[ Gale isn’t overly invested in combat, but he has a similar thought to Agathe — peering across the grounds in search of Lae’zel’s brutal swing or Karlach’s fiery head. Besides, Astarion entered the knife-throwing competition, and it wouldn’t do to leave him unsupported.

He takes a seat one space from Agathe, ever so polite, and sets his gift bag of trinkets at his feet. Wonders, idly, if the enchantment on an exchanged favour is designed to improve performance, akin to guidance.

At first, he assumes Agathe speaks to someone else, attention fixed on the crowd, leaning forward in his seat, hands splayed across his knees. It’s only when she questions him directly that he turns his head. His mild startle (eyes and brows lifting, hand twitching) passes, and he smiles, congenial. ]

If you’ve have any coin, when the currency here seems to be whatever comes to mind — you ought to bet on the white-haired gentleman.

[ The pale elf, awaiting his turn at the targets. Gale sweeps a hand out, caster’s fingers precise in pinpointing his companion. ]