"Oh, of course." She props her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, with her brow arched and her mouth curled in a smile. "Worried about asking Gale directly? You can, you know, he wouldn't turn down a dear friend."
The level of dearness might be a subject of debate. Harley had been immediately and obviously fond of Astarion in a way that had been the cause of multiple intense conversations over the course of that whole tadpole debacle. Astarion encouraged the worst in Harley and she delighted in his approval, which was often at odds with Gale's own sensibilities. One tense night after she voted to let Astarion keep the Necromancy of Thay had even seen the couple sleeping in separate tents. Of course, they'd spent the entire next day being so embarrassingly soppy with apologies that the rest of the party had been driven from camp.
But everyone had become bosom companions by the end of the journey. At least, Harley liked to think so, and Gale had softened considerably after realizing that Harley's fascination with the vampire spawn was borne of seeing reflections of her own emotional scars and not a romantic compulsion to run off into the sunset with a handsome new lover.
"Come see." She rises, taking her plate with her, and moves into the study. She turns the small statue of Mystra decorating the desk to face the wall and points with her chin to indicate that Astarion should look through the notes. They've already started compiling research on his persistent condition.
(There's also a partial draft of the next installment to a recently popular series of bodice rippers, published under a flimsy pseudonym. Gale and Harley have been having a particularly heated debate about appropriate words for genitals, via notes in the margins.)
"I've already sent a petition to Candlekeep to access their libraries, but they take forever to reply."
"Hardly worried," he replies with a sniff, "And 'dear friend' is a bit of a stretch." It actually isn't. The truth is, while he had mostly been stirring shit and driving a wedge between Harley and Gale just for the love of the game, he wasn't not trying to seduce her — but he wasn't not trying to seduce Gale either. He had been trying to ingratiate himself to anyone who seemed strong enough and willing to protect him. The fact that no one had taken him up on it, and had helped him without expecting anything like that in return, had been an immense relief. Anyone who had ventured into Cazador's manor to help him put that bastard in the dirt has more than earned his friendship, but it's easier (and funnier) to be catty. Besides, if he isn't petty at regular intervals, they might start thinking he's actually a shapeshifter instead of the real Astarion. Can't have that.
"Fine," he replies with a sigh, like this is an imposition, like he isn't the one who showed up uninvited. He watches Harley turn the statue around with the shadow of a grin. At first, his gaze just skates over the papers, not understanding that they're what he's meant to be looking at, looking for some sort of magical artifact or bauble. It's actually the word "cock" that catches his eye, makes him take note of the words, and he wastes a moment skimming that (and agreeing with Harley that Gale is too prudish in his language) before he gets around to what he's meant to be seeing. He runs a hand over the stack of papers, fanning them like a deck of cards, not exactly reading the contents because it's far outside his understanding of the arcane, but absorbing what the research is clearly about. Vampirism and means to overcome its limitations. His limitations.
Astarion has to suppress a shudder. He still has a paradoxical reaction to kindness sometimes, feeling like he ought to preemptively lash out before the other shoe inevitably drops. Gratitude tingles on the tip of his tongue, but instead he says, "Ugh, now I've got to be nice to Gale."
Gale may have made his amends with Mystra, and the orb may not have been of Mystra's creation in the end, but that didn't mean Harley had to like her beloved having idols of his ex with her tits falling out of her robe. At least she wasn't chucking it into the sea. Anymore.
Harley sits in a chair and balances the plate on her knees so she can nibble while Astarion processes. It's a lot to take in, and Gale's notes are just as verbose as he is in person.
"Not too nice, my love, or he'll be nervous that we're up to something. Aim for congeniality, at best." She nibbles at a chunk of bread like a little mouse, and her smile goes buttery soft as she gazes at the sheaf of notes. "I mentioned the idea, but Gale has done almost all the work so far. My suggestion was to have a special sunhat made with a very wide brim. You'd be more hat than man."
"And I would look incredible in it. It would need a veil, of course, and
perhaps some feathers or flowers. Like a wealthy widow who definitely
murdered her husband," he replies.
He turns to lean on the desk, not looking through the notes anymore. He
wouldn't understand them, at least not without a deep read and several
reference materials, which he doesn't have the mind for at the moment.
"Why?" he finally asks, tilting his head. "You didn't know when you'd see
me again, if you'd see me again."
She cackles in delight. He sees the vision. Astarion always had an uncanny knack for realizing exactly what she's getting at. "Yes! Yes, that, precisely! A veil all the way to the ground. Grieving in the most dignified, cunty way."
His question, when he asks it, is so absurd that she spends a long while turning it over in her mind. Trying to find the trick in it.
"Of course I'd see you again. What else would I do with any of this except find you? And now look, darling boy, you've come and saved me the trouble!"
She leans over to set the plate aside on the desk and runs her fingers over the spread of notes.
"It's not much, so far, but. We'll figure something out. If a way already exists then Candlekeep's libraries will mention it. And if there's nothing ready made, then we'll prepare something custom. I think a ring would be very pretty."
She's says it in the simple, matter of fact way she used to tell Gale that he was going to live. There's no forceful conviction or grand proclamations. It's an easy truth. Harley decided the world should be a certain way, and she's going to make it happen.
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no subject
The level of dearness might be a subject of debate. Harley had been immediately and obviously fond of Astarion in a way that had been the cause of multiple intense conversations over the course of that whole tadpole debacle. Astarion encouraged the worst in Harley and she delighted in his approval, which was often at odds with Gale's own sensibilities. One tense night after she voted to let Astarion keep the Necromancy of Thay had even seen the couple sleeping in separate tents. Of course, they'd spent the entire next day being so embarrassingly soppy with apologies that the rest of the party had been driven from camp.
But everyone had become bosom companions by the end of the journey. At least, Harley liked to think so, and Gale had softened considerably after realizing that Harley's fascination with the vampire spawn was borne of seeing reflections of her own emotional scars and not a romantic compulsion to run off into the sunset with a handsome new lover.
"Come see." She rises, taking her plate with her, and moves into the study. She turns the small statue of Mystra decorating the desk to face the wall and points with her chin to indicate that Astarion should look through the notes. They've already started compiling research on his persistent condition.
(There's also a partial draft of the next installment to a recently popular series of bodice rippers, published under a flimsy pseudonym. Gale and Harley have been having a particularly heated debate about appropriate words for genitals, via notes in the margins.)
"I've already sent a petition to Candlekeep to access their libraries, but they take forever to reply."
no subject
"Fine," he replies with a sigh, like this is an imposition, like he isn't the one who showed up uninvited. He watches Harley turn the statue around with the shadow of a grin. At first, his gaze just skates over the papers, not understanding that they're what he's meant to be looking at, looking for some sort of magical artifact or bauble. It's actually the word "cock" that catches his eye, makes him take note of the words, and he wastes a moment skimming that (and agreeing with Harley that Gale is too prudish in his language) before he gets around to what he's meant to be seeing. He runs a hand over the stack of papers, fanning them like a deck of cards, not exactly reading the contents because it's far outside his understanding of the arcane, but absorbing what the research is clearly about. Vampirism and means to overcome its limitations. His limitations.
Astarion has to suppress a shudder. He still has a paradoxical reaction to kindness sometimes, feeling like he ought to preemptively lash out before the other shoe inevitably drops. Gratitude tingles on the tip of his tongue, but instead he says, "Ugh, now I've got to be nice to Gale."
no subject
Harley sits in a chair and balances the plate on her knees so she can nibble while Astarion processes. It's a lot to take in, and Gale's notes are just as verbose as he is in person.
"Not too nice, my love, or he'll be nervous that we're up to something. Aim for congeniality, at best." She nibbles at a chunk of bread like a little mouse, and her smile goes buttery soft as she gazes at the sheaf of notes. "I mentioned the idea, but Gale has done almost all the work so far. My suggestion was to have a special sunhat made with a very wide brim. You'd be more hat than man."
no subject
"And I would look incredible in it. It would need a veil, of course, and perhaps some feathers or flowers. Like a wealthy widow who definitely murdered her husband," he replies.
He turns to lean on the desk, not looking through the notes anymore. He wouldn't understand them, at least not without a deep read and several reference materials, which he doesn't have the mind for at the moment. "Why?" he finally asks, tilting his head. "You didn't know when you'd see me again, if you'd see me again."
no subject
His question, when he asks it, is so absurd that she spends a long while turning it over in her mind. Trying to find the trick in it.
"Of course I'd see you again. What else would I do with any of this except find you? And now look, darling boy, you've come and saved me the trouble!"
She leans over to set the plate aside on the desk and runs her fingers over the spread of notes.
"It's not much, so far, but. We'll figure something out. If a way already exists then Candlekeep's libraries will mention it. And if there's nothing ready made, then we'll prepare something custom. I think a ring would be very pretty."
She's says it in the simple, matter of fact way she used to tell Gale that he was going to live. There's no forceful conviction or grand proclamations. It's an easy truth. Harley decided the world should be a certain way, and she's going to make it happen.