[ Out of the corner of his eye, Gale watches the seller near and turn, an about-face a touch too quick to go unnoticed. The observation passes unremarked, at Armandβs query. ]
Ah. [ surprise in his widened features, though not offense. ] Now that is a bold question.
[ Albeit one couched in flattery, honeyed by the implication that Gale is indeed above parlour tricks. He was, once. ]
The truest answer is a long one, [ canting his head, ] though not terribly original β [ with a rolling gesture, he seems to organise his thoughts. Ahem. ] To summarise: You stand in the presence of the former Archmage of Waterdeep and Chosen of the goddess of magic herself, from whom all power and poetry flows. [ Oh so admiring, besotted, devoted, mind alight at the mere thought of her incorporeal splendour. Voice aching to speak of it (and envious, too, embittering his worship). He splays his hands, feigning good humour when the sorrow overtakes his heart and mind, at the thought of his folly. ]
The modifier former goes a long way to explaining my present imprisonment.
[ To speak nothing of the Mindflayer tadpole coiled inside his skull. If Armand has ever taken note of the strange, secondary presence in Astarion, heβll recognise that Gale carries a similar passenger.
When he thinks on his fall too long, as he does now, his mind spirals. Heβll never reach those heights again β never have her or be had in return, the veil separating them evermore (and if he happens to feel an observer, listening in on those pathetic thoughts of his, heβll close the door on them, sudden and forceful; whatever power he has left enough to resist any unwelcome explorations of his mind). ]
no subject
Ah. [ surprise in his widened features, though not offense. ] Now that is a bold question.
[ Albeit one couched in flattery, honeyed by the implication that Gale is indeed above parlour tricks. He was, once. ]
The truest answer is a long one, [ canting his head, ] though not terribly original β [ with a rolling gesture, he seems to organise his thoughts. Ahem. ] To summarise: You stand in the presence of the former Archmage of Waterdeep and Chosen of the goddess of magic herself, from whom all power and poetry flows. [ Oh so admiring, besotted, devoted, mind alight at the mere thought of her incorporeal splendour. Voice aching to speak of it (and envious, too, embittering his worship). He splays his hands, feigning good humour when the sorrow overtakes his heart and mind, at the thought of his folly. ]
The modifier former goes a long way to explaining my present imprisonment.
[ To speak nothing of the Mindflayer tadpole coiled inside his skull. If Armand has ever taken note of the strange, secondary presence in Astarion, heβll recognise that Gale carries a similar passenger.
When he thinks on his fall too long, as he does now, his mind spirals. Heβll never reach those heights again β never have her or be had in return, the veil separating them evermore (and if he happens to feel an observer, listening in on those pathetic thoughts of his, heβll close the door on them, sudden and forceful; whatever power he has left enough to resist any unwelcome explorations of his mind). ]