#Gale trusting Dronia with his whole heart.

[recitedemise]

WAX POETIC

Send ‘wax poetic’ for Gale to work some poetry; his muse is you: still accepting.

Gale doesn't delight in being anything less than dependable. No, he has to be wicked. Or rather, at least a storm. However, when his bones do ache and when his sinew burns, when the crawling of his flesh tears foul with blight, it's a relief, he confesses, to know he can stumble. The ground will not meet him; he'll plunge no abyss.

He hisses with injury, Dronia once more guiding him along. Rain spills from the skies, thunder chittering with bitterness in the chill of the night, but he, unalone, will little complain.

No, ever is she stalwart. And always is she true. And Gale, waist rent, thinks you've struck me more than once like our northernmost star might, the cradle of your side I would find unfailing. Carefully, his friend finds cover within a spring-sprawled thicket, and gingerly, she lowers the dear wizard to the flowers beneath. See? She is something, a pillar with whom he'd always place his trust. She peels at his robes, hands careful as they study his geysering, rubied wound, and with you, there's no shadow I can't endure. No shadowy midnights. No spiteful gods.

Dronia fashions him, touch too kind. If I'm to trust nothing else, it would be you. Behind the grey skies, Polaris glimmers.