recitedemise - Tumblr blog

[recitedemise]

It's my birthday (woo, 30), and I treated myself to a drawing of Gale and Caleb smooching... Cuz. Well. I wanted to.

And the reception has been LOUD for the wizards, but I lost my MIND seeing this reply:

Like. HELLO?!?!?! shout out to @arcanecast for the wizard4wizard agenda :)

Anyway... happy birthday to me. What a wild birthday.

Also, I'm posting my fit.

[recitedemise]

what do you recommend to encourage affection? (from midge 😌)

PRIDE & PREJUDICE PROMPTS: still accepting.

"Ruminating and exchanging our riveting postulations," Gale says, "even if one's company can barely suffer it."

It's a joke. Partly, anyway. It's no secret, after all, how tireless that mind of his tends to run. It babbles like a current, disquieting the silence that would take their camp, a hundred theories over yonder and thousand daydreams off his tongue...! Gale, put simply, lives in thought. Eager, he's grown quite susceptible to oversharing. But he's a man that hungers, a beast that delights in sharing ideas, and quite frankly, what nurses a bond more than the spilling of one's soul? Truthfully, Gale caught reading can't really say.

He looks to Midge, warm eyes crinkling where his age wears in fine lines. Sure, his scholarly rambles can be hard to endure, but this creature, gods bless her, vies always to hear him. It's warming. Midge, all a pleasure, always does so with a grin.

"Worthwhile conversation will suffice," Gale amends, serious and oh so sincere. Looking over, he thumbs senselessly at a page. "Even talk of one's day can be just as enlightening as a discussion on magic. To learn how someone sees the world can be as riveting as a spell, and for what it's worth, I find myself quite endeared to your perspective. Our discussions together are always eagerly awaited."

[recitedemise]

Oh. He's here.

Mystra's fallen low darling.

What nonsense. I'd have chosen to die there were I the poor, wretched fool. Suffering such pity instead of the cold arms of death... My condolences to his mother. And his godsdamned cat.

My gods. As is customary, truly, in symposiums like these, the scathing tongues of noblemen wag like whips.

It's an affliction, Gale supposes, for creatures so steeped in their velvet-plush pockets. Gossip flows like wine, bubbling hotly in the pools of this evening's topics, some myriad of scandals and some millions of scoffs. It's a hotbed for blackmail or an autumn-time harvest all ready for the scythe. Truly, to spy glances cast secretly this somber man's way-- Gale, near bristling, longs to bolt. He should have stayed home, prolonging his absence by a decade or some. However, Tara, sweet darling, would never suffer this choice, and now one cat's insistence can well drown her in riches....!

And bury her, too, in a nobleman's ache.

Still, that shouldn't scare her though, surely, considering the loathsome character of all these...beasts. Gale smiles, the bright of it marred, but still sincere, cordial. She should know. Men so bloated in their riches were filth.

"Oh, only such demure questions that would befit a lady, of course. Questions that would run the gamut of both imagination and existence. Questions like whether you believe or not we belong in the stars." The way he had said that with such blistering honesty... No, in the absence of mockery and condescension, there was undoubtedly intrigue as bare as the dawn. Truthfully, Gale hopes she can forgive him for his clumsy, half-atrophied tongue, but despite himself, apprehension and excitement tickles up his bones. She hasn't mocked him yet. He thinks she's sharp. Emboldened, the gentleman straightens himself as the sunlight bathes him gold. There, the pallor of his skin stands out a bit more, and under his eyes, some bruising shadows. "Ha. Though I hope you mind saying so, but I couldn't help but to notice you taking a considerable interest in the proceedings around us. Truthfully, you don't strike me as a woman who'd content herself with...mortal delights. The fire I'm noticing struck inside you-- Surely, your ambitions must go beyond the vastness of our stars. Gale Dekarios." He bows. "Pleasure."

secret revelled in events like these; not because they were enjoyable, though they certainly could be, but because between the excitment and the drinks, people's tongues wagged. the environment was perfect for a little eavesdropping, especially because few suspected the little lady ranne to be taking notes.

tonight, she had two jobs: represent her family well, easily done with her easy charm and her modest demeanour (an act she had perfected for days like these); and to begin the aquistion on her most recent mark. the job paid well, she'd have been foolish to turn it down, and it'd be a lie to say that her personal curiousity hadn't already been piqued by one lord dekarios. after all, what's more interesting than a victim of a gunshot separating himself from high society?

eyes glance over the bookshelf, a moment of indulgence in an otherwise priority-filled afternoon before she clocks him stood there, also entertaining himself with the idea of a… novel? an autobiography? secret couldn't quite tell as her head angled to comb the spines. it's just a coincidence that the man was stood her as she approached, she promises.

oh, this is too easy, surely. no formal introduction had been made, but that hadn't stopped the lady before, and it certainly wouldn't now, despite the coy shift of her head, glancing over her shoulder to ensure the rest of the party would leave them to their conversation. she finds herself not needing to manufacture a smile, caught in the wry humour of his words, lips quirking in response.

"and what, my lord, would you bring to a conversation to best those i've had tonight?" light, teasing, taking delicate steps to close the distance between them, eyes registering the details on his face, his stature, before gazing back up to the bookshelf. "i'll have you know, you won't have to work very hard to keep my attention tonight."

[recitedemise]

PRIDE & PREJUDICE PROMPTS *  assorted dialogue from the 2005 film

you must know... surely, you must know it was all for you.

are you out of your senses?

we've been nonsensical!

i have struggled in vain and i can bear it no longer.

are you rejecting me?

did i just agree to dance?

makes it all so much more enjoyable, don't you think?

you really do love him, don't you?

i appreciate the struggle you have been through, and i am very sorry to have caused you pain.

you're wasting your time with me.

count your blessings.

don't look at me like that!

only the deepest love will persuade me into matrimony.

i'm very fond of walking.

no, i prefer to be unsociable and taciturn.

may i have the next dance?

these past few months have been a torment.

i wonder who first discovered the power of poetry in driving away love?

my brother gave it to me.

i have never been thus treated in my entire life.

do you talk, as a rule, while dancing?

so this is your opinion of me.

i had to see you.

it's been many years since i had such an exemplary vegetable.

oh, believe me, no one would suspect your manners to be rehearsed.

i've been so blind.

i've come to tell you the news.

oh, very well then.

i must ask you to leave immediately.

you have insulted me in every possible way.

not all of us can afford to be romantic.

i could not have parted with you to anyone less worthy.

i will never see you again if you do.

he looks miserable, poor soul.

yes. a thousand times yes.

i will not and certainly never shall.

i thought that poetry was the food of love.

you are too generous to trifle with me.

all of these things i am willing to put aside and ask you to end my agony.

there's a lot to be thankful for.

don't you dare judge me.

i don't understand.

thank you for explaining so fully.

now tell me once and for all: are you engaged to him?

if your feelings are still what they were last april, tell me so at once.

have you no objection other than your belief in my indifference?

believe me, it was unconsciously done.

what a shame, for i dearly love to laugh.

and those are the words of a gentleman.

my affections and wishes have not changed, but one word from you will silence me forever.

you have bewitched me, body and soul, and i love... i love... i love you.

i love you.

i cannot tease you about that.

forgive me for taking up so much of your time.

how are you this evening, dear?

is this your reply?

they are far too easy to judge.

i do not have the talent of conversing easily with people i have never met before.

i thought you hated the man.

will that make you happy?

we're doing our best to find a fault in you.

i never wish to be parted from you from this day on.

i wish you would not call me "my dear."

perhaps you should take your aunt's advice and practice?

what endearments am i allowed?

please, do be seated.

one of these days, someone will catch your eye and then you'll have to watch your tongue.

people do not die of colds.

i was wrong. i was entirely wrong.

are you too proud? and would you consider pride a fault or a virtue?

this is a charming house.

i am well acquainted with you.

please do me the honor of accepting my hand.

what do you recommend to encourage affection?

what should i call you when i am cross?

are you... are you laughing at me?

i can admire you much better from here.

shall i call for some tea?

i cannot believe that anyone can deserve you.

i love you. most ardently.

good day. it's been a pleasure.

i have no idea.

did you walk here?

let us take a turn about the room.

it is a small kind of accomplishment, i suppose.

will you not join us?

i've never seen so many pretty girls in my life.

she is the most beautiful creature i have ever beheld.

why do you ask such a question?

what have you discovered?

we are all fools in love.

i have other reasons. you know i have.

i do not deny it.

[recitedemise]

"For both our sakes, I will blame the stuffiness in this hallowed archive for that unwarranted outburst."

The damned man's taking it on the chin! My goodness, this bothersome academic truly is a menace. Gale, glasses glinting in the low, low lights, offers their hunter a most genial smile. His library looms about them, all manner of ancient tomes splayed neat about his desk, and deeply, the fragrance of decades permeates the quiet. Turning a page, glancing up, a bit on vampires appears. "That said, I do hope you'll allow me the honor of fashioning that unpleasantness into a compliment of sorts. Lacking in your favor, after all, suggests that I'm doing something right."

O p e n

"You are the most infuriating person I've ever met."

[recitedemise]

“Fire, Delicate fire, in the flesh. Blind, stunned, the sound Of thunder, in my ears.”

—

Sappho, excerpt of

He’s Equal With The Gods (tr. by A. S. Kline)

[recitedemise]

He feels it, too, a storm system crackling up his skin. It isn't through the starlight, however, or the Weave or the air tinged gingerly with autumn, but from a chemistry so potent as to stir every atom... Regulus, leaning in, smells earthy and deep.

So near. Should his eyes flutter open, he'd be able to study him to every last lash. Magic throbs everywhere, steeped like an ocean in all their quickly swapped breaths, all those words both tender and plainly maddening... Are you not yourself a king? Is he not to worshipped? Magic, Gale's concluding, is this man alone. "Enough. Whatever king I am," he manages, "I am only by your charity and grace alone.

"The kindness you have shown me, the time we would share worth its weight in jewels..." Please. "I would never see you lower yourself for me. You're both the hope and stars that would guide my kingdom." Gale's eyes stay shut. It's bold, but his palm moves despite his nerves, Regulus' cheek now carefully cradled. After all this running and all this teasing-- Coming all the nearer still, Gale's pulse leaps madly. "I have never demanded anything of you, and trust that I don't see myself starting any time soon. No. What I've come to possess is what you've gone and offered me." Hope, kindness, and yearning and joy! "If you offer to take me, know I've already been had."

"—lower, dear wizard?" regulus draws nearer, and he does not know if it is the weave or the starlight or the brisk night air but he can feel gale's closeness like the distant thrum of electricity. it ripples down his spine and tickles at his jaw and the sorcerer's lips part, bringing an almost kiss to the corner of the wizard's mouth. but just before they meet, he stops, and dips his head to the opposite side, and smirks into the scant empty space between them.

"are you not yourself a king? do you not deserve to be kissed and worshipped and admired," his voice, low, vibrates in a whisper, "you may lay at my feet, but i would go lower still—i would bury myself in you, if i could."

regulus sucks in a quiet breath and, with it, retreats; implication and suggestion drive between them as if by a wedge and he, wearing the crooked smile of a man quite pleased and proud, turns his eyes to the dying candles. "spellbound—indeed." hexed, cursed, with an affliction of the heart.

cont. ♚ @recitedemise

[recitedemise]

(more) sweaty Gale for Galemancers, Gale-lovers, and Gale-enjoyers insp. taken from @waterdeepwhiskey

[recitedemise]

It isn't that Gale is shy about anything, really. In fact, one could say he could stand to lose a little more nerve. But truthfully, an artist at work requires space, privacy, and an undisturbed silence. How else, he'd quickly ask, was he ever supposed to wander? And how else, better yet, is he supposed to spill his heart? Last he checked, poetry this sweet requires a remarkable deal of bleeding. Breathing, Gale taps his quill, pauses, and turns his head.

"Not that I don't appreciate your curiosity over my whittlings this evening," he starts, tone suggesting that he very much doesn't, "but curiosity killed the tressym, or so the saying goes if it hasn't changed at all. If not the tressym, then the mood I'm struggling to keep very much alive at the least. Admittedly, your hovering over my shoulder isn't doing many wonders."

Come, now. Must they watch him write pretty little verses?!

OPEN.

[recitedemise]

First, there'd been pain, agony, and a yowling in his chest.

And then right after, absolute silence.

Dream, Gale supposes -- my gods, does he know an ample lot about thought and dream. Even in his youth, he'd nothing but those loftiest ideas and the most dizzying of visions. Those had grown through his summers, flowering into yearning for godhood and love, but for a spell, he had dreamt of nothing else beyond the howling of tempests and from the ache in heart, his lover's foul words. For some time, Gale Dekarios had known nothing but those flashes of nightmare.

To be thrust so soundly from these ravaging dreams... Oh. Gale sucks in a breath, lungs sputtering again. Alive, alive, and breathing. He is breathing still.

What is this? Gale startles, eying this man before him as magic pulses in shimmering tendrils. He remembers now. He was supposed to be sleeping. He had hid from the world to die lonely with his orb, and now, awake, he was breathing still. The world spins, his body aches, and he near collapses by the wall. "I--" What's a man supposed to say right now? His tongue is having a very seldom seen blunder. He had hid in a cave, a cave so dark and so far from reach. Alone, he should but, but alone he's not. "I'm assuming you have a perfectly reasonable explanation for dredging me out of. Well." His hovel, this odd thing now wreathed by stalagmites. "That." / @arcanecast.

[recitedemise]

"Quite right," Gale breathes, caught studying those somber details. "And what one says about a painting," he murmurs as he does so, "would reveal a remarkable deal about themselves." Potentially, anyway. With an amiable silence drumming pleasantly about them, he suspects she must know of this well already. In a way, to speak as he's done so, he's just afforded her a glimpse at his wavering soul. He's letting her see him, to tear her hands past his cashmere and pull back his skin, and certainly, it should make him shudder and flee in a panic -- but then, he has hardly ever bothered with what most expect. Yes. Art, creation, and how it speaks to your bones... "Don't think I haven't realized that you're a bit mum. You should know that the mystery about you is thoroughly revealing. Saying plenty can show as much as saying too little."

Oh, this troublesome admirer! He smiles a touch proudly to himself. Were she to draw his words like poetry, he wonders if she'd hang them.

But funny ideas and hypotheticals aside, he hasn't exactly deduced unfairly. Now, head turned from the portrait hung neat before them, he studies whatever tells would find her face. She's a delicate vision, a novel loathed to offer its secrets through a passage. Surely, he hadn't thought he would know her through a measly conversation, but it still feels intimate, this sharing of ideas over carefully brushed paint. She wears a smile, eyes thoughtful, and curiosity more a virus rumbles in his skull. "I'm starting to feel as though you've mistaken me for a philanthropist of sorts what with your ideas about my apparent generosity. You're right: the desire to want could make the most stubborn of hearts beat. That said, should you desire to hear my ideas, I ask you take pity on my own heart and share with me yours."

The idea, of course, is quite frightening, indeed.

But maybe...maybe she'll take it. Maybe like him, lonely and aching in his chest as he is, she's her own unspeakable weight she's desperate to lighten. He's a stranger, of course, but maybe that would only add to the appeal somehow. After all, he doesn't know her name. Better yet, he won't share in her dinners and judge her over wine. She'd a taste at vulnerability, at bearing her soul when sharing her art, but to lend it her words both bare and naked? Gale blinks. Despite himself, surprise takes his nerves. tickles his nerves. "Interesting list, that. Exorcising grief. Dispelling rage. But my thoughts linger more on 'cataloguing yearning' admittedly. In comparison, that more than the others feels notably vague." Sadder, too. What's her story, really?, and what truly has her heart pounding with want? Gale fixes his glasses and makes a startled sound. "Oh, I couldn't. It's-- Wait. Are you saying you're Sofia Kim?" Interestingly, something near posy like her oils fills up his face. "Gosh. I suppose you're actually devilishly good at this 'mysterious' concept of yours. But as lovely as this piece is--and believe me, it is lovely--I couldn't possibly just up and leave with it. I don't mean to presume, but it feels rather...important.

“ that's the beauty of art, isn't it? it means something different for every person. ” that's the horror of it, too, sofia thinks; every artistic work is an open-ended conversation. intent rarely matters once you birth something out into the world, where it takes on a life of its own and becomes an entity outside of your control. it's a kind of immortality, both for the work and its maker. an argument can be made as to the reason why she enjoys it so much: creation. it is both a purging and a constructing, a way to die and to live forever.

“ i will not dispute your thoughts, though i might ask to hear about your other dozen ideas. ” gale does not disappoint her when he further expands on what he's thinking. sofia listens, head tilted like a curious cat, lips upturned with the faint suggestion of a smile. survival, he says. that's a concept she's only all-too familiar with. that is the point of the painting, anyhow: how utterly ugly survival can be. yes, he's right: the heart is a strong organ, tested far too frequently that at times, it loses its purpose. it loses all its other capabilities and becomes good for only one thing. “ survival's a good reason for a heart to beat as any. ” says she with the surviving heart. a heart that has unlearned all its other tricks just to stay intact.

she amuses herself a little more by having a ready answer to his philosophical question. “ why, to exorcise grief. to dispel rage. to ambiguously catalogue longing, when more straightforward expressions might seem unwelcome. ” humanity's dreams are sometimes nightmares, and reality all the more so. hope is a fickle thing that sofia harbors so little of, but she will not deprive others of its comfort, regardless of how much she might envy them for it. “ do you want this painting? ” she asks, standing straighter and flinging the dark sheet of her hair behind her back. “ you might have surmised it already, but i am the artist. if you're keen on it, it's yours. just say the word. ”

[recitedemise]

Unhinged post in the middle of Thursday, but honestly, Gale would be such a good dom. Like, a soft dom. He's a switch, and I'm tired of pretending he wouldn't be the world's most mindblowing top. I am talking constantly checking on your needs, reading you carefully to respect your limits, is constantly always very aware of how you are faring. I am saying asking for consent and him checking in on you in a way so natural it flows with the sex. ('Tell me how that feels. Your words, love. Let me hear you.' / 'Your eagerness is tempting and know that no thought excites me more, but I'll consider it only when you're ready and not a moment sooner.' / etc.) Gale is a tender lover, a patient one that prioritizes his partner's pleasure AND comfort well over his own and will take every step he can to ensure he's absolutely ruining his absolute love in the most doting way possible.

[recitedemise]

Surely, the gods endeavored to send Felix's face burning like a fresh lit hearth. After all, Gale is no small vision in this frenetic hour. He's adorned in jewels, in rings of fine silver like that dangle at his ear, but then, their tiefling is no sight to be ignored in turn, is he? Not at all. Smiling appraisingly, the wizard takes his hand.

"Well, with your ensemble tonight," he answers, the music tinkling like the swelling of bells, "I'd much rather risk my feet than have another man risk theirs. To walk away with half a limp would be an honor."

Smart answer.

Carefully, Gale's hand slips about the thin trim of that waist. He's been fashioned for this, for all such beauty and noble-born finery, and his movements all like magic would suggest as much. The candlelight would glow him, the wizard most striking like a stood-tall lion. He's certainty one's pride, all confidence as Felix is guided through the crowd, twirling and bobbing beneath the ceiling-strewn frescos. Felix's eyes, twinkling, beam like jewels. "Fortunately, I'm deciding very generously that I had not heard that. This shouldn't surprise you, I hope, but I find myself very much inclined to defend this mysterious vagabond's honor. Believe me, I know my spellcraft more than most," or more than anyone, really!, "and when I say I'm exceedingly familiar with the handling of magic, I would declare, too, that having your hand is much the same." With a sharp smile, Gale's brow burrows unseen behind his mask. Charm school, evidently, must have claimed his youth. "Let's chalk up your wagging tongue with the considerable amount of drink I'm believing you had. We're to keep an eye open for Bhaalists tonight. I advise against overindulging."

For the mask on his face, Felix was incredibly grateful. It hides the flush, the way his entire face goes a deep shade of purple as Gale speaks. He is fond of the other man, of that there can be no mistake. He does, however, like to think that no one but himself was privy to such affections. That, in truth, is a thought born of the alcohol. He was not one for subtlties. "I have always wondered what a patriar's soirée might be like. To read about them and wonder...I can finally put my speculations to bed, as it were." He is in all black, as he often is, with silver accesories that stand out against both his skin and his clothes. The mask that shields his face from prying eyes and would-be-suitors is velvet and steel; delicate lace flourishes meeting smooth metal curves. It wraps around his horns in silver filigree, set with white, sparkling stones that looked like diamonds. "That such a powerful wizard offers his hand in dance to a mere vagabond, I am flattered beyond measure." He laughs softly, a little tipsy, and gently takes Gale's hand. "Would you laugh at me if I say that I have never danced and that I worry immensely for your poor feet?"

[recitedemise]

Pity is something he loathes. He'd been a man who had it all, had both his pride and talent with a thirst for more, but now, even in those halls of his most shadowed of homes, the portraits, the pictures, all gawk his hurt. Oh, plainly inescapable, he has suffered every boring stare. He feels a sliver too seen, skin stripped back to reveal his bones, and do I terrify, he wonders? Will what she see strike fear? He is a man in pain, a wizard in shambles, and if she isn't more careful, he might hollow her, too... Rot and reap and fell like corpse.

Yet, pity, Gale realizes, isn't at all the expression she seems to be wearing. Oddly, she boasts with her those sprigs of both care and intrigue.

Without realizing he's done so, he loosens a breath.

Carefully, she takes his hand. Magic, a strange flutter of it, whispers and shks, shks, clamors both their spine and skin. It could have been a breeze, perhaps a wayward thought hallucinating feeling; however, Gale knows better, all too accustomed to his wretched orb, and with so much care as to warrant worry, he studies her face for a tell of fear. For now as it were, she would appear unbothered. Yet, he knows deep in his heart how soon that will sour, and though her magic so warm would trickle like summer, his in comparison would feel so cold. Gods...she sets to his veins, the run of them glaring like an ink-soaked brook. His skin sits tearing, a quarter way fractured like too-thin porcelain when he feels it then, the fire in her eyes. Her want to help him. And then, her spell.

Gale sucks in a breath. Beside them, whatever jar she's offered sits there forgotten. At once, the room chills, temperatures plummeting to something better fit for corpses. It always lands like a sucker punch, a surge of ice lancing through the sea of his nerves, and like a worm or a leech, his orb sucks at her magic...! Shuddering, his hand on her own tears away with a jolt. More, it whimpers. I desire much more. The air pulses and thunders like a too-filled artery, and even here, now separated, the space feels small.

It's like--like that thing in his bones is calling her forward. In her mind, the barest glimpse of the orb's founding should hang on its fringes. Gale had opened a book. Gale had bellowed in pain. The feeling of decay like teeth in his marrow... His magic withering. Him, filled with fear.

"That was." Frazzling? Gobsmacking? "Spirited. Much like those before you, you should know that you've left your own mark as well. Young as you are, already do I feel you clamoring these hallowed shelves. For whatever my word is worth, you're becoming undeniable." Flattery, Mr. Dekarios! Gale eyes her warily. "That said, I'm afraid my condition doesn't care for the particularities or the rigors of spellcraft. Even without a talented wizard, it will gorge itself just as happily on a botched enchantment. It hasn't the same care for talent as I do, I'm afraid. Mediocrity would content it, and that is no affront to you." For surely, the spell she'd casted was wonderfully strong. Still, the ripples of that feeding shakes his nerves. His cracking wounds had healed a sliver. "You're safe. I assure you, despite the severity of my condition, I will never have you thrust yourself into harm's way. Though I should like the opposite, I would very much understand should you turn me away. Still, your tea smells lovely. You won't begrudge me for purusing those, I'm sure."

Ah - unorthodox. She's definitely been called worse, so her smile widens at what she has decidedly taken as praise. It's gratifying to hear, anyway, from someone so entrenched in the formal pillars of wizarding institutions - something Callisto was never particularly interested in, given her disinclination to settling within one particular discipline.

Eyes raise and catch the faltering smile, however, and Callisto blinks, leaning back in her seat, the awareness of her rudeness also stopping her tongue when her instinct is to snort and tell him that he was a stupid man for touching something unidentified. Besides, she's sure he already knows. She sees that look in his eye, after all. The hollowness, the despair. The reluctant acknowledgement that he might be a dead man walking.

If Callisto hadn't already decided to help him for the challenge he brought her, she'd do it for that alone. The desperate, ruined man, reaching out - and what could she do but offer her hand?

And, almost in line with her thoughts, Gale offers his.

"The magic here runs deep," she tells him, by way of explanation as to why the reaction might have been so strong when he'd stepped in. "I'm the fifth generation proprietress, but every wizard in my family has left a mark here." The technicalities of whether she really was the fifth, or maybe the fourth, were left out - not to be divulged to a stranger, and a client nonetheless. Still, she takes his hand - and where before, she hadn't bothered to look, now she turns it over in her own soft hands, gentle fingers tracing the path of ruin. She'll cast the spell, in a second, but first she looks at the cracks in his skin, the spots that look like they've been rubbed raw - wounds that never quite heal but split and weep at the slightest provocation.

From the work bench, a small jar (unlabelled, but sealed), joins them beside his teacup. "Take that. It's plant based, with a touch of the Weave to boost the effectiveness. It should help soothe, if nothing else."

And then, leaving no room for potential refusal, Callisto casts a basic cure wounds - sucking in a breath at the way the power is sucked from her in a way she's never experienced. And yet his hands are unchanged. The scar at his chest, unchanged. Callisto isn't sure if she's imagining the pulse she feels from it, but given everything else she thinks perhaps not.

"Well shit." He'd said don't hold back, had he not? "It what, absorbs magic?" It had certainly felt like it, if the pull on her own magic was left unstoppered. Callisto has to wonder how much of him will be left, by the time they get this out.

[recitedemise]

Down on his luck as he is, Gale is not yet so buried by his rumors to grow so deaf. Certainly, his name's been flitting with intensity about the halls and the tables lined neatly with treats, but a man can only stew so long in his misery before the walls, this mansion, would draw too near. As it were, he's not at all the only soul who's so recently suffered. No, nobles, he would lament, boast an appetite unquenchable for all manner of tales, indulging in those rumors more some fouling sort of canard--but even more, he's long realized, for tear-jerking words. Oh, the rich live their misery. They would down it like a wine. And how is Gale supposed to flee them, to look this woman and know not her name? They are the crowning jewels of sorrow, the emerald gleam of hurt, and the only reason he survived the flaying of their gossip is because their knives strayed equally to her as well.

He supposes he should thank her. ("Your camaraderie's well received." ) But what joy is there to find in sharing pain with another? The click of the door rings horribly, and the sound of her stilt hits the floor.

Taken off guard, he nearly coughs into his words. "Nothing so important, I suppose," Gale manages, trying for something casual and amiable. "The vastness of the stars, perhaps the future of the cosmos and our place among them, though more importantly yet and not to be forgotten, whether the red they're pouring tonight would best their white." He smiles, half polite and half actually sincere. Truth is, Gale, for all his secrecy, all his desire to conceal the breadth of his hurt, remains as bare and naked as a throbbing wound. He hasn't exactly her masks, her chiseled neat pleasantries that would veil her thoughts, and so, unlike the Elethea, their Still-Mourning Lady, Sir Dekarios' is as seen as sun. He hopes he wasn't entirely unwanted, having stumbled on her company so away from the others. He understands the desire to tuck heel and run, but this is her home. This is her escape. He should feel properly improper, caught snooping about like a boy for biscuits, but there's some thrill in defying both word and order. More yet, with her rumored love for study, he's more thrilled, still. "I imagine it would have been too much to hope for a meeting between strangers, but I see my name precedes me--and flatteringly, I hope. Gale Dekarios," he bows. "Here at your leisure." Ouch. Meeting her gaze again, he truly dreads what she's heard. "Seeing as how we're both not quite where we're expected to be, I believe speaking boldly can be forgiven tonight. Truthfully, I can do beyond Sir Elameth. He's a wonderful man, but it's more the...distraction that I was scouring for. The talk tonight is, well, one that I feel has overstayed its welcome. But from what I hear, Lady Cousland, you're a rather scholarly mind as well. Our place among the stars... Were you not here, I do wonder where you'd slot yourself."

elethea was not in the habit of letting nosy old busy - bodies & their wicked words sink beneath her skin. her pride was too great to be easily brought down by minds as small as those gathered in her own foyer, but there was only so many whispers & pitying glances one could tolerate before patience withered up entirely. insults & barbs would not break her, but her facade of composed serenity might certainly crumble at another well - meant sharing of condolences. she knew well enough to separate herself from the party quietly. not that anyone of any consequence would note her absence, not in her present state - coping with a wooden leg must be very taxing, after all, who could fault her for retiring early? the poor dear, the limb had been lost along with her parents, they hear. all eyes were on her brother, anyway, the newly - styled earl of cousland, the master of the fine estate & host of the evening's lavish soiree. let them ogle at him & bestow upon him their well - wishes, for she could bear no more.

it was their father's study she took refuge in - now balfour's, she supposed. though all of its trappings were still in their father's tastes, it still smelled of him, if only faintly. as if he had only just left the room a moment before. to even pretend that he was still alive - while foolish & bittersweet - was respite enough to lighten her mood. she runs her hand along the row of books, tracing over the spines gently. this study had never been forbidden to her, she would often read while her father worked, both of them enjoying the silence. the opening of the door snaps her sharply from her reminiscing & she whirls sharply on her heel. unused to the false leg, she teeters a little - catching herself quickly and leaning her weight on her cane.

the laugh she offers in response to his quip is polite, and her smile pinched. it was a most vulnerable position he had caught her in, though he'd had no way of knowing that. it was merely a study, after all. "it's quite alright. lord dekarios, yes?" she inclined her head gracefully, though her question is rhetorical. there were few others that elicited gossip as much as she did, and he was one of them. his reasons for taking shelter in the study were probably not dissimilar to her own. "indeed! i've had the pleasure, on occasion," her tone brightens at the mention of the scholar. sir elameth had attended a few of her mother's salons - the late countess having had a passion for intellectual matters. "though, you'll not find him here, i'm afraid. as i'm to understand he left not long ago. what was it you wished to debate?"

[recitedemise]

“Beneath the silence, the sound of the sea, the sea’s violence spreading everywhere, not finished, not finished, his breath driving the waves—”

— Louise Glück, from Marriage in “A Village Life”

[recitedemise]

Gods, Gale can watch him for hours, there, ensconced and torched in the evening sun. Yet, he is far more than beauty, far more than burnish and the flush at dawn, for he's a different breed of wizard. He's humility and calm. He would flounder to envy and he had shuddered to praise! And cross his heart, Gale bemoans, he is all a wonder.

"How are you faring, Mr. Dekarios, in your taming of affections?"

Ooft. "Wonderfully," he'd told Tara. "I'll just need another year."

"Well," Gale beams, dialing his gawking back to a fifty, "should you find your thoughts on the matter sufficiently tangled, believe me, you've my most talented tongue to righten them out." Truth is, honest as ever, Gale, somehow innocent, meant that plainly. He's a wicked little thing, a tall pour of whiskey that could turn his head, and with spellcraft that heady, that potent, that hot, how's a man meant to sit there and not babble out some flattery? It's complicated, he'd told him. Well, complicated, it's not. "There's no man better tailored to fashion you all manner of glowing praise. See yourself as I do: you're a mesmerizing wizard. And from what one can gather amidst these hallowed halls, empty platitudes, they shall remind you, are not my fare."

You, Caleb Widogast, are abundantly special.

With neither tell nor word, Gale leans in, and across from him, a waiting seat calls for Caleb from beside his desk. Truthfully, he knows he's failing miserably in reining his...'mooning,' he grumbles. But embarrassment aside, it'd felt all too imperative that he shared his opinion. Relaxing, Gale follows Caleb's movements and studies his book. "Cobbling your own spells again? I'm supposing that's why you've been neglecting to join me and Tara for supper at a timely manner lately. Usually, I'd take offense considering my sumptuous cooking, but as an effort to awe my pupils, I find I haven't the heart." Waving his wrist, his enchanted armillary stalls at last. Through it, the bright glowing of stars strews across Caleb's nose and down Caleb's book to light low his scrawl. "Fascinating. I hadn't expected philosophy. If you weren't simply shaping the minds of our youth, I'd believe you meant to reshape the world. Consider my hour yours. If I look this over, however, I'm insisting you allow me to prepare you a coffee — at least."

A warm flush of red, reminiscent of the bright ginger locks upon his head, creeps up Caleb's cheeks, a strange mixture of both embarrassment and flattery. It spreads like a blooming flower, starting from the apples of his cheeks and rising to his temples. Public heroism has never been a desire of Caleb’s, much less mentioned in the same breath as the Blackstaff himself. But Gale, with his charming and endless stream of words, means well and, schieße, Caleb could not help the soft spot he has for him. However uncomfortable such attention makes him. He shifts upon his feet, palms clammy at his side, “Ja, a little bit.”

An understatement, Caleb is terribly nervous, in fact.

“It’s complicated.” Mind a tangle of thoughts, Caleb struggles to put into words the reason for his unease. He enjoys teaching quite a bit, and in the past few months, Caleb has taken on a small handful of private students, young mages not accepted into the Academy but still showed great potential. Their eager minds like dry sponges, just as he once was. Nein, it’s this place and to no fault of the Academy’s nor its staff.

Gale isn’t asking you to take a full-time position immediately or ever, Caleb reminds himself.

Simply a guest lecture, no further expectations.

“Ah, would you like to see my notes?” He asks eagerly, hand instinctively reaching for the book he keeps holstered under his coat before Gale has the opportunity to answer. Caleb already knows the answer. “There are quite a few practical applications of transmutation I have been attempting to dabble in, not anything I would share publicly... yet.” The worn leather of his notebook makes a faint creaking sound as he flips through its pages to his notes. “This is more, ah, philosophical in nature?”