"In my palm, thanks," he says with a smile. "I prefer to hold you in my arms, and not to keep you on the mantle just to look at." Astarion notices the way Gale seems to feel relief at the sensation of his cool skin against him, and in response he shrugs off his own clothing, allowing his body to serve as cool compress.

"Tonight?" He's a little shocked. Gale's mother is going to think they disappeared completely. On the other hand, it will certainly throw off their scent to the other vampires prowling about. "If you're really agreeable. And if you're feeling strong enough. It is still the Underdark, after all, not a walk in the park. But I'm happy to go, as long as you send a message first."

Astarion nips at his lip, tasting a bead of blood. "First, though, you should rest. I'm going to need to have a bite to eat before we go, too, and tasty as you are, I'm not sure you'll do on this occasion."

The touch, impossibly gentle, is one that should command force and power, perhaps even a note of a desire for obedience. His hand a sweet collar which Gale would gladly wear, for the marks of his fingers and fangs tell the world who owns his trembling heart. There is a fullness of trust as Gale leans into the touch, a warmth in his burnished caramel eyes of love unspoken.

Astarion's aversion to being called cute is all the more adorable. "Apologies. You are striking, handsome, beautiful, stunning. If Sune were before you she'd bow to your feet, much as I certainly should. The very sight of you leaves me breathless. If it were not for the fact that I must breathe, I would forgo blinking in your presence so that I may absorb as much of your brilliance as humanly possible."

Lifting Astarion's hand which does not grasp his neck, he presses it to his lips, holding his gaze. "Rest assured I am flattered of your defending of my honour, and I will be growing my beard back promptly. How interesting it is to think of how you appreciate my beard with such reverence, while so much of the allure of elves is your lack of hair."

"Oh, really?" he purrs, running his hands over Gale's newly-bared chest, fingers threading through his chest hair. "So you're saying you dreamt of me before you ever met me?" Astarion bats his lashes, gently tracing Gale's bandages and then nestling into his arms.

He detests lying in. But just this once, there's no harm in it. Not while poor Gale is still recovering from his injuries. "I can't speak for elves in general." His connection with others of his kind is tenuous, to say the least. "I can only tell you how I see you." He takes him by the chin, guiding his face for a kiss.

"And you'd do just about anything I asked, wouldn't you? Far better than rotating through a series of tricks. Though you may have picked up one or two of those thus far, hmm? There's, at the very least, that thing you do with your tongue," he murmurs lowly into his ear, nipping underneath the lobe of it. He's hungry, he realizes. But he can always satisfy multiple appetites.

The touch, impossibly gentle, is one that should command force and power, perhaps even a note of a desire for obedience. His hand a sweet collar which Gale would gladly wear, for the marks of his fingers and fangs tell the world who owns his trembling heart. There is a fullness of trust as Gale leans into the touch, a warmth in his burnished caramel eyes of love unspoken.

Astarion's aversion to being called cute is all the more adorable. "Apologies. You are striking, handsome, beautiful, stunning. If Sune were before you she'd bow to your feet, much as I certainly should. The very sight of you leaves me breathless. If it were not for the fact that I must breathe, I would forgo blinking in your presence so that I may absorb as much of your brilliance as humanly possible."

Lifting Astarion's hand which does not grasp his neck, he presses it to his lips, holding his gaze. "Rest assured I am flattered of your defending of my honour, and I will be growing my beard back promptly. How interesting it is to think of how you appreciate my beard with such reverence, while so much of the allure of elves is your lack of hair."

Gods, but Gale's large, trusting eyes are the most perfect sight that Astarion can recall ever seeing. There is something intensely erotic, and yet perfectly sweet, about the way that his lover leans into the hand over his throat. Like he enjoys it. Astarion, probing, adds a little pressure with his thumb, nothing that might cut off his breathing, but certainly something to allow him to revel in the feeling a little more.

It's entirely different from his own experience with hands at his throat, and therefore marvelous. His eyes, however, are locked onto Gale's own, drifting down only briefly in order to witness him kissing his hand. "Is that our allure?" he asks, amused. "For you personally? Or are you speaking in general terms?"

He releases Gale's neck and runs his fingers through his hair. "We all want what we don't have, I suppose. There's a sort of savage appeal to growing hair on your body like a beast." He tilts his head. "Not that I'd want it for myself, of course. But on you it's very appealing. It's very good of you to be so obedient." Briefly, he kisses Gale's nose, and then honors him with a warm kiss on the lips. "There's no finer pet anywhere in the Realms than mine, I'm sure."

The touch, impossibly gentle, is one that should command force and power, perhaps even a note of a desire for obedience. His hand a sweet collar which Gale would gladly wear, for the marks of his fingers and fangs tell the world who owns his trembling heart. There is a fullness of trust as Gale leans into the touch, a warmth in his burnished caramel eyes of love unspoken.

Astarion's aversion to being called cute is all the more adorable. "Apologies. You are striking, handsome, beautiful, stunning. If Sune were before you she'd bow to your feet, much as I certainly should. The very sight of you leaves me breathless. If it were not for the fact that I must breathe, I would forgo blinking in your presence so that I may absorb as much of your brilliance as humanly possible."

Lifting Astarion's hand which does not grasp his neck, he presses it to his lips, holding his gaze. "Rest assured I am flattered of your defending of my honour, and I will be growing my beard back promptly. How interesting it is to think of how you appreciate my beard with such reverence, while so much of the allure of elves is your lack of hair."

What ghost haunts you?

the ghost of your bloodline

you were doomed from the start, weren’t you? born to bend yourself to the will of a bloodline that sneers at every effort you take towards betterment. you are stained by the hand of your father, your mother, perhaps a family member that looms over your weary shoulders. the first grave is the childhood home, after all. you can escape all you wish. your body can leave the home, the state, the country, but you will always be haunted by what raised you. when chelsea dingman wrote, “i have been trying to go home my entire life.” when graham greene wrote, “from childhood i had never believed in permanence, and yet i had longed for it.” when oscar wilde wrote, “a burnt child loves the fire.”

Tagged by @wovenmidnight

Tagging whichever of you feel that your muse is haunted

Astarion's hand remains fixed to Gale's jaw, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he scoffs at the poor excuse for a joke that he makes in order to explain himself. "You had better not blame me for what you did to yourself. Removing the one thing humans have superior to elves. After I defended your beard to Tara and everything. Ridiculous."

He leans in to press a series of kisses to his jaw, making a face at the odd, smooth feeling of the skin which used to rub at his face quite roughly. "Patchy stray would be better, frankly. And cute is the wrong word to describe my face, too. You're on thin ice." His hand slips down a little further until he's holding Gale by the throat, though he doesn't apply any pressure to his grip.

Despite the intensity of his focus on his maddened scribbling, there is a part of him aware that Astarion has settled upon his lap. He's about to rest his hand upon his shoulder when the sudden reaction causes Gale to jolt. A quick spell catches his journal. Hand instead clutching his chest, an effort to steady his heart, realizing that there is no real threat.

He puts up no resistance to Astarion's manipulations. Rattling his brain as his head is tipped from side to side. Crimson eyes he had rarely seen so scrutinous, save for when something particular to him was out of place. "Sure as I've ever been."

The unexpected reaction is beyond amusing. Cheeks dimpling as he laughs. "Your one and only Gale, sans scruff. I couldn't stand the scent of burnt hair any longer. A huge section of my beard was seared off by the lightning. Either I walk around looking like a patchy stray, or like this." A gesture to the plain and obvious.

"Or," and now he jests, "I decided to copy your cute, beardless style. You have quite the influence over me."

By the afternoon, Astarion has moved to the opposite side of the room, curled up in a chair with a book, in order to avoid the golden beam of sun which streams through the curtains and ultimately seems to wake Gale. He greets him with an idle kiss and watches him go before returning to his reading.

When the door opens, Astarion doesn't glance up right away, knowing Gale by sound and smell alone. He finishes his chapter before setting the book aside and moving to drape himself alongside Gale's lap. It's not until he's made room for himself that he glances into his face and immediately flinches away, knocking Gale's journal aside in the process.

"Gods! What happened to your face?" He touches his own chin, as if in demonstration, and then leans in uncomfortably close, grasping Gale's face and tilting his head back. "You don't even look like yourself. Are you sure you're Gale Dekarios?"

Even as he's charred and disheveled, Astarion still has the desire to preen upon him so flirtatiously. It brings a sweetness to his expression, resulting in a lazy kiss upon his forehead. He leaves his lips there, burrowing his nose into the silver curls of his hair as he settles down for rest, as instructed.

"Wake me if you need it." He murmurs eventually, once sleep is near to take him. And finally when it comes, the lazy trail of his fingers ceases, his breathing falling into that predictable rhythm of dreams.

When Gale wakes it is late afternoon. The sun seeps an ambient glow through the bleached blue curtains, allowing him better view of the damage he has taken. Rest sure offers a world of help, but it would take some time to restore the lasting injuries.

He departs Astarion with both a morning and farewell kiss. A brief disappearance to go to the proper lodgings, water to clean himself up with, food to sate his stomach.

When Gale returns he is different from his regular self. Hair pulled back into a bun, stray waves of chestnut and silver to spill and frame his face. Most notably of all, the lack of his beard, shaved out of his frustration over the acrid scent of singed and uneven hair.

Cleanly shaven he is near unrecognizable. A youthful man, soft skin, sharp features in pretty compliment to the ridge of his nose. He enters the room with mind occupied, direct to root in his bag for his journal and quill. He sits on the edge of the bed and begins to write.

The feeling of Gale's fingers against his raised scars prompts Astarion to cease breathing, tensing ever so slightly. All the same, he doesn't pull away, instead focusing on the sensation, which is a strange mix of comforting and painful— not with fresh pain, but the odd sort of remembered spark of it.

"I don't mind it so awfully," he muses, "that word, I mean." He presses a few kisses to Gale's arm, nestling into his shoulder. "Not now, anyway. I was resentful before. But with you, of course, I'd happily rescue you any day."

The other proposition takes a little longer to consider. "Don't think I'm giving you carte blanche. But I don't usually mind, when you're decisive. It does tend to make things easier. In and out of bed, really," he teases, wiggling his eyebrows. "But for now, let me decide, that you should rest. Rest and heal. I don't mind if you sleep all through the day, even."

It's impressive, surely a skill for Astarion to take up as much of the bed as he does. Languid and stretched like a cat, he thinks, watching him. He looks to his abdomen, to where the edges of those fresh scars have nearly healed to completion. How fascinating, one of the few perks of being a vampire. Or one of the many, depending on how one looked at it.

"Oh." A pause. He maintains his awkward lean in what little space he has, even as Astarion encroaches. "Well then, you are right. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to admit that I'm perfect, at least for one evening. Only the very best for you, after all."

He does not lay still for long, going to set the arcane lock above the physical, shedding the rest of his robes. He observes himself in the mirror. His bloodied sclera, the curled burnt hair of his beard. There was no way he could return home looking like this.

He takes a glass jar of healing salve from his bag, holding it out to Astarion in request of aid as he sits once more. "If you wouldn't mind? It feels better when you do it. You've got the magic touch."

Astarion hesitates for a moment, torn between the urge to throw his arms around Gale like the heroine of a bad romance novel and the logical understanding that he'd better be careful with his injured lover. Instead he touches his cheek and uses his words. "You always seem to know what's in my heart," he murmurs softly. "It's not exactly — actually, it's not anything like your family." He presses a single kiss to his nose. "Though I think it's awfully sweet that you'd compare the two. We've spent hundreds of years doing everything possible to tear one another down. Vulnerability is weakness. They're my enemies as much as they are anything else."

He traces a path from Gale's eye down his cheek, his jaw, his neck, to rest over his heart. "But I do want to see them. It matters to me, for some reason, which you seem instinctually to understand." He nestles in against his neck and presses kisses along his artery. "You don't need to only talk about light-hearted subjects. That's not what I mean. Actually, that's part of the problem. Responding to difficulty with the optimistic idea that at least we're free now. It sort of compels a person to agree, don't you think? Otherwise I'm some sort of monster that would rather be in chains."

He curls a lock of Gale's hair around his finger. "And of course I wouldn't rather be. Freedom is delightful. Our life is delightful. All the same ... sometimes it's exhausting, you know? Having to make my own choices all the time and on my head be the consequences. I know, boo-hoo, you and everyone else have lived with that forever. Of course it's better than being a slave, but..."

He lets out a slightly strangled noise, finding inadequacy in words. "Sorry. I don't mean to rant at you. You're not doing anything wrong, either, so don't even think about apologizing. I just feel compelled to be understood by you. That's why I'm saying all of this. I want to give you the key and let you rifle through all my closets. The ones that even I never want to think about. You'd love me anyway, somehow."

It's impressive, surely a skill for Astarion to take up as much of the bed as he does. Languid and stretched like a cat, he thinks, watching him. He looks to his abdomen, to where the edges of those fresh scars have nearly healed to completion. How fascinating, one of the few perks of being a vampire. Or one of the many, depending on how one looked at it.

"Oh." A pause. He maintains his awkward lean in what little space he has, even as Astarion encroaches. "Well then, you are right. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to admit that I'm perfect, at least for one evening. Only the very best for you, after all."

He does not lay still for long, going to set the arcane lock above the physical, shedding the rest of his robes. He observes himself in the mirror. His bloodied sclera, the curled burnt hair of his beard. There was no way he could return home looking like this.

He takes a glass jar of healing salve from his bag, holding it out to Astarion in request of aid as he sits once more. "If you wouldn't mind? It feels better when you do it. You've got the magic touch."

Muse as a drink

Tagged by @mystraguideme

Tagging @eritvita @falsesighted @intothewildsea @raphaeni @theredconqueror

The suggestion that Gale makes sparks a deep sense of longing in Astarion, one that surprises and delights him. He does want to visit. There is a part of him that feels some responsibility. But more than that, he aches at the idea of returning with Gale to that tower, the one that became theirs when they explored it together. How beautiful he looked surrounded by that blue glow.

"You'd want to see them?" he asks softly. "All four thousand of them, or just my siblings?" Astarion doesn't want to give them up, it occurs to him, just because Cazador is dead now. Maybe it would be easier to tell them about the engagement in person. He nods his head and settles on it. "Because I want that. I want to go."

He holds Gale by the chin and indulges in a series of kisses, as if taking a few nibbles of a favorite food. Their foreheads touch, and he reaches down to entangle his hand together with Gale's. "What you said, about it being better in freedom— that's exactly what you said last time it came up." He makes eye contact, gentle, with the intent to put his lover at ease. "And yes, it's true, of course, but you shouldn't say it. Especially not to Dalyria or to anyone else, who might not understand you. It's so hard, Gale. Life without him is almost unfathomable for me, and I had months in preparation. And making the comparison at all feels ... threatening. I don't know how to explain it."

His lips purse with interest, the same way they always did when locked in deep, considerate thought. So vampires could get food poisoning! Fascinating. There is more to it than simple flavour profiles. He'd be certain to keep himself well for his lover's sake.

"I'm sure they are facing their share of trials and tribulations." The letter they received alluded to such. "But better to do so of one's own free will that to have that choice made on your behalf."

The balm settles in his flesh, a gentle tingle that numbs and distracts from the pain. He sips half the water, then slides next to Astarion in bed. Seasoned and wrapped like a holiday pheasant he feels much more comfortable as he lays down. A forced proximity that is beyond welcome for love and comfort. If Gale had it his way he would sleep tangled with Astarion like a weedy vine up a tree every night.

"We could go there for a visit. What an adventure that would be. I'd like to enjoy the Underdark without the threat of, well, you know, everything." He laughs, easy to do now when at the time all was so dire. "A vacation home in that old cleric's tower. Read more poems together. Make love proper in the glow of the sussur tree."

An airy sigh leaves his lips as he indulges in the daydream. "Invite your family for some type of sanguinous dinner - if that is what you'd like. We could establish a sigil between there and home to save time on the journey."

"Of course you do, my love. I know. I notice." Astarion strokes Gale's hair, once, with his free hand, and spreads the balm over his stomach with the other. It's not that it surprises him that Gale attends him so well. It's that he's unused to anyone listening so closely to him. Sometimes it's for the worst, as Gale will remember something he said unthinkingly, and Astarion will have to account for it later.

"I don't suppose there is much literature out there about it," he says, shrugging lightly. "But yes. Cazador's wretched little niece, who is still out there somewhere— that was one of the things she was researching. I sent her notes on to Dal, I'm afraid, if you wanted to get a look at them. But the short of it is that there are certain illnesses that can pass to us through the blood. Sometimes it's easy enough to tell. Other times, well, the host may not even be sick, but the blood is still infected. Sort of like you and your poisoned blood."

He finishes applying the salve and then steps back, eyeing Gale critically and then unrolling a bandage from his pack. He wraps him up, almost like a mummy, and his Mage Hand fetches a glass of water, as Astarion climbs back into bed. "I don't think she'd laugh. Hells, I do wonder all the time how they're getting on down there. It sounded perfectly awful."

It's impressive, surely a skill for Astarion to take up as much of the bed as he does. Languid and stretched like a cat, he thinks, watching him. He looks to his abdomen, to where the edges of those fresh scars have nearly healed to completion. How fascinating, one of the few perks of being a vampire. Or one of the many, depending on how one looked at it.

"Oh." A pause. He maintains his awkward lean in what little space he has, even as Astarion encroaches. "Well then, you are right. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to admit that I'm perfect, at least for one evening. Only the very best for you, after all."

He does not lay still for long, going to set the arcane lock above the physical, shedding the rest of his robes. He observes himself in the mirror. His bloodied sclera, the curled burnt hair of his beard. There was no way he could return home looking like this.

He takes a glass jar of healing salve from his bag, holding it out to Astarion in request of aid as he sits once more. "If you wouldn't mind? It feels better when you do it. You've got the magic touch."

"Good," he crows when Gale admits his own perfection, leaning in to kiss his nose before lying back. "That's exactly right. I'd never accept less than the best, which is precisely what you are."

His gaze follows his lover as he gets up, shifting into a sitting pose in which he is curled around himself, quite the opposite of the way he'd been stretched out moments ago. His expression is pensive, watching carefully as if keeping his eyes on him would somehow ensure that Gale doesn't fall to the ground.

He doesn't fall, so perhaps it works. Astarion holds his hand out to accept the jar and shifts himself to sit behind Gale, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "Thank you." A massive improvement already, that he's asking for help. "I used to get so irritated with Dalyria fussing over me. Who knew I'd practically turn into her?" he murmurs, taking a swipe of the balm and rubbing it ever so gently into Gale's skin. "You're being so good for me," he whispers into his ear, casually salacious.

It's impressive, surely a skill for Astarion to take up as much of the bed as he does. Languid and stretched like a cat, he thinks, watching him. He looks to his abdomen, to where the edges of those fresh scars have nearly healed to completion. How fascinating, one of the few perks of being a vampire. Or one of the many, depending on how one looked at it.

"Oh." A pause. He maintains his awkward lean in what little space he has, even as Astarion encroaches. "Well then, you are right. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to admit that I'm perfect, at least for one evening. Only the very best for you, after all."

He does not lay still for long, going to set the arcane lock above the physical, shedding the rest of his robes. He observes himself in the mirror. His bloodied sclera, the curled burnt hair of his beard. There was no way he could return home looking like this.

He takes a glass jar of healing salve from his bag, holding it out to Astarion in request of aid as he sits once more. "If you wouldn't mind? It feels better when you do it. You've got the magic touch."

"Good," he crows when Gale admits his own perfection, leaning in to kiss his nose before lying back. "That's exactly right. I'd never accept less than the best, which is precisely what you are."

His gaze follows his lover as he gets up, shifting into a sitting pose in which he is curled around himself, quite the opposite of the way he'd been stretched out moments ago. His expression is pensive, watching carefully as if keeping his eyes on him would somehow ensure that Gale doesn't fall to the ground.

He doesn't fall, so perhaps it works. Astarion holds his hand out to accept the jar and shifts himself to sit behind Gale, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "Thank you." A massive improvement already, that he's asking for help. "I used to get so irritated with Dalyria fussing over me. Who knew I'd practically turn into her?" he murmurs, taking a swipe of the balm and rubbing it ever so gently into Gale's skin. "You're being so good for me," he whispers into his ear, casually salacious.

It's impressive, surely a skill for Astarion to take up as much of the bed as he does. Languid and stretched like a cat, he thinks, watching him. He looks to his abdomen, to where the edges of those fresh scars have nearly healed to completion. How fascinating, one of the few perks of being a vampire. Or one of the many, depending on how one looked at it.

"Oh." A pause. He maintains his awkward lean in what little space he has, even as Astarion encroaches. "Well then, you are right. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to admit that I'm perfect, at least for one evening. Only the very best for you, after all."

He does not lay still for long, going to set the arcane lock above the physical, shedding the rest of his robes. He observes himself in the mirror. His bloodied sclera, the curled burnt hair of his beard. There was no way he could return home looking like this.

He takes a glass jar of healing salve from his bag, holding it out to Astarion in request of aid as he sits once more. "If you wouldn't mind? It feels better when you do it. You've got the magic touch."

It pleases Astarion to have made Gale laugh, even though he can see the way it makes his body shake and knows that it must cause him some amount of pain. He closes his eyes briefly as his nose is touched, at which point he rolls onto his back and lets his arms stretch out at odd angles above his head.

"You're right, of course," he says, lifting his chin to make himself look more appealing. "I am perfect." He spreads his legs, too, taking up a good three-fifths of the bed despite his smaller size than Gale. "Please do keep going. You never tell me often enough how wonderful I am." He wiggles enticingly, already feeling better as the wound on his side begins to heal.

"That's the sort of thing you should say when I tell you how lovely you are, Gale, incidentally. Just because I know how to take a compliment doesn't mean you can distract me with them all the time." Just most of the time.

Astarion's sudden interjection surprises the Wizard. He casts a sideways glance, narrow from the corner of his glimmering brown eyes. There is a tension about his lover, pulled flat like the surface of a calm lake before a beast breaks the surface.

He assumes something about the situation has struck a chord within Astarion. Perhaps a mirror held too close. Gale leans back, a sign that he's removed himself from any debate. "Consider the decision made." He says, apologetic if only for the pleasantries. "If it is any consolation, we will keep this our little secret."

As Gale speaks, Astarion lays close but not touching, careful not to disturb his love's injuries as he combs his hair out with his fingers, listening as though he is hanging on every word. It's the most complete nonsense he's ever heard, of course. "You are the only person who could ever compare your love, of all things, to a flickering candle." His thumb runs over Gale's cheekbone.

"What would tell me more about the depth of your feelings would be to trust me. Trust that I won't discard you. Give me all the fragile pieces of yourself instead of trying to distract me from them with my own. Let me look after you. You're entirely too self-sacrificing. Not a trait I approve of, not even when it's me you're sacrificing for."

He kisses his temple and lays an arm very gently across his chest. "Besides, I'm quite certain that I made out better than you did. A house, a name, freedom, the power to walk in the sun, compliments and kisses whenever I please to have them, to wake up every morning next to a handsome man, one who would spend the rest of his life beside me without laying a hand on me if I asked him to, and one of Faerûn's greatest wizards to boot. And all I offer in return is pithy comments, gossip, and the world's most unforgettable sex."

Astarion's sudden interjection surprises the Wizard. He casts a sideways glance, narrow from the corner of his glimmering brown eyes. There is a tension about his lover, pulled flat like the surface of a calm lake before a beast breaks the surface.

He assumes something about the situation has struck a chord within Astarion. Perhaps a mirror held too close. Gale leans back, a sign that he's removed himself from any debate. "Consider the decision made." He says, apologetic if only for the pleasantries. "If it is any consolation, we will keep this our little secret."

"It's not an outright no that concerns me," he admits, following Gale's eyes to his own injury and shifting to lay on his side, offering his lap for Gale to lie in. And yet he is in fact offering his neck. It makes him frown, puzzled. It's surely some kind of compulsion on his end, this desperate need to always be the one nursing Astarion.

It's a miracle it's taken him this long to notice, one that speaks volumes to Astarion's own level of selfishness. "Don't be absurd," he says with a sharp frown. "I'm a vampire spawn, with no tadpole to hinder my body now. It will regenerate in a matter of minutes. It's already much better than it was when the lightning first went off. I don't need your blood."

He touches Gale's hand, which rests on his side, and tugs ever so gently, encouraging him to lie down at last. "You, on the other hand... my warm, human, fragile, mortal wizard ... you need all sorts of tending to. Hmm? And I do so love to tend to you like my very own garden. Does that make you uncomfortable?"

Astarion's sudden interjection surprises the Wizard. He casts a sideways glance, narrow from the corner of his glimmering brown eyes. There is a tension about his lover, pulled flat like the surface of a calm lake before a beast breaks the surface.

He assumes something about the situation has struck a chord within Astarion. Perhaps a mirror held too close. Gale leans back, a sign that he's removed himself from any debate. "Consider the decision made." He says, apologetic if only for the pleasantries. "If it is any consolation, we will keep this our little secret."

As Gale speaks, Astarion moves on to clean his chest, his arms, his back. A patch of charred hair comes away with his cloth, and he winces, looking at the fried skin beneath. They are fortunate indeed to have every opportunity to recover. Astarion steps away momentarily to lock the door and to place a doorjamb behind it, before returning to Gale and shedding his own armour.

"You're awfully sweet," he says softly, one hand on his chest, the other on his chin, and a third, spectral hand cleaning his back. "So concerned about me." Isn't it true, though? He has little to offer a vampire lord other than those things he knows appeal to them.

"Your idea— it's not a bad plan, it's just..." He looks conflicted, biting part of his cheek. "We can't trust him. The idea of going in and showing our hand and doing his bidding, expecting a reward at the end— everything I know tells me that he'd spit in our faces. That the moment he learns that I'm just a spawn, he'll look at me like dirt beneath his feet." He huffs, his lips pushing outward in a pout. "You know me. I don't want to be dependent on anyone. Not even on you. And him, hells..."

He lets go of Gale's chin in order to pull off his own shirt, revealing burned flesh on his own left side. "Mmm... I should have got out of the way of that. I must have gotten too comfortable here."

Astarion's sudden interjection surprises the Wizard. He casts a sideways glance, narrow from the corner of his glimmering brown eyes. There is a tension about his lover, pulled flat like the surface of a calm lake before a beast breaks the surface.

He assumes something about the situation has struck a chord within Astarion. Perhaps a mirror held too close. Gale leans back, a sign that he's removed himself from any debate. "Consider the decision made." He says, apologetic if only for the pleasantries. "If it is any consolation, we will keep this our little secret."