"What's wrong with being indignant when the situation warrants it?" Verin snipes; he's stood center in the eye of her ire now, "Mystra asks you, no, tells to kill yourself and for what, forgiveness, the "good" of Faerun? And you just accept it? When she's not even the respect to tell you herself— what is her forgiveness even worth when it seems she really just means to be rid of you for good?"
My, how she rages. She's fiercer than a knifepoint, far sharper than his wit, but to bear her anger and the curl of her venom is something, some torture he's not yet faced. And Gale -- Gale's ought to surrender to it, he supposes. He's ought to cower to her bellow, scramble forward with apologies, but in him roars a sprig of unshakable rebellion. His brow straightens, his pulse quickens, and his gaze blares hot. Oh. "Her forgiveness, lest you forget, is worth more than anything any man can rightly imagine," he huffs. Gale holds stalwart, and even here, burned with the heat of her ire, he still ion his heart, thinks her beautiful. "Her forgiveness is a promise we would be fools to deny ourselves of, or perhaps even worse than. By Mystra's grace alone, we can put an end to this burning question. We can save Faerûn." And: "I can save you." Gods. His heart, sweet as it's always been, nearly breaks to that. Verin burns there listening, and upon the fan of her lashes, he counts the stars. My love... "To not consider this would be one mistake we can ill-afford to make. Please. With what is at stake, I see no harm in not casting the thought out entirely."
