG3 fanfic scene where pre-orb Gale engages with his thief accomplice like she’s a particularly slow apprentice
AO3 Link: [The Starfall Gambit]
Author’s Note: Set somewhere between I.8-I.9 (or 2 years before BG3 canon). Sometimes I think that Gale of Waterdeep pre-humbling would have been especially annoying to work with, pretentious to the bone. Because imagine everyone telling you that things can’t be done and just consistently proving everyone wrong through sheer genius and talent. But in an odd way, he does consistently engage with other people’s opinions/concerns, is genuinely passionate about his craft, and delights in the growth of others.
How to be a Benevolent Chosen
The cartographer’s shop occupied the blurred boundary between Sharn’s respectable commerce and its shadier enterprises. Maps lined the walls in dizzying profusion, portraying negotiable secrets beyond the nearest port. Sea monster haunts stained nautical charts. Planar diagrams shifted when viewed from different angles to relay bastions beyond. Surprisingly accurate, given what Gale knew of the Far Realms.
But the true secrets lay behind the proprietor, a goblin with ink-stained fingers and corroded-copper skin, who dedicated his life to charting others’ secrets. Dark narrowed eyes peered at them from above the clerk’s desk before turning downward again. Frenzied scrawling filled the air like gravelly whispers, overtaking the din of scattered customers.
The counter’s inlaid runes pulsed faintly. Lesser protective wards, but skillfully crafted.
“The guy’s a bit of a grump behind the counter. But butter him up with some honey cakes and a crooked smile, and he offers a fair price,” Lyanna had explained en route. “His maps show the current layout of the Midnight Market’s underground labyrinth, patrol routes, emergency exits. All the good stuff.”
Gale didn’t see an issue with paying whatever the goblin’s first offer may be. But the look of utter disgust on Lyanna’s face had him going along with her roundabout plans. ‘Act like less of the rich-bitch chosen he was and don’t wave around his bottomless funds; that’s how someone gets gouged financially and physically.’
Her words, not his.
Presently, Gale leaned toward another map on the wall—a nearby forest with magical dead zones marked with snare symbols. Distantly, he wondered how some of his apprentices back in Waterdeep might perform under such constraints. Constraints that could never truly apply to one bestowed with Mystra’s love like him. He was rubbing his smooth chin thoughtfully when Lyanna pinched his side, hard.
He jumped back, glaring at her as he rubbed the spot.
“I’m not a child, Ms. Harken. You may use your words.” he whispered back.
She shrugged, unapologetic, then pulled him behind a stack and away from view. “You’re thinking too much… or maybe not enough.” He rolled his eyes at that. “You’re shopping, not scrutinizing every piece like some high-nosed sommelier.”
“Excuse me if I simply exude an air of confidence,” he said, gesturing vaguely at his immaculate self, despite the leathers she’d insisted he wear.
It was her turn to look exasperated, sending pinpricks of annoyance through him. “Could you just be less—ugh, infuriating?” Her hands raised as if restraining herself from strangling him. He smiled tightly back at her as she pulled her hands down with noticeable effort. Something about her frustration filled him with amusement, unbecoming as it was of a chosen. “Okay, if you can’t act like someone else like we planned, maybe—I don’t know. Be yourself with less fanfare?”
He patted her on the head, earning him a barely restrained snarl. “You are quite demanding for an informant, but I shall endeavor to do so.”
He could spare the effort in indulging her. Benevolence was, after all, a commendable trait for a chosen.
thank you for tagging me @friendlyneighbourhoodelf <3
last song i listened to: You'll Be Alright, Kid by Alex Warren (since his new album dropped I've been hooked)
favourite colour: none but I favour red
currently watching: still on Siren (2018), exam period made me halt the watch
last movie: The Batman (2022) (I have fallen into Superbat and now I am invested in the Batfam, help)
currently reading: no book, but by god my Ao3 screentime shouldn't be measured, because the doctor would get a heart attack
coffee or tea: I'm a coffee person for life and for tea I only really like fruit teas
sweet/savoury/spicy: all of the above in moderation
relationship status: single
looking forward to: meeting up with friends and crossing some movies/shows off my bucket list
current obsession: absolute worst case of Batfam brainrot, worse than my Eruri phase, holy damn. I'm two seconds away from writing a Bruce-centric fic (the complicated father figure trope hit me again, I definitely have a type of favourite character). As always Star Wars, especially Clones and Mandos hold my interest.
last googled: Venus Romania (family friends will stay for an extended weekend there thanks to the holiday on the 15.08. and I had to check where that city was located at the black sea - it's close to the Bulgarian border fyi)
currently working on: exam period derailed my writing but now I am working on stuff as the fancy strikes. I have many wips I am simultaneously working on, plus a few brain worms that are bugging me.
last song i listened to: Is There Anybody Out There, by Lord Huron
Favourite colour: I've got so many but I really favor yellow at the moment
Currently Watching: I'm halfway through with rewatching 1917(the cinematography is amazing) and Bonhoeffer for the first time
Last movie: The Life of Chuck (I love this movie!)
Currently reading: All Quiet on the Western Front (in German tho)
coffee or tea: To be honest, I only drink coffee when I'm outside in the cold, so definitely tea
sweet/savoury/spicy: I prefer savoury
relationship status: single
looking forward to: going to the shelter on Sunday(and maybe find a new friend to take home!) And the new books I bought arriving (The Road Back, a book from the Dragon whisperer series(Das Lied der Toteneiche)
current obsession: Obviously Star wars and anything Mando related, WWI as one might have noticed by now, and the Thundebolts* + The Howling Commandos my beloved (they're so underrated I wish they had their own series:(
last googled: plot Spy x Family ( my little sister is obsessed with it)
currently working on: Some face studies and art for the hunger games! (Also some old WIPs and brain farts for my OCs)
I'm tagging: @fancy-strawberry-beard, @tami-isnt-here, @artianaiolanthe, @rhysdoesstuff and @writersglock (no pressure obviously)
Last song I listened to: World of Warcraft Soundtrack - Arthas, My Son
Favourite Colour: 💚Green!💚
Currently Watching: Walking With Beasts! 🦣 Since I'm boycotting YouTube, I decided to watch some documentaries after a long time (I almost started crying when I heard the WWB intro soundtrack lol).
Last Movie: Prince of Egypt
Currently Reading: Nothing for now :(
Coffee or Tea: Tea! 🍵🫖
Sweet/Savoury/Spicy: Spiccccyyyyy! 🌶️
Relationship Status: irl single but mentally married with Altaïr 💗
Looking Forward To: OFF Remaster, Prehistoric Kingdom Breeding Update and at the end of summer, I'm thinking of going to the zoo by myself! :3
Current Obsession: Wings of Fire and Altaïr! 🐉💚
Last Googled: Beautiful Nuthatch (Sitta formosa)! 🐦
Currently Working On: Nothing for now, but I'm thinking about writing a new chapter of Time Can't Stop Our Love! :3
I tag @paws-of-the-quill @skrrt16 @chennnington @serraturt @a-little-buggy @dazedpoltergeist @fromashesweriseuphiddenones and anyone who wants to (no pressure, of course)!
That one BG3 fanfic deleted excerpt of the Weave scene but with Pre-Orb Gale
Fanfiction Link: [The Starfall Gambit]
Author’s Note: Set somewhere between I.8-I.9 (or 2 years before BG3 canon). One of the things I consider about my Act 1 is that it may have been colored by my intense hatred and misunderstandings toward Mystra which is why I likely shied away from scenes involving pre-orb Gale’s interactions with Mystra. I think I could have maybe showed more of Gale’s passion and tenderness toward Mystra during this pre-orb period to better contrast his change in perception of Mystra in the future and demonstrate the earnestness of his character. But in some ways I gotta learn to let go and know that I gave my all with that act 1 first draft with the tools I had and the person I was then☺️.
The Heartbeat beneath All Things
Gale stood with arms crossed, watching as Lyanna fumbled through another attempt at Firebolt, frustration in the tight set of her shoulders.
The morning light filtered through the stained-glass canopy of Sharn’s old Skybridge atrium, casting fractured rainbows across the cracked tiles beneath their feet. High above the city’s clamor, the space felt half-forgotten. Stone benches overgrown with moss, ivy thick with latent magic curling up weathered columns.
“No, no,” he sighed, then caught himself. His expression shifted from frustration to something more purposeful as he stepped in front of her with his arms outstretched. “Here. Observe the motion of my wrist as I trace this pattern. Smooth and without interruption, yes? For someone of your natural talent, any hesitation or distraction is certain to hamper your spellcast. The Weave responds to intention; therefore, you must desire the very essence of magic itself.”
She huffed, blowing hair away from her face. “Remind me why I agreed to this torture session?”
“Because,” Gale said, “the Weave answers to you like an eager lover, yet you resist its full embrace. Do you realize how remarkable that connection is? Most spend years developing what comes naturally to you. And honestly speaking, if we are to work together, your slapdash approach to magic is approaching a matter of liability.”
Lyanna fell back against the grassy knoll, shaking loose a cloud of dust from the baked earth. “My magic works just fine.”
“It works in the same way a child’s crayon drawing works as art. Functional, yes. Refined? Not even close.”
This was their third morning of what Gale privately called magical remediation. Their earlier sparring session in which she tried to face him with nothing but a blade and a childish ploy to throw dust in his eyes had been insulting, really. Her meager attempt at throwing an Ice Blade—or rather a mixture of sleet and snow pellets—at him had only strengthened his resolve. She evaded masterfully and maintained an extensive variety of tricks in her toolbelt. By all accounts, she was a capable rogue. But watching her channel raw magic was like seeing someone try to play a masterwork violin with mittens on. She was a sorceress in essence but, frankly speaking, a sorely inadequate one.
Magic flowed through her very being, but her treatment of it was lukewarm at best. Limiting herself to the bare minimum: a handful of elementary elemental spells, telekinesis, and an arguably impressive rendition of Counterspell.
He couldn’t understand her reasoning.
“Why do you rely on mere chicanery when you could tap into an entire treasury of power?” Violet strands gathered in his palm, forming a glowing lattice as a demonstration. “What is it about your tool belt that you trust more than magic itself?”
Lyanna’s nose wrinkled as Gale stood over her. His shadow cast on her face, blocking out the sun.
“You just can’t stand that I get results without your precious spellbook.” Her voice had lost some of its edge over the last few days.
She was impossible, always deflecting.
“Results are a singular matter, a pinprick in the larger picture.”
She flung grass at him harmlessly, and her storm-gray eyes lit with challenge. “So you’re a ‘it’s the journey that matters’ kind of guy, huh. Funny coming from Mystra’s chosen.”
“Why is that?” He asked, brushing the grass off his pants.
Her expression straddled between thoughtful and amused, letting the chirping cicadas and brushing undergrowth fill the silence.
Lyanna liked falling back onto his title, Gale found, but not always in the way he expected. Others considered his position with reverence or, more often, jealousy. However, this wandering rogue seemed almost sorry for him, as if his duty and devotion to the Lady of Mysteries were something to pity.
How little she understood him. It went both ways, he supposed.
Finally, she sat up and rested her arm across one bent knee. Her loose hand twirling one blade of grass. “Come on. You’re Mystra’s golden boy. Aren’t you all about precision and perfection, not…” She snapped her finger like striking a flint, letting the blade of grass jump into the air and dance along the breeze. “… meandering discovery? If we use the info I gathered to get the book, that’s that.”
His eyes tracked the stroke of green until it disappeared into a half-ruined gazebo.
“You mistake me,” he said, voice softening. “Precision and perfection are tools, yes. Worthy ones. But they are not the point.” He folded his hands behind his back. “The moment a spell is loosed, a discovery made, a problem solved—it’s finished. A single heartbeat in a lifetime of them. But the path to reach that moment… the experiments, the failures, the small revelations that carry you forward. That is where magic truly lives.”
He tilted his head toward her, watching as the sun caught in her light brown hair. “I was not chosen because I delivered results like clockwork, Ms. Harken. I was chosen because I learned. Because I sought to know the Weave not only as a weapon, or a tool, but as wonder given form.”
His mouth curved faintly, self-deprecating but proud all the same. “The Lady of Mysteries has little use for those who only care for endings.”
Lyanna was quiet for a long time, her brows furrowing. “Is that what She told you?”
A soft laugh escaped him. A tender affection blooming in his chest at the thought of his dark-haired beauty in the stars. Someone beneath the strict Chosen emerging. “My Dearest Love is so often… a mystery even to myself. She may not have said it so directly, but She demonstrates it daily. And I love Her all the same for it.”
Something in the earnestness he spoke with made Lyanna restless. Her gaze avoiding his, rolling her silver hoop earring between her finger tips.
Gale cleared his throat. “Let’s try something different. A more… direct approach.”
She arched a brow. “I’m listening.”
“Since conventional instruction fails to reach you, I propose a demonstration.” He extended his hand. “I’ll guide your connection to the Weave. Show you how it’s meant to feel.”
Lyanna hesitated, studying his hand like it might bite, rising to stand by herself. His hand remained in place, waiting. “You want to… get in my head?”
“Not exactly. It’s far closer to lending you a lens. A temporary bridge between your instinct and my structure.”
She searched his face for hidden intent. After a beat, she placed her hand in his. “Fine. But no rearranging the furniture, Charming.”
“Your chaos is quite safe from my careful clutches,” he said, though her touch was warmer than expected.
With his free hand, Gale began tracing sigils, threads of the Weave gathering in response. His voice dropped to a murmur, the incantation crisp.
“Close your eyes,” he instructed, voice low. “Listen for it. The heartbeat beneath all things.”
To any readers of The Starfall Gambit, sorry to say, but I’ve hit a bout of indecision and perfectionism during the story’s messy middle. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to post this upcoming Sunday😢. The characters have changed so much and we’ve gotten so far from my outlines because much as I wanna be a planner, pantsing is such a part of my process. Ngl. I’ve redrafted the upcoming chapter north of a dozen times that it’s gotten to be a bit of a mess😖📝.
Not to worry! My plan is to create a proper first draft up to my intended Act 2 ending(~4-6 chapters). Well, more like second draft because I wrote the first draft ages ago but made so many choices that made it essentially an AU at this point. Anyway, I’ll work with my beta on line edits and direction for my official draft. Unfortunately, I can’t promise a deadline, but until then, I’ll post alternative scenes from my draft graveyard because gods know I have an endless stream of those.
Fanfiction Link: [The Starfall Gambit] Act II Chapter 5 Opening
Short poem by Gale toward the end of his tower isolation
The stars keep their vigil above,
A wonder I can no longer reach,
They remain perfect
While I diminish
and diminish
and diminish.
Tara asks if I ate today.
I cannot remember yesterday.
The orb remembers everything—
Every spell I’ve cast,
Every breath I’ve stolen
To pay for today's desperate arithmetic.
I walk along the edge of a great precipice,
Shudder at the easy lull of the void
That I might leave for less.
When the last enchantment burns away,
What equation solves for nothingness
For one who knows only hunger and ash?
Thanks for the tag @gottawritesomething! Always helping me remember that there’s a lovely community out there if I only step out of my cave bit by bit.
I’ve been diving deeper into my character perspectives (Named!Tav and Gale) in my long fic. So that meant writing cold opens and off-screen snippets I may or may not use for the story. This is my Named!Tav after Antagonist!Chosen!Gale chose to rewrite a whole city’s memories except hers (for the greater good). Just trying to capture the surrealness of her morning after the Act 1 finale of my Starfall Gambit BG3 fanfic. Enjoy!
===
Lyanna woke to the sound of voices and the clink of tools. She’d fallen asleep in a chair beside Tibbles’ couch, her neck stiff and her back aching. Sunlight streamed through…
She blinked, confused. Where the gaping hole of the workshop had been, workers were installing the most beautiful stained glass she’d ever seen. The colored glass filtered the view of Sharn below, transforming the grimy industrial reality into something idealized. Towers gleamed gold instead of rust; bridges looked graceful rather than precarious. The whole city bathed in warm, magical light that hid every harsh edge.
“Beautiful, ain’t it?”
Tibbles stood beside her, fully awake and beaming with pride. No sign of confusion, no lingering effects from yesterday’s trauma.
“The glaziers arrived first thing this morning,” he continued. “Said someone commissioned a rush job with payment in advance, design specifications included. Probably one of the Upper City nobles who’d heard about the accident. They do love their grand gestures.”
Gale. Of course. Bastard couldn’t even feel guilty without making it pretty.
“You’re feeling better?” she asked carefully.
“Right as rain! Though I have to thank you again for pulling me out of that mess down in The Cogs. Coulda been a whole lot worse if you hadn’t been there.” He extended a grease-stained hand. “Tibbles Clockmort, by the way. Don’t think we were properly introduced yesterday, what with all the excitement.”
The bottom dropped out of her stomach.
“I’m… Lyanna.”
“Well, Lyanna, I owe you a debt. How about some proper breakfast? I make a mean cuppa. Best in Sharn.”
She found herself nodding, already slipping into the role with less fuss: the helpful stranger, the rescuer, the person who definitely hadn't been bloodied up yesterday by a goddess's golden boy or witnessed a friend's eyes go dull. Hadn’t spent the night cleaning shattered glass and shredded metal while he slept.
“That’s kind of you… Tibbles.”
The words tasted like copper on her tongue.
===
A no-pressure tag to an author whose Witch Ways fanfic is top-tier and has all my respect @aliquistis.
A callback to one of my favorite scenes from my longfic, when times were simpler and the angst hadn’t fully set in yet.
Chapter I.8 V: Street Food Wisdom
The skyrail carriage deposited them at the Middle Tier station as twilight surrendered to true night. Sharn transformed around them. The daytime’s commercial bustle gave way to a different flow altogether. Lanterns bloomed along walkways in colors that spoke their own language: blue for general establishments, red for pleasures of the flesh, amber for games of chance. The city’s heart beat to a new rhythm, never stopping.
“Come on,” Lyanna said, turning away from their planned route back to his accommodations. “I’m starving, and if I have to watch you pick at another overpriced plate of decorative nonsense, I might commit a crime that’ll actually get me arrested.”
Gale frowned. Tonight should be dedicated to preparation and afterwards... “Do rein in your spontaneity, Ms. Harken. We have a schedule to maintain.”
“We have hours before the final preparations need attention,” she countered, already moving toward a narrow side street. “And nobody plans well hungry. Scientific fact.”
He sighed, following despite himself. The sound of her absently clipping and unclipping a pouch felt especially vexing tonight. The sooner he got through this meal, the sooner he could return to the plan—and to his goddess, tome in hand.
A minor detour. One of many, lately.
The district she led him through existed in deliberate contradiction to Upper Sharn’s polished facades. Here, stone wore its age honestly. Weathered and cracked yet solid in a way that suggested it would outlast its more manicured neighbors. Where the lower the strata, the heavier the air, its weight measured by smoke and smog.
“Here,” Lyanna announced, stopping before what appeared to be nothing more than a wooden counter with three stools. Behind it, a half-orc woman worked her hands in hypnotic patterns as she folded dough around fillings he couldn’t identify.
Gale eyed the establishment skeptically. No tables. No menus. No evident quality controls or administrative oversight. The entire operation seemed to exist in blatant disregard of proper dining protocols.
“Trust me,” Lyanna said, already pulling out a stool for him without waiting for agreement. “Some of the best things exist outside formalities.”
The comment nestled in, uninvited. She was getting unsettlingly better at reading him.
“I’m merely concerned for your wellbeing, given your dubious standards.” He pushed his robes back before sitting. “One of the countless benefits of being Mystra’s Chosen is an impressive tolerance for questionable cuisine. You, however, lack such divine protection.”
She hummed, unbothered. Instead of answering, she exchanged coins with the proprietor, who grunted in acknowledgment before turning to her grill.
Moments later, two ales and a platter appeared between them. Small half-moon pastries glistened with oil, alongside a bowl of pale green sauce releasing plumes of aromatic steam.
Lyanna claimed the first pastry without ceremony, biting through the crisp exterior with evident satisfaction. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll fight through the poison.” She gestured to the platter.
His first bite sent a jolt through him. The flavors were...unexpected. Complex. Spices layered in ways that defied categorization. He reached for another pastry before finishing the first, Chosen dignity forgotten. His eyes widened with almost childlike wonder, the kind only truly excellent food could evoke.
“By Mystra’s stars, that’s incredible!”
Lyanna snorted, pressing a scrap cloth to her mouth. “Never seen you drop ten syllable words for two before.”
“There are moments when precision fails,” he said between bites.
Something clicked into place, like a key turning in a lock. The pastry required no explanation, no validation beyond its own existence. It simply was. And it was better for the lack of analysis.
Like magic, perhaps.
He pushed the thought away. Dangerous territory.
They ate in companionable silence for a while, the simple act of shared food creating a truce in their ongoing battle of perspectives. Sharn’s towers now outlined in constellations of lamplight, pinpricks of human defiance against the night.
“They’d never get away with this markup on Selduth Street,” Lyanna mused, reaching for another pastry. “Not unless the Banshee Bell was ringing. Then you’d pay double and pray the bread wasn’t cursed.”
Gale’s fingers stilled around his mug, recognition blooming. The Banshee Bell was an old superstition about a miscast alarm ward near Selduth. Waterdeep locals swore it meant bad luck, a price spike, or both. His brow furrowed as connections formed. Her casual references to Waterdeep’s treasury, to a familiarity with Dock Ward patterns—
“You’re from Waterdeep,” he said, a realization rather than a question.
Lyanna paused mid-bite before swallowing carefully. “What about it?” she asked with a shrug.
“I’d assumed you’d visited but didn’t think...” Now that she’d mentioned it, he could detect the traces of vowels that betrayed North Ward origins, consonants softened by Dock Ward pragmatism. Her accent was a palimpsest, original markings barely visible beneath for those who knew to look.
“You failed to mention it was home.”
“You say that like it means something,” she replied, turning away as if her pastry now required all her attention.
“A grievous oversight on my part, clearly.” He leaned back to reevaluate her through this new lens. Waterdeep. His city. The place where he’d studied, advanced, been noticed by Mystra Herself. “But I hadn’t placed you there.”
“Good.” She paused before reaching for the last pastry. “Means I’m doing something right.”
Two Waterdhavians, pursuing parallel quests, meeting not once but twice. What were the odds? Astronomical.
Fateful, even. An unsettling thought.
Gale regarded her with renewed attention. He’d been categorizing her all wrong—as a foreigner, an outsider to his experience. Yet if she hailed from Waterdeep, she existed within his frame of reference as someone knowable. The implication rippled outward, rearranging his understanding like a spell rewriting reality.
“Why are you looking at me like I just confessed to murdering your familiar?” Lyanna asked, breaking into his spiraling thoughts.
Gale forced his expression into something more neutral. “Merely... processing. It’s strange that you never mentioned this commonality before.”
She shrugged, wiping her fingers on a scrap of cloth. “You never asked.” Then, with a sidelong glance that contained too much perception: “Not every shared geography is meaningful, Charming. Sometimes a city’s just a city.”
But Waterdeep wasn’t just any city. It was Mystra’s favored domain, the heart of magical innovation and advancement.
“Fascinating, though,” he said carefully, “that you’ve been guiding me through Sharn’s lower stratas like someone born to it.”
“I’ve spent enough time here.” She leaned back, something guarded entering her posture. “The floating city grows on you after a while. Like a fungus with good views.”
“And when did you leave Waterdeep?”
The question hung between them, innocent on its surface yet loaded. Her eyes narrowed, measuring his expression as if weighing his worth.
“Technically when I came of age. Old enough to carry a blade,” she said finally. “Waterdeep was where I started, not where I belong.”
The distinction felt significant, though Gale couldn’t immediately identify why. He’d dubbed himself ‘Gale of Waterdeep’ in honor of home. Waterdeep was his rightful place, the center of his orbit. Yet her words of home sounded hesitant, shameful even.
“And your family?” he asked, the question emerging before he could consider its propriety. “Are they still in Waterdeep?”
“Own a shop in Trades Ward down by Old Marleen’s potion brews. Pa’s a locksmith. Ma’s a seamstress. I still visit for the big stuff, anniversaries and whatnot,” she replied, perhaps the closest to a heart-to-heart they’d come to.
“But you never attended Blackstaff? With your magic, you could have—”
“Starting to feel like some interrogation there, Charming,” she interrupted. She tilted her head, thoughtful, but the answer came nonetheless. “Magic’s more a recent development for me.”
It felt like a piece he’d been missing for far too long. Her irreverence, treating magic like a tool. Because it was exactly that for her, an add-on to her already established life.
Across the counter, the half-orc proprietor collected their empty platter with a grunt that somehow conveyed both appreciation for their patronage and desire for their departure.
“We should head back,” Lyanna said, rising from her stool, an opened door now marked closed. “Early start tomorrow, and you look like you need a minimum of eight hours of beauty sleep to maintain that scholarly glow.”
The deflection was transparent but effective. Whatever momentary openness had existed between them had vanished, replaced by the practiced distance they both preferred. Yet, something had shifted. They didn’t settle back into tense friction but instead a new understanding.
Gale stood, finding himself suspended between certainties—the structure he’d always known and the chaotic possibility embodied in the woman beside him. Between divine absence and mortal presence.
The Netherese tome waited. Mystra waited. Tomorrow would demand decisiveness.
But tonight, for this moment, he allowed himself to exist in the undefined space between. To savor what was, without analyzing further what it meant.
Oh, sweet! Can’t promise greatness but I do have a few vault items. Thanks to @gottawritesomething for tagging me.
Rules: post the names of all files in your WIP folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell us about it.
Here’s a peek behind the curtain to my bg3 potential fics:
1. Black Knight White Knight
2. Dress the Part - The Thing that Moves
3. Paranormal Shenanigans
4. Miss Petals Faces the Absolute
And, of course, I still have my posted in progress work for Starfall Gambit (which I’m actively revising and updating and filling with a mess of unused scenes) and The Wrong Tav (which I’ve hit a block in). But the stuff above are more like bursts filled with random lines and scenes that hit me when the mood strikes.
Maybe one day I’ll unpack why everything I write turns into some 100k-word emotional thesis on longing and transformation. Would be nice to write more short and sweet for once.
Not as active on my tumblr, but feel free to share your ideas or keep the game going!🤗
okay but why have i not seen anyone talk about gale and lae’zel’s party banter where she talks about him talking in his sleep and keeping tav awake. the man literally says “sleeping beside gale of waterdeep is positively educational”
there is so much potential here and i want more people on board with it where are the fics of tav jolting awake at 3am because professor!gale suddenly started reciting one of his lectures he’s been writing while completely out cold
gale being so proud of tav for being so informed on his current hyperfixation only for tav to be like “you’ve been muttering about it in your sleep for the past two weeks love” and he’s like “but ☝️ you were paying attention 😍”
Bet. But let me flavor it with my current fanfiction The Starfall Gambit (Link).
Warning: Will contain potential spoilers for my fanfiction (tentative ideas for my story’s Act 3 are incorporated even though my posts are still in my Act 1)
The Underdark pressed close, a suffocating blanket of stone and silence broken only by water dripping somewhere beyond their alcove. Bioluminescent fungi clung to the walls, pulsing in hypnotic rhythms that painted everything in ghostly blue.
Lyanna stared at the canvas ceiling of her tent, counting the shadows cast by fungi-light as they danced across the fabric. She reached up absently, fingers finding the end of her braid, shorter now. Sleep continued to elude her. She rolled to her side, glaring at the thin barrier of canvas separating her tent from Gale's.
"...permutation of arcane energies remains contingent on the harmonic resonance established during initial casting..."
His voice drifted through the darkness, clear and measured despite being muffled by canvas. The academic cadence rose and fell, as if he stood before an audience of eager students rather sleeping in the bowels of Toril.
Lyanna pressed her face into her bedroll, swallowing a groan. Three nights of this now. Three nights of increasingly complex magical theory, delivered with scholarly confidence while its lecturer remained blissfully unaware.
"Counter-intuitive though it may seem," Gale's sleeping voice continued, dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "the application of Margaster's Theorem demonstrates that weaker binding agents often yield more stable results than their theoretically superior counterparts."
The rueful laugh escaped before she could trap it. The absurdity hit her like a physical blow. She, who'd spent the better part of her life avoiding attachments, who prided herself on knowing better, had tracked this pretentious, infuriating man halfway across Faerun because he'd said he was dying at some festival.
"It's the principle of the thing," she whispered to herself, the justification wearing thin with each repetition. Just practicality. Just curiosity about the blades.
Gale's shadow shifted against the tent wall, his silhouette rising slightly as if to emphasize his next point. A muted clatter followed. Likely a book knocked over.
"To properly harness the Weave's connective properties..." His voice faded into unintelligible mumbling before resurging with renewed vigor. "...which naturally brings us to the question of ethical applications, wherein intent shapes outcome with greater significance than mere technique."
She waited for him to wake himself, but the lecture continued uninterrupted. With a resigned sigh, she reached blindly for her pack, brushing shorter strands of brown hair from her face as she extracted a small notebook and worn stub of charcoal.
The fungi-light barely illuminated the page, but she'd worked with worse. Picking out the phrases that seemed potentially useful, she scratched hasty notes.
"Elemental binding requires particular attention to transitional states," Gale said with sudden clarity. "Water to ice, air to lightning—these are not merely physical transformations but fundamental shifts in the Weave's expression."
Her hand stilled. That was actually useful. It aligned with what she'd discovered through painful trial and error with those ice crystals she tripped opponents up with. She'd never been able to articulate the how of it, only the what.
Yet here was Gale, unconsciously providing the theoretical framework for her techniques. Strangely validating… in an irritating, roundabout way.
"Lyanna..."
The charcoal snapped between her fingers. Her name on his lips cut through the darkness with unsettling clarity. She turned toward his tent, every sense suddenly alert.
But his breathing never changed, his cadence unbroken. She forced herself to exhale, heartbeat gradually settling.
"...demonstrates a natural affinity for elemental transitions that defies conventional understanding..."
Just coincidence. Her name happened to fit whatever academic point his sleeping mind constructed. Nothing significant.
Yet something uncomfortable twisted in her chest.
This was exactly why she avoided complications. Why she kept moving, never lingering long enough for anyone to matter too much. The familiar urge to run prickled beneath her skin.
She shoved the notebook back into her pack with more force than necessary. Dawn would arrive soon enough, or whatever passed for dawn in this sunless realm. Another day of fighting, searching, and pretending she was only here for the blades, for answers on soul-binding.
Another day of maintaining the careful distance that kept them both safe.
As she settled back onto her bedroll, the muffled lecture continued. An unlikely lullaby amidst the dangers of the Underdark.
---
"Material resonance and elemental binding?" Halsin's stirred a pot of morning porridge. "Not something druids typically concern themselves with, though Sylvanus often grants revelations about the elements themselves."
Gale nodded, hunching over the fire with one hand stretched toward the meager warmth and another nursing his own bowl. "Few give the distinction proper attention. It requires a nuanced understanding of how the Weave interacts with transitional states."
"Transitional states?" Halsin prompted.
"Water becoming ice, air becoming lightning," Lyanna said without looking up from where she disassembled a trap mechanism. "Not just physical changes but fundamental shifts in the Weave's expression."
The silence drew her attention. Gale stared at her, his now-bearded face a stark contrast to the meticulously groomed wizard she’d first met in Sharn. His spoon suspended halfway to his mouth, lips parted still.
"What?" She twisted the mechanism with more force than necessary. "Something on my face?"
"That was..." Gale lowered his spoon, brow furrowing. "That was remarkably precise. You understand the arcane applications of transitional states?"
She shrugged, returning to her work. "Hard not to understand when you've been lecturing about it for half the night."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You talk in your sleep," she said flatly. "Quite extensively. Last night's topic was elemental binding and material resonance, with special emphasis on Margaster's Theorem and ethical applications."
"I... what?"
Astarion's delighted chuckle drifted from his perch on a nearby stone. "Oh, this is precious. The great wizard, delivering midnight lectures to the Underdark!"
"Seems exhaustion affects us all differently," Shadowheart added, the corner of her mouth lifting. "I'll be sure to camp far enough away not to hear the curriculum."
A flush crept up Gale's neck, visible even in the dim bioluminescent light. "I had no idea. I apologize if I've disturbed anyone's rest."
"Not the worst way I've been kept awake," Lyanna said, ignoring Astarion's suggestive expression. She reached into a pouch at her hip, extracting her small notebook which she tossed in Gale's direction. "Some of it was actually useful."
He caught it reflexively, opening it with visible reluctance. His expression shifted from embarrassment to surprise as he leafed through pages filled with Lyanna's quick, efficient shorthand. Diagrams, formulas, theoretical principles—all transcribed from his unconscious ramblings. Some bore annotations in the margins: "useful for frost trap?" or "contradicts experience with flame enchantment" or, most tellingly, "complete nonsense—check if awake-Gale agrees."
"You've been... taking notes?" The pleasant surprise in his voice rose.
"More like self-defense," she countered, snapping her trap mechanism back into place. "If I'm going to be lectured at all night, might as well get something out of it.”
Gale should have been embarrassed. Instead, he looked almost delighted as he flipped through more pages. "This is... remarkably thorough."
"Don't get excited," she warned, rising to her feet and brushing dust from her leathers. "It was either this or smother you with my pack."
"A difficult choice, clearly," he observed, a smile tugging at his lips.
"You have no idea." She extended her hand for the notebook. "Figured it might be useful."
As he returned it, their fingers brushed. A brief, incidental contact that shouldn't have registered at all. Lyanna withdrew her hand with practiced casualness, ignoring how the warmth seemed to linger.
"But you were paying attention,” he said. Then he added a terribly uncomfortable twist: “Thank you.”
Those two words held a particular earnestness that made everything more complicated than it needed to be. One of his many new habits after the tadpole or maybe after the orb.
She tucked the notebook away, breaking the moment before it could settle. "Don't mention it. But if you start reciting enchantment theories tonight, I'm sleeping on the other side of camp."
"I make no promises," Gale replied, returning to his breakfast. "Apparently even unconscious, I’m quite the enthusiastic professor."
"That's one word for it," she muttered, but couldn't quite stop the smile that tugged at her mouth.
As they prepared to break camp, she made sure to move away from him. Instead, she focused on collecting her gear, readjusting weapons or pouches. Everything for just a little more distance. Whatever this was between them since they reunited needed to keep to the lines. Lines he drew months ago.
But as they filed out of their alcove and back into the unforgiving passages, she caught herself making sure the notebook remained in an easily accessible pouch. Tonight's lecture, whatever the subject, might prove educational.
And if she had traveled all this way because of what he'd said months ago at that festival, well... that was her business. Some secrets were hers alone to keep, tucked away where even the most perceptive wizard wouldn't think to look.
That one BG3 fanfic deleted scene where Pre-Orb Gale takes fashion advice from a rogue
Live Fanfiction Link: [The Starfall Gambit]
Why Scrapped: Earlier CPR scene changed the tone of Act 1 to incorporate more vulnerability. Unintentional intimacy’ll do that. This chapter was created prior to Gale developing his post-drowning trauma. This chapter maintains more antagonism and humor that didn’t quite fit their new dynamic.
Chapter I.7 Smoke, Mirrors, and Misfits (Alternative)
Gale completed the incantation with practiced precision, the Disguise Self spell settling over him like a second skin. The magic shimmered briefly before solidifying into his chosen appearance—a Drow warrior of obsidian pallor and white hair, handsome in its own way yet purposefully opposite to his every trait.
He pushed through the adjacent doors and surveyed the luxury suite's sitting room, noting with irritation that Lyanna had made herself quite comfortable during his absence. She lounged across his sofa, one leg dangling over the armrest, tossing an ornate sphere from hand to hand as though it were a child's toy. Cute, were it not his personal enchanted Valdiani communication orb.
"Your turn," he said, striding across the room and snatching the orb mid-air. He clutched it against his chest. "Mind applying even a quarter of your focus to the mission you've committed yourself to?"
Lyanna peered up at him, head draped over the armrest. Her eyes flicked over his new appearance. A question seemed to form behind her eyes, one she evidently decided against asking.
"I'm not the one who spent the entire afternoon on a tea break... Blue Eyes,” she said, the new nickname rolling off her tongue with tentative curiosity.
"A consultation with Sharn's magical council is hardly a 'tea break,'" Gale replied, carefully returning the orb to its protective housing on the mantelpiece. "They required my expertise on unstable planar convergences affecting the city's lower levels."
"Semantics," she said, springing to her feet and brushing nonexistent dust from her coat.
Gale knew the implications of his chosen disguise weren't lost on her. Drow were infamously rejected by most on the grounds of their cultural depravity, fueled by both rumors and truths surrounding Menzoborranzean. But it was precisely the race’s more unsavory reputation that prompted such a disguise. One common to illegal auctions, darker corners of cities, and routinely examined only skin-deep. A pragmatic choice based on statistics.
Though he did wonder briefly why she hadn’t questioned his choice of disguise. The Lyanna he was coming to know rarely held back her opinions, so often presented in pointed jokes or private smirks.
“So,” she said, rummaging through one of her many pouches. “You always answer the ‘call to adventure’ when some fancy attendant comes knocking? Not that I mind waiting around in luxury, just thought Mystra’s Chosen’d have more choice about how he spent his time.”
"My position isn't mere luxury," Gale replied, gathering their research materials from the desk where they'd spent the previous evenings plotting their approach to the Midnight Market. He carefully folded the papers, sliding them into his bag of holding for safe keeping. "It's responsibility worthy of the honor bestowed."
"That's unfortunate,” she said, producing a small crystalline vial filled with swirling mist of green and gold.
With a flick of her thumb, she uncorked it and took a swig, the magic enveloping her in a brief shimmer that filled the air with the scent of rose water and sandalwood. When it faded, a nondescript human stood in her place—scraggly black hair, unremarkable features, a frame slightly smaller than her own. The perfect forgettable face in stark contrast to his own deliberately intimidating Drow appearance.
"Quicksilver Mist," she explained, catching his curious glance. "Half potion, half enchantment. A trick some old man taught me. Less predictable than your fancy spellwork, but it gets the job done."
It wasn't the first time she'd referenced this mysterious source of her more practical knowledge. Over their days of planning, ‘some old man said’ had become her own turn of phrase. 'Some old man taught me you never pick a first-floor window when there's a second,' she'd explained while sketching the auction house layout, or 'some old man said looking confident gets you further than actually knowing what you're doing' when Gale questioned her infiltration techniques. The advice was invariably useful, often delivered with a casualness that belied her evident reliance on it.
She tossed the empty vial into his waste bin before shedding her coat. With an easy sweep, she lay her coat bare on the bed, taking inventory of her many pouches with methodical attention. A parcel curiously lay by her side.
Gale flicked his fingers, lifting the discarded vial from the bin with a simple Telekinesis spell before Disintegrating it into fine dust. No evidence, no traces for curious attendants to discover.
"The Midnight Market will be at its busiest soon according to your information," he noted, checking the ornate timepiece on the mantel.
Lyanna's eyes sparkled with mischief as she tossed him the wrapped parcel. "Almost. Just need the finishing touches."
Gale unwrapped the package, his expression shifting from curiosity to horror as he realized what he was holding. The outfit seemed designed to reveal rather than conceal, with strategic cutouts and shimmering magical enhancements.
"You cannot be serious," he said, his voice tight with dignity fighting a losing battle against disbelief.
"The Midnight Market has rules," Lyanna picked at one their leftover carts of food from last night’s planning session, expression suspiciously neutral. "Everyone wears attire that signals their... profession." She gestured vaguely at the ensemble. "You're posing as a court enchanter to a specialized establishment."
"Specialized," Gale repeated flatly, lifting one piece of the outfit between thumb and forefinger as if it might bite. "Is that what we're calling pleasure houses these days?"
"Oh please," Lyanna rolled her eyes. "Don't tell me Mystra's Chosen is too prudish for a simple disguise."
"This isn't about prudishness," Gale countered, shoulders squaring as if preparing for battle. "It's about dignity. Mine, specifically, which seems to matter remarkably little to you."
“What matters is getting that tome,” she countered. “Which for me, means sneaking up to your quarters to hash it out, and for you, it means blending in. Besides, it’s not even your real face that people’ll be gawking at. Why? Got something better?”
Gale studied her face, searching for deception and finding only practiced earnestness. With a long-suffering sigh, he gathered the offensive garments.
"Fine," he said, voice clipped. "But when this is over, we will be having a discussion about boundaries."
"Looking forward to it," Lyanna replied with a barely suppressed smile as he retreated to change.
---
The gate to the Midnight Market looked unremarkable. A weathered door sat beneath a sagging sign in Sharn’s Lower District. Only the muscled half-orc standing guard offered any hint of its true nature. He watched them approach, his face unreadable.
"Names," he grunted.
"Nightsong," Lyanna replied smoothly, handing the man a specially-marked playing card. "And guest."
The guard's gaze swept over them, lingering on Gale's attire with a raised eyebrow. Gale felt heat rising to his cheeks but forced himself to stand tall, channeling every ounce of aristocratic disdain he'd perfected in Waterdeep's high courts.
"Interesting choice," the guard muttered before stepping aside.
As they descended the narrow staircase, Gale pulled his ridiculous excuse for a cloak tighter around himself. "I'm seriously reconsidering our arrangement," he muttered, unable to keep the edge from his voice.
“Relax,” she whispered back. “Look confident. Surely, you’ve faced down greater nightmares than this. You can handle a few stares.”
The staircase opened into a vast underground chamber, the ceiling lost in perpetual shadow. Arcane lights hovered in clusters, casting pools of colored illumination across scattered groups of market-goers. Music wound through the air, atonal and hypnotic.
Gale braced himself for the debauchery Lyanna had described. The hellish landscape of depravity and repressed desires laid bare. He felt it in the way the Weave shifted. How the negative space between its structured lattices grew, a mix of Shadow Weave and more unsavory magics, leaving him on the edge.
But instead, as his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw… none of that. Merely regular merchants, guards, nobles in ordinary cloaks, and rougher types in practical leathers. Yes, there were courtesans and pleasure-workers present, but they composed perhaps a tenth of the crowd.
And not a single person was dressed remotely like he was.
Gale turned slowly toward Lyanna, comprehension dawning with the force of a lightning bolt.
"You—" he began, voice strangled somewhere between fury and disbelief.
Lyanna's composure cracked like spring ice. Her laughter bubbled up, shoulders shaking with barely suppressed mirth as she pulled him between two stalls, out of the main thoroughfare.
"The look on your face," she gasped between breaths. "Worth every copper."
"This was a joke?" Gale hissed, genuine anger flashing in his eyes. "We are here for a Netherese artifact that could unmake this entire city, and you thought this was an appropriate time for—for what, exactly? Humiliating me for your amusement?"
Still chuckling, Lyanna reached for the ties of her fitted bodice. With a few practiced movements, what had appeared to be a provocative ensemble revealed itself as clever layering. She undid clasps and unfurled hidden panels until she stood before him in perfectly ordinary attire—practical, modest, and entirely unremarkable.
"Here," she said, offering a folded cloak from her pack, her smile fading as she registered his anger. "I brought this for you."
"So this was all just—what?" Gale demanded, snatching the cloak but making no move to put it on, still visibly seething. "A test? A game?"
Lyanna shrugged, a hint of uncertainty flickering across her face. "You always carry yourself like..." she gestured vaguely at his rigid posture, "...that. I thought maybe perfection got boring after a while. A bit of imperfection. Seemed lonely at the top is all."
Something in her expression suggested deeper observations—ones she wasn't voicing. In their days of working together, Gale had noticed her watching him when she thought he wasn't looking, her gaze occasionally lingering on the careful distance servants and colleagues maintained around him.
Gale unfurled the cloak with as much dignity as he could muster, simultaneously casting a silent Transmutation spell that reformed his scandalous attire. His anger hadn't dissipated, but something in her explanation had punctured its full force. Not her words but the momentary vulnerability behind them.
"Next time you feel inspired to dismantle my dignity," he said, his tone still crisp with irritation, "perhaps consider alternatives to public humiliation."
"Where's the fun in that?" she countered, hesitantly reaching up to straighten his collar, the gesture unexpectedly careful. "Besides, you were never in danger of actual embarrassment. I wouldn't do that to you."
The sincerity in that last statement caught him off guard. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Gale stepped back, adjusting his new cloak with precise movements.
"Let's find this tome," he said, his voice still carrying traces of annoyance but lacking its earlier heat. "Before I reconsider this entire arrangement."
"Lead on, Blue Eyes," Lyanna replied, falling into step beside him. Her teasing had returned, but with a gentler edge. "Though I have to say, you pull off resentful dignity remarkably well for someone who was dressed like a discount pleasure worker."
“I will remind you,” Gale said with deliberate precision, “You are testing the patience of a man who could transmute the very fabric of your being into something far less troublesome. Mystra's teachings coincidentally include seventeen distinct methods of enforced silence.”
“Oh, mind giving me better hair the second go-around then? Always been a morning battle with this nest,” she replied, already moving ahead into the market's depths.
Gale felt his irritation beginning to give way to something more complex. Not quite amusement, not yet, but perhaps the distant ancestor of it.
That one BG3 fanfic deleted scene where pre-orb Gale falls physically instead of metaphorically
Ongoing Fanfiction Link: [The Starfall Gambit]
Why Scrapped: CPR cliche included in final scene with more fear and mortality applied. Tone shift from humorous to grit with beauty
Chapter I.6 Surface Tensions (Alternate)
Gale broke the surface with a gasp, water burning his lungs as he thrashed toward the air. Strands of his once-immaculate hair clung to his face like seaweed, dignity drowned somewhere beneath them.
“By Mystra’s weave, what madness was that?!” His voice cracked, composure shattered.
Lyanna treaded water a few feet away, already measuring distance to shore Moonlight caught in the pearl droplets streaming down her face, transforming rage into something almost ethereal. Almost.
“That,” she spat between controlled breaths, “was me not dying. Until you got involved.”
The pond water between them glowed faintly with industrial runoff, magical waste from Upper Sharn’s elegant spires staining Lower Sharn’s waters with prismatic toxicity. Beautiful poison. Just like everything else in this city.
“Or more accurately some sort of suicidal stunt.” Gale flailed. Waterlogged silk robes dragged him down—his finery, his anchor. “I couldn’t just let you—“
He cut himself off. Realizing midway how such sentiments might sound. He groaned.
“Tell me, Miss Lyanna. Are all your survival instincts this catastrophically flawed?”
“I had a plan.” She threw out her arms, water splashing in angry arcs that caught the moonlight. “And it didn’t involve getting tackled mid-air by some invisible lunatic!”
Gale narrowed his eyes, slapping her arms away. Water scattered like broken spells. “Well, pardon me for assuming the reasonable response.”
Their voices echoed through the garden, scattering birds from nearby trees. They took flight in panicked formations, shadows cutting across the face of Sharn’s dimmed landscape.
“Oh, and what would your grand plan have been, oh wise and mystical one?” She asked, treading water with the ease of someone who’d survived worse. “Politely ask them to let me go? Summon a chair and start negotiations?”
“A TELEPORTATION SPELL!” Gale practically shrieked. His voice bounced off ornate stonework, designed to carry music through the garden, now amplifying his indignation instead. “A perfectly rational, safe, magical solution instead of—of that!”
“Not everyone has teleportation at the ready!” She turned away, swimming toward shore with powerful strokes.
“What I do is none of your business. I didn’t need some invisible hero helping me!”
“Oh, by all means, let’s do it again, then!” Gale followed, his wet robes now a prison weighing him down. “Just spring back up there and take another go at it. I’ll wait.”
Lyanna smirked, heaving herself onto the muddy shore. Water streamed from her clothes, pooling beneath her like shed armor. “Maybe net time I’ll just let you handle it all, huh?”
“Oh yes, what a privilege,” Gale muttered, dripping and miserable as he dragged himself to solid ground. His waterlogged boots squelched with each step, the undignified sound of a dignified man undone.
The Central Garden stretched around them. A public space created back when the city still pretended to care about uniting its stratified citizens. Now, it served as neutral territory—somewhere the upper classes could admire nature without venturing too far down, somewhere the lower classes could glimpse beauty without climbing too high.
Lyanna collapsed on the grass, eyes fixed skyward. Water pooled beneath her, reflecting fractured starlight. Nearby flowers released their sweet perfume, intensified by moisture in the air. Arcane motes drifted between exotic blooms—maintenance enchantments responding to their presence with confused patterns, brightening and dimming as if unsure what to make of these unexpected visitors.
Night insects resumed their chorus after being briefly silenced by the splash. Their humming created a strange percussion to accompany the distant laughter from a pavilion where late revelers gathered, oblivious to the drama unfolding in their scenic backdrop.
Gale plopped beside her. Every breath stabbed through newly-bruised ribs. The immaculate Chosen reduced to something human, something breakable. Real.
His gaze drifted back to her.
Her chest heaved with every breath. Brown curls framed her flushed cheeks, her usual braid undone by violence and water. Survival looked different on her than on him—familiar, worn-in, like a coat she’d donned too many times before. Wet clothes, of earthy shades and leather accents, clung to her figure. Slivers of exposed skin revealed a map of old scars, hints of stories untold.
“What?” she snapped, eyes still on the stars.
Gale paused, pushing down the flush that crept up his neck. “You know… I had a perfectly good Teleportation spell.”
The water hit his face before he saw her move, a rough splash that caught him mid-smirk.
"How mature," he muttered, wiping droplets from his eyes with exaggerated dignity.
Her expression flickered with brief satisfaction—a small victory claimed in a night of defeats. She watched as he peeled away his outer robes with theatrical care, the soaked fabric releasing its hold reluctantly.
His undershirt clung to him, rendered nearly transparent now. Gale was acutely aware of how he looked—another kind of armor he’d cultivated as carefully as his spellcraft. The moonlight was kind to him, catching the defined lines of his physique in ways that weren’t entirely accidental in their display.
Her gaze flickered over him, assessing or perhaps appreciating. He pretended not to notice, though a knowing smile tugged at his lips.
“What?” He echoed, feigning an innocence that fooled no one.
Lyanna pushed herself upright, taking her time to wring water from her hair instead of answering his question immediately. She met his eyes as if that had always been the destination. “Just thinking that for someone so clever, you make remarkably poor decisions.”
“And yet.” He smoothed back wet hair with one hand. “We both survived. One might even call
"And, yet," he replied, smoothing back his wet hair with one hand, "we both survived. One might even call that rescue a rousing success."
She scoffed, but there was less bite than before. "Don't flatter yourself. I've fallen from higher."
Gale arched an eyebrow. "I don't doubt it for a moment."
A momentary silence settled between them—not comfortable, exactly, but no longer crackling with hostility. The arcane motes of light drifted closer, drawn to the magical residue that clung to them. They circled them briefly before dispersing, their programmed behavior confused by him: his all-powerful magical signature at odds with his shattered decorum.
The distant chaos of the warehouse seemed impossibly far away.
"Malcolm," he said finally, the name falling between them like a stone. "He's more dangerous than I anticipated."
Her expression sobered. "Yes, He is."
“However, that doesn’t exactly explain your involvement tonight.”
Her fingers paused. Lips pursed as if weighing the cost of indulging him. “No, I guess it doesn’t.”
He leaned back, resting his arm on his knee. “Neither does it explain your presence at Tibbles’ workshop today.”
“Nope, doesn’t explain that one either.” She shrugged.
A coolness settled between them as Lyanna stared up at the stars, deliberately avoiding his gaze. She flicked a wet strand of hair from her face. Her fingers trailed over one of her many pouches—checking, cataloging what remained after their impromptu dive.
"You know," she said finally, her voice almost too casual, "for someone obsessed with finding a Netherese tome, you've been looking in all the wrong places."
Gale went still. He turned toward her slowly, his studied nonchalance betrayed by the sudden intensity in his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"
"The Netherese tome. The one with all those fancy sigils you were drooling over at Tibbles' place." She met his gaze then, a challenge in her storm-gray eyes. "That's what you're here for, isn't it? Probably some sacred mission from Mystra?"
His expression hardened. "And how exactly would you know about that?"
"The books you read, the people you talk to. People have their ways." She pursed her lips and peeled off a pouch. With a quick shake, she poured out its contents: broken glass and blood red liquid. A potion shattered in the dive.
"Just like how I know the merchant who purchased it three days ago from a very nervous artificer who probably had no idea what he was selling."
"Three days—" Gale stopped himself, recalibrating. "You've been tracking it."
"It’s a useful hobby. But either way, I know where it is."
"Why?" His voice dropped, sharp with suspicion. "What possible interest could you have in Netherese magic?"
Lyanna sat up fully now, drawing her knees to her chest. She seemed to debate with herself, weighing options against risks. When she spoke again, there was none of her usual flippant charm.
"Not the tome itself," she said. "What I need is information about the Whispering Blades."
Recognition flickered across Gale’s face. The same question from the balcony, where fine wine had temporarily softened their edges.
"Ah, so we return to this," he said, his voice measured. "Your mysterious blades with a mind of their own."
"Not just a mind," she said, her fingers curling against her palm as if holding something precious. "A soul."
Despite himself, Gale's scholarly interest stirred. "Soul binding is dangerous magic. Far beyond mere sentience in a blade."
"Which is exactly why I need someone who understands it," she countered, leaning forward. "Someone with access to knowledge beyond ordinary reach. Someone like Mystra's Chosen."
Her last words carried the faintest hint of mockery, but there was something else beneath it. Desperation, perhaps. Or determination.
Gale's eyes narrowed. "So that's your game. Information for information. The tome's location for what I know of these blades."
"Is it really that unreasonable of a deal?" Her gaze held his.
"I could simply extract the location from your mind," he said, his fingers tracing a small arcane pattern in the air between them. "A simple spell would suffice."
To his surprise, Lyanna laughed—a sharp, genuine sound that cut through the tension. She caught his hand and pushed it aside.
"Could you? You couldn't even spot that your devoted student was an assassin trailing your every move for two tendays." She gestured vaguely toward the warehouse looming in the distance. "Not exactly inspiring confidence in your powers of perception, Wizard."
The barb struck home. Gale’s jaw clenched, pride warring with pragmatism. "A momentary oversight," he said stiffly. "One I won't repeat."
"Of course not." Her smirk returned, knowing and sharp. "Just like I'm sure you've already located the tome on your own and are just humoring me now."
Silence stretched between them. Finally, Gale sighed, the sound heavy with reluctant acceptance.
"Very well," he said. "Let's assume, for the moment, that your information is valuable—"
"It is."
"—and accurate—"
"Also true."
He shot her a quelling look. "Then I would be willing to consider an exchange. But not simply a location for what I know of the Whispering Blades. That's hardly equitable."
Lyanna tilted her head. "What are you proposing?"
"Your assistance." Gale's eyes gleamed with calculation. "Not just the location, but your help in acquiring the tome. Your... particular talents may prove useful in retrieving it without unnecessary complications."
"You want me to help you steal it," she translated, amusement dancing across her features.
"I prefer 'recover,' given that it rightfully belongs to Mystra." He adjusted his still-damp sleeve with practiced dignity. "But semantics aside, yes."
She considered this, her fingers absently tapping against her knee. "And in return?"
"After we've secured the tome, I'll share what I know of the Whispering Blades." He met her gaze, his expression serious. "But understand this: I won't be manipulated or deceived. One false step, one hint that you're not dealing honestly, and our arrangement ends. Immediately."
The threat hung in the air between them. Lyanna's expression remained carefully neutral, but something shifted in her eyes—a flicker of respect, perhaps, at his firm boundaries.
"Fair enough," she said finally. "Though the same applies to you, Chosen. I'm not one of your adoring followers, hanging on your every word. We work together as equals, or not at all."
Gale inclined his head, a gesture both gracious and reserved. "I believe I can accommodate that."
"Then it’s a deal." She extended her hand, water still dripping from her sleeve.
Gale hesitated only briefly before taking it. Her grip was firm, her palm calloused where his was smooth. A study in contrasts, yet in that moment, strangely complementary.
"So," he said as they released the handshake, "where is this tome?"
Lyanna's smile widened to something genuine and mischievous. "The Midnight Market. And you, Chosen One, are going to need a better disguise than those fancy robes if you want to blend in there."
"The Midnight Market," Gale repeated, his voice a mix of intrigue and wariness. "Of course it would be there. Nothing is ever simple, is it?"
"Where's the fun in simple?" She rose to her feet, wringing her coat one last time for good measure. "Besides, I thought you enjoyed a challenge. Wasn't that what you said in Elturel? Something about 'true mastery requiring worthy obstacles, approached properly and methodically'? Who lectures a stranger for helping close a portal anyway?"
"You remember my words with surprising accuracy," Gale observed, standing as well.
"Only the particularly pompous ones," she replied with a wink. "They're just too good to forget."
Despite himself, Gale felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. Whatever complications lay ahead—and there would undoubtedly be many—at least the journey wouldn't be dull.
"The Midnight Market it is, then," he said. "Though I warn you—if this proves to be another of your games, you'll find I'm not nearly as accommodating the second time around."
Lyanna's smile didn't falter. "Of course, you’ve got a reputation to uphold after all. Mystra’s Golden Boy and what not."
Around them, the garden hummed with night insects and the gentle rustle of leaves. Above, the towers of Sharn loomed like sentinels, impartial to the unlikely alliance formed in their shadow.
That one BG3 fanfic deleted scene pack where Pre-orb Gale cries over roses, shows symptoms of being a stuck-up nerd, panics over last-minute project changes, and fails at dice
Ongoing Fanfiction Link: [The Starfall Gambit]
Why scrapped: Moving my action-oriented scenes up as the hook. Weaving relevant information into existing chapters.
Chapter I.1.1 To Ashes
A boy clutched his mother’s apron, tears mingling with the dirt and soot smudged across his cheeks. The garden looked wrong now. Where pretty roses had been, only black stems stuck up from burnt dirt, like accusing fingers. He hadn’t meant to hurt them. He just thought they wanted more light.
“Do not mourn, Little One,” a voice cut through his sobs, cool and clear like water.
The air felt funny. Like right before lightning strikes. She appeared in a shimmer. Her robes changed colors that Gale couldn’t even name. Her eyes looked like the night sky, full of stars.
Gale wiped his nose with his sleeve. “B—But I hurt them. They were so pretty.”
She knelt down, and when Her hand touched his cheek, it felt cold as winter against his hot face. Everyone seemed far away now. Just him and her in the whole world.
“Power answers intent," She said, Her voice gentle but firm. "Your sorrow shows you understand the cost. That is good."
Gale stared at the ashes, still feeling awful. The magic in the air looked prettier than the flowers had ever been—swirling and alive. It only made him feel worse.
“Does that mean I’ll always break things?” he asked, small and unsure. “When I do magic?”
She looked at him with those star-filled eyes.
"No," She said, sounding like she knew everything in the whole wide world. "It means you will learn. And you will be great."
From the ashes, something bloomed. Not a rose but something new. It had petals that shone with colors like Her dress.
A little spark lit up inside him, pushing back against the bad feelings. Her words felt like a warm blanket on a cold night. Like a promise.
He wanted to believe Her.
He wanted to be great.
Chapter I.1.2 The Skies Above
The towers of Sharn pierced the sky like needles through velvet, their peaks dissolving into a lattice of bridges and arcane lights. Below, the city stacked itself in defiance of nature. Stone, steel, and ambition compressed into a monument to mortal audacity, as if challenging the gods themselves.
Gale stood at the balcony's edge in the Upper Deck of the Sky Tournaments, inhaling air too thin and too perfumed for common lungs. The voices of spectators from below reached him as mere whispers, appropriate to their station. Sky-chariots cut through clouds, their elemental wakes painting temporary auroras across the evening sky.
He studied their engines with clinical detachment. Raw industrial magic—crude but effective, like a butcher's cleaver compared to a surgeon's scalpel. The innovation deserved acknowledgment, if not admiration.
"Your assessment of the southern district's stabilization efforts was brilliant, Magister," simpered a noble to his left.
"The Academy still speaks of your treatise on planar convergence," added a scholar to his right.
Gale nodded, offering the precise dose of attention their station warranted—neither so little as to offend nor so much as to encourage further intimacy. Their flattery formed a familiar waltz, one he'd witnessed in a hundred courts with a hundred different partners. He'd mastered the steps years ago.
His thoughts remained fixed on his true purpose: the Netherese tome Mystra had tasked him to recover. It lurked somewhere in this gilded gathering, hidden beneath layers of pomp and spectacle.
"'Scuse me! Mr. Chosen, Sir!"
The voice jarred against the cultured murmurs surrounding him. A gnome bulldozed through the crowd, trailing oil stains and enthusiasm in equal measure. Without preamble, he conjured a blueprint that hovered between them, runes pulsing with potential.
"You must see this enhancement to the city's levitation fields! We've realigned the sigilwork to respond to gravitational shifts. Entire districts stabilized!"
Despite his cultivated aloofness, Gale leaned forward. His fingers hovered over the glowing runes, not touching but tracing their contours in the air. "Clever," he murmured, academic hunger momentarily overwhelming practiced restraint. "You've adjusted the harmonic resonance against the planar flux. But wouldn't that destabilize under erratic Weave fluctuations?”
For a heartbeat, the persona slipped. No longer Mystra's Chosen performing dignity, but simply Gale, a scholar encountering innovation worthy of his intellect. The thrill of discovery sparked in his chest, bright and dangerous.
He caught himself reaching toward the blueprint and withdrew. What was he doing? Mystra's mission remained unfulfilled. This mortal sigilwork, however ingenious, was mere distraction.
Yet She wasn't here. No divine whisper reminded him of his station, his duty, his necessary distance from lesser magics.
Perhaps one brief indulgence.
Gale composed his features, subduing the earnest curiosity to something more appropriately measured. "Apologies, sir. I forget myself. What was your name?"
The gnome's face split with a grin too wide for its confines. "Tibbles Clockmort, Your Chosenness!"
"Gale of Waterdeep will suffice." He permitted himself a genuine smile, the rarity of it making it feel nearly illicit.
With a perfunctory glance at the nobles—their disappointment apparent but irrelevant—he guided Tibbles toward the balcony's edge. "If you'll allow me a moment, Gentlemen."
Leaning over the railing, Gale examined the floating blueprint properly. Questions flowed naturally, each answer spawning three more inquiries. The conversation deepened, excavating theoretical foundations and practical applications with equal fervor. For the first time since arriving in Sharn, Gale felt the joy of unguarded intellectual exchange.
Then—a flicker of movement below caught his eye. Not remarkable for its elegance but for its dissonance, like a wrong note in a familiar composition.
His explanation faltered mid-sentence. An old irritation resurfaced, immediate and visceral.
Among the churning crowds of the lower stands moved a human figure he recognized instantly. Sun-bleached brown hair, carelessly braided. Storm-gray eyes that missed nothing while appearing to notice nothing. She navigated the throng with the easy confidence of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere.
She made deals with a grin, laughed at whispered exchanges, touched shoulders as easily as she stole glances. She moved between people like shadow through candlelight.
That gait. That audacity.
The interloper from Elturel...
Chapter I.2.1 A Cage of Light
Elysium breathed with magic. Not the subtle whisper of mortal realms but a violent symphony that demanded submission. Power coursed through floating runes and crawled across Gale's skin like hungry insects. Even the marble beneath him pulsed with divine intention.
And then there was Her.
“You shape the Weave with such precision, My Chosen.”
Gale exhaled, letting Mystra’s words wash over him like the final note of a well-woven spell. Her praise lingered on his tongue, rich and heady as aged wine.
His hands framed his creation, arcane script suspended between them like a constellation bound by his will alone.
Intricate. Flawless. Divine-worthy.
She had not touched him. Not yet.
"Every thread I weave has purpose.” He stepped to Her side. The coolness that emanated from Her form prickled his skin. "I've devoted more to the art than most men give to love." His voice softened, teasing. "Though I'd like to believe I've offered you plenty of both."
Mystra's violet eyes flickered to his, ancient welts that reflected nothing back. Something unstable shimmered between them, possibility and disappointment hanging in perfect balance.
Her fingers barely brushed his spell, but it was no caress. The lattice shuddered, twisting inward like dying stars. Irreversibly altered.
Wrong.
Gale’s brow furrowed. No miscalculations. No imperfections. Yet it rejected him now.
Mystra smiled. “You recall Elturel, do you not?”
A test. Always tests.
“The planar disturbance.” He straightened, masking the tremor in his voice. “A nobleman’s arrogance nearly unstitched reality itself. I arrived in time to prevent catastrophe.”
“Did you?” Two simple words, a scalpel drawing blood.
Gale's fingers curled at his sides. "If you are referring to that bystander—"
Mystra watched him, letting silence stretch between them. The memory flickered unbidden.
The Weave, balanced on a razor's edge. His magic, controlled and calculated. Then suddenly—gone. Yanked out from under him like a drunkard flipping a board game.
A reckless woman with storm-gray eyes, redirecting energy without technique or reverence. The portal snapping shut with her at its epicenter.
No mastery. Just results.
Neat. Efficient. Effective.
A cheat.
"Why do you believe she got involved?" Mystra's voice pulled him back.
His jaw tightened. “Misplaced heroism.”
Mystra's lips curved with quiet knowing. She touched his chin, Her fingers cold as starlight, guiding him to face the altered construct. It hummed wrong notes, dissonant and beautiful.
"You dismiss it, My Chosen, but it reaches places your precision does not." The construct flickered, and he recognized the sensation now. Unstructured. Instinctive. "Even the finest spellbook cannot hold every incantation that exists."
Her touch lingered, clinical rather than loving. No reward. No reassurance. Rather than a lover caressing her beloved, She touched him like an artisan examining an old piece. Where once that touch had sparked divine fire, now it left only frost.
His heart constricted. He had given everything to Her—youth, devotion, brilliance—and still it wasn’t enough.
Gale forced his spine straighter. Precision and control. His defining virtues. What She had molded him to embody. What made him worthy.
As She drifted away, his gaze caught the empty space beside Her, a void he once thought he might fill.
He traced the Weave.
And this time, he forced himself to see the cracks.
Chapter I.2.2 The Stands Below
The Lower Deck devoured all who entered. Where the Upper Deck floated in perfumed refinement, this level throbbed like an exposed nerve. A seething, living thing as loud as the industrial magic that crackled through its steel bones. Flesh made of bodies pressed sweat-to-sweat. Rust and ale and smoke formed a physical presence, something you tasted more than smelled. Each surface held treachery: floors slick with spilled drink, tables scarred from brawls, shadows concealing predators and prey indistinguishable from one another.
A raw, unbridled cacophony that breathed in sparks and exhaled thunder.
Gale pushed through this wilderness with a discreet spell that bent attention away from him. Despite this precaution, his fine robes and straight-backed posture marked him as clearly as a torch in darkness. One hand hovered near his spellbook, both protection and comfort in this alien landscape.
Scholarly curiosity—at least, that’s what he told himself—had led him from the safety of the Upper Deck into this den of structured chaos. The truth was more elemental: he needed to see her again, the woman from Elturel who had unraveled his spell with intuition where he had built it with calculation.
It hadn’t taken long to spot her.
She commanded a gambling table like a general at a battlefield. Sleeves were rolled to expose forearms corded with lean muscle, a single hoop earring catching the lantern light as she laughed. A faint scar tracked along her wrist, visible as she flipped a coin into the growing pot.
"You've got to give it up, Viktor," she teased, her voice cutting through the ambient roar. "That grin's charming, but it's going to be a real problem when someone notices your teeth." She winked at the rough-hewn barbarian across from her, sparking a cascade of laughter that seemed disproportionate to the joke.
Then—there it was. Her fingers twitched, the Weave responding to her silent command. The dice wobbled in mid-throw, their trajectory altered. No incantation. No structured spellwork. Not even a proper cantrip.
Just like last time. Telekinesis? Perhaps the barest of components. A distorted variety.
His lips pressed into a thin line. She played the Weave like a weathered lute, rough and impulsive. A thief picking magic's pockets without a thought to the cost, to the discipline required. To the reverence magic deserved.
And yet… no one protested. No one even noticed. While he detected the disrespect to the Weave itself, her fellow gamblers saw only her charm, her wit, her carefully crafted distraction.
Before reason could intervene, he approached the table. "I'd be loath to let such an engaging game go unstudied. Might there be room for one more?"
Eyes assessed him with predatory calculation. How much could they relieve him of? How quickly?
But when she looked up, recognition flashed before being smoothed over with a grin, disproportionately familiar given their last encounter.
"Feel free." She gestured at an empty seat. "And you are..." Her eyes lingered on every landmark that set him apart—fine robes, enchanted jewelry, perfectly groomed brown locks. Her gaze weighed him with frank appraisal, neither impressed, nor dismissive.
Then she tilted her head. "Prince Charming?"
The table erupted in laughter, rough and genuine at his expense. Gale smiled thinly as he took a seat, refusing to give an inch. "Flattering, but just Gale. Though I can't fault you for assuming nobility."
She hummed, noncommittal. "All right, Gale."
She performed introductions with theatrical flair, ending with a hand settled on her chest, chin lifted in mock ceremony. "Lyanna."
Gale dropped his coin pouch onto the table, its weight punctuating his arrival. Its heft drew appreciative glances. "Pleasure."
The next few hands passed in a dance of mundane gambling, but Gale's attention never strayed from Lyanna's fingers. He watched for the telltale shimmer in the Weave, the disrespectful tug at magic's threads. When the Tabaxi woman rolled the dice, he caught it—Lyanna's casual touch of magic, ready to tip fate's scales.
With surgical precision, Gale countered. A whisper of his own magic nullified hers, leaving a faint shimmer of purple-blue energy that only a trained eye might catch. The dice fell naturally. The Tabaxi squealed with delight at her unexpected win, oblivious to the magic simmering beneath perception.
Lyanna's eyes snapped to him. One finger against the wood, thoughtful. She raised her ale, amusement ghosted across her lips.
"Someone's paying attention," she murmured, her storm-gray eyes meeting his over the rim of her mug.
Gale inclined his head, an unspoken challenge.
The starting buzzer of the tournament blared, sky-chariots roaring, eyes drawn skyward. Lyanna leaned forward, slamming her mug down with a decisive thud.
With each round, their contest deepened, transcending the mundane games around them. The air buzzed with overlapping deals and thunderous cheers, but Gale and Lyanna remained locked in their private contest. Their magic wove through the ordinary gambling like silver threads through base cloth.
Every nullification he performed was technical perfection. Every counter she devised was infuriatingly novel, slipping past defenses like water through cracked stone.
"Lucky," she remarked when his perfectly controlled spell yielded a winning roll.
"Fortune favors the skilled,” he replied with the same scholarly condescension that had earned him both admiration and exasperation from students back in Blackstaff.
Her fingers brushed the table's edge. When she tossed her dice, they wobbled mid-air a heartbeat too long. The Weave bent to her will, careless and unbounded. The dice landed perfectly.
Gale exhaled through his nose.
"Jealous?" she asked.
"For a fluke? Hardly."
As their magical duel intensified, something tugged at Gale’s awareness, a pattern emerging from what he’d assumed was chaos.
When Lyanna manipulated the dwarf's roll, ensuring the dwarf stayed in the game despite poor odds, Gale didn't interfere. He watched as she clasped the dwarf's shoulder, her laughter genuine as she teased him about his vices.
Understanding dawned like a slow sunrise. His gaze swept across the table, seeing the larger design for the first time.
The dwarf, still in the game by a thread. The barbarian, leading just enough to feed his bravado. The Tabaxi, engaged in flirtatious rivalry that had nothing to do with the game. The half-orc, locked in heated competition with the barbarian, their bets climbing higher with each round.
She wasn't chasing victory. She was orchestrating an experience. Shaping the game to maximize engagement, to keep everyone invested emotionally as well as financially. Like feeding kindling to a fire.
The realization unsettled something in him. Magic had its plethora of uses, that he knew. Yet, while his set him apart in a league all his own, hers drew people in. A truth he’d been trained to dismiss as frivolous.
Her eyes met his across the table, a knowing quirk of her brow. As if, for a fleeting moment, he'd glimpsed the real game beneath it all—neither dice nor magic. But rather, she played to their desires, their rivalries, their needs all balanced in a delicate social alchemy.
"Relax, Charming," she said. "It's just a game."
The words stung more than they should have. Perhaps they were only intended as surface-level banter, but they felt like a dismissal of everything he stood for, everything he’d dedicated his life to perfecting. This wasn’t “just a game”, but the very architecture of reality itself.
On the final round, Gale doubled down. Whatever social experiment she conducted, his purpose remained clear. To demonstrate proper control, to teach through example.
He gripped the dice, infusing them with magic of absolute precision. A guaranteed, undetectable victory. The dice tumbled, the Weave humming between them like a plucked string.
Lyanna watched, her head tilted with something like disappointment. Then, just as the dice were about to land, the Weave shimmered. Not opposition, not a counterspell, but a whispered augmentation that made his magic blindingly obvious to everyone present.
The table erupted before the dice settled. Scoffs. Jeers. The barbarian let out a long, unimpressed whistle.
"A shame," Lyanna said, rising with fluid grace. Her expression held none of the triumph he expected, only a flickering regret. As she passed behind him, she leaned close enough that her breath warmed his ear.
"You wouldn't have liked winning like that anyway."
The hem of her coat lifted as she moved to leave, revealing the worn leather of a belt fitted with more pouches than one might expect. Her hand grazed his shoulder—a brief, thoughtless touch that left an inexplicable warmth.
"Try not to let it ruin your night, Upper Crust," she called over her shoulder. Then she exhaled, smoothing a hand over the back of her neck as she melted into the crowd. As if the game had only ever been a momentary diversion.
Gale barely registered the murmurs of disdain from the table, his mind still replaying that final move. She'd caught him in a trap of his own making. Not by opposing his magic, but by revealing it. Why? To teach him some lesson? To humiliate him?
Or perhaps, most disquieting of all, because she'd recognized something in him that he wasn't ready to see in himself.
