[Gale is good to his word and does not, in fact, keep her waiting— he knows well enough by now that Lae'zel's patience is not to be tested, and he did invite himself along on this venture of hers. Also as promised, he's carrying a basket in one hand that has a half-covered wheel of cheese poking up over the lip.]
Whatever is in this concoction of yours, it certainly smells potent.
[ Lae'zel has indeed been combining alcohol into... well, it's not a punch bowl, but it's not not a punch bowl. It's a very large bowl with a ladle, and beside it are various bottles that are largely empty. It's worth noting that he labels have been stripped clean of each bottle, as if the names offend her. ]
Indeed. I believe it is nearly complete. It only requires...
[ She reaches down into some of her pack, pulling out a tiny sprig of... Mint? Yes, mint. And adds that to the concoction before stirring with the ladle.
It really does smell horrifically potent. ]
Now it is complete.
[ She smiles at her handiwork, turning back around toward Gale. I'm not going to say that her face falls at seeing him, but it surely becomes a little more stern, and a little more guarded. ]
I shall take the first sip, lest the potency lead to your death.
[ We all know how rank Gale's dead body gets, what with the Netherese orb killing him and all that. So really, she's being kind. You are free to thank her, Gale. ]
[The next time they camp comes soon enough, as it always does; they're all tired, dusty and road-weary, but even so, Gale finds himself in high spirits. He's come to enjoy their little camp community, such as it is, and the promise of company has been something he's been looking forward to, just as he'd said. Tonight, there's an extra stool seated by the table he keeps a number of his scrolls and books laid out on, as well as an additional lamp set out— lit with a soft, inviting glow that's quite plainly provided by magic rather than practical flame.
When Ara arrives, he'll find Gale scribbling notes to himself in a leatherbound journal, largely reflecting on the day's events; he looks up at the sound of footsteps and offers a warm smile in greeting.]
[Tired, dusty, and most certainly weary, yes. As with all days, today had been a taxing one. But there's a warmth to the camp that soothes the soul. Be it the way of which Scratch bounds toward every single one of them in sheer delight and Astarion's (awful) attempt to act like he's ignoring him, the distant scrape of Lae'zel resharpening her equipment, the musing of a distant Wyll mid-penning his memoirs, or even Karlach and Shadowheart on the hunt for a few wine bottles, there's an easy atmosphere to the encampment that just... feels right. Even the presence of their resident lich is something that sets his heart at ease.
At ease as it is, his heart is still somewhat excited. For him, as a sorcerer- gifted with magic yet knowing absolutely nothing about it save for how to make it happen and how to improvise when it went wrong, the opportunity to learn was something worth excitement. To learn from Gale- who seemed like he didn't mind going through concepts that were likely quite rudimentary to him, who had the patience to lay things out in ways he understood, and never, ever shied away from answering questions- highly so.
And it shows in his tone. Admittedly, he's far more weary than hyped. That should be plain to see. But there's a warmth to the half-elf's words, something fond. And happily, he takes the extra stool. ]
So. About that tome of fire...
[It would be plain to see. He had questions. A great amount of them.]
While we may both wish for better circumstances, I suppose it's these very circumstances that have made us who we are— to a certain degree, that is. I know I'm thankful every day that you decided to grab hold of my hand and given it a good tug.
I think we would have gotten on swimmingly regardless, of course, even without the threat posed by our tadpoles. I can't imagine otherwise, however we might have met one another.
I almost didn't, know you. I usually don't make a habit out of walking up to bizarre malfunctioning magical portals. Curiosity got the better of me that day.
I'm sure we would have. Though with you locked away in your tower like some fairytale princess and me traveling across Faerûn, I can't picture how our paths would have crossed otherwise. Not saying I'm glad to have been spirited away to have a mind flayer tadpole ed in my head but... it changed our fated course.
[ They had never stood any real chance. Dead and blighted though the Harpers were, down to their cold bones did they remember how to orchestrate a rout.
Godfrey had been tightly ranked with the others, clustered and stepping gingerly in the amber torchlight. The land outside of its flickering radiance seemed alive with shadows and sickness, the air cold and thick with malice. The entire place aches like an old wound. It had brought their group to nauseated, trepedatious silence as soon as they'd begun walking the path into the shadow-mist in earnest. None knew yet what the livid shadows could do to them beyond the radiance of the torch-fire. All felt it better not to risk the transgression.
The lesson that their inaction and its meaningless held arrives swift and hard. By the time they catch their eyes, gleaming cold and bright in the shadows, it's too late. Their rank is made fragile by their tight fear; they are easily harried and broken by arrow-volley thudding into the poisoned earth. The path is no longer beneath Godfrey's feet by the time he feels it thump into his shoulder; a sharp, punishing sting radiating down his arm. One of their bodkin-points had punched through his plate, writhing between collarbone and shoulder with each movement. Godfrey looks around, suddenly adrift in the cold shadow-sea, blood slithering down his arm beneath his plate. He strains his ears. He searches out familiar shapes, the flicker of orange torch-fire. Tries to hear voices committed to his memory, footfalls in the dark. He finds nothing. As though called to life by the smell of his blood, the darkness flits and dances all around in the absence of familiarity, twisting into shape.
His Lord's light offers some protection, shining from the spires of his blood-mace. But it does not daunt the shadows that begin to close around him - and nor are the shining eyes of the Harpers in the distant shadow overly afflicted by its holy brilliance. Its dawn incandescence seems to provoke them double; a thudding heartbeat seemed an offense here, but they lash to life around him as though he unseated the dead lands double by his morning presence. The black-feathered arrow in his shoulder jams beneath bone, its cold point caught in the motion of his arm. Another concussive swing of his mace, his burning faith searing through these black smoke apparitions.
The creature's form warps, shadow pouring forth as a dunefall of black sand. A punishing scream in Godfrey's shoulder pulls him down, cringing, nearly sinking to the diseased earth before the point of his shield gouges it instead. His breath rasps like rope in his throat. He swings out with his other arm and feels the Harper-corpse charging him from the darkness smash against it, left open for another agonizing crunch of his Lord's holy might. He hears her screech. He does not see her fall. He does the only thing he can and hauls himself forward, stumbling.
More arrows whistle, then drive through his breastplate. Two fresh punctures, arrow-shafts planted deep below armor and gambeson. Left side. They retain just enough of themselves to know where his heart beats. The agony roars in his head. Godfrey makes some kind of noise, but cannot hear it; he only feels it in his throat, in the way the air pushes through his clenched teeth.
His leg next; the bodkin-point knocks his calf out from beneath him, and this is what finally plummets him.
Godfrey feels it already; the way he leaks from himself, quenching these dead lands. His grip is iron atop his tower-shield. He tries to pull himself up. The shaft seizes in the workings of his leg, the pain howling in his ears. He buckles like a shot stag. Feverish cold assaults him.
And all around him, shadows moving. The glint of dead eyes, the seething of shadows. Cruel, shining blades, held low and ready, swinging into view. ]
Edited (dusts this up for now) 2024-02-09 21:03 (UTC)
[Blazing fire lights the darkness then, driving the shadows back as flame itself descends, surrounding the fallen Godfrey without singing so much as a hair on his head— instead it twists, warps, the heat enveloping him while the fire burns two of the blighted Harpers to ash, glowing embers against the sickly shadows, and sends those that remain reeling backwards.
They had been so certain that they were prepared, that they had been on the alert, but the tactics that had served them so well in the wilderness meant nothing here. The Shadow-Cursed Lands were a world all their own, a haunted, blighted place where shadows ruled and they could only but hope to resist them long enough to make their way towards the belly of the beast. Even during his time and travels as Mystra's Chosen, he had never found himself up against such daunting odds— but claiming a lack of readiness or experience would not buy them a moment's lenience here.
The blades of those Harpers that had been burned away fall to the ground, now useless, and as the remaining flames lick at the ground beneath them and begin to flicker and fade, swallowed up by the shadows, he returns the Harpers' shots with arrows of his own, gleaming red as they pierce through the thick, oppressive darkness.]
Tormentum!
[One after another, they find their marks; each missile strikes and staggers the remaining undead, and as they collapse, one of them broken into pieces by the sheer force of it, silence falls upon them and it is too much, too quiet. He wastes not a moment before he makes his way to their leaders' side, all but falling to his knees beside him as he moves to pull him up by his shoulders, breathless as his own face goes white with worry, with fear.]
Godfrey! Stay with me, now!
[He grits his teeth, grabbing hold of the paladin's chin with one hand to turn his face sharply upwards as if to command his attention. Please, please still be conscious enough to say something—]
When she sees the hand protruding awkwardly from an open portal--hears the voice requesting assistance--Dorothea freezes for a moment as she tries to calculate the sort of magical missteps it would take for a wizard who'd been hailed as a magical prodigy to get himself stuck in a bloody rock. She can hear Shadowheart shuffling around impatiently behind her rather than doing anything helpful as she takes her time to examine the runework.
"Hold on a moment," she calls out, using a spell of her own to calm the turbulent energies swirling around the portal before grasping the much-larger hand and bracing her boots against the dusty ground. "All right, now--heave!"
There's a moment that passes where her heels dig into the pebbly soil; Dorothea grits her teeth, scrabbling for purchase as she considers the merits of leaving things where she finds them, but that train of thought doesn't get far. A second later, there's a jolt. She slips, and her moment sends her tumbling backwards; another body is ejected gracelessly from the portal, his landing conveniently cushioned by Dorothea's own body.
As landings go, he's certainly had worse, but Gale is quick to pick himself up off the young lady who had assisted in his escape and cushioned his fall, scrambling to do so even as she makes her request. He huffs a breath as he gets to his feet, smoothing out the front of his robes with both hands before he dusts them off, collecting himself.
This was hardly an ideal first impression he was making, but considering the circumstances, he's happy enough to be alive— things could have very easily gone a different way. As composed as he's likely to be at the present moment, he offers his rescuer a cheerful smile, somewhat sheepish.
"Hello! I'm Gale of Waterdeep," he introduces himself, leaning forward and offering her a hand up. "Apologies, I'm usually much better at this, but I do greatly appreciate your assistance. I'm fortunate you came along when you did."
[ The Chantry's witch-queen fears him, as well she should.
He needs no more confirmation of her fear than this; the imperceptible chains binding him to this stiff chair, invisible magic that seared cold against his skin. The smooth, featureless room that has become his pen, somewhere in the basement of this hallowed and prestigious university, a secret hive for Clan Tremere operations since time immemorial. The ticking seconds to minutes to hours of empty silence.
The flat-faced muzzle to silence his stream of murmured prayer.
Tertiary Gwilym spoke his Word still, in the hot and stifling confines of this mask. Each word clouding his face with warmth. Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and perpetual light shine upon them, and may they rest in peace - these words, and the tiny, finely wrought crucifix of silver and gold chained to his neck and resting upon his chest, were the only defenses they had not been able to take from him completely. His flask of holy water, his gun, his bag holding ten stakes and a hand-held crucifix - these were swiftly discovered and confiscated. They could not touch his cross, and they could not remove the words from his lips; they could only stop them from reaching Kindred ears.
With each repetition, he tests his arms against the burning cold, and finds new slack in his invisible bonds. They will not hold him long.
The Broken Clan knows this - there is precious little they do not know, and less still they know of more than the limits of their own magic. This is no battle of attrition. He is being made to wait for something.
Godfrey sits in his seat, wrists chained and arms bound, face muzzled, pale-gold waves swept from the back of his neck and neatly tied. He keeps his back straight and his shoulders squared.
And, from his side of that expanse of white plastic before him, he watches the door.
He awaits the face of the coward who started it all. ]
Edited (cursed to put my edits on everything) 2024-04-17 23:20 (UTC)
[Nothing he had been told beforehand could have prepared him for what awaited beyond the door to that room.
Of course, he had been told very little— only that there was a job to be done and that he had been hand-selected to see it through, with his sire's insistence that he would be far more thorough and effective than anyone else they might have asked. It was enough. He didn't need more direction than that; the hunter restrained in interrogation room was to be questioned, this threat to their clan dealt with swiftly and decisively once they had what they needed.
He would take no joy in it, he never did, but that was hardly the point. What he cared to do and what he must do were two very different things, and had been for well over a century now.
The door opens without ceremony when he pushes against it, his head bowed as he enters the room. When he speaks, his voice is cool, sharp-edged, a mask he has long since learned to slip on when his duties required it.]
My apologies for keeping you waiting. I do hope you're ready to talk.
[The door swings closed behind him heavily, latching soundly, and he at last looks up just enough to lay eyes on his charge.
If he still drew breath, it would have been pulled from his very lungs in that moment. Though muzzled and bound, the figure before him is painfully familiar, and briefly, the mask is forgotten, his eyes widening as his brows wing upwards in surprise before he can catch himself and tame his expression into something closer to neutral.
[He hardly has time to decide on whether to humor Godfrey or tell him the disappointing truth of his whereabouts when the larger man presses his nose into his hair, nearly giving Gale cause to trip before they reach their destination. He has no objection to Godfrey making himself so familiar— far from it— but the fact that it's in mixed company does surprise him.
Apparently, at this level of intoxication, Godfrey is especially easygoing.
Gale's face is flushed from his own drink, the firelight and something more, and he chuckles softly as they reach the bench and he gently guides his companion into a seat, his own grasp on the larger man's arm firm and steady.]
Oh, I was simply off enjoying the party, chatting around the fire.
[Not entirely untrue. He had been doing precisely that, only he'd been beside him the entire time. He gives an indulgent smile, sitting beside him and conjuring up an empty glass before filling it with water with a minute flick of his wrist.]
I didn't mean to leave you wondering. Here, my heart, drink this.
[ Godfrey's tall form slumps against the bench's inadequate back, piled heavily in the crook of its seat. Turned always toward Gale as he settles into the space beside him - such that his head rests on his shoulder, half over the bench entirely.
There's nothing that holds Gale's alleged absence against him, not a shred of mistrust or suspicion or resentment for the time that Godfrey was (allegedly) alone. He hadn't asked to serve some latent bitterness. He'd asked because he wanted to know, and hearing the answer brings him a joy that is clear on his face as he smiles at Gale - oblivious to the cool and sweating glass being pressed into his broad hand. Smiling just to see him and hear him speak.
Besides, after a moment's delay, Godfrey finds the words to put to what really matters in this situation: ]
Now you're here.
[ ... you know what else Godfrey is lacking?
Anything that feels how the water is now dribbling down his pant leg, as the wrist attached to the hand holding it against his knee has slowly begun to go limp. ]
[ Godfrey Gwilym had seen mornings beyond count. Few have felt as impossible to imagine as this one, for he was a creature of habit.
Long had his sunrises been humble and predictable; he woke before the sun, he prayed before an eastward window as it followed him, he prepared food, he broke his fast. The particulars might change occasionally – a spire of rose quartz and a chained dawn-symbol for an altar, extra mouths to feed, his husband’s sleeping form below his cheek - but all had been fundamentally the same, all had been humble. He had started none between silk sheets, nor within such gorgeously appointed walls.
The warm weight against his chest, too, is new.
Such luxuries can’t be a novel thing to him, for it was Gale who had convinced him to allow this private room be paid for, separate of their arrangement with the Elfsong. The luxuries that still Godfrey from toes to tongue with awestruck gratitude are surely a simple fact of life to Gale Dekarios and his impressive family name – he certainly acted like it, with impressive nonchalance. Often has Godfrey marveled at this; the simple grace with which Gale receives these things, never once questioning whether they’ve been earned as Godfrey finds himself doing. How different their upbringings must have been, that Gale knows innately what he deserves while Godfrey is left paralyzed by its offering.
In the heart of such a conundrum is where Godfrey lies now, his thumb traveling thoughtfully over the round cup of Gale’s shoulder, watching the slow rise and fall of his back in the pale morning light. Feeling fully against his skin the warmth of their coupling blushing in the sheets, the heavy and trusting weight of his love against his body – more than strong enough to support it. Feeling the sleeping tangle of his limbs around him, anything to keep him in bed.
He can only feel these things for so long, of course. The sun already begins its divine ascent outside; Gale had thoughtfully considered his morning rituals and politely demanded a room with an eastbound window. Godfrey presses a slow kiss into his forehead and, carefully, begins the daily challenge of untangling himself from his embrace, rubbing his back until he settles back against the bed in sleep.
There had been some obvious concessions, naturally; Godfrey knew that Gale would not sleep without the windows covered, despite his protestations to the contrary, and so were the windows covered in thick curtains to shadow the room, his eastern dawn-portal included. A thin shaft of infant dawnlight falls against the desk he’s adopted for a makeshift altar, and on it stands his divine tools; a censure with sand and incense prearranged, a smooth disc of rose quartz, his Holy Book, the dawn amulet atop a pool of molten gold chain. Godfrey takes his seat and begins as he always does; he reaches to bathe his hands in the light.
He nearly doesn’t register the silvery pain flashing in his eyes. Godfrey pulls his hands back, suddenly too aware of the smell of burning flesh. A sound like the very mountains grinding fills his ears, and after that, a livid boom:
YOU.
It’s a voice he knows he is not meant to contain, but which thrashes against the boundaries of him all the same. Searing agony wells in the pit of his skull. Godfrey buckles and pulls his throat around the scream that would erupt from him.
YOU, WHO CONSORTS WITH HERETICS.
Its sonic force threatens to topple him, and he latches himself to the desk. White burning coils through him, seizing his heart. The very air evaporates from his lungs. They scream their starvation.
YOU, WHO WOULD NAME THE VILE DEAD FRIEND.
It all begins to coalesce into something he can’t suppress. Nausea rampages through him. His skin flashes cold as sweat overwhelms him. Bile splashes the floorboards below his feet.
YOU, WHO WALKS SHOULDER TO SHOULDER ALONGSIDE DEVIL-WORSHIPPERS AND THE DARK LADY’S MINERS.
]
Gale--
[ The wretched vise tightens around his heart. Godfrey feels himself crushed beneath something immense and impossible to bear. His head smashes the desk.
YOU WOULD CLAIM TO KNOW WHAT MY LIGHT MAY TOUCH.
His breathing is the gasps of a drowned man.
HE WHO IS UNDESERVING OF ITS CARESS.
The tears are molten gold on his face. His heart struggles in his ears, thumping madly.
HE WHO WILL LEARN.
All thought is scorched from his mind, and as the white-hot glow overwhelms his vision, his name erupts from him, his voice pulled tight by the mad panic. ]
[Though still relatively new, there is already comfort in this morning routine they have begun to develop. Godfrey has always risen to meet the dawn, and Gale would do nothing to stand in the way of that, however much he might wish for them to remain tangled among the sheets together just a bit longer.
As he has done every morning since they had begun, Gale begins to stir softly as Godfrey disentangles himself, mumbling something incoherent but undeniably fond in protest under his breath. Godfrey's soothing efforts are as effective as they always are; the wizard's hold on his partner loosens and he drops back to the pillow below, caught between sleep and wakefulness, and settles for letting his hand trail down the length of Godfrey's forearm as the larger man pulls away, Gale subconsciously curling his fingers against his palm slightly just before they part.
Godfrey would pray, and sometime afterwards, Gale would rise and join him for breakfast, and together they would see what the day held. Until then, Gale would allow sleep to gently drag him back downwards into its embrace, curled up in the circle of warmth Godfrey had left in his wake.
There is a sudden shift in the atmosphere that tugs at his senses, causing him to stir a second time, but it is the scream that pierces the air a heartbeat afterwards that shocks him awake, eyes flying wide open as he feels a spike of terror surge through him. Covers are thrown aside as he all but trips over himself scrambling out of bed; adrenaline has forced sleep from his eyes just in time for him to see Godfrey become violently ill on the floor, a sense of dread all-encompassing as he rushes to his side.]
Godfrey, are you—
[His own panic is scarcely contained, fearful as he drops to his knees beside the paladin just as Godfrey's head smashes against surface of the table; Gale grabs hold of his shoulders to try and right him, his heart beating rapidly despite being lodges in his throat.]
My love, I'm here, can you—?!
[Can you hear me? But Godfrey himself is gasping for breath, gold streaming from his eyes, and Gale finds his own words seized from him.]
That name is vaguely familiar, but I don't recall one named among Mystra's Chosen.
[He's too caught up in this to realize when he's being made fun of, it would seem.]
There certainly have been lessons learned, but I'm afraid it's been too little, too late. I've always been of the opinion that it was never too late to learn anything at all, but I'm soon to be proven wrong in that regard, I think.
[There's a long pause before Gale at last messages back:]
Well, that's terribly disappointing. Here I thought the lot of us were becoming good friends, shared tribulations and all. I suppose I ought to have known better. She is rather... prickly, at times.
[By the time Arthur gets to him, Gale has emerged from his hiding place and mostly put himself back together, though he looks a touch spooked and still quite out of his element, his hair slightly mussed and his tie crooked after all of the excitement.
He clears his throat to compose himself, making an effort to veil any further embarrassment that might threaten to surface. Hiding wasn't exactly dignified, but this place is a world apart from the way things are back home.]
I see you made a friend or two on your way through.
[Arthur seems to do that most places. His gaze follows the edge of Arthur's knife as he straightens his tie, landing on the bottle.]
I've seen you shoot, but never after you've had something to drink. A nickel if you can hit that straight on, then.
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🔮 @ofthecomet, tfln overflow
[Gale is good to his word and does not, in fact, keep her waiting— he knows well enough by now that Lae'zel's patience is not to be tested, and he did invite himself along on this venture of hers. Also as promised, he's carrying a basket in one hand that has a half-covered wheel of cheese poking up over the lip.]
Whatever is in this concoction of yours, it certainly smells potent.
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Indeed. I believe it is nearly complete. It only requires...
[ She reaches down into some of her pack, pulling out a tiny sprig of... Mint? Yes, mint. And adds that to the concoction before stirring with the ladle.
It really does smell horrifically potent. ]
Now it is complete.
[ She smiles at her handiwork, turning back around toward Gale. I'm not going to say that her face falls at seeing him, but it surely becomes a little more stern, and a little more guarded. ]
I shall take the first sip, lest the potency lead to your death.
[ We all know how rank Gale's dead body gets, what with the Netherese orb killing him and all that. So really, she's being kind. You are free to thank her, Gale. ]
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🔮 @chaotictide, gen texting continuation
When Ara arrives, he'll find Gale scribbling notes to himself in a leatherbound journal, largely reflecting on the day's events; he looks up at the sound of footsteps and offers a warm smile in greeting.]
There you are.
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[Tired, dusty, and most certainly weary, yes. As with all days, today had been a taxing one. But there's a warmth to the camp that soothes the soul. Be it the way of which Scratch bounds toward every single one of them in sheer delight and Astarion's (awful) attempt to act like he's ignoring him, the distant scrape of Lae'zel resharpening her equipment, the musing of a distant Wyll mid-penning his memoirs, or even Karlach and Shadowheart on the hunt for a few wine bottles, there's an easy atmosphere to the encampment that just... feels right. Even the presence of their resident lich is something that sets his heart at ease.
At ease as it is, his heart is still somewhat excited. For him, as a sorcerer- gifted with magic yet knowing absolutely nothing about it save for how to make it happen and how to improvise when it went wrong, the opportunity to learn was something worth excitement. To learn from Gale- who seemed like he didn't mind going through concepts that were likely quite rudimentary to him, who had the patience to lay things out in ways he understood, and never, ever shied away from answering questions- highly so.
And it shows in his tone. Admittedly, he's far more weary than hyped. That should be plain to see. But there's a warmth to the half-elf's words, something fond. And happily, he takes the extra stool. ]
So. About that tome of fire...
[It would be plain to see. He had questions. A great amount of them.]
apologies, I perished this month!! no worries if this is too old
No probs! I'll wait 5va for Gale ❤
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🔮 @inherlight, tfln overflow
While we may both wish for better circumstances, I suppose it's these very circumstances that have made us who we are— to a certain degree, that is. I know I'm thankful every day that you decided to grab hold of my hand and given it a good tug.
I think we would have gotten on swimmingly regardless, of course, even without the threat posed by our tadpoles. I can't imagine otherwise, however we might have met one another.
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I'm sure we would have. Though with you locked away in your tower like some fairytale princess and me traveling across Faerûn, I can't picture how our paths would have crossed otherwise. Not saying I'm glad to have been spirited away to have a mind flayer tadpole ed in my head but... it changed our fated course.
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some real knitting needle medicine about to happen
Godfrey had been tightly ranked with the others, clustered and stepping gingerly in the amber torchlight. The land outside of its flickering radiance seemed alive with shadows and sickness, the air cold and thick with malice. The entire place aches like an old wound. It had brought their group to nauseated, trepedatious silence as soon as they'd begun walking the path into the shadow-mist in earnest. None knew yet what the livid shadows could do to them beyond the radiance of the torch-fire. All felt it better not to risk the transgression.
The lesson that their inaction and its meaningless held arrives swift and hard. By the time they catch their eyes, gleaming cold and bright in the shadows, it's too late. Their rank is made fragile by their tight fear; they are easily harried and broken by arrow-volley thudding into the poisoned earth. The path is no longer beneath Godfrey's feet by the time he feels it thump into his shoulder; a sharp, punishing sting radiating down his arm. One of their bodkin-points had punched through his plate, writhing between collarbone and shoulder with each movement. Godfrey looks around, suddenly adrift in the cold shadow-sea, blood slithering down his arm beneath his plate. He strains his ears. He searches out familiar shapes, the flicker of orange torch-fire. Tries to hear voices committed to his memory, footfalls in the dark. He finds nothing. As though called to life by the smell of his blood, the darkness flits and dances all around in the absence of familiarity, twisting into shape.
His Lord's light offers some protection, shining from the spires of his blood-mace. But it does not daunt the shadows that begin to close around him - and nor are the shining eyes of the Harpers in the distant shadow overly afflicted by its holy brilliance. Its dawn incandescence seems to provoke them double; a thudding heartbeat seemed an offense here, but they lash to life around him as though he unseated the dead lands double by his morning presence. The black-feathered arrow in his shoulder jams beneath bone, its cold point caught in the motion of his arm. Another concussive swing of his mace, his burning faith searing through these black smoke apparitions.
The creature's form warps, shadow pouring forth as a dunefall of black sand. A punishing scream in Godfrey's shoulder pulls him down, cringing, nearly sinking to the diseased earth before the point of his shield gouges it instead. His breath rasps like rope in his throat. He swings out with his other arm and feels the Harper-corpse charging him from the darkness smash against it, left open for another agonizing crunch of his Lord's holy might. He hears her screech. He does not see her fall. He does the only thing he can and hauls himself forward, stumbling.
More arrows whistle, then drive through his breastplate. Two fresh punctures, arrow-shafts planted deep below armor and gambeson. Left side. They retain just enough of themselves to know where his heart beats. The agony roars in his head. Godfrey makes some kind of noise, but cannot hear it; he only feels it in his throat, in the way the air pushes through his clenched teeth.
His leg next; the bodkin-point knocks his calf out from beneath him, and this is what finally plummets him.
Godfrey feels it already; the way he leaks from himself, quenching these dead lands. His grip is iron atop his tower-shield. He tries to pull himself up. The shaft seizes in the workings of his leg, the pain howling in his ears. He buckles like a shot stag. Feverish cold assaults him.
And all around him, shadows moving. The glint of dead eyes, the seething of shadows. Cruel, shining blades, held low and ready, swinging into view. ]
here we goooo
They had been so certain that they were prepared, that they had been on the alert, but the tactics that had served them so well in the wilderness meant nothing here. The Shadow-Cursed Lands were a world all their own, a haunted, blighted place where shadows ruled and they could only but hope to resist them long enough to make their way towards the belly of the beast. Even during his time and travels as Mystra's Chosen, he had never found himself up against such daunting odds— but claiming a lack of readiness or experience would not buy them a moment's lenience here.
The blades of those Harpers that had been burned away fall to the ground, now useless, and as the remaining flames lick at the ground beneath them and begin to flicker and fade, swallowed up by the shadows, he returns the Harpers' shots with arrows of his own, gleaming red as they pierce through the thick, oppressive darkness.]
Tormentum!
[One after another, they find their marks; each missile strikes and staggers the remaining undead, and as they collapse, one of them broken into pieces by the sheer force of it, silence falls upon them and it is too much, too quiet. He wastes not a moment before he makes his way to their leaders' side, all but falling to his knees beside him as he moves to pull him up by his shoulders, breathless as his own face goes white with worry, with fear.]
Godfrey! Stay with me, now!
[He grits his teeth, grabbing hold of the paladin's chin with one hand to turn his face sharply upwards as if to command his attention. Please, please still be conscious enough to say something—]
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dusts this off, dusts Gale off, dusts myself off
is it finally my turn to do the same for real
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shenanigans with tavthea
"Hold on a moment," she calls out, using a spell of her own to calm the turbulent energies swirling around the portal before grasping the much-larger hand and bracing her boots against the dusty ground. "All right, now--heave!"
There's a moment that passes where her heels dig into the pebbly soil; Dorothea grits her teeth, scrabbling for purchase as she considers the merits of leaving things where she finds them, but that train of thought doesn't get far. A second later, there's a jolt. She slips, and her moment sends her tumbling backwards; another body is ejected gracelessly from the portal, his landing conveniently cushioned by Dorothea's own body.
"... Get off me, please."
it's time
This was hardly an ideal first impression he was making, but considering the circumstances, he's happy enough to be alive— things could have very easily gone a different way. As composed as he's likely to be at the present moment, he offers his rescuer a cheerful smile, somewhat sheepish.
"Hello! I'm Gale of Waterdeep," he introduces himself, leaning forward and offering her a hand up. "Apologies, I'm usually much better at this, but I do greatly appreciate your assistance. I'm fortunate you came along when you did."
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He needs no more confirmation of her fear than this; the imperceptible chains binding him to this stiff chair, invisible magic that seared cold against his skin. The smooth, featureless room that has become his pen, somewhere in the basement of this hallowed and prestigious university, a secret hive for Clan Tremere operations since time immemorial. The ticking seconds to minutes to hours of empty silence.
The flat-faced muzzle to silence his stream of murmured prayer.
Tertiary Gwilym spoke his Word still, in the hot and stifling confines of this mask. Each word clouding his face with warmth. Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and perpetual light shine upon them, and may they rest in peace - these words, and the tiny, finely wrought crucifix of silver and gold chained to his neck and resting upon his chest, were the only defenses they had not been able to take from him completely. His flask of holy water, his gun, his bag holding ten stakes and a hand-held crucifix - these were swiftly discovered and confiscated. They could not touch his cross, and they could not remove the words from his lips; they could only stop them from reaching Kindred ears.
With each repetition, he tests his arms against the burning cold, and finds new slack in his invisible bonds. They will not hold him long.
The Broken Clan knows this - there is precious little they do not know, and less still they know of more than the limits of their own magic. This is no battle of attrition. He is being made to wait for something.
Godfrey sits in his seat, wrists chained and arms bound, face muzzled, pale-gold waves swept from the back of his neck and neatly tied. He keeps his back straight and his shoulders squared.
And, from his side of that expanse of white plastic before him, he watches the door.
He awaits the face of the coward who started it all. ]
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Of course, he had been told very little— only that there was a job to be done and that he had been hand-selected to see it through, with his sire's insistence that he would be far more thorough and effective than anyone else they might have asked. It was enough. He didn't need more direction than that; the hunter restrained in interrogation room was to be questioned, this threat to their clan dealt with swiftly and decisively once they had what they needed.
He would take no joy in it, he never did, but that was hardly the point. What he cared to do and what he must do were two very different things, and had been for well over a century now.
The door opens without ceremony when he pushes against it, his head bowed as he enters the room. When he speaks, his voice is cool, sharp-edged, a mask he has long since learned to slip on when his duties required it.]
My apologies for keeping you waiting. I do hope you're ready to talk.
[The door swings closed behind him heavily, latching soundly, and he at last looks up just enough to lay eyes on his charge.
If he still drew breath, it would have been pulled from his very lungs in that moment. Though muzzled and bound, the figure before him is painfully familiar, and briefly, the mask is forgotten, his eyes widening as his brows wing upwards in surprise before he can catch himself and tame his expression into something closer to neutral.
This was whom he was meant to interrogate?]
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this is our vampire mash-up I do what I want with magic
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THROWS THE LID OFF MY COFFIN
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THROWS OFF MY SHROUD ONCE MORE, 2025 the year of chris' resurrection
🔮 @gwilym, tfln overflow
[He hardly has time to decide on whether to humor Godfrey or tell him the disappointing truth of his whereabouts when the larger man presses his nose into his hair, nearly giving Gale cause to trip before they reach their destination. He has no objection to Godfrey making himself so familiar— far from it— but the fact that it's in mixed company does surprise him.
Apparently, at this level of intoxication, Godfrey is especially easygoing.
Gale's face is flushed from his own drink, the firelight and something more, and he chuckles softly as they reach the bench and he gently guides his companion into a seat, his own grasp on the larger man's arm firm and steady.]
Oh, I was simply off enjoying the party, chatting around the fire.
[Not entirely untrue. He had been doing precisely that, only he'd been beside him the entire time. He gives an indulgent smile, sitting beside him and conjuring up an empty glass before filling it with water with a minute flick of his wrist.]
I didn't mean to leave you wondering. Here, my heart, drink this.
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There's nothing that holds Gale's alleged absence against him, not a shred of mistrust or suspicion or resentment for the time that Godfrey was (allegedly) alone. He hadn't asked to serve some latent bitterness. He'd asked because he wanted to know, and hearing the answer brings him a joy that is clear on his face as he smiles at Gale - oblivious to the cool and sweating glass being pressed into his broad hand. Smiling just to see him and hear him speak.
Besides, after a moment's delay, Godfrey finds the words to put to what really matters in this situation: ]
Now you're here.
[ ... you know what else Godfrey is lacking?
Anything that feels how the water is now dribbling down his pant leg, as the wrist attached to the hand holding it against his knee has slowly begun to go limp. ]
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lol and lmao
Long had his sunrises been humble and predictable; he woke before the sun, he prayed before an eastward window as it followed him, he prepared food, he broke his fast. The particulars might change occasionally – a spire of rose quartz and a chained dawn-symbol for an altar, extra mouths to feed, his husband’s sleeping form below his cheek - but all had been fundamentally the same, all had been humble. He had started none between silk sheets, nor within such gorgeously appointed walls.
The warm weight against his chest, too, is new.
Such luxuries can’t be a novel thing to him, for it was Gale who had convinced him to allow this private room be paid for, separate of their arrangement with the Elfsong. The luxuries that still Godfrey from toes to tongue with awestruck gratitude are surely a simple fact of life to Gale Dekarios and his impressive family name – he certainly acted like it, with impressive nonchalance. Often has Godfrey marveled at this; the simple grace with which Gale receives these things, never once questioning whether they’ve been earned as Godfrey finds himself doing. How different their upbringings must have been, that Gale knows innately what he deserves while Godfrey is left paralyzed by its offering.
In the heart of such a conundrum is where Godfrey lies now, his thumb traveling thoughtfully over the round cup of Gale’s shoulder, watching the slow rise and fall of his back in the pale morning light. Feeling fully against his skin the warmth of their coupling blushing in the sheets, the heavy and trusting weight of his love against his body – more than strong enough to support it. Feeling the sleeping tangle of his limbs around him, anything to keep him in bed.
He can only feel these things for so long, of course. The sun already begins its divine ascent outside; Gale had thoughtfully considered his morning rituals and politely demanded a room with an eastbound window. Godfrey presses a slow kiss into his forehead and, carefully, begins the daily challenge of untangling himself from his embrace, rubbing his back until he settles back against the bed in sleep.
There had been some obvious concessions, naturally; Godfrey knew that Gale would not sleep without the windows covered, despite his protestations to the contrary, and so were the windows covered in thick curtains to shadow the room, his eastern dawn-portal included. A thin shaft of infant dawnlight falls against the desk he’s adopted for a makeshift altar, and on it stands his divine tools; a censure with sand and incense prearranged, a smooth disc of rose quartz, his Holy Book, the dawn amulet atop a pool of molten gold chain. Godfrey takes his seat and begins as he always does; he reaches to bathe his hands in the light.
He nearly doesn’t register the silvery pain flashing in his eyes. Godfrey pulls his hands back, suddenly too aware of the smell of burning flesh. A sound like the very mountains grinding fills his ears, and after that, a livid boom:
It’s a voice he knows he is not meant to contain, but which thrashes against the boundaries of him all the same. Searing agony wells in the pit of his skull. Godfrey buckles and pulls his throat around the scream that would erupt from him.
Its sonic force threatens to topple him, and he latches himself to the desk. White burning coils through him, seizing his heart. The very air evaporates from his lungs. They scream their starvation.
It all begins to coalesce into something he can’t suppress. Nausea rampages through him. His skin flashes cold as sweat overwhelms him. Bile splashes the floorboards below his feet.
Gale--
[ The wretched vise tightens around his heart. Godfrey feels himself crushed beneath something immense and impossible to bear. His head smashes the desk.
His breathing is the gasps of a drowned man.
The tears are molten gold on his face. His heart struggles in his ears, thumping madly.
All thought is scorched from his mind, and as the white-hot glow overwhelms his vision, his name erupts from him, his voice pulled tight by the mad panic. ]
lmao a cozy au for us as a treat
As he has done every morning since they had begun, Gale begins to stir softly as Godfrey disentangles himself, mumbling something incoherent but undeniably fond in protest under his breath. Godfrey's soothing efforts are as effective as they always are; the wizard's hold on his partner loosens and he drops back to the pillow below, caught between sleep and wakefulness, and settles for letting his hand trail down the length of Godfrey's forearm as the larger man pulls away, Gale subconsciously curling his fingers against his palm slightly just before they part.
Godfrey would pray, and sometime afterwards, Gale would rise and join him for breakfast, and together they would see what the day held. Until then, Gale would allow sleep to gently drag him back downwards into its embrace, curled up in the circle of warmth Godfrey had left in his wake.
There is a sudden shift in the atmosphere that tugs at his senses, causing him to stir a second time, but it is the scream that pierces the air a heartbeat afterwards that shocks him awake, eyes flying wide open as he feels a spike of terror surge through him. Covers are thrown aside as he all but trips over himself scrambling out of bed; adrenaline has forced sleep from his eyes just in time for him to see Godfrey become violently ill on the floor, a sense of dread all-encompassing as he rushes to his side.]
Godfrey, are you—
[His own panic is scarcely contained, fearful as he drops to his knees beside the paladin just as Godfrey's head smashes against surface of the table; Gale grabs hold of his shoulders to try and right him, his heart beating rapidly despite being lodges in his throat.]
My love, I'm here, can you—?!
[Can you hear me? But Godfrey himself is gasping for breath, gold streaming from his eyes, and Gale finds his own words seized from him.]
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🔮 tfln 2/1 overflow
@ imperdonado
Come now, surely even you have a sense of humor!
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@ coldjustice
That name is vaguely familiar, but I don't recall one named among Mystra's Chosen.
[He's too caught up in this to realize when he's being made fun of, it would seem.]
There certainly have been lessons learned, but I'm afraid it's been too little, too late. I've always been of the opinion that it was never too late to learn anything at all, but I'm soon to be proven wrong in that regard, I think.
♥
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@ smartass_captain
[There's a long pause before Gale at last messages back:]
Well, that's terribly disappointing. Here I thought the lot of us were becoming good friends, shared tribulations and all. I suppose I ought to have known better. She is rather... prickly, at times.
o/ why hello there
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Thanks to an Astarion player we now have a Tav!Jim flavor upon request oops all AU Kirks
beautiful, thank you Astarion, love to see AUs!
Former cartographer/scholar turned ranger. I say mostly because he is a fellow nerd.
that's perfect! also apologies for how slow I am
Not to worry IRL has been A Lot here too
@ bloodedmagic
I get the feeling that 'no' isn't a word she's used to hearing, given her background. Well done, standing your ground.
That last one does sting a bit. 'Bearing of a third son.' She rather likes that one, I've found.
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@ vesting
That's a bit harsh, isn't it? Though I do believe my situation merits a bit of drama, Miss Yelena.
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@ bigplace
You mean that quite literally, don't you? You have my attention.
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apologies for how slow I am but I am loving this
This notif got buried
no worries in the least, I have been perishing but love to see Kaidan
2x on the perishing (college)
@ cervid
[By the time Arthur gets to him, Gale has emerged from his hiding place and mostly put himself back together, though he looks a touch spooked and still quite out of his element, his hair slightly mussed and his tie crooked after all of the excitement.
He clears his throat to compose himself, making an effort to veil any further embarrassment that might threaten to surface. Hiding wasn't exactly dignified, but this place is a world apart from the way things are back home.]
I see you made a friend or two on your way through.
[Arthur seems to do that most places. His gaze follows the edge of Arthur's knife as he straightens his tie, landing on the bottle.]
I've seen you shoot, but never after you've had something to drink. A nickel if you can hit that straight on, then.
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@ cervid, tfln 5/2
[Oh, that one actually stings, if just a bit.]
I may have a propensity for verbosity, but I assure you, when it matters most, I am the soul of discretion.
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Whatever you say
just tell me what ducks eat, cause it ain't whiskey
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