hey party people, a little life update from me is that I'm heading back to university to take writing things a little more seriously.
I know some of you have sent in requests and others have been waiting patiently for the ending of A Nest of Vipers, I WILL do both of those things in the future - it just might take some time.
I will also still be shitposting and reblogging nonsense for the foreseeable but things will slightly dry up on the fanfic front as I push all my creative writing energy towards my degree.
Don’t want this to come off rude in anyway but is there any chance of another long form Cormac fic? I swear by finders keepers (and all of your other cormac stories bc omg, you write him perfectly!) and reread it way too often if I’m being honest 😅
Thank you! Oh gosh, I don’t think I’ll ever write anything as long as Finders Keepers again 😭 idk what was in the air when I wrote that! But I’m hoping to finish off a Nest of Vipers last this year after I graduate 😇
Every so often between chapters I come back to Nest of Vipers because your way of pulling them back and forth with each other, you weave such a wonderful enemies to lovers and the storyline is so interesting too, I love how you drop in those little nuggets of mystery around una's home life, the payoff in the latest chapter was so satisfying (but also WTF?!? my poor una :( )
Also you write Una SO we'll, I don't tend to gravitate towards original characters that much but you've gotten me so so interested in her and all that she does - it's crazy how terrible of a person she is but you write the internal justifications she has and her soft side so well that I still want to root for her and see her happy and in love and all that mushy stuff
much love to you, I hope you're doing well 🩷!
Thank you so much 😭🥹 I will come back to a Nest of Vipers once I graduate this year! I have an incredible ending - I promise!!
But thank you again for the kind words 🥹💖💖💖💖💖 Una is my favourite! I love her - she’s such a terrible person but we see from her POV that everything feels justified(ish) and Cormac trying to look past every red flag because he’s so blinded by how much he likes her.
Lae'zel's character and her entire situation at the beginning of the game becomes so much more funny when you find out she's 22. It makes so much sense. Imagine you're 22 and you're exposed to this dangerous toxin or chemical or something - but not to worry, you learnt that this can be easily fixed, you just need to dial 911 real quick. Common knowledge. Everyone knows that. You learnt that in kindergarten, it's up there with fire alarm drills.
But the people you're stuck with have no concept of modern medicine and when you say "let's go to the hospital" they will say shit like "i think they kill people at the hospital" and "we should ask this swamp lady" or "this guy over there told me about this homoeopathic healer kind of guy but he got abducted" or "this random bard wants to help" and "I'm not going to dial 911 because I don't want the government to know my home address" or "maybe we should consider a deal with Satan". And then a bunch of them KEEP consuming the chemical because it makes them "stronger". One guy might explode for unrelated reasons. You have a few days before this situation is getting critical and suddenly they're solving crime and doing general charity for the community.
And FOR SOME REASON you still try to help these idiots and you STILL want to help them get the cure even though they all keep insisting the "doctors" at the "hospital" might try to "kill them" and they don't have insurance. And you keep telling them to just. go. to. the. hospital. before the time runs out and you all die very horribly of a very treatable condition.
And also you're 22 in a foreign country and you're responsible for shepherding this gaggle of idiots who are all ranging anywhere from 24 to 240 years old.
When I catch you, Mystra Ch. 3 (Gale of Waterdeep x fem!reader)
Rating: Explicit 18+
Word Count: 4k
Summary: Elminster brings unwelcome news.
Warnings: Smut, TW mentions of suicide
A/N: Alt title: Who's Josh Groban??? Kill yourself!!
Masterlist | Series masterlist
The mountain pass is beautiful. The Rosymorn Monastery trail winds high along the cliffside, where the ground glows gold under the sinking sun. The trees are lush and deep green, the air sharp with pine and cold stone. Everything shimmers warm and unreal in the evening light.
It’s much later than you’d planned to arrive. You hadn’t even left camp until noon today.
Whoops.
Earlier today, you were startled awake by the sound of voices calling out. For a moment, you couldn’t remember where you were - only that you were warm, and had someone’s arm heavy around your waist.
Then you realised it was Gale’s.
He stirred at the same time, blinking at you in the low morning light, both of you half-asleep, confused and perfectly still. The shouts outside grew louder.
“Tav?”
“Where’s Gale?”
Realisation hit.
You exchanged guilty looks that immediately turned into stifled laughter. He hushed you with a kiss, then letting out a soft, wistful exhale, raised his hand and vanished in a shimmer of white light - misty-stepping neatly from your tent into his own, pretending to the others that he was there all along.
Now, you’re keeping a very casual, totally inconspicuous distance. Gale leads the group up front; you, Shadowheart, and Astarion trail behind. The wind whips through the pass, wild enough to keep your voices private.
“Did you sleep well last night?” Shadowheart asks, her smile too innocent to be anything but trouble.
“Wondering if Astarion owes you twenty gold?” you ask dryly.
“Forty, actually,” she replies, pleased. “Double or nothing.”
Astarion pouts. “Our dear wizard was curiously absent this morning, until he appeared out of nowhere, apparently... Well, perhaps that old vagabond knows where he spent the night.”
Who?
You follow his gaze. Sure enough, Gale is up ahead, arms folded as he talks to a wizened old man dressed in royal blue and crimson robes, his silver beard gleaming in the sunset.
“What’s that about?” Shadowheart wonders aloud.
When you reach them, Gale looks flustered - half-impatient, half-defensive. The old man, by contrast, seems perfectly at ease.
“This is Elminster,” Gale says, by way of exasperated explanation. “One of Mystra’s Chosen.”
Your eyebrows lift. “Elminster?” You extend a hand, grinning despite yourself, your lute strap slipping down your shoulder as you practically leap forward. “It’s not every day one meets the hero of countless ballads in the flesh.”
Elminster’s eyes light up. “Ah! A minstrel by trade - I can always tell!”
You beam. “Guilty as charged!”
Gale looks as if he’d like to sink into the ground. Elminster, meanwhile, claps his hands together. “Tell me, my dear - which is your favourite?”
“I’ve always loved The Day the Dragon Woke in Flame.”
“Excellent choice!” Elminster declares. “Old but hearty. And rife with flourishing choices - not unlike myself.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Gale cuts in, barely containing himself. “This is all very well and good, but you were saying you came all this way on my behalf?”
“She sent me, Gale,” says Elminster, his tone softening. “You know of whom I speak.”
Gale stiffens. “But why? Out with it, Elminster. Please.”
The old man’s eyes twinkle. “Young man, has your sojourn away from Waterdeep washed away your decorum as well as your patience?”
Gale groans quietly, bristling. You can see the protest forming on his lips. Before he can speak, your hand finds his forearm. The touch is meant to steady him, a gentle warning, but the moment your fingers brush his skin and you feel the warmth of him, something coiled beneath him tenses.
It affects you too, the memory of last night surfaces unbidden - the brush of his lips, his voice in the dark, the quiet thrill of the secret between the two of you.
You let go too quickly, pretending to brush something from his sleeve.
“Gale,” you say with forced evenness. “We’re about to make camp. Perhaps you should find Elminster some bread and wine.”
Gale looks at you, taken aback. “Now?”
“Yes,” you say with pointed sweetness. “Now.”
Elminster perks up instantly. “And cheese!”
“And cheese,” you echo, smiling warmly at him before flicking a look back to Gale - the kind that says do it.
Gale exhales through his nose, visibly reining himself in. “Of course. Bread, wine, cheese,” he mutters, and moves to stalk off toward the others, already emptying bags and assembling tents.
You catch his hand before he can go. Just a small tug - enough to stop him, not enough to draw attention. Elminster is setting himself up on a tree stump with the slow ceremony of age, already reaching for his pipe.
Gale turns, businesslike, but it melts away when he sees the expression on your face.
Your fingers tighten around Gale’s, and you tilt your head to kiss him. It’s quick, almost nothing, affection disguised as a whisper. But it’s enough to make his fingers twitch like he might reach for your waist.
By the time Elminster glances your way again, you’ve already stepped back. Gale looks dazed, the corner of his mouth still curved in surprise.
You smile as though nothing happened, turning your attention towards gathering firewood. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Elminster settle in, his bright, old eyes scanning the camp - assessing, measuring.
Elminster may be all genial smiles and twinkling eyes, but he’s Mystra’s creature. Every word he hears, every glance he observes, will be carried back to her like smoke on the wind.
So you smile, you nod, you make him feel welcome - and pray that whatever news he’s brought won’t be enough to shatter, well… everything.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Most of the camp is gathered around the campfire, perched on logs and stumps, plates empty, goblets full. The night hums with heat and wine and laughter. Everyone is in good spirits.
Everyone except Gale. The firelight paints everyone else in gold, but him in shadow.
He sits apart, posture impeccable, trying not to fidget with the stem of his goblet. There’s a hum in his chest - not from the orb. It’s dread. Or maybe anticipation.
You pick up your lute.
Of course you do.
Gale feels that tiny shift in the air, the way conversations soften, how people instinctively tilt their bodies toward you like flowers turning toward the sun.
You strum an upbeat prelude and the murmuring peters out.
“Now we’ve all been fed and watered…” you begin, voice honey-soft, almost warm enough to melt the tension in his shoulders. Gale watches the way your eyes brighten - alert, alive, wicked - already spinning some new trouble into the world. “I have a song… and it’s not one the wizards amongst us will have heard before…”
And that’s when longing collides with dread.
Your tone is too sweet.
Your smile too knowing.
Your eyes - gods, that glint. Mischief sharpening like a blade.
Gale’s back stiffens.
Elminster inclines his head. “A song,” he repeats, dry amusement threading through the words.
Gale prides himself, after all, on being articulate, persuasive, deft of tongue and mind. But whenever you choose to wield your charisma you outshine him, outmanoeuvre him, outclass him entirely. Gale might read a room but you - you - tilt its axis.
And this version of you is nothing like the one he knows on quiet mornings.
The you who sits cross-legged on a blanket outside your tent, absentmindedly practicing while Scratch naps beside you. Careful and private with your craft, as though music were something intimate, meant for you and the wind.
But when you perform - when you truly perform - you are someone else entirely.
Even now, he can see it happening: Elminster, Chosen of Mystra, leaning in by a fraction, drawn toward you as though caught in your orbit. As though you are a lodestone and he an iron filing, helpless in your pull.
Gale wants to intervene, to stop you before you do something irretrievable.
He opens his mouth - your name poised on his tongue like a plea.
But you are already beginning.
And he is, as ever, powerless to do anything but allow himself to be drawn in too.
“He’s Mystra’s Chosen, favoured pet,
Her archmage unimpeded,
She gave him power vast and deep…”
Gale lifts his goblet to his lips, thinking that perhaps a song flattering Elminster will cast favour upon him.
“But not where it was needed!”
Gale chokes on his wine and coughs into the sleeve of his robe as the camp’s laughter blooms like wildfire. You barely pause, eyes glinting in the firelight.
“She made him clever, made him wise,
She gave him charms aplenty,
But gods above, dear Mystra sighed…
His staff still fired empty!”
Nine hells, thinks Gale.
“He’d brag his hands could wake the dead,
With magic strong and hardy,
He asked her ‘was it good for you?’...
She merely muttered ‘hardly’!"
The final chord trembles into the dark, lingering like a dare.
For one terrible heartbeat, Gale braces for Elminster’s outrage - a verbal flaying, a lecture on reverence and tact - but instead, the old wizard lets out a wheezing bark of laughter so loud it startles Scratch. Karlach nearly chokes on her ale; Shadowheart hides her grin behind her hand; even Lae’zel’s mouth twitches with reluctant amusement.
Gale just wrings his hands together, lost at sea.
“By the gods,” Elminster wheezes, dabbing at his eyes, “in almost three centuries on this plane, no one’s ever had the gall to sing that one in front of me before!”
“I’ve never heard it either,” Gale mutters, somewhere between wonder and despair.
You flash him that knowing grin, slipping your lute strap off your shoulder. “It’s not the kind of song you’d sing in front of most wizards - unless they were very good humoured, like our dear Elminster.” Your winning smile is all flattery. “You wouldn’t catch me singing ‘The Frog Queen’s Webbed Hole’ in front of Lae’zel, would you?”
Lae’zel glares, her voice low and dangerous. “Mind your tongue if you wish to keep it, istik.”
Elminster roars with laughter again, wiping at his eyes.
“See?” you say brightly, winking at Elminster, who lets out another delighted wheeze.
Gale crosses his arms, the motion tight, self-contained. He isn’t entirely sure why the sight of Elminster so thoroughly entertained unsettles him - only that it does.“Elminster,” he says, his tone sharp enough to cut through the laughter. “Perhaps you could finally explain the purpose of your visit.”
“Gale,” you half-sing his name, splitting into two syllables, in that voice he knows you use when you’re trying to persuade or placate. He doesn’t look at you - can’t, really.
You’re playing your part, softening Elminster, disarming him before he can deliver whatever news he’s carrying.
And that’s what undoes Gale most.
Even now, when you could so easily stay quiet, you’re protecting him instead. Wrapping his pride in your charm like mage armour. He can’t decide whether to thank you, tell you off for interfering or beg you to stop before you make him fall in love with you.
Elminster’s eyes glitter across the firelight - sharp, ancient, knowing. “I’ll speak as plainly as I can,” he says, his voice suddenly dry. “I’m here on behalf of Mystra. The message and the charge I bring you are hers.”
You lean forward slightly, tone polite but edged. “Why didn’t she come herself?”
“Oh, Mystra’s delicate feet are ill-suited for the hardships of the road,” Gale says before he can stop himself, voice sharp with disdain.
Your eyes narrow at him - just barely - but he catches it. He makes a quick mental note never to describe the delicate nature of his ex-lovers feet again.
“You’re to be given a chance at redemption,” says Elminster.
“Redemption?” Gale echoes, disbelief curling around the word. “Mystra would consider… forgiveness?”
Elminster exhales, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “She would consider what she considers to be forgiveness.”
You lean closer to listen, and Gale feels a pulse of dread before Elminster even begins to speak.
Mystra has been watching him - watching you all - tracking the Cult of the Absolute with growing concern. She sees the threat they pose, and in her divine wisdom, she has chosen him - her exiled favourite - as the only one capable of stopping them.
Elminster’s words are clear: Mystra offers redemption in exchange for Gale’s life.
He explains that the Netherese orb in Gale’s chest can be harnessed, stabilised. Mystra will give him a measure of control - the ability to detonate it at will, at a moment of his choosing, rather than succumb to its hunger.
“Mystra has granted me the power to stop the clock as it were,” says Elminster, gesturing vaguely toward Gale’s chest. “Until you reach the heart of the Absolute - whatever form it may take - and then, you will be the catalyst that burns it from this world.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then you find your voice. “I’m sorry, Elminster, perhaps I’ve misunderstood. Does Mystra mistake Gale for a smokepowder bomb?”
“For this sacrifice,” Elminster says softly, “he will be redeemed.”
“Redeemed?” you say sharply. “What does it matter if he’s redeemed? He’ll be dead. You can’t seriously expect him to -”
“No,” Gale interrupts. “But I think she trusts me to.”
You turn to him, eyes bright, searching. “Are you actually considering this?”
He doesn’t answer.
Elminster inclines his head. “It brings me no pleasure to say this, my friend. But such is Mystra’s will.” His voice softens with a pity Gale can’t stand. “And now, all that’s left is to bestow the charm that was bid.”
He begins to speak in a language older than the air around them, weaving sigils of light that flicker violet and silver. The Weave hums like a tuning string. A purple glow blooms briefly across Gale’s chest - it feels warm, almost tender - before fading back into the skin.
When Elminster turns to you, his expression gentles. “And to you,” he says, “I commit his care. I count on you to shepherd him well on this strangest of journeys.”
“Why me?” you ask.
His eyes soften. “I think we both know.” His tone gentles further - almost fatherly, though there’s sorrow under it.
You don’t answer. You hold his gaze, spine straight, jaw set. Gale knows you well enough to know that you won’t let this go. He can tell your mind is already whirring.
Elminster nods once - a benediction or a farewell - and then he’s gone, his figure swallowed by shadow and starlight.
Silence settles heavy in his wake. The fire pops. You’re still staring at the place he stood.
And Gale… Gale can feel the faint warmth still pulsing under his skin. Stable. Controlled. For the first time in a long time, he feels like his destiny is his to do as he chooses. Even if he knows the right choice is to sacrifice himself for the greater good.
He should be thinking of what Elminster just told him - what Mystra demands.
Instead, his thoughts betray him.
The stabilised orb means control. It means safety. It could mean… you.
He glances at you, the firelight dancing in your wet eyes. If the orb is steady now - if he can truly master it - perhaps he can finally touch you without fear. Kiss you without death between you.
He shouldn’t think it. Not now. Not after what he’s been asked to do.
But gods, he can’t stop.
You turn to him. He expects fear, even anger. But instead, you only nod - calm, certain.
“There’ll be another solution,” you say.
He can’t bring himself to tell you that it’s not possible.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When you enter the Shadow-Cursed Lands, there’s little time to give any more thought to Mystra’s proposition. The landscape and his inhabitants demand your full attention - every step, every flicker of shadow threatening to kill you. As long as you keep walking, as long as you’re moving toward Moonrise Towers, you can pretend there isn’t a looming conversation waiting for you and Gale.
After days of travel, the Last Light Inn feels almost holy. The air is foggy, the rooms half-collapsed, but there’s laughter and lamplight and living people. Refugees, Harpers, survivors, and - to your surprise - the tiefling, Alfira.
When you see her, you forget the exhaustion. She pulls you into a friendly hug and the warmth of her, her bright voice, makes something ache in your chest for your life before all of this. She’s just like you - a bard, doing her best to make beauty out of ruin. You’ve spent so long amongst warriors, you never realised how much you missed the company of performers.
She insists on sharing her ale, so you follow her out to the back deck and sit on wooden chairs where the air smells of woodsmoke and river water. You listen to her story. You promise to help her friends trapped at Moonrise Tower.
When she plays The Weeping Dawn, you join in without thinking, your lute weaving under her chords and her singing. The two of you fall into the song easily - not for show, just two singers living through their emotions in the only way they know how.
The song finishes and the tiefling smiles sadly. She takes off her lute and picks up her mug of ale.
You both sit quietly for a few moments as you strum idly, looking out onto the dark river.
“I like that melody,” she remarks. “Something new?”
You nod, barely realising what your fingers have been doing. “I’ve been working on something. I just don’t have an ending. Yet.”
“Well,” she offers, “maybe I can help. Like you helped me with my song for Lihala.”
“The reason I can’t finish it,” you say, “is that the story itself doesn’t have an ending yet.”
She shrugs. “Sing it anyway.”
You glance around. The night air is cool, the murmur of voices from inside softened by the closed doors. “Alright. Since none of my travelling companions are here to interrupt…”
You start to play - the first few notes come soft and low, looping like a thought you can’t let go.
“When I catch you, Mystra, I’ll ask what threads you spun,
To bind a boy within the Weave before his life begun.
You filled his head with lilac fire,
You fed his soul to your desire -
And left him cold, and left him thin,
With nothing but your name within.”
Alfira lets out a low hum, nodding along.
“Oh Mystra, Mystra, cold as stone,
You’ll never love what you have owned.
You have his faith, his discipline,
But now you have abandoned him.
“When I caught you, Mystra, I asked what right you claim,
To make men crawl to kiss your feet and tell them it was praying.
You called it teaching, called it faith,
Then he dared to fall from grace,
I pulled a hand from shadowed void,
And found the man you’d left destroyed.”
By the time you reach the second chorus, Alfira’s eyebrows have lifted.
“Oh Mystra, Mystra, cold as stone,
You’ll never love what you have owned.
You had his soul, you pulled him in,
Now who is left to comfort him?”
“Then you came back, Mystra, to test his heart again,
You told him he must die for you, to prove his faith was plain…”
The last note fades off awkwardly - the verse not even half finished. Alfira’s still watching you, one brow raised, her smile soft but knowing.
“That’s it,” you say finally. “What I’ve got. So far.”
She tilts her head. “So, you don’t know whether he should die for Mystra?”
“Oh, I know,” you say. “But he doesn’t.”
The door creaks open behind you. Gale stands in the doorway.
Alfira’s eyes widen as she takes him in - the robes, the way he looks at you, the faint glimmer of Mystra’s earring at his ear. “Oh,” she says softly. “I see.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Gale says - clearly interrupting. “I was hoping I might steal Tav for a moment.”
Alfira smiles faintly as she rises. “I was just heading to bed. It was good to see you again. But if you want my advice, Tav… people could use a song with a happy ending in times such as these.” She squeezes your hand as she passes before looking at Gale. “Goodnight, Wizard of Waterdeep.”
Gale inclines his head, the faintest colour in his cheeks. “Goodnight, Alfira. Sleep well.”
When Alfira leaves, he hesitates, deciding not to take her empty seat. You can’t bring yourself to look up at him so you lay your lute to rest on the wooden deck. The night hums with crickets and the low murmur of the inn beyond.
He doesn’t speak at first, he waits for the sound of her footsteps to fade completely.
“I’ve wanted to talk to you privately ever since Elminster left,” he admits quietly. “But there’s been precious little time for privacy.”
You stare at the floor, knowing that if you look at him you won’t be able to hold your tongue much longer. As if he knows this - he gets on his knees in front of your chair and takes your hand. You lift your head and his eyes meet yours, a flicker of hope lighting there. “The orb won’t detonate on its own anymore - not unless I expressly will it to. It’s… safe.”
Your eyes narrow. “So that’s why you wanted to speak privately? Because now that you can control your orb, we can have one last night together before you go off and blow yourself to bits?”
His brow contracts in confusion, brown eyes wide - hurt. “Tav, that’s not -”
“You’re going to march off to die for your goddess, but at least I’ll have warmed your bed first?”
He goes very still. “You think that's all you mean to me?”
“You said it yourself - Mystra wants you to detonate the orb.” You hear the childish mocking in your voice when you say her name.
Ignoring the childish intonation, he corrects you gently: “I said she trusts me to make the right choice.”
You shake your head, incredulous. “And what choice are you going to make, then?”
“The one that grants forgiveness,” he says softly. “The only one left to me.”
“Then that’s no choice at all.”
“She’s given me the power to stop the Heart of the Absolute,” he says. His voice breaks slightly on the word power.
“The Heart of the Absolute,” you scoff. It feels like your ribs are closing in around you. “And what of your heart?” you ask. Then, louder: “What of mine?”
“Detonating the orb is the best chance we have to end this. The best change I have to make amends, to wipe the slate clean!”
Your throat aches. “How can you expect me to come to terms with this? An accident I could bear -”
“Forgive me,” he cuts in, something bitter in his voice now, “but you seem more comfortable with me dying by mistake than choosing what to do with my own life.”
“What if there’s another way? One that Mysta hasn’t dictated? If you could just put aside your need for approval -”
“My need for approval?” he finishes for you, his voice bitter now. “That’s rich, coming from the woman who seizes every opportunity to perform for an audience.”
The quiet that follows might as well have been caused by a silencing spell. The moon ripples across the river like an unblinking eye.
“That was harsh, Gale.”
“Tav -”
You stand up, heart hammering. “You didn’t complain about my performance when I was trying to sweeten up Elminster for you.”
Your eyes feel hot and blurry. You can’t look at him without risking opening the dam. You turn toward the inn, stop at the door, hand on the handle, not looking back but knowing he’s still standing there, watching.
“And for the record,” you say, your voice steady though it threatens to break, “I like your slate. Just how it is.”
Then you slip inside, closing the door behind you.
The sound rings out - sharp and lonely - and the heavy silence that follows feels like grief.
Hi Lana! I discovered your blog not too long ago and absolutely fell in love with your fics. Your Adrian ones are seriously so good and I have your Cormac series saved for later. (I seriously need to catch up on Harry Potter). My need for all things Freddie Stroma also led me to your prince Friedrich fic and omgg it was amazing, I realize it is quite older but I was wondering if you’d do anymore for that character. I just thought I’d ask and wanted to let you know how good your writing is and how much I appreciate your work!
Thank you so much gorgeous! What a lovely compliment 💖 I'm not sure I'll ever write more for Prince Friedrich - I have half a chapter two written in my drafts but I really like the open-ended-ending for the Prince and Lady K. (I'm also not a huge regency reader so I think my writing style is maybe a bit too modern for the era!) Thank you again for taking the time to send this 💖
Anyway my stance on fiction and online harassment is shaped by the fact that I had unrestricted access to the local library from about the age of 8 and read quite a few books with fucked up content that I might have been a bit too young for and that caused absolutely no long-term damage to my mental health; meanwhile I was bullied mercilessly by my peers for several years and I’m still dealing with after-effects of that.
“Gales so weak” this and “Gale dies all the time” that - I hear you and I see you and I have been you but in my second playthrough, my tank chaperoned that lil nerd right to the brain and he took out half its Hit Points and killed it in the very same turn, jumped up on nothing but a potion of Speed and probable painkillers for the bad knees. His armour was nothing but a flamboyant flowing bedsheet (wizards robe) which left him at the mercy of the wind (it was probably cold and drafty at that altitude).
Some people invest in the stock market. Some people invest in a wizard
