#thestarfallgambit

[chashupak]

That one BG3 fanfic deleted scene where pre-orb Gale falls physically instead of metaphorically

Ongoing Fanfiction Link: [The Starfall Gambit]

Why Scrapped: CPR cliche included in final scene with more fear and mortality applied. Tone shift from humorous to grit with beauty

Chapter I.6 Surface Tensions (Alternate)

Gale broke the surface with a gasp, water burning his lungs as he thrashed toward the air. Strands of his once-immaculate hair clung to his face like seaweed, dignity drowned somewhere beneath them.

“By Mystra’s weave, what madness was that?!” His voice cracked, composure shattered.

Lyanna treaded water a few feet away, already measuring distance to shore Moonlight caught in the pearl droplets streaming down her face, transforming rage into something almost ethereal. Almost.

“That,” she spat between controlled breaths, “was me not dying. Until you got involved.”

The pond water between them glowed faintly with industrial runoff, magical waste from Upper Sharn’s elegant spires staining Lower Sharn’s waters with prismatic toxicity. Beautiful poison. Just like everything else in this city.

“Or more accurately some sort of suicidal stunt.” Gale flailed. Waterlogged silk robes dragged him down—his finery, his anchor. “I couldn’t just let you—“

He cut himself off. Realizing midway how such sentiments might sound. He groaned.

“Tell me, Miss Lyanna. Are all your survival instincts this catastrophically flawed?”

“I had a plan.” She threw out her arms, water splashing in angry arcs that caught the moonlight. “And it didn’t involve getting tackled mid-air by some invisible lunatic!”

Gale narrowed his eyes, slapping her arms away. Water scattered like broken spells. “Well, pardon me for assuming the reasonable response.”

Their voices echoed through the garden, scattering birds from nearby trees. They took flight in panicked formations, shadows cutting across the face of Sharn’s dimmed landscape.

“Oh, and what would your grand plan have been, oh wise and mystical one?” She asked, treading water with the ease of someone who’d survived worse. “Politely ask them to let me go? Summon a chair and start negotiations?”

“A TELEPORTATION SPELL!” Gale practically shrieked. His voice bounced off ornate stonework, designed to carry music through the garden, now amplifying his indignation instead. “A perfectly rational, safe, magical solution instead of—of that!”

“Not everyone has teleportation at the ready!” She turned away, swimming toward shore with powerful strokes.

“Then perhaps don’t tail dangerous crime syndicates!”

“What I do is none of your business. I didn’t need some invisible hero helping me!”

“Oh, by all means, let’s do it again, then!” Gale followed, his wet robes now a prison weighing him down. “Just spring back up there and take another go at it. I’ll wait.”

Lyanna smirked, heaving herself onto the muddy shore. Water streamed from her clothes, pooling beneath her like shed armor. “Maybe net time I’ll just let you handle it all, huh?”

“Oh yes, what a privilege,” Gale muttered, dripping and miserable as he dragged himself to solid ground. His waterlogged boots squelched with each step, the undignified sound of a dignified man undone.

The Central Garden stretched around them. A public space created back when the city still pretended to care about uniting its stratified citizens. Now, it served as neutral territory—somewhere the upper classes could admire nature without venturing too far down, somewhere the lower classes could glimpse beauty without climbing too high.

Lyanna collapsed on the grass, eyes fixed skyward. Water pooled beneath her, reflecting fractured starlight. Nearby flowers released their sweet perfume, intensified by moisture in the air. Arcane motes drifted between exotic blooms—maintenance enchantments responding to their presence with confused patterns, brightening and dimming as if unsure what to make of these unexpected visitors.

Night insects resumed their chorus after being briefly silenced by the splash. Their humming created a strange percussion to accompany the distant laughter from a pavilion where late revelers gathered, oblivious to the drama unfolding in their scenic backdrop.

Gale plopped beside her. Every breath stabbed through newly-bruised ribs. The immaculate Chosen reduced to something human, something breakable. Real.

His gaze drifted back to her.

Her chest heaved with every breath. Brown curls framed her flushed cheeks, her usual braid undone by violence and water. Survival looked different on her than on him—familiar, worn-in, like a coat she’d donned too many times before. Wet clothes, of earthy shades and leather accents, clung to her figure. Slivers of exposed skin revealed a map of old scars, hints of stories untold.

“What?” she snapped, eyes still on the stars.

Gale paused, pushing down the flush that crept up his neck. “You know… I had a perfectly good Teleportation spell.”

The water hit his face before he saw her move, a rough splash that caught him mid-smirk.

"How mature," he muttered, wiping droplets from his eyes with exaggerated dignity.

Her expression flickered with brief satisfaction—a small victory claimed in a night of defeats. She watched as he peeled away his outer robes with theatrical care, the soaked fabric releasing its hold reluctantly.

His undershirt clung to him, rendered nearly transparent now. Gale was acutely aware of how he looked—another kind of armor he’d cultivated as carefully as his spellcraft. The moonlight was kind to him, catching the defined lines of his physique in ways that weren’t entirely accidental in their display.

Her gaze flickered over him, assessing or perhaps appreciating. He pretended not to notice, though a knowing smile tugged at his lips.

“What?” He echoed, feigning an innocence that fooled no one.

Lyanna pushed herself upright, taking her time to wring water from her hair instead of answering his question immediately. She met his eyes as if that had always been the destination. “Just thinking that for someone so clever, you make remarkably poor decisions.”

“And yet.” He smoothed back wet hair with one hand. “We both survived. One might even call

"And, yet," he replied, smoothing back his wet hair with one hand, "we both survived. One might even call that rescue a rousing success."

She scoffed, but there was less bite than before. "Don't flatter yourself. I've fallen from higher."

Gale arched an eyebrow. "I don't doubt it for a moment."

A momentary silence settled between them—not comfortable, exactly, but no longer crackling with hostility. The arcane motes of light drifted closer, drawn to the magical residue that clung to them. They circled them briefly before dispersing, their programmed behavior confused by him: his all-powerful magical signature at odds with his shattered decorum.

The distant chaos of the warehouse seemed impossibly far away.

"Malcolm," he said finally, the name falling between them like a stone. "He's more dangerous than I anticipated."

Her expression sobered. "Yes, He is."

“However, that doesn’t exactly explain your involvement tonight.”

Her fingers paused. Lips pursed as if weighing the cost of indulging him. “No, I guess it doesn’t.”

He leaned back, resting his arm on his knee. “Neither does it explain your presence at Tibbles’ workshop today.”

“Nope, doesn’t explain that one either.” She shrugged.

A coolness settled between them as Lyanna stared up at the stars, deliberately avoiding his gaze. She flicked a wet strand of hair from her face. Her fingers trailed over one of her many pouches—checking, cataloging what remained after their impromptu dive.

"You know," she said finally, her voice almost too casual, "for someone obsessed with finding a Netherese tome, you've been looking in all the wrong places."

Gale went still. He turned toward her slowly, his studied nonchalance betrayed by the sudden intensity in his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

"The Netherese tome. The one with all those fancy sigils you were drooling over at Tibbles' place." She met his gaze then, a challenge in her storm-gray eyes. "That's what you're here for, isn't it? Probably some sacred mission from Mystra?"

His expression hardened. "And how exactly would you know about that?"

"The books you read, the people you talk to. People have their ways." She pursed her lips and peeled off a pouch. With a quick shake, she poured out its contents: broken glass and blood red liquid. A potion shattered in the dive.

"Just like how I know the merchant who purchased it three days ago from a very nervous artificer who probably had no idea what he was selling."

"Three days—" Gale stopped himself, recalibrating. "You've been tracking it."

"It’s a useful hobby. But either way, I know where it is."

"Why?" His voice dropped, sharp with suspicion. "What possible interest could you have in Netherese magic?"

Lyanna sat up fully now, drawing her knees to her chest. She seemed to debate with herself, weighing options against risks. When she spoke again, there was none of her usual flippant charm.

"Not the tome itself," she said. "What I need is information about the Whispering Blades."

Recognition flickered across Gale’s face. The same question from the balcony, where fine wine had temporarily softened their edges.

"Ah, so we return to this," he said, his voice measured. "Your mysterious blades with a mind of their own."

"Not just a mind," she said, her fingers curling against her palm as if holding something precious. "A soul."

Despite himself, Gale's scholarly interest stirred. "Soul binding is dangerous magic. Far beyond mere sentience in a blade."

"Which is exactly why I need someone who understands it," she countered, leaning forward. "Someone with access to knowledge beyond ordinary reach. Someone like Mystra's Chosen."

Her last words carried the faintest hint of mockery, but there was something else beneath it. Desperation, perhaps. Or determination.

Gale's eyes narrowed. "So that's your game. Information for information. The tome's location for what I know of these blades."

"Is it really that unreasonable of a deal?" Her gaze held his.

"I could simply extract the location from your mind," he said, his fingers tracing a small arcane pattern in the air between them. "A simple spell would suffice."

To his surprise, Lyanna laughed—a sharp, genuine sound that cut through the tension. She caught his hand and pushed it aside.

"Could you? You couldn't even spot that your devoted student was an assassin trailing your every move for two tendays." She gestured vaguely toward the warehouse looming in the distance. "Not exactly inspiring confidence in your powers of perception, Wizard."

The barb struck home. Gale’s jaw clenched, pride warring with pragmatism. "A momentary oversight," he said stiffly. "One I won't repeat."

"Of course not." Her smirk returned, knowing and sharp. "Just like I'm sure you've already located the tome on your own and are just humoring me now."

Silence stretched between them. Finally, Gale sighed, the sound heavy with reluctant acceptance.

"Very well," he said. "Let's assume, for the moment, that your information is valuable—"

"It is."

"—and accurate—"

"Also true."

He shot her a quelling look. "Then I would be willing to consider an exchange. But not simply a location for what I know of the Whispering Blades. That's hardly equitable."

Lyanna tilted her head. "What are you proposing?"

"Your assistance." Gale's eyes gleamed with calculation. "Not just the location, but your help in acquiring the tome. Your... particular talents may prove useful in retrieving it without unnecessary complications."

"You want me to help you steal it," she translated, amusement dancing across her features.

"I prefer 'recover,' given that it rightfully belongs to Mystra." He adjusted his still-damp sleeve with practiced dignity. "But semantics aside, yes."

She considered this, her fingers absently tapping against her knee. "And in return?"

"After we've secured the tome, I'll share what I know of the Whispering Blades." He met her gaze, his expression serious. "But understand this: I won't be manipulated or deceived. One false step, one hint that you're not dealing honestly, and our arrangement ends. Immediately."

The threat hung in the air between them. Lyanna's expression remained carefully neutral, but something shifted in her eyes—a flicker of respect, perhaps, at his firm boundaries.

"Fair enough," she said finally. "Though the same applies to you, Chosen. I'm not one of your adoring followers, hanging on your every word. We work together as equals, or not at all."

Gale inclined his head, a gesture both gracious and reserved. "I believe I can accommodate that."

"Then it’s a deal." She extended her hand, water still dripping from her sleeve.

Gale hesitated only briefly before taking it. Her grip was firm, her palm calloused where his was smooth. A study in contrasts, yet in that moment, strangely complementary.

"So," he said as they released the handshake, "where is this tome?"

Lyanna's smile widened to something genuine and mischievous. "The Midnight Market. And you, Chosen One, are going to need a better disguise than those fancy robes if you want to blend in there."

"The Midnight Market," Gale repeated, his voice a mix of intrigue and wariness. "Of course it would be there. Nothing is ever simple, is it?"

"Where's the fun in simple?" She rose to her feet, wringing her coat one last time for good measure. "Besides, I thought you enjoyed a challenge. Wasn't that what you said in Elturel? Something about 'true mastery requiring worthy obstacles, approached properly and methodically'? Who lectures a stranger for helping close a portal anyway?"

"You remember my words with surprising accuracy," Gale observed, standing as well.

"Only the particularly pompous ones," she replied with a wink. "They're just too good to forget."

Despite himself, Gale felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. Whatever complications lay ahead—and there would undoubtedly be many—at least the journey wouldn't be dull.

"The Midnight Market it is, then," he said. "Though I warn you—if this proves to be another of your games, you'll find I'm not nearly as accommodating the second time around."

Lyanna's smile didn't falter. "Of course, you’ve got a reputation to uphold after all. Mystra’s Golden Boy and what not."

Around them, the garden hummed with night insects and the gentle rustle of leaves. Above, the towers of Sharn loomed like sentinels, impartial to the unlikely alliance formed in their shadow.