❛ you look like you've got something to say. ❜ - from wren
𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬: no longer accepting.
"It's a look I'd thought you've acclimated yourself to. I should wonder what inspired you to inquire about it now."
Gale turns. Those nails of his—bitten, raw and thin to the quick of them—stills, lingering upon the drag of his bottom lip. There's a furrow to his brow, some tell-tale knotting belying his stress, and it carves him out sterner, punches in severity. And a worrying pinch of wonder. A troubling look of need. Gale, ever sharp of eyes, actively yearns for the Karsus crown. He imagines its power, the Weave that'd sing his bones, and there's the taste of tempests in the back of his molars. Down the river of his arteries, he needs its sting.
It can be his. He can be more. And as Wren, cursed with purpose, pulls him from his reverie, she more than anyone would know his plight.
"Pay no mind. I'm simply lost in thought," Gale says, his heartbeat rabbiting. Warm and toxic in his chest, the fraught night wonders if her Bhaal craves its goring. "It wouldn't be rash to say we're upon a knife's edge, both you and I." Gods. "The comfort of the familiar—or something more. Seems to me we hardly require ceremorphosis to emerge irrevocably changed. To the thought, one can hardly blame the mind for turning it."