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.
