"I think I would be amenable to that compromise. A question for a question. I've asked mine, what would you like to know?" A beat while he considers. "Though, if you don't want to answer, you're under no obligation, as I have no desire to make a guest uncomfortable." Guest-ish, anyway.
"Mmm." She waves a hand through the air as if plucking a question from an invisible shelf. Truth is, she doesn't know enough to think of something to ask.
"Make an offer," she finally suggests, "and I'll answer in equal value. But it has to be true!"
He laughs at this suggestion -- not derisively, just surprised -- and it feels like stretching a long unused muscle. "I confess, I'm not sure what you might find interesting." He considers grandiose tales, the many feats he accomplished, even his time with Mystra. These are things he might have previously spoken of to garner respect and awe, but he suspects this woman wouldn't care. His eyes light on Tara, tilting her head just so to get scratches in the right spot behind her ears, and he things he knows what Miss Quinn would be interested in. "When I was a little boy, maybe nine years old--"
"Eight," corrects Tara.
"Eight years old, thank you, I desperately wanted a kitten. Both of my parents said no, so... I summoned a familiar. Tara." He beams, reaching out to scratch the tressym under the chin. "Not my first show of magic, certainly not my last, but definitely my favorite."
She smiles at the story. A little tight around the eyes, a little sad. She doesn't have anything worth sharing from her own childhood.
Her posture has been performatively relaxed, ready to spring to action at any moment like a coiled wire, but seeing the way Tara melts into the affection... Something in her goes buttery soft. If this were a dangerous place, if his hands had ever hurt the tressym, there wouldn't be such easy trust.
So, she trusts.
"The acid," she starts and stops again. Runs her tongue over her teeth, weighing his story against her own. Considering how much to share to keep a fair trade. "It's a particular favorite of an ex-lover. He doesn't want me anymore, but can't stand that I might ever think of anything else. Sends me little reminders."
"Harley," he says, and his throat is a little dry. "I'm sorry. You don't deserve that." It sounds like a platitude, but he doesn't need to know her to know that no one deserves that.
"Gale knows something about having a terrible ex-lover," Tara pipes up, dripping disdain for whoever it is.
"Tara!" Gale hisses, "Remember 'my tale to tell'?"
"Sorry," she says, and sounds like she at least half means it.
"Anyway, that was entirely different from what Miss- what Harley described."
Tara huffs, but doesn't comment again as she sets about licking one of her paws.
Gale looks... Uncomfortable? Embarrassed? Sad? Regardless, it deepens the lines between his eyes and he frowns. "Maybe... that's something I could help you with? In exchange for your help acquiring arcane items." He ponders it for a moment, hand to his chin. "Not sure precisely how yet, I would need to research it."
There's a strange flicker across her face as she tries to school her expression. Her smile takes on a sharp edge but her laugh is just as light and cheery as before.
"You don't know what I deserve."
She leans back in the chair and crosses her arms. A toss of her hair sets off another round of chimes.
"Research what, actually? How to not get hit by acid? How to deal with someone else's ex? Probably better for you to ignore it."
He's misstepped somewhere. That's all he ever does anymore, which is why he doesn't leave his home. "I don't know you, you are correct in that assertion, but I don't think anyone deserves that kind of treatment," he says, because he really does believe that.
Once, his ego night not have tolerated the implication that he wasn't up to the task, but that was a different time, a different Gale, and he looks a little chastened now. "If that's your wish, but there are spells to make people more difficult to find, and I thought that might be of use to you."
She wants to sneer. She wants to bare her teeth and turn this conversation into a knife fight, the way a friend once told her every conversation with her ends. That friend is dead now, and the wave of grief is what holds her tongue.
"Maybe." It's hard to imagine a world where she could hide from the person who wants to hurt her most. "But if it worked, if you did stop him from finding me, then who do you think he'd hurt instead? I can take it."
"Does making yourself a target keep him from hurting others?" The question is more genuine than rhetorical. He barely knows her, and he doesn't know her ex-lover at all; maybe making herself a sacrificial lamb really does protect other people. He suspects it doesn't.
He doesn't want to fight with the first person without fur that he's really spoken to in months, so he lifts his hands, conciliatory. "I apologize. It's not my business. Just know the offer stands, even if you would like just an evening of relatively assured safety as an exchange for your assistance in acquiring items."
Gale cuts his gaze away, and the warmth leaves his expression. He doesn't become cold so much as blank, like a closed door.
He clears his throat to reply. "No, I'm afraid I won't be answering that question. I apologize." Tara silently moves to his side of the table, butting his chest with her head. Right above her furry head, black tendrils peak out from beneath the neckline of his robe. It looks like perhaps some sort of tattoo. Tara rubs her entire body against Gale, hard enough that it pushes him back in his seat, and he smiles a little, burying his fingers in her fur. "You may ask something else, though, if you like."
He pulls away, she's drawn in more. The unfortunate pattern of relationships in her life. Ah, well. Her posture opens back up and she leans her elbow on the table to prop up her chin again. She isn't the least put off by the sudden rebuff and her smile warms again.
"I suspect everyone does." He turns his smile up to her, though it's a bit rueful now. Though he's a little surprised that she accepted his refusal without argument, he doesn't show it. "And you're still willing to help me find artifacts, even if you don't know what purpose I intend to put them towards?"
She tips her head back, scrunches up her face, pantomimes stroking her chin. Makes quite a show of considering the circumstances. Bit of a ham, really.
"Are you going to use them to maim, torture, and-or murder me?"
And just like that, whether through luck or fate, he has unexpected help in solving his problem. "Well, thank you. Even if you're just doing it for Tara, you have no idea how incredibly grateful I am."
"Well hey, you're — allegedly — a smart guy. You can figure out how to show me."
She leans back in the chair until it tips back on two legs and when she lets it drop back into place with a thud, she's perched on top with her legs criss-crossed.
"Now! Let's talk shop. What kind of artifacts, and how many do ya need?"
Allegedly. That might smart, but his recent choices probably earned that, even though Harley doesn't know it.
He tilts his head to the side, thoughtful. Show her? She wants neither money nor his assistance, so what else can he provide in recompense?
"Any artifact imbued with the Weave will suffice. Doesn't matter what it is or what it does. And the timeline... well, that's not exactly a precise science. It partly depends on the power within the item. Something weaker isn't as..." Satiating, but he doesn't say that, instead continuing with, "Useful. But one artifact per week should serve my purposes."
She's too unaccustomed to asking for things to know how to set a price. If she wants something, she takes it. And she's a capricious creature, besides, full of unusual whims and flights of fancy. The cost of her services might change at any moment, if she did choose to charge. The truth, the barest simplest version of it, is that she agrees to help because she just feels like doing so today.
And for Tara's good graces, of course.
"So, anything that does anything." She frowns, and taps her nails on the table. "That's still a little-- Mm. Vague?" Her pretty features twist in dissatisfaction.
"Let me make this clear right away. None of this is on offer." She unstraps the leather bag from her thigh and sets it on the table, then reaches too-deep inside. A bag of holding, then. She withdraws a soft pair of gloves enchanted to improve dexterity, a necklace of warding and a set of sending stones and lines them up next to the bag itself. She fiddles with one of many rings on her fingers and, with another twist of her expression, pulls one off and places it at the end of the line.
There's no shimmer in the air or magical twinkle. One moment she's a darling doll of a clown and the next she's bare faced. The ring is enchanted with a small bit of fey glamour, which she uses to keep her makeup in place. Her features are just as fine without it and it seems like a silly bit of vanity, except...
Without layers of illusory greasepaint and pigment, her skin is not just fair but almost ghastly pale. Dark circles of exhaustion pool under her eyes and bruises in varying stages of healing bloom on one cheek and her throat. The small heart on her cheek stays, no longer painted but tattooed, and perhaps most shocking of all — a word in common tattooed down the angle of her jaw. Rotten.
She doesn't offer an explanation for any of it, of course.
"Which of these is the sort of, hmm, potency you're looking for?"
Gale's eyes snap to the arranged items with the intensity of an alcoholic asked whether he would like whiskey or vodka. The answer is yes, yes, anything, yes but he purses his lips and keeps that to himself.
"Ah, any of these would do well." He hovers his hand over each of the items, but does not touch, though his fingers have a slight tremble. "The bag seems the strongest of the lot, but I should also point out that anything given cannot be returned. The items will be destroyed. Well, it would be more accurate to say they will be divested of their magic. They'll still exist. The gloves, for example, could still keep you warm, but they would lose any magical properties."
Gale folds his hands in his lap again, like they can't be trusted to wander free, and returns his gaze to Harley. It doesn't quite give him a start, but he is surprised and ashamed that her appearance was the second thing he focused on. She doesn't explain, so he doesn't ask.
Harley appreciates that he does not comment on her marked face, so she doesn't comment on the tremor in his hands or the fervor in his eyes.
She hums a little and repacks her trinkets. Stands again to strap the bag back to her thigh. The gloves remain on the table.
"Funny thing, I nearly forgot I even had those," she says airily as she rolls the ring between her fingers. She produces a small mirror from a pocket and slips the ring on. Her fingers swipe over her features, changing the makeup look to something less overtly clownish but still just as gaudy. Bright red lip, mismatched pink and blue eyeshadow, tattoos covered, and a more natural flush to her skin. She doesn't need to touch with the ring on, but she likes to do it this way. Helps her focus.
The gnawing thing in his chest aches to be fed, and he nearly snatched the
gloves like something feral. He doesn't want anyone to see him like that,
though. Tara must sense it, because the gets to her feet.
"Well, I'll just put these away, shall I? Keep the table tidy," says the
Tressym primly. She takes the gloves in her teeth, then disappears
elsewhere in the house.
A moment of silence follows. He still can't fathom that this stranger would
help him and ask nothing in return. "Thank you," he says, voice sounding
too loud in the quiet space. For once, he doesn't have the words to convey
the depth of his feeling.
He should probably lie, but he doesn't. "Not unless it becomes imperative for the safety of me and those in the immediate vicinity," he replies. He can't tell her everything, but he may as well be as honest as he can. "But, with the gloves on hand, that shouldn't be necessary."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"I think I would be amenable to that compromise. A question for a question. I've asked mine, what would you like to know?" A beat while he considers. "Though, if you don't want to answer, you're under no obligation, as I have no desire to make a guest uncomfortable." Guest-ish, anyway.
no subject
"Make an offer," she finally suggests, "and I'll answer in equal value. But it has to be true!"
no subject
"I confess, I'm not sure what you might find interesting." He considers grandiose tales, the many feats he accomplished, even his time with Mystra. These are things he might have previously spoken of to garner respect and awe, but he suspects this woman wouldn't care. His eyes light on Tara, tilting her head just so to get scratches in the right spot behind her ears, and he things he knows what Miss Quinn would be interested in. "When I was a little boy, maybe nine years old--"
"Eight," corrects Tara.
"Eight years old, thank you, I desperately wanted a kitten. Both of my parents said no, so... I summoned a familiar. Tara." He beams, reaching out to scratch the tressym under the chin. "Not my first show of magic, certainly not my last, but definitely my favorite."
no subject
Her posture has been performatively relaxed, ready to spring to action at any moment like a coiled wire, but seeing the way Tara melts into the affection... Something in her goes buttery soft. If this were a dangerous place, if his hands had ever hurt the tressym, there wouldn't be such easy trust.
So, she trusts.
"The acid," she starts and stops again. Runs her tongue over her teeth, weighing his story against her own. Considering how much to share to keep a fair trade. "It's a particular favorite of an ex-lover. He doesn't want me anymore, but can't stand that I might ever think of anything else. Sends me little reminders."
She tips her head, weighing the scales.
"And also, you can call me Harley."
There. Even.
no subject
"Harley," he says, and his throat is a little dry. "I'm sorry. You don't deserve that." It sounds like a platitude, but he doesn't need to know her to know that no one deserves that.
"Gale knows something about having a terrible ex-lover," Tara pipes up, dripping disdain for whoever it is.
"Tara!" Gale hisses, "Remember 'my tale to tell'?"
"Sorry," she says, and sounds like she at least half means it.
"Anyway, that was entirely different from what Miss- what Harley described."
Tara huffs, but doesn't comment again as she sets about licking one of her paws.
Gale looks... Uncomfortable? Embarrassed? Sad? Regardless, it deepens the lines between his eyes and he frowns. "Maybe... that's something I could help you with? In exchange for your help acquiring arcane items." He ponders it for a moment, hand to his chin. "Not sure precisely how yet, I would need to research it."
no subject
"You don't know what I deserve."
She leans back in the chair and crosses her arms. A toss of her hair sets off another round of chimes.
"Research what, actually? How to not get hit by acid? How to deal with someone else's ex? Probably better for you to ignore it."
no subject
Once, his ego night not have tolerated the implication that he wasn't up to the task, but that was a different time, a different Gale, and he looks a little chastened now. "If that's your wish, but there are spells to make people more difficult to find, and I thought that might be of use to you."
no subject
"Maybe." It's hard to imagine a world where she could hide from the person who wants to hurt her most. "But if it worked, if you did stop him from finding me, then who do you think he'd hurt instead? I can take it."
no subject
He doesn't want to fight with the first person without fur that he's really spoken to in months, so he lifts his hands, conciliatory. "I apologize. It's not my business. Just know the offer stands, even if you would like just an evening of relatively assured safety as an exchange for your assistance in acquiring items."
no subject
She almost tells him, because it would be a relief for somebody else to know even if nothing changes.
"Maybe, if you tell me what you want the artifacts for."
approval not high enough, pls insert additional magical items
He clears his throat to reply. "No, I'm afraid I won't be answering that question. I apologize." Tara silently moves to his side of the table, butting his chest with her head. Right above her furry head, black tendrils peak out from beneath the neckline of his robe. It looks like perhaps some sort of tattoo. Tara rubs her entire body against Gale, hard enough that it pushes him back in his seat, and he smiles a little, burying his fingers in her fur. "You may ask something else, though, if you like."
no subject
"Thought so. We both have our limits."
no subject
no subject
She tips her head back, scrunches up her face, pantomimes stroking her chin. Makes quite a show of considering the circumstances. Bit of a ham, really.
"Are you going to use them to maim, torture, and-or murder me?"
no subject
"No, I won't use the items to harm you, or anyone else, in any way. I swear it."
no subject
The most pure and noble of reasons.
no subject
no subject
She leans back in the chair until it tips back on two legs and when she lets it drop back into place with a thud, she's perched on top with her legs criss-crossed.
"Now! Let's talk shop. What kind of artifacts, and how many do ya need?"
no subject
He tilts his head to the side, thoughtful. Show her? She wants neither money nor his assistance, so what else can he provide in recompense?
"Any artifact imbued with the Weave will suffice. Doesn't matter what it is or what it does. And the timeline... well, that's not exactly a precise science. It partly depends on the power within the item. Something weaker isn't as..." Satiating, but he doesn't say that, instead continuing with, "Useful. But one artifact per week should serve my purposes."
no subject
And for Tara's good graces, of course.
"So, anything that does anything." She frowns, and taps her nails on the table. "That's still a little-- Mm. Vague?" Her pretty features twist in dissatisfaction.
"Let me make this clear right away. None of this is on offer." She unstraps the leather bag from her thigh and sets it on the table, then reaches too-deep inside. A bag of holding, then. She withdraws a soft pair of gloves enchanted to improve dexterity, a necklace of warding and a set of sending stones and lines them up next to the bag itself. She fiddles with one of many rings on her fingers and, with another twist of her expression, pulls one off and places it at the end of the line.
There's no shimmer in the air or magical twinkle. One moment she's a darling doll of a clown and the next she's bare faced. The ring is enchanted with a small bit of fey glamour, which she uses to keep her makeup in place. Her features are just as fine without it and it seems like a silly bit of vanity, except...
Without layers of illusory greasepaint and pigment, her skin is not just fair but almost ghastly pale. Dark circles of exhaustion pool under her eyes and bruises in varying stages of healing bloom on one cheek and her throat. The small heart on her cheek stays, no longer painted but tattooed, and perhaps most shocking of all — a word in common tattooed down the angle of her jaw. Rotten.
She doesn't offer an explanation for any of it, of course.
"Which of these is the sort of, hmm, potency you're looking for?"
no subject
"Ah, any of these would do well." He hovers his hand over each of the items, but does not touch, though his fingers have a slight tremble. "The bag seems the strongest of the lot, but I should also point out that anything given cannot be returned. The items will be destroyed. Well, it would be more accurate to say they will be divested of their magic. They'll still exist. The gloves, for example, could still keep you warm, but they would lose any magical properties."
Gale folds his hands in his lap again, like they can't be trusted to wander free, and returns his gaze to Harley. It doesn't quite give him a start, but he is surprised and ashamed that her appearance was the second thing he focused on. She doesn't explain, so he doesn't ask.
no subject
She hums a little and repacks her trinkets. Stands again to strap the bag back to her thigh. The gloves remain on the table.
"Funny thing, I nearly forgot I even had those," she says airily as she rolls the ring between her fingers. She produces a small mirror from a pocket and slips the ring on. Her fingers swipe over her features, changing the makeup look to something less overtly clownish but still just as gaudy. Bright red lip, mismatched pink and blue eyeshadow, tattoos covered, and a more natural flush to her skin. She doesn't need to touch with the ring on, but she likes to do it this way. Helps her focus.
no subject
The gnawing thing in his chest aches to be fed, and he nearly snatched the gloves like something feral. He doesn't want anyone to see him like that, though. Tara must sense it, because the gets to her feet.
"Well, I'll just put these away, shall I? Keep the table tidy," says the Tressym primly. She takes the gloves in her teeth, then disappears elsewhere in the house.
A moment of silence follows. He still can't fathom that this stranger would help him and ask nothing in return. "Thank you," he says, voice sounding too loud in the quiet space. For once, he doesn't have the words to convey the depth of his feeling.
no subject
She finishes her touch ups and slips the pocket mirror away. She leans on her elbow and watches him for long, uncomfortable moments.
"Well," she says eventually. "In your own time, then. If I leave you with a sending stone, are you going to break it?"
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
Aaaaand SCENE