continued from here. @holdtitle
in the morning, the world takes on a new shape; it twists, it turns, and although the wizard meets more reprieve in a star-lit sky, he still finds himself effortlessly charmed by the easy-going nature of the floodlit pendant of darkness. it is naught but light; and in that daylight, gale discovers hope to be a small, tangible thing. here, under the blazing sun of a future that has yet to take shape, he can sense the shimmering opportunities of a new spell. magic is time turned palpable; a piece of tapestry elegantly woven into something that could only exist because of the ingenius nature of its caster. morning is, of course, analogous in that regard: it vibrates with the same tenous concentration required for a miracle in the making.
in other words: he is feeling a smidge more apt at facing whatever comes next, if only because it is a beautiful morning on a beautiful day, and he has yet to die in the name of something he isn't sure he believes in anymore. it would be disingenous, of course, to say that he does not believe in mystra-- she is, after all, parts of his soul, for magic is all that he is. were we to hunt for a metaphor, then we would say that mystra is to gale what light is to a morning; perhaps not all that it is, but absolutely an intrinsic part of its nature.
however mystra is also something that asked for his death. something that hurt him, and demanded he begs for forgiveness as a result of it-- as if he had wielded the knife. as if he did not bear the wound. in such a morning, he fails to see where it is that he sinned-- where it is that he failed at being good. too fervent in his love, perhaps, but how can that be a wicked thing? he thinks of his love; a reprobate, disgraceful creature that has been shunned from the luminous sky of the astral plane.
he thinks of his love; finds his gaze eagerly searching the camp for a shape-- be it human or four-legged. he discovers them atop a log, a rag in hand, scrubbing & scrubbing at what he can only assume to be leftovers from yesterday's skirmish. gale rarely finds it in himself to partake in the same liturgy as his companions: prestidigitation was created by scholars to avoid such ruminations, and gale has never strayed into such a direction. to think of one's acts of survival as anything but a necessity is to bestow too much power into the hands of those who hurt you… he is, of course, deeply aware of the irony of such a thought, and immediately discards it in favor of asking indigo for a chance at company.
though the druid does not speak, they relent in their assault against the filth-- they leave a small amount of space for him to join them. were he someone different, he'd most certainly find it rude. but his best friend is a tressym who thinks that no one is owed another's company, and his ex-lover is a goddess who only answered a call when she wished to. the very fact that indigo is willing to offer him a seat is enough.
his eyes remain on their hands-- he has, like any wizard worth their weight in coin, a certain appreciation for hands: they are, after all, a necessary component to magic well-done. indigo's hands are beautiful in that exact manner... although he won't speak of the fact that he wishes he could hold them. "i could clean that for you. a bit of prestidigitation should do the trick-- not quite as efficient as an actual shower, mind you, but certainly enough to get rid of bloodstains until we get closer to water."
