recitedemise

[recitedemise]

Sorry for the impromptu disappearance. I'm going to remain keeping it sparse on Gale with my fluctuating desire to be here, but if you do want to keep writing with me for why not, I did make a Henry of Skalitz blog from Kingdom Come: Deliverance. I'll be sprucing up a DND/BG3 verse soon enough, but he is a medieval based character I think I'll have a lot of fun throwing together something fantasy related for.

He's a page, but I say his achievements have earned him a knighting some several thousand times over. He's angry, a bit of a firecracker, and has all the charm of a young man tearing his way through Bohemia. Come say hi if you'd like.

[recitedemise]

"I'm fine. Just, ah, a bit preoccupied."

And the image she would strike laying low these harpies...

Admittedly, the scene will haunt his dreams for many years to come.

Alas, it's upending-- or gutting, to be quite honest -- to do anything beyond simply gawk and groan. Oh, he laments his condition and the thick rallying of rot as it dribbles down his arm. Still, he manages a spell as a gold twinkling light wraps warm about her body. A shield. And when she dispenses with grace with the last of the harpies...

Well, she will find him agonizing knelt by the tree.

It's springtime, he recalls. The begonias beside him are pleasant company.

"A little something from your knight in magic armor." Gale, you fool, you -- goodness, your arm! "You'd used my name."

Oh for Gods sake-

What an infuriating man. Hartley's heart is in her throat - worse still when she sees the red gashes down his arm, blood pouring freely.

"Gale!"

Her hands shake a tiny bit when she shoots, but her aim is true - the harpy falls, and the one that swoops in after it is clipped in the wing, shrieking as she plunges from the sky. She'll still be able to walk, but at least she won't be able to dive at them.

There's still at least one more, though, so Hartley can't relax enough to chastise him yet - but he can rest assured he'll hear about this later.

[recitedemise]

“I have built, deep in my heart, a chapel filled with you.”

— Marcel Proust, in a letter to Anatole France, from Selected Letters: 1880-1903 (via victoriajoan)

[recitedemise]

"I think we simply need to acknowledge that we don't need the weave for magic." Is she saying things just to be annoying? Perhaps. Did she bet Astarion five gold pieces that she could bait Gale into a long winded lecture with one sentence? Absolutely.

Perhaps? What a generous word that is! After all, Gale, looking up, is more prevailed to think it certain.

"Strictly speaking, as there are multiple wells of magic to pull from, no, one needn't rely solely on the Weave to dabble in spellcraft. However, one can find some sources to be more agreeable than others. I, for one, am more partial to a river." Indeed! Why settle for a well when one can flow toward oceans? Thumbing at his book, the gust he calls to turn it angles toward an argument. It's...cheeky, though, he admits, but only half as razored as Wren tends to be. Perhaps he should bite for the fun of it alone -- academic, he would argue, and purely that. "But being acquainted with the Art yourself--" not intimate, apparently, but rather acquainted! "--I don't recall this being something for scholarly debate. Personal, however, is another matter entirely. But perhaps I'm mistaken. Should you be in need of a lesson, I'd be delighted to provide you one."

[recitedemise]

fresh from the morning run 🔥

drawing a man in athleisure wear AND with scarred face is my favorite thing ever so yeah..

ig Gale modern au? I don’t know!!!! Like it’s Gale in sweatpants what else is here to say

[recitedemise]

"I'm going to pretend I hadn't heard that." It's an attempt at levity. Unfortunately, it sails about half a field short from that likeness of convincing. Still, Gale had meant what he told him, something of a smile caught challenging those rigors so anchored in his face. There's daggers in his swallow and something like poison bubbling in his gut, but Astarion still manages to brighten his despairing. Hilarious. He's fishing for compliments when he knows he's dashing.

Here, Gale would catch how those clothes pull, the make of them velvety with a half-paled sheen. Really, he appears molded for the revelry, a striking flash of colors pulsing red-gold-pataya. He thinks vividly of statues, of finely carven marble and winter-bitten ivory, and he would think him like Bernini, a stunning take on beauty etched into existence, but the energy he's spilling in undulating pulses — he's much more frenetic like an atom doomed to split. Acutely, Gale feels disasterously stuffy, more fitting for a conference than any night of carousing. Certainly, Astarion should have hunted for a man with more energy, but evidently, something about strays invites him in.

Blinking wide, Gale exudes nothing but a well-kicked thing. "It's nothing, really." Lie. He mourns the loss of his drink, how mortifyingly tranparent he is, and softens only marginally when Astarion finds his hand. The music roars, and without meaning to, Gale angles closer to the table. "Mystra had visited me this morning, but as it turns out, that's the sort of thing to do as the department head. It's hardly anything worth discussing—" and surely nothing worth lamenting! "But if it were, I can confidently say I'm not quite drunk enough to try."

He breathes. Casual. Fine. He's fine. Gale opens his palm for his very stolen whiskey. "I'd have thought you'd try to hurry that along, not stall it." He's tutting him! Like a cat!

“Does it?” Astarion, draped in so little and yet adorned in so much, wore the pearls like a dagger wears its edge. Not the other way around. Pale against paler— moonlight’s pale, not death’s. He didn’t merely complement them; he elevated them. A harmony of contradictions: a pearl and a vampire, each daring the other to endure, to outlast. Eternity stared eternity in the face, and the result was something near divine, if divinity had ever known seduction in the first place.

The room spun in its own gravity. Strobing lights scattered like shards of stained glass and acrobats swayed through air like gilded snakes. Every corner was draped in decadence, expensive suits melting under the spell of their performers. Some whispered jealousy at the lucky few whose gold had earned a stolen moment with the artists. And there, in the thick of it, Gale— an anomaly among the crowd, not for the way he dressed so much as carried himself. His currency wasn’t coin but the debts of a heart freely given, and Astarion had decided it was worth keeping.

“I know that face.” Astarion delivered, all velvet and debonair. His hand reached over to Gale’s glass. He pried it free, not with force but with inevitability, and brought it to his lips, owning the act with theatrical precision. “You’re not fully here, are you?” Rhetorical. Astarion kept the glass, held it like a scepter, his voice spun from threads of silk and danger. He was seduction made flesh… every glance, every breath a play against the heart.

Something had happened. Something always did.

“What’s the matter?” Astarion’s hand found Gale’s on top of the table, icy Carrara marble on volcanic slab.

[recitedemise]

Gale listens. Gale listens because he's good at listening. He's always done so nigh obsessively, scrabbling for some solace in the humming after dark. He would gaze unto the cosmos, swaddled under comforters sat buried in his sette, and he would heed their every whisper, every warble passing softly with the dock-song's little ripples. They would shiver him their stories, their gentle silver secrets from well above the coast, and night upon night would he heed their every ballad. Wistful. Better theirs, after all, than any of his own. They make it feel — distant, he supposes, that roaring, hungry wormhole eating at his middle. And, well, with the thundering drumline darkening her whispers? Like the stars, the wizard's little mind but to try and reach her.

His brows would furrow. He wears a fearsome flash of anger and a humbling regret. With rage does he imagine it, this woman like some creature fettered miserably in shackles, but as it were, the turn of his mind wasn't all that needed. Even here, they sound: the chains about her ankles and those about her wrists. Unfortunately, he would notice more, too, the fell shadow about her face souring as she ventures in the copse of her memories. It makes him — startle a little, hearing the here and there stoppers that'd punch her lungs. What had she done?, he wonders, as he regards those hands hanging wiped of blood. The fissure of that scar crimped ragged across her palm... Before she strays, Gale reaches back out to righten her. "You were forced to," he reminds. Commanded. Terrified. "You weren't exactly at her beck and call as some willing participant, Annette. I'm not about to stand here and be told that you'd any choice in the matter. As far as I'm concerned, you're still learning what that is."

A choice. A will. The full force of autonomy and the taste of freedom. Gale keeps standing upright, and for some reason, it appeals to him as paramount to stand there hovering as a sort of human shield. Protect her from her mother and the brunt of her childhood — and maybe, he prickles, the sunlight through the trees. "She had spent the entirety of your life trying to force you to her image, and for what it's worth, I still see you standing very much before me." With her milder eyes and the ache of compassion... "I don't think that'll ever change. To be who you are despite everything, you may be the best among us."

Truly. Worried, he guides her to the log beside his tent. "You're at liberty to make your own choices now. I'd much rather hear what you'd like to have happen."

had someone hurt her? not nearly so much as that someone hurt others. it was never unwarranted, in her mind; there was always something annette had done (or failed to do) that was a reason. it was always those who traveled that caught the worst of it all. she thinks of the sewn-up smile of a heartbroken woman, infected with laughing-spore jewelry & crying in pain. the parents with ailing children that left having no children at all. the countless other fates that supplanted one problem with many. yes, she's been hurt. but she has done much more of the hurting. had she not been expelled from her home, how long could she continue being troubled by it all? how soon would she stop caring? too soon, she worries.

"no more than i have hurt others," her hushed reply comes. "my ... my mother --" a small shudder runs across her shoulder blades. it is all too easy for her mind to return to the hollowed-out tree. "she was ... or, is ... cruel. folks would come to her, suffering, & ... & she would solve the problem, yes, but. it was always so awful." a pause. how many times had she watched, hidden, as suffering was increased? how many times had she participated? "& i helped her. but it was never enough." her mind travels to the verbal blows, first from her mother & then from the scarecrow in the garden. the jaws of pumpkin, marring one hand forever. fear keeps her from continuing much further. specifics would condemn her.

"she is a monster," the half-elf mumbles. "& i think ... if the worm does not -- well. i will become like her, instead. i'm not sure i can --" she shakes her head, unwilling to finish the thought. while they have all agreed to do what they must, she doubts gale would agree to any contingency plans. especially one that would result in her lying dead before further harm could be done.

"i would die before becoming like that."

[recitedemise]

Just Johanna! Right! Coughing a touch, the surprised color up his swallow falls off with a whimper.

(sms) Emmrich: Quite alright. The advice was appreciated. There's something to be said about fewer distractions.

(sms) Emmrich: I may have just the thing.

His heart's still calming. Indeed. He is certainly — oh my goodness — as deep as one can get. Yet, with this locomotive thundering, Gale's hardly the spot of strength to pump the brakes and stop it. Instead, he eyes his closet as Tara wears a glower...

And after some several flashes, his camera stops.

(sms) Emmrich: [2 attachments]

(sms) Emmrich: Thoughts? Tara offers her enthusiastic salutations.

Too much, Gale! In one photo, it's him in a purple number. Smart. The other, a half-souring meow in an .mp4.

"we--pah! you have the look about you. which hangers-on is it? lover boy?" johanna flicks a burnt crisp at him, "is he your new favorite?"

emmrich sputters. "i beg your--i don't have a look!"

(sms): Gale 📨 less is more xoxo

(sms): Gale📨 IGNORE THE PRIOR MESSAGE. I apologise. Johanna chewed through her leash. Standard fare will suffice.

(sms): Gale 📨 You underestimate yourse

diner rattles with johanna's peal of brassy laughter. "stop pouting, volkarin. i was helping you along."

he doesn't deign to answer her.

(sms): Gale 📨 Say hello to Tara for Manfred, please. I promised I'd tell you.

[recitedemise]

Well! Perhaps she has forgotten the murder song within her. That said, its lullaby, its crooning, has not forgotten her. No, it mustn't have, he would tell her, as he shivers with a temper like a tree within a storm. She could end him most thoroughly, even smote him into remnants of a delirious sort of want, but goodness, what fortune it would be were his lover made his reaper! Or maker. Better yet, the woman to contrive him and who'd leave him as a corpse. Greedily, Gale would take her every angle, voracious as it were for what he can only presuppose is his end within his reach. He can sample her laughter and discern their evenings crimped above her teeth, and it's -- well, syrup and honey in such sweetness-and-delirium. Gale groans. Corralling her closer, she slots along his hips. Really, if only he'd met her sooner. If only the world had ever been so kind He drags words along her lips and the strong of his palms down the slim of her belly -- and then, the taste of missing years pressed against her gums. Cloying. It's cloying, delicious, and not quite enough. "Satisfied?" he wonders cheekily, distractingly. Heart in his swallow, he feathers his teeth along her swallow like a ghost. "A curious question, I'm sure you've decided. I know you, my love, and you're always wanting." / @toherdemise

How Verin's languid and near mindless movements roused him so, subtle surprise flits across her features before she meets his stunned stare with half-lidded eyes and a self-satisfied smile settles across her features. Contented, she relaxes into him, started loosening her hold, contented, and her focus drifts. His pulse paces against her fingertips, his words a prattled hum at her palm, the ebb of his breathing soft in her hand, she's enamored, she forgets to consider the murder song that ran through her own pulse. Pins and needles danced from the tips of her fingers to the base of her palm; he tempts her; tests her, teases her grip, with his own around her wrist, warm. And shewonders if he can feel the thrum of her blood, her own excitement; As he breathed in her air, she tightened her grip. He tasted of wine and petrichor, it's heady, it's clarity. It's a hesitation before she continues to apply pressure. While Verin needn't words or her hands to silence him, he was fool enough to wrought the storm himself and he needn't spells to do that.

[recitedemise]

"The pleasure is mine, believe me. I doubt the stars would blink out by the time it takes for you to enjoy a homecooked meal." Gale glows. It's incredible what praise can do to a man, isn't it? One second, he's wasting, and the next second, he's stars.

To his credit, however, he supposes that Yesha's the tendency to make every moment cosmic. Certainly, there are at least several worlds that'd agree, indebted to their hero like she's a flavor of providence. He wonders how that wears her, if the gravity of such titles would feel as though a well. Fair enough, she's quite literally an omen, her appearance with her lance a crystal tell for trouble, but it's less as a reaper and more as the gallant -- if the gallant, their slayer, came dripped in red.

He watches her eat, and quietly, he confesses that red's very much her color. Omen and hero and providence or not... Well, to him, the darling woman is still just Yesha.

"A dozen? I'll gladly bet on those odds," he acquiesces warmly. "A man more stewed on some proper wine may even feel inclined to double or nothing."

By the gods, how that toothy grin can light up a room! Believing himself welcomed -- a feeling rather novel, quite truthfully -- Gale occupies her left at her darling chabudai. With him. a clack of a still-hot cezve puffs its steam. "I'll pen the recipe in between my mounting research. As it turns out, I was rather hoping you'd have a moment to spare for a certain mage as well -- should that be your desire, of course. I can only imagine how difficult it is to find your breath these days, but I admit, your voice through linkpearl can only sate my appetite for your rousing company so much. Hearing you unfiltered is...quite the balm to the spirit." Oh, Gale. He curls his hand, and those odd, welting faults of aether yet shimmer at his skin. "I'm still the way you left me before you begin worrying yourself sick by the way. Well, with a couple more greys, of course. Consequence of knowing you."

"thank you," she murmurs, accepting the offered plate of food. it smells delightful and it warms her hands beneath their light wrapping, smelling faintly of camphor. gale wins a smile from her. it comes easy as breathing when he's around.

"consider that it might still be ending, but i'm choosing to ignore it for now." yesha can't really find the delineation; she doesn't know when things changed so much that she's now become some kind of omen, a marker between fates. if she's not running ragged with her lance drenched in blood, then all is well. everybody can take a breath and relax. needless to say, gale is right, however she might try to lightly, jokingly dispute him; nothing world-ending is happening right now. she can eat her supper and take her time.

and she can bask in the warmth of an exceptional mage's company.

wordlessly and with enthusiasm, yesha digs into her food. her tail swishes back and forth behind her, and when she looks up to beam at her companion, her tiny fangs peak out of her mouth. "that is... amazing." her indigo eyes are all lit up. "your chances have increased a dozen-fold." exceedingly talented is not an exaggeration where the mage is concerned. the warrior of light cleans up her plate with relish, and afterwards, sits back with satisfaction.

"gale," she begins after an extended pause, not entirely sure where she's headed, but determined to express her gratitude nevertheless. "we are decidedly not at the cusp of anything apocalyptic, you're right. and i'm glad for it. it gave us time for a homecooked meal. speaking of which," yesha leans forward, elbows at the table and fingers interlaced, a clever glint in her eyes. "can i persuade you to share the recipe with me?"

[recitedemise]

He wishes he could smile ruefully. To her credit, Andromeda doesn't appear on the fast track to hurling. Still, her startling frankness is a bitter type of pill.

"It's quite alright," Gale says, companionable even as he peels in sheets. It's a good thing she'd not the whole of his health, he gathers; his worsening, unsurprisingly, had been quite the shame. "Among all the things you could have said, and believe me, there was certainly no shortage in that regard, you've settled on what I can reasonably conclude was the more merciful arrangement." Oh, if only her mistake was the warm, kind reality! Alas... "I should be thankful." And he very much is.

What does she do for soiled earth? To rotted over trees and fields long wilted? Who knows. It's hard to say when he's like stemming a weeping hemorrhage with a treacly little candy. Handing her the gauze, Gale grimaces as his cuticles ooze and weep. "Not much like your violets, I'm afraid. Were it only a that tender touch and a kind word was all I required. I can see why the cold months are in such a rush to leave when you rear your head."

🌿                                       the   twig   snaps   underfoot,    a   poor   choice   of   announcement   of   her   company.    the   druid   stops   at   the   mouth   of   his   tent,    shoulders   deflating   with   a   defeat   that   is   not   her   own.                   “   it   looks   worse,   ”                   she   notes   dryly.    looking   at   it   is   a   puzzle,    in   fact.    she   is   no   cleric   by   any   means,    but   the   violet   humor   is   discomposing.    a   beat   passes,    and   her   gaze   raises   with   a   small   shock.                   “   i’m   sorry   —    thinking   out   loud.    i   was   hopeful   enough   to   think   because   i   couldn’t   see   it,    it   was   getting   better.   ”                   had   he   been   concealing   it   ?    or   had   her   attention   uncharacteristically   slipped,    between   the   constant   onslaught   of   enemies   and   the   wriggling   of   the   tadpole   ?       (    the   shadows   snag   her   attention   as   well,    thorns   and   barbs   digging   into   what   remains   of   nature   and   its   inhabitants,    a   web   she   perpetually   attempts   to   free   herself   from.    )       purple   churns   and   laps   at   his   skin   and   the   realization   that   this   is   beyond   simple   binding.                   “   far   from   the   case,    i   see.    i’m   sorry   to   have   assumed   otherwise.    where’ve   you   put   the   fresh   bandages   ?    oh,    might   need   more   .   .   .   ”

[recitedemise]

In her opinion, the gift she'd put together for Gale wasn't nearly enough. It would have to suffice regardless. Alaara had scrounged through her collection of tomes and had gone through many more during the many stops the group had made along the route to Baldur's Gate. What she'd come up with was a small, old book on ancient magical legends. She had no way of knowing for sure, but something about the book gave her a sense that it was more than what met the eye.

On top of that, she'd thrown in a stack of fresh parchment tied up in a neat bundle for which to take notes on, and a new bottle of ink in case he'd gotten low on his supply.

"Happy Valentine's Day," she said as she handed the gift off to him. "I promise next year's will be far better. The road offers vastly less than the treasure troves of Waterdeep."

Oh. Gale blinks up at her. Astonishment, blatant, lays warm within his gaze. Yet, he's not entirely surprised, to be honest, that Alaara would partake in such a syrupy holiday. Really, it fits her miraculously, all the practices that would make it as tender as it is, and he tastes cakes made of marzipan and tartlets with their honey. Apparently, Alaara to him is all such things.

No, her liking this day isn't what upends him. Reaching forward, it's that she cared for him enough to ready him a gift.

The wizard takes it carefully, the whispering of magic just lumbering like a whisper. That she would find him something so potently marvelous... His hand folds. "It's lovely." At the cookpot, something thickly peachy bubbles and pops.

"Ha, and of a certain fashion, I suppose, but the pleasure of knowing you is not to be bested by all the jewels in the world." Gale says it with his body. Gale's heart feels to clatter in a surge of bright approval. But kind, pretty words aren't enough for him, is it? Not at all. Reaching over, he hands a bowl of drizzling cobbler. "For you," he says, eager already to begin reading. "With how tender you both are, I might have thought you near cousins. Care to pass the evening with me?"

[recitedemise]

“The sky collapses, and my heart, filled with astral light, / Becomes a vast cemetery of stars.”

— Georges Rodenbach, from Selected Poems; “The Reign of Silence,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[recitedemise]

Hartley has never really done a proper Valentine's Day before - and she may well not start now, given they both know there are feelings but nothing's been done about them. She does set a very nice bottle of the whiskey he likes on his desk - it's not much, given she doesn't want to go overboard, but it's still something. Hartley very much wants Gale to know she's thinking of him.

And he's thinking of her. Every moment, every evening, and when the dark would pale with sun. Valentine's Day, of course, is not truthfully a day he finds too foreign. He's indulged in it before, in these saccharine little evenings with its cloying treats and warmth, but always, he despairs, had the love come wrapped from him. Quite. A fondness in turn was all too lacking. So, he would look upon that bottle, its price tag too costly and its wrappings too fine. Who else in all this world would have known his favorite vintage? He grabs it. Retiring from his office, he nabs his coat.

Tara will forgive him. She'd always pitched a fit when he worked too hard. One step before the other before turning at the light. his breath catches. Knocking on her door, in his heart: hope.

"It may not be the usual use of your services, but I was hoping you could lend me your expertise in soundly putting my dreary Friday to rest." Hartley. Who else but Hartley could have bought him this? Oh, Gale. She's stunning in this light, his head a quarter-way spinning as he cowers at her door. Goodness. How far had he parked to burn as posey as he is? Far enough. He grins. The journey to these steps hadn't gentled his tension. "I had to see you." Had to. Had to before the stars went nova and his blood cells burst. "I can't think of a worse pairing for such a lovely gift than lacking in a phenomenal woman to share it with, and there's undoubtedly no woman more phenomenal."

[recitedemise]

You see me as I am, and do not find me wanting. With these stars as my witness, I swear - you will always be enough for me.

[recitedemise]

They're still... skirting around it. Sort of. They have moments of intimacy, and then moments where one of them seems unsure and steps back. So when Callisto invites Gale around to be the one to cook dinner for him, she pretends like the date means nothing. And if she makes something that he taught her, that's just coincidence. And if she has candles out on the table, that's just ambience.

He doesn't mean to rear away. And by the gods, further does he mean to worsen her doubt. Looking over, Gale can admit it's fear, those shudderings of terror caught clamoring to the shore, and it would lap at all his courage as a river to a stone — bombarded, well polished, and thoroughly worn. Still, he can hardly deny his feelings, enamored to a sickness spilling honey in his bones. Shees stirs in something, the fragrance in the kitchen so delightfully bold, and all that twinkling bubbling in his marrow... It rises. Moving toward her, it settles ever thickly in his throat then spills.

Sugar, affection, and worrying fondness—

Gale pulls her in by the waist. And his mouth finds her own. "It smells delightful. I don't suppose I can trouble you for a quick taste, my love?" Innocent. Intentional. His thumbs twirl together where they meet about her middle, slow and decadent, and the ease of it all is so — novel. Earth shattering. The candles about them steep the mood romantic. Ah. "I admit, I wasn't expecting such fanfare, but — it's a lovely surprise. A most spectacular one. The most memorable." Gale? "Call me silly if you so wish, but I worry I may wake up from whatever dream you've caught me in."

[recitedemise]

A gibbet, is it? That feels about right. After all, he feels bafflingly suspended, but less floating over oceans and more strung at public square as he fought at iron bars. He feels his lover's patient touch, that thumb settling sweetly past the sloping of his nape. Yet, it feels...divorced, somehow, his world sunk beneath an impossible, plunging distance. Emmrich's trying to reach, but it Gale's still sinking. Or better yet, maybe their positions are the other way around.

"I look up to this man you're speaking of a rather tremendous deal, Emmrich. It's best not to underestimate what he does for me. What he has done for me. And what I'm certain he'll continue doing." And all as a mortal, flesh and blood man. Goodness, Emmrich... "I'd rather not speak of what there is to gain if that's all the same to you. ...may I ask if you've considered what it is you'll abandon?"

gale looks a man on the gibbet from emmrich's vantagepoint. he aches to gather his darling into his arms and hoist him high, slackening the noose fashioned by his inattention. rook requested his counsel. harried, emmrich neglected to tuck away the manifesto. he could hear johanna's mocking laughter reverberate through time and space. well done, you insufferable popinjay. you haven't learned a thing.

"perish the thought. i won't subject you to a farce so unjustly cruel," emmrich splays his fingers to caress the outer edge of gale's scalpula, "say i succeed to enter lichdom, to divorce myself from the mortal coil would bestow me with such abilities. . . i wish to take care of you, dearest. is that so bad?"