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."
She reaches a hand for her bag, then reconsiders when she remembers the way he stared at the magic items before. She folds her hands primly around the tea cup instead.
"I'll leave one with Tara when I go, hm? Since she seems to run the house."
"I wouldn't say she runs it," Gale answers, but doesn't argue with the notion that he leave the stone with Tara. He understands. He wouldn't trust himself either. "I'm sure she'll be happy to hold onto it for you."
"That's not particularly healthy," he replies, but he has no place to talk. His palid face and the bags under his eyes are no match for hers, but they are there. Two mage hands appear to do the work of pouring her another cup of tea. "But far be it for me to deny a guest."
He looks startled that the sentiment popped out of his own mouth. He puts his hands up, as defensive as placating. "Ah, I don't mean anything untoward by that! I would never, that is to say, proposition someone in a vulnerable moment. Merely that I do have a guest bedroom, and I hate to think of anyone without somewhere safe to sleep. It's a little cramped, but comfortable, and better than any doss-house. You consider it compensation for the gloves."
At least the pallor is hidden beneath all the blushing.
Gale opens his mouth. Closes it again. Pantomimes a fish on dry land for a moment longer.
Then he gets a look, a little spark in his eyes, that marks him as less flabbergasted and more stubborn and rebellious. "Technically speaking, any humanoid creature is... fuckable." Not a word he would have chosen, and he turns a little redder for having said it, but he also won't be cowed by a mere word.
She grins at his fish impression, which is truly spot on. He could have a future as a very niche actor, if he likes. And the mean edge is smoothed off her when he rallies and meets her bullshit on her level.
"Ahh, technical fucks. The most wizardly of all fucks."
He considers countering that wizards can do things that would make an
ordinary climax seem little more than a sneeze, actually. But then he
remembers who he is and that she is a guest and a near stranger, so he
doesn't say that, opting instead for a mild, "Indeed."
"Good." He nods, satisfied. "The bed has clean sheets, just mind the books
stacked in there please. I've also got a tub that you can use, should you
feel so inclined."
A bed. A bath. She gets a hungry look not entirely unlike his own when he saw the magic items. She yearns for any sort of creature comfort, but even as she nods again she looks to the door like she might have to escape a trap.
She gulps the second cup of tea, coughing as it scalds her throat, and stands from her seat.
"Careful," he says, but she's already chugging, and it's too late anyway. He winces.
"I'll show you," he says. As he stands, mage hands clear away their dishes from the table, but he's already turning towards the stairs. Even from the glimpses she gets peeking into rooms they pass, there are books everywhere. Shelves are full, but so are surfaces, with books and scrolls stacked carefully into every nook. Once they arrive at the bathroom, it seems to be the only place free of books, but it's still a little cluttered. The claw foot tub takes up most of the space, but there are also shelves with labeled soaps, lotions, and potions of various kinds. There are fluffy white towels and a bathrobe on a hook. Some sort of vining plant hangs from a hook over the window, though it is limp and dying from neglect.
"If you leave your clothes outside the door, I'll clean them with prestidigitation. If you're not comfortable with that, well, I don't have any clothes that would fit you, but you could borrow some all the same, if you'd like. You're welcome to help yourself to anything else you like, of course."
Harley starts stripping down before he even finishes speaking, so if he doesn't make a quick exit then he will see more of her tattoos. She doesn't care either way. There is nothing in her point of view but the bathtub and herself.
She stays in hot water until she feels dizzy, then stays in for longer just to make sure she really makes the most of it. When she eventually emerges, her skin is scrubbed raw and pink all over, and she is bundled up in the soft robe. Gale didn't ask for anything in return, but she'll bring bullshit magic trinkets as often as he likes after this.
She wanders the house until she finds Gale or, better, Tara since even Harley's tenuous grasp of self preservation knows better than to aimlessly snoop in a wizard's home.
"A dying plant is a little on the nose for a breakup depression spiral, don'tcha think?"
He sees more than he means to, but much less than he could, fleeing the room the moment she starts to undress. Mostly all he gets is the blurred impression that she's not merely pale-faced and that she does have other tattoos. That's enough to set him blushing, but at least she doesn't see it.
"In here, dear!" Tara calls shortly after Harley has left the bathroom, because her feline hearing is superior to Gale's.
By the time she's finished, at least Gale has had time to properly dress in a simple but well made top and trousers. He's brushed his hair and combed his beard and feels a lot more publicly presentable. Harley finds them in what must be a study, judging by the desk. There are so many books and scrolls, more densely packed than through the rest of the house. There is other magical detritus around the room like crystals, tools, and a small statue of Mystra. There are also display cabinets, conspicuously empty.
"I am not... not... and anyway, I just haven't had time to take care of it," he protests.
Harley rolls her eyes with a loud scoff and pads away on bare feet. She comes back with the plant cradled in her arms and marches through the study to the balcony, where she sets the plant on the small table and settles down to check the damage.
She already watered the soil in the washing room, but some of the dead growth needs to be cut back for the poor thing to regrow. She pulls a small folding knife from the robe pocket and gets to it.
"If you're spending all day and night locking yourself in your house, then you've at least got to take care of the things that live in it." She jabs the point of the knife in the air toward him with a flourish. "Including you!" She tilts the blade Tara's way next, carving a question in the air. "Right?"
The knife is folded away and tucked back into the pocket. She spends a moment finding the best sunny spot for the plant, then brushes her hands together and stands with her hands on her hips.
Gale's brows furrow and he frowns, watching as she drags his neglected pothos into his study (what if she gets dirt on the books!) and begins to prune it. "It's merely a house plant! Nothing of particular consequence."
"I knew I liked her when I met her," Tara says, purring so loudly that it sounds like the rumbling of some machine. "She has a point, one I've been trying to make myself, though it falls on deaf ears."
"I've been listening," Gale protests. He makes a show of leaning away from the knife, though it's nowhere near him at all. "And I am doing fine, all things considered." He doesn't offer to explain what all those things to be considered are, though. Tara sighs heavily.
Gale stands, smoothing out the creases on his thighs and trying to regain the air of a proper host. He almost points out that it's a ridiculous time to go to bed, closer to the midday meal than sunset, but then he remembers that she had said she often doesn't sleep. Besides, he had slept a good portion of the day away himself, who was he to judge anyone else for their off kilter sleep schedule. "Yes, right. Follow me."
The bedroom that he leads her to isn't large, but it is well appointed with a plush looking bed stacked with blankets and a folded pair of much too large pajamas, a side table holding a carafe of fresh water along with a plate of bread and cheese in case she's hungry, and an armoire that she will find full of books instead of clothes if she decides to go snooping. "It's not much. I don't get many visitors these days, but hopefully it will suffice." He stands awkwardly in the doorway, not sure exactly what he should be doing with himself. Leaving, probably. "Well! I'll, uh, be back down in the study if you need me. Please let me know if there's anything else you might require."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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
"I'll leave one with Tara when I go, hm? Since she seems to run the house."
no subject
no subject
"Mmyeah, she does. Now, how about one more cup before I go, sweetheart? It's tea instead of sleep for me today!"
no subject
no subject
"It's not easy finding a place to metaphorically hang my hat. I don't get lucky every night."
no subject
He looks startled that the sentiment popped out of his own mouth. He puts his hands up, as defensive as placating. "Ah, I don't mean anything untoward by that! I would never, that is to say, proposition someone in a vulnerable moment. Merely that I do have a guest bedroom, and I hate to think of anyone without somewhere safe to sleep. It's a little cramped, but comfortable, and better than any doss-house. You consider it compensation for the gloves."
At least the pallor is hidden beneath all the blushing.
no subject
She is tired.
She does need a safe place to steal a few hours of rest.
She does not have to be an asshole about this. But she will.
She scoffs in offense and her mouth twists into a tight frown, just to add a button to the performance. "What, you don't think I'm fuckable?"
no subject
Then he gets a look, a little spark in his eyes, that marks him as less flabbergasted and more stubborn and rebellious. "Technically speaking, any humanoid creature is... fuckable." Not a word he would have chosen, and he turns a little redder for having said it, but he also won't be cowed by a mere word.
no subject
"Ahh, technical fucks. The most wizardly of all fucks."
She nods.
"For the gloves. Seems fair enough."
no subject
He considers countering that wizards can do things that would make an ordinary climax seem little more than a sneeze, actually. But then he remembers who he is and that she is a guest and a near stranger, so he doesn't say that, opting instead for a mild, "Indeed."
"Good." He nods, satisfied. "The bed has clean sheets, just mind the books stacked in there please. I've also got a tub that you can use, should you feel so inclined."
no subject
She gulps the second cup of tea, coughing as it scalds her throat, and stands from her seat.
"Where?"
no subject
"I'll show you," he says. As he stands, mage hands clear away their dishes from the table, but he's already turning towards the stairs. Even from the glimpses she gets peeking into rooms they pass, there are books everywhere. Shelves are full, but so are surfaces, with books and scrolls stacked carefully into every nook. Once they arrive at the bathroom, it seems to be the only place free of books, but it's still a little cluttered. The claw foot tub takes up most of the space, but there are also shelves with labeled soaps, lotions, and potions of various kinds. There are fluffy white towels and a bathrobe on a hook. Some sort of vining plant hangs from a hook over the window, though it is limp and dying from neglect.
"If you leave your clothes outside the door, I'll clean them with prestidigitation. If you're not comfortable with that, well, I don't have any clothes that would fit you, but you could borrow some all the same, if you'd like. You're welcome to help yourself to anything else you like, of course."
no subject
She stays in hot water until she feels dizzy, then stays in for longer just to make sure she really makes the most of it. When she eventually emerges, her skin is scrubbed raw and pink all over, and she is bundled up in the soft robe. Gale didn't ask for anything in return, but she'll bring bullshit magic trinkets as often as he likes after this.
She wanders the house until she finds Gale or, better, Tara since even Harley's tenuous grasp of self preservation knows better than to aimlessly snoop in a wizard's home.
"A dying plant is a little on the nose for a breakup depression spiral, don'tcha think?"
no subject
"In here, dear!" Tara calls shortly after Harley has left the bathroom, because her feline hearing is superior to Gale's.
By the time she's finished, at least Gale has had time to properly dress in a simple but well made top and trousers. He's brushed his hair and combed his beard and feels a lot more publicly presentable. Harley finds them in what must be a study, judging by the desk. There are so many books and scrolls, more densely packed than through the rest of the house. There is other magical detritus around the room like crystals, tools, and a small statue of Mystra. There are also display cabinets, conspicuously empty.
"I am not... not... and anyway, I just haven't had time to take care of it," he protests.
no subject
She already watered the soil in the washing room, but some of the dead growth needs to be cut back for the poor thing to regrow. She pulls a small folding knife from the robe pocket and gets to it.
"If you're spending all day and night locking yourself in your house, then you've at least got to take care of the things that live in it." She jabs the point of the knife in the air toward him with a flourish. "Including you!" She tilts the blade Tara's way next, carving a question in the air. "Right?"
The knife is folded away and tucked back into the pocket. She spends a moment finding the best sunny spot for the plant, then brushes her hands together and stands with her hands on her hips.
"Right! I'm very tired! Bed, please!"
no subject
"I knew I liked her when I met her," Tara says, purring so loudly that it sounds like the rumbling of some machine. "She has a point, one I've been trying to make myself, though it falls on deaf ears."
"I've been listening," Gale protests. He makes a show of leaning away from the knife, though it's nowhere near him at all. "And I am doing fine, all things considered." He doesn't offer to explain what all those things to be considered are, though. Tara sighs heavily.
Gale stands, smoothing out the creases on his thighs and trying to regain the air of a proper host. He almost points out that it's a ridiculous time to go to bed, closer to the midday meal than sunset, but then he remembers that she had said she often doesn't sleep. Besides, he had slept a good portion of the day away himself, who was he to judge anyone else for their off kilter sleep schedule. "Yes, right. Follow me."
The bedroom that he leads her to isn't large, but it is well appointed with a plush looking bed stacked with blankets and a folded pair of much too large pajamas, a side table holding a carafe of fresh water along with a plate of bread and cheese in case she's hungry, and an armoire that she will find full of books instead of clothes if she decides to go snooping. "It's not much. I don't get many visitors these days, but hopefully it will suffice." He stands awkwardly in the doorway, not sure exactly what he should be doing with himself. Leaving, probably. "Well! I'll, uh, be back down in the study if you need me. Please let me know if there's anything else you might require."
(no subject)
(no subject)
Aaaaand SCENE