#maybe it still has that tadpole in a drawer somewhere

[embrace-your-illithid]

from some lovely and sweet dialog from the epilogue party that I am sad they cut from the game

[teavocationmagic]

an accident at the apothecary | gale x rogue!reader

summary: gale and rogue!reader are on a wee scouting mission upon discovering the blighted village of moonhaven. unfortunately, gale is whatever the opposite of a rogue is, and reader does not care for our favourite talkative archwizard. featuring cursed skeletons, the light cantrip, wizard-specific insults, and detailed descriptions of my thoughts on gale dekarios’ hands.

part two

warnings: none, gn!reader

Rotting floorboards creak under your shoes, and the light from your torch flickers over the cobwebbed ruins as you ease through the apothecary’s basement towards the dark mouth of the tunnel. The much-loved leather soles of your lucky boots move with their signature silence, and for a moment you could be on a normal job, living your abnormal life sans illithid tadpole.

A burst of harsh, radiant light just overhead has you scrambling for cover, your back slamming against the wall and your eyes burning as you blink against the onslaught.

You hear a small laugh somewhere beyond the light as it settles down into a gentler glow. “That should make things easier to navigate!”

Much like your tadpole, you would also be free of the fucking maniac wizard if things were normal.

“Are you out of your mind?!” You hiss, still scrubbing at your eyes to try and banish the dark spots dancing across your sight.

“I don’t think either of us would be much help with a twisted ankle,” Gale says, gesturing to the piles of old crates and debris with a flourish. “Unless you prefer a challenge?”

“I prefer not to draw the attention of every goblin in a hundred mile radius,” you snipe, and Gale’s brow furrows as you swat at the hovering ball of light. “Can you turn this thing off?”

“It’s a sphere of pure light energy, drawn directly from the Weave and concentrated through my sheer force of will. You can’t wave it away like a cloud of gnats!”

“Congratulations on your force of will or whatever, but can you put it back in Mystra’s underwear drawer or wherever you got it from so we can do this in peace?”

Gale levels you with a deeply unimpressed glare as he waves his hand, the light vanishing and leaving him illuminated in your torchlight, which casts stark shadows across his face.

“I wouldn’t speak so disrespectfully of Mystra, if I were you,” he says, voice icy. “Not with her Chosen standing right next to you.”

“Please,” you roll your eyes and push forwards, moving through the dark of the tunnel, noting the hard rock that replaces the wood beneath your feet. “If you were going to fireball me, you’d have done it already.” You think so, at least. Not all wizards are so up front about their intentions - some of them are as tricky as the rogues you ran with back home. Whether or not Gale of Waterdeep was among their backstabbing ranks remains to be seen.

“I wouldn’t fireball you, I’m not a complete barbarian,” Gale scoffs, trailing after you. “Besides, you’re too good with a lockpick. I’d make you a lovely little pocket dimension, maybe something inside a bag of holding -”

“You mean you’d imprison me in a magic bag?”

“It would be cozy. Maybe throw in a kettle for tea, some throw pillows. I’d even take you out at mealtimes for some socializing.” He casts you a sidelong glance, a wry smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “For good behaviour, of course.”

“Good to know chivalry isn’t dead, even among weave-eaters.”

“Among what?”

You press your lips together, holding back a grin. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I definitely am worried about it! What in the nine hells is a weave-eater?!”

“Nothing, just -” You’re cut off by a scraping, clawing sound that echoes through the shadows. You hold your breath, listening for another noise.

“Well, it’s clearly not nothing, otherwise you wouldn’t have said it-”

“Gale, be quiet.”

The wizard scoffs again, and the rustle of fabric as he crosses his arms is deafening in the quiet as you try to listen for the sound again.

“I won’t fireball you, I promise,” he whispers, still harsh in the cold silence of the tunnel. “But just tell me-”

“Shh!” You hold up a hand to silence him, but you’re already too late.

The first skeleton swings a rusted broadsword directly at your head, and you only just leap back in time - you feel it clip your chin as it arcs, and you dance forward on your toes to crack the torch across its head, the milky bone shining under the fire light before it breaks into pieces, it’s body going limp on the ground.

“There’s more-!”

But Gale is already moving, his hands swirling as a flurry of magic missile bolts rush through the air, humming red energy illuminating the approaching skeletons as soon as they are taken apart. Pockmarked armour clatters all around you, and through the chaos you catch the sound of the arrow releasing - your hands are on Gale’s shoulders before you can think, shoving him to the ground with you. The arrow lodges into the tunnel wall with a hard thunk and you are on your knees with a knife in hand before the skeleton has time to aim a second one.

As the noise of the fight rings its last echo against the stone, small crystals that creep out of the walls and ceiling of the tunnel and its adjoining cavern start to glow, bathing the foliage and the open caskets in a soft blue light.

“By Lathander . . .” Gale swears, breathless.

You lean back on your palms, tipping your head to look up into the crystal-strewn ceiling. Vines curl between the rocks and delicate white flowers bloom along them, a patchwork of light against the shadowed slate of the cavern.

“It’s a joke about mages.”

Gale shuffles to his knees next to you, and you turn to see his confused frown. “What?”

“Weave-eater. It’s a dumb joke about spellcasters who are too obsessed with magic.”

“I don’t eat Weave to cast spells-“

“No, no, but like . . . Mystra, your beloved, she is the Weave, right? Or it’s part of her? So, you guys are all so infatuated with the Weave and Mystra that you . . .”

“Please don’t finish that thought, I - I understand.”

You snort, clambering to your feet and scooping up the torch.

“Besides, in my particular case, you’re more right than you know.”

“. . . I hate that you’re making me picture that.”

“Then don’t picture me in such a compromising - hold on, wait,” and you lean back a bit as Gale turns you fully towards him, hands on either of your shoulders. “You’re bleeding.”

“Yeah,” you nod slowly. “That’s what tends to happen in fights.”

“No, just - here, stop moving.”

Gale’s palm is warm beneath the cloth he produces from his little rucksack (“From the most charming tiefling child in that grove, very reasonable prices, even gave me a lucky ring!”) as he dabs at your chin. The cloth is dipped in some common healing potion you swiped upstairs, the rest preserved for more serious injuries, and it stings and soothes near-simultaneously as he works.

Up close like this, you can see the sleep he needs to catch up on, and the soap you need to barter for more of back at the grove. There’s a bruise blossoming on his jaw, and his forehead wrinkles enough as he concentrates that you could count it like the rings inside a tree trunk, mapping back the years until you get to the root of all the worry and fear that’s put them there. His hands are warm, and smell faintly of something woodsy and rich. You take another breath in, contemplating, and you get to watch up close the way he smiles: starting on the left corner of his mouth and working to the right side, his eyes crinkling last.

“It’s a balm I learned to make back at the Academy,” he explains, giving your chin one last swipe before pocketing the cloth. “Good for chapped hands, and, if you add a bit of autumncrocus sublimate, a fantastic way to attract fey and celestial beings! Pixies especially care for the scent, or so they told me.”

“Well,” you say, stepping a healthy distance from Gale and his celestial-attracting hands, “If we ever need a pixie, I’ll make sure to call you first.”

“Ever at your service, your rogue-ish-ness.” He dips into a mocking little curtsy and you nod, clutching your torch with white knuckles as you shove down whatever stomach-churning nonsense Gale’s coaxed out of you.

“Right. Okay. So, skeletons dead - or, more dead, anyway. Let’s get scouting.”

“Lead the way.”

(You wait until you’re around the campfire that night to tell Gale that the charming tiefling child’s “lucky ring” is part of a scheme you’ve run yourself a few times. The sounds he makes as he rifles through his lightened pack are enough to send you, Astarion and Shadowheart into hysterics - and the sounds he makes when you show him his belongings, returned to you by the tiefling ringleader Mol, are enough to make Lae’zel join in.)

[impulse-writing]

prompt: a dragon nesting

“Yang, love of my life, woman of my dreams.” Blake watched a roof shingle fall and shatter on the patio, cracked pieces of slate scattering on polished wood. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m fixing the roof, babe.”

“... Why?”

She winced at the sound of wood splintering in a thousand pieces, which was loud enough that her faunus ears pressed against her head, trying to block out the ruckus. There was another bang. Something heavy fell (“…shit.”). And it sounded like Yang ripped something from the foundations of their house, while the roof shuddered from something heavy being dragged across.

Despite dreading her wife’s antics, Blake was too tired and cranky to climb up the roof and investigate it herself.

“I noticed one of the shingles were cracked.”

“Why does it sound like you’re replacing our entire roof?”

Sweet silence graced her ears. Blake crossed her arms over the swell of her stomach, knowing perfectly well her imposing figure was less effective thanks to the glow and healthy roundness of her face. Nonetheless, she felt pleased to see Yang’s golden head come into view not a second too soon.

She winced at the sight of Blake’s glare, visible even from two stories below. Her yellow eyes narrowed into slits, ears pushed back, and hackles raised. “Yang Xiao Long.” Her words dripped with false composure. “Get down here right now.”

Yang’s head disappeared from view in a flurry of hair. A minute later, she appeared again, standing at the edge of the roof carrying a toolbox, a shovel, and what seemed to be a shoddily constructed birdhouse tucked under one arm. Blake had no idea where the birdhouse came from. The birdhouse did not exist yesterday, and it eerily looked like something made from their broken backdoor -- which Yang promised she would fix a week ago. And just like their old door, the wood was tainted green. And the doorknob was still attached.

Blake did not want to know why her wife took it to the roof with her. So she bit her tongue and waited, patient as Yang jumped down and landed in front of her, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“What’s up?”

“Yang--”

“Hold that thought.” She rushed over to the wheelbarrow by their shed, throwing the shovel and toolbox next to it. She tucked the ‘birdhouse’ under one arm after a moment of struggling, and began to dig through the mess of rusty garden tools half-buried under fertilizer, dead leaves, and recently cut grass. “Babe, have you seen the garden hose somewhere?”

Blake pressed her thumb and forefinger against her throbbing brow.

“No, Yang. Why do you need a garden hose?”

“Makin’ a frog pond.”

Blake heaved the world’s longest sigh. Deep breaths, Blake.

“Honey, maybe you should take a break from all your projects? We can get someone else to fix the roof.” Or what’s left of it. “And we can hire a professional... frog pond person.”

“Nope, no can do.” Yang said, effectively dashing Blake’s hopes for a wonderful morning of peace and cuddling with her fertilizer-smelling, grass-stained wife. “Remember those stories I told you about when Ruby and I were kids? We used to play around the lake near our house, and we had fun catching tadpoles, setting cattails on fire, and -- okay maybe I caught hypothermia that one time, but it was mostly sweet kid stuff!” Yang finally kept herself from vibrating in place to turn around and give Blake a better view of the smile on her infuriatingly pretty and adorable face. “This will be awesome. Trust me.”

“That’s great.” Blake said, thinking about how not-great this was. “But maybe you can work on the frog pond next time and come back inside? You’ve been doing these things non-stop for weeks now, Yang. I miss you. I’m sexually frustrated, and I have no idea what’s happening to our house anymore.”

“I gotta get everything ready before the babies get here.” Yang said, waving a giant pair of garden shears in the air. “It’s my job to make sure everything’s perfect when they arrive. Besides, the pond’s gonna tie the swing and treehouse together. Just wait and see, Blake, it’s gonna be gorgeous.”

Treehouse?

Before Blake could ask her to repeat and kindly specify what the hell she was talking about, Yang ran off again, grabbing the shovel by her feet. She made a beeline for the beautiful great oak in their garden, and Blake didn’t have the strength or will to stop her. Instead, she watched as Yang jumped onto one of the branches, and proceeded to shimmy up the tree; disappearing behind the thick foliage with the shovel sticking awkwardly amongst the swaying branches and leaves.

This was how Weiss received a frantic call from Blake that morning.

“Weiss, I need you here right now.”

She could hear horrible noises from the other side of her scroll. Blake’s voice loud enough for Weiss to hear, and it was apparent how rough and tired she sounded; an edge of desperation begging to be released behind the calm veneer she barely managed.

“Blake?”

“I think my wife is possessed and I don’t know what to do.”

“Whoa, wait. Slow down... Ren, are you still there? Yes. Can I call you back? … Yes ...Of course, yes. I will speak to you later. Good-bye.”

“Weiss?”

“Belladonna, this better be good. Ren was telling me about the dreaded syllabus for the next semester.”

“I need you and your sanity to come here right now. Where are you?”

“I’m visiting professor Port --”

“That’s just an hour long drive from here, right?”

“Yes, Blake. Just an hour-long drive.”

“Please come over?”

Weiss cursed her inability to express sarcasm without sounding too much like Weiss Schnee.

“... Fine.”

“Thanks, Weiss. Oh, and can you bring me a bag of shrimp crackers? Thanks.”

Weiss left Professor Port’s house in a rush, trying to estimate what time she might arrive on the couple’s doorstep. She wondered if she could cut an hour to a half by speeding over a hundred, but decided against it. Instead, Weiss spent her hour long drive to Blake and Yang’s house thinking.

Thinking, Weiss thought, was good  ‘Thinking’ was also something Weiss was particularly good at doing. Having an unpredictable force of nature as a partner for more than a decade, in both profession and matrimonially, demanded her mind to work like a detached, mechanical processor most of the time. Like a dot matrix printer arranging a billion dots until they created a picture anyone could comprehend. Some people called it a gift, but Weiss proceeded to call it ‘necessary for her mental health’.

“She’s the team’s Weiss of reason.” Yang once said, three seconds before everyone pelted her with peanuts and tiny cocktail umbrellas.

Chamomile for Blake, and black coffee for Weiss. One of their many comforts were small reminders of things that never changed.

Blake had her face in her hands, fingers pressed against her temples as if she could ward off the source of her predicament by the willpower of touch alone. The pair were alone in the humbly decorated kitchen, a few plates piled up in the sink, the smell of breakfast escaping from the open windows. Toast, eggs, dried fish, sweet tomatoes. There were sunflower-themed drapes, the drawers, tables and chairs were painted yellow, and the fridge had pictures of the couple in happier times. The colorful fridge magnets below spelt: ‘help me���.

Weiss concentrated on the hot water kettle.

“This is beyond asking for fritos in the middle of the night, Weiss. Or carrying around dirty laundry in my pockets.” Blake said, her voice muffled. “I swear, it’s not my hormones or mood swings acting up. Yang is driving me crazy, and you’ll know why when you see what she’s been doing to the place.”

“Well the house looks like it’s still standing.”

Weiss watched Blake ruefully reach for a shrimp cracker.

“Although I do admit, you look like someone just died.” Weiss said, leaning her hip against the table top counter.

“Thanks.”

“So let’s take a breather and think about this.” Weiss crossed her arms. “What else has she been doing? ”

“Other than dumb DIY projects?” Blake exhaled. “I found her ‘baby-proofing’ the living room with pool noodles a week ago.”

“Ah. I was wondering why Yang had boxes of those in your garage.”

“She almost booked an expensive birthing room from a hippy compound in Vacuo--”

“There’s a hippy compound in Vacuo?”

“... which cost a thousand lien.”

“Why is it a thousand lien?” Weiss scoffed, rubbing her forehead. “That’s a ridiculous price. I mean what do they do, birth your child in a diamond encrusted pool?”

“Weiss, do I look like I bothered to find out?”

“Point.”

Blake relaxed into the chair, as much as she could, her hand resting on the curve of her belly. “We have coupons for cup ramen and free dumplings everywhere, several different colors of paint because Yang can’t decide ‘which shade is the best for the baby room’.” Weiss tried not to laugh when Blake managed an exaggerated imitation of an annoyed Yang.

“That doesn’t sound too bad, all things considered.”

“Yang has dismantled and put together our doors, windows, and chairs multiple times because it didn’t look safe enough or it looked ‘wonky’. Our unborn children own several pairs of shoes and sunglasses than both of us combined, and she bought a jackhammer and a woodworking chisel set the other day.” Blake caught her eyes, her face drawn with palpable fear. “I have no idea where Yang put them, or why she bought them in the first place.”

“I see.”

“I have a strong feeling, Weiss. A strong, very bad feeling.”

“I’ll make sure Ruby finds them so you can return them to the store.”

“And she fixed ‘the pipes’.” Blake threw her hands into the air. “I have no idea which ‘pipes’ she was talking about, but I found her tinkering around underneath the space of our house with a rope and a screwdriver. I dunno Weiss, I just don’t know.” She inhaled a shaky breath, raking her fingers through frazzled hair. “It’s actually happening. I am losing my mind. I never thought this day would come.”

“Okay, first of all: sweetheart, this is Yang we’re talking about, right?” Weiss clicked her tongue. She turned her attention to opening one of the kitchen cupboards, and reached in for a clean teacup. “You know her, she’ll tire herself out soon enough after doing a half-ass job of everything. I’ll help hire a carpenter to fix whatever she breaks, and I can even throw in a treehouse if you want. Easy solution, and nothing to be overdramatic about.”

“Am I, Weiss?” Blake’s ear twitched. “Am I overreacting?”

Weiss was glad Blake couldn’t see the smirk on her face. She liked to tease, but she knew Blake would snap with her pregnant lady fury if she pushed too far. If she sensed even a shred of mirth from her, Blake might do something drastic, like force Yang to live in her house during the remaining four months of her pregnancy. Weiss loved her sisters-in-law, but she also loved her modest house too much to invite a literal walking cyclone of repressed mommy issues near her furniture. She already had a walking disaster with a penchant for sharp things living with her in it, and that number was her limit.

“Weiss, you are totally not helping.” Blake said.

“I’m sorry! But maybe it’s better to stop worrying, maybe sleep-in, visit that new bookstore in Vale before your paperwork drags you back behind your desk. Let Yang do her Yang things, and assume everything will be back to normal by the time my nieces are–”

It took Weiss a full minute before she realized she was holding a rock.

She raised the rock up at eye level, confirming to herself that yes – it was a rock. A real-life rock. She sent Blake a look.

“Yang started hoarding them a few days ago.”

“Hoarding rocks?”

Blake bounced her shoulders with a tired shrug.

Weiss carefully placed the rock on the counter, looking as if it would transfigure into a teacup the instant she takes her eyes off it. She pulled the cupboard doors wide open, and gasped at what seemed to be a rock collection hidden amongst the fancy tea cups and glass mugs. All of them piled on top of each other, all in different shapes and various sizes, with the largest as big as her head.

“What is this?”

“Is that a rhetorical question, or are you still having trouble taking me seriously?”

Weiss poked her nose inside the cupboard to take a closer look. There were rocks inside the teacups. There were rocks inside the mugs.

She looked at Blake and pointed at the extensive rock collection, an eyebrow raised, and Weiss could almost hear her say ‘told ya so’ with her derisive look.

As if needing further confirmation of Yang’s recent habits, she continued to open one of the utensil drawers and gasped in scandalous horror when she discovered bottle caps, smaller pebbles, and tiny cereal box toys filling the tiny space from corner to corner. Other than the geological refuse mingling with the sporks were fancy hair clips buried underneath with the butter knives.

In the cupboard under the sink were coins in tupperwares, a random assortment of fancy beads, and buttons filling a lone boot in the dark corner.

For the life of her, Weiss couldn’t keep the mirth from her voice.

“I can’t believe Yang Xiao Long is nesting.”

[comradewaifu]

Absolutely CRIMINAL that they cut this.

from some lovely and sweet dialog from the epilogue party that I am sad they cut from the game