Think nothing of it, my friend. We're bound to run into misunderstandings sooner or later - I'm simply glad of the chance to amend my meaning.
And I must confess, you are right about that. Just as I think I have finished adjusting to camping, some other sound rattles me anew! It's a longer process than I might have first assumed, I suppose.
But it makes me wonder if there is any stimulation in the city to which I am accustomed, but you would not be.
Maybe so, but I would be lying if I said I was in a hurry to discover whatever that may be. Which I know is unbecoming of me. As former archdruid, I shouldn't shy away from discovering my limitations. How am I to be a role model and teacher to others, let alone a leader, if I avoid learning more about myself?
And yet I find that I hope, with the Oakfather's blessings, that I won't have to go close enough to any city to discover what I'm not accustomed to, especially one that frowns upon animals any larger than a small cat.
We all must meet the challenges arrayed before us in our own time. Rushing toward them will do nothing but cause you to stumble. I've every confidence that you will meet them with dignity and wisdom when the time comes.
[ ... ]
Although I am unhappy to say that our road will inevitably lead to Baldur's Gate.
I would be lying if I claimed otherwise. But, if I could manage swamps and bogs and things of that ilk, so I can manage Baldur's Gate. At least, that is what I tell myself. And I'm certain it is not the worst place that we could end up in.
There are surely better places, but - and perhaps it is personal bias which speaks through me - I think there are also worse places. I hope that I can show you some of my fondness for it, at least.
If naught else, I will do everything in my power to stay with you, should that help. Personal matters may briefly waylay me, but if I can be a comfort, then I will do all that I can.
I wouldn't want you to feel obligated to tend to me, and yet I know that you are not the sort of man who'd feel obligated by something like this. I suppose the only thing I can say is this - thank you.
I supposed there was some reason you favoured the trees! I might be tempted to take a page from your book and try it myself, though I fear that it would take quite a tree to comfortably sleep me.
I wonder if your nighttime visitors are as generous as mine have proven to be.
A worthy test of my dendrology skills, then, should the mood ever take me. Though perhaps it would be wise to ask Master Halsin to check my work before I start my climb.
You seem thoroughly used to this arrangement. Is it a habit fallen into out of traveling alone?
Praise Lathander and his chosen that I may be reminded of the day night cycle.
[ If she could text the eye roll, she would. Luckily Ines has a long held practice in not arguing doctrine unless asked. She'd rather write down all beliefs accurately before maybe writing her own book on Heresy Towards Loth, et al. ]
Mhm. That is the issue, sir. I wonder if your great storytellers in days of old felt they too could not capture what transpired around them. Truth can be stranger then the finest creation.
For example, rhyming "tadpole" in verse is difficult.
[ .....puts down device, gets up, sits down somewhere else with that to choke quietly before returning. ]
Thank you, Lae'zel. Truly.
[ To be honest about his appreciation for that small human kindness and her effort in bringing it to him, for just what those few words struck in his heart, would likely be to embarrass her.
But still, he's not about to let the moment pass by without some acknowledgement. ]
And I also thank you for your concern. You are a worthy friend, and I am more thankful every day that we met. [ failed step 1 ] It could be as you say, perhaps. But I am not sure that it could be as you say for me. She has been my all for so long, I struggle to imagine involving myself with someone who would not know her.
[Of being called out like this, that is. Of all this kindhearted sentiment. They are allies, yes. That does not make them friends, no matter how much Sir Godfrey may claim it.
Those sharp teeth of hers clench, an unpleasant warmth traveling through verdant skin. Lae'zel can feel her heart hardening once more as she reads the rest of his message. She supposes she should be grateful that Godfrey does not linger on the subject for long. A sharp exhale through upturned nostrils punctuates her reply.]
As I have said, you are a formidable ally. This is why I choose to fight among your ranks. That and the common goal we share. A cure. Do not lose sight of it.
But understand this as well, priest. There is no shame in desiring someone for yourself. Even if the one you pledged yourself to is no longer of this plane. But I will not tolerate indecision. The longer you remain distracted, the less use you will serve to me. Or your child. Or anyone.
[Man, these githyanki pep talks could really use some work, huh?]
Consider your options, then act. Or do nothing.
[Chk. Still not satisfying. Another quick sending.]
Do as you like. It is none of my concern.
[You were the one who started this whole interrogation in the first place, Lae'zel...]
My concern is entirely appropriate. I simply also have to worry on your behalf due to your own lack of self-preservation as you put yourself at the mercy of strange wizards with groin-exploding magic.
[ take some off of his plate once in awhile maybe, jeez ]
As much as I would truly like to direct the conversation elsewhere, I must now ask if undergarments are truly the target of this spell at all.
It seems that it simply affects [ How to write "scrote" in a Lathander-honouring way ] the nether regions, rather than targeting the garment itself.
You Paladins never offer us the opportunity to play with our words, do you?
Well, no matter, I suppose. Let me speak as plainly as I am able. Your friend carries knowledge of a certain part of the weave -- or to clarify, something that is like the weave but not. I wish to know what he knows.
[ He knows enough, of course, plenty of it. Probably very little would be different than what he has, but what Gale offers is the perspective of a scholar, and the ability to take information and draw conclusions. That is what Raphael wants. ]
Astarion doesn't like it. It feels too quiet, with the others around them sleeping and him busy staring idly at the stars, as if they'd reveal all the secrets of the universe to him. It's a little baffling to imagine that he has somehow come this far and finds himself with so many more questions, but the end is in sight. That's what he tells himself when sleep eludes him, unfamiliar in the dark of the night when he is accustomed to being awake and alive.
At least he isn't entirely alone; Godfrey is still awake, for some reason, and nearby, and after a moment and a rather dramatic huff Astarion pushes himself up and waltzes over, all drama and effect as he crosses his arms and watches. ]
Does the sky ever respond when you stare at it?
[ It never does for him, irritating beast that it is. ]
This late in the day? [ His proud nose scrunches, and he shakes his head. ] Not often.
[ Selûne and the Morninglord are something like cousins, but his prayers have never been hers to answer. The moon and the stars hold other, rarer voices than hers for Godfrey.
And really, that's another reminder that his continued consciousness is a disaster; his routines hanging precariously ahead of him. Godfrey didn't know how far away sun-up was, but he knew that he'd not slept through dawn prayer in years. One poor night wasn't about to make him start - as much as the Godfrey of tomorrow morning might grudge him for it while he rubs their eyes and pages through their book of holy scripture, trying to luxuriate in another sacred dawn.
He'd never grudge Astarion's company, but the sound of him dramatically circling to his bedroll is an especially welcome one tonight as he lays there, fingers laced behind his head, one ankle crossed over the other. Thoroughly unable to fall into sleep, and with naught but the soft breathing of their campsite and the crackle of the fire between all of them to accompany the impending pressure of a sleepless morning. Conversation is a dear distraction. ]
Seems as though the night is determined to give to neither of us what we need. [ He carefully untangles his fingers and rouses his arms from idle stiffness to prop himself up, giving both thickly muscled legs a trembling stretch before smiling to his visitor. ] Though I can't promise I'll be as impassive in conversation as the stars, I can still do my all in giving you what they won't.
[ Astarion is still adjusting to being awake during the sunlight hours and not ducking and covering at every single moment. Being able to see things in colour, being able to enjoy the warmth of the daylight without the single of fire is a gift in itself, and it makes him feel a little bit too close to happy for comfort. Perhaps things would be easier if he was able to go back to being a creature of the night - but that isn't what he wants. This is what he wants - freedom, joy, the experience of living once again.
He's seen Shadowheart and Lae'zel kneel and do whatever thoughts and prayers come to their mind, just as he had watched Godfrey make his own each morning. Another thing he struggles to wrap his mind around; do their Gods truly speak to them, and hear a response? When he had cried out for salvation, for freedom, for - anything, really, he had been ignored. Silence had greeted him as he wept, and he could only imagine that he deserved it.
Huffing a quiet chuckle, he makes himself more comfortable, turning his head to look at Godfrey properly. An intimidating man by all accounts, but Astarion finds himself less afraid these days. He can speak his mind a little more, tiptoe around conversations that cause irritation - like the heroics.
[ look bud you can take the lathanderite out of the church but you wont take the church out of the lathanderite
And, really, that's something he ought to open up with Astarion too, at some point. Much noise had been made about Godfrey's trusting him - and even Godfrey himself could see why the decision might be perplexing. But Astarion had managed his thirst safely until his lapse; had he wanted, he's more aware than the others just how easily he could have drained them all as they slept, and he hadn't. That was enough for Godfrey to extend some clemency.
But on the neglected other half of this exchange sits Astarion, no doubt knowing exactly what the Morninglord had to say about vampires and undead. Eradication was to be the salvation of those like Astarion - stakes, holy water, smiting. His scripture was unavoidably clear; the only way Astarion's new ally could make the God to whom he had so openly devoted his life happy was to reduce him to ash, and now he knew it.
Surely holding his head under the riverwater as he prayed at dawn would have been safer for him than Godfrey with the full knowledge of who and what he is - but he had also extended his trust. It deserved just as much recognition, if not more.
He might have begun forming these important words, had Astarion not asked something unexpected - to hear stories of Godfrey's life. He supposes it's expected, and he's entitled to as much - Godfrey had taken enough of the stories of his companions and given little of his own. ]
I surely could. [ He nods amiably - and really, figures that he should have guessed that someone would be curious enough to probe him back after he had pried so much at them. ] Although I'm not sure that anything I could give you of my home would be terribly entertaining. My life until recent events has been wonderfully mundane.
[ ... the bits he's willing to share have been wonderfully mundane. Godfrey turns to lay on his side, his weight on one elbow instead of two, facing Astarion fully as he starts reaching through his memory. ]
I'm Baldurian, just as you are... and I was a priest.
[ If the tadpole hadn't given their companions that much, then they had surely smelled the cloth on him despite him giving it up - it had forever been the first guess of countryside farmers selling their wares in street markets.
So, as Astarion had trusted him with so much, Godfrey would in turn trust him with something new; ]
I was married, too, once.
[ Of the two people who had taken over his life, he thinks, Vladimir has a better chance of amusing than Iltha - delightful as she is to Godfrey, he can't be sure yet that Astarion will feel the same about tales of her young wildness and proclivity to say just what she shouldn't. By contrast, his husband with all of his stoicism and seriousness seemed as though he would have inherent comedy to Astarion.
So he glances down the edge of himself, thoughtful contours of his face caught by the glow of the campfire at his back, trying to call back his ghost.
Abruptly, he catches on to something, and he smiles, and he recounts his memory in a low and soft voice. ]
You know-- for a time, he had been trying very hard to learn Elvish. I had helped him find all of these books, and he spent so many weeks reading from them. Reciting syllables. Only - my Vladimir, he was... he grew up in the countryside, came to the city to learn a trade. He just had that very dour, rough way of speaking - the kind of man you couldn't imagine speaking in any other way. And I don't need to tell you, Elvish is such a musical language, light on the tongue.
[ Godfrey himself knows precious little Elvish beyond the basics, but has heard enough of it to know how the language sat in his husband's mouth - awkward, broad, deadly serious. All of the things about him that Godfrey had always been inescapably fond of. ]
'He drops the words like stones,' is what I heard an Elven neighbour of ours tell her brother after she heard him practicing.
[ Astarion isn't certain what he expected to hear, but this wasn't it. He had never pictured their proxy leader as what sounded almost like a homebody, happy in their relationship with their God and their husband. The idea doesn't sit right with the life they're leading now, as if all of that had been somehow torn from him. It's clear as day that something happened to the husband, the spouse, and he doesn't want to push and prompt at what befell him. Now is hardly the time for quite that level of sadness, even with the darkness of the starlight resting on their shoulders.
What does strike him is how little he can imagine it. Being married - being in love, even, choosing to devote his very long life to someone. The very notion is something senseless, not when he is well aware of his position in life. This is not the type of story that he is ever going to be able to write for himself, especially not if he fails in his quest for eternal freedom. Cazador remains a threat hanging over his head, and Astarion thinks...
Marriage. Happiness. A life, with a family, with love.
The last two hundred years have been completely without the majority of those things. One might describe his 'brothers' and 'sisters' as a family, but it isn't the same, is it now? They were sired together, perhaps, with a single master, or father, but it wasn't a choice. He did not ask to dig his way out of his own grave, did not ask to be used as a tool to summon food back for his master while being given nothing but rats. That is not the family he chose, and the reminder leaves a dead, sinking weight in his stomach as he frowns, staring at the stars.
The night used to be everything to him; when he could move, when he could slip away, the flickering hint of colour in alleys. Seeing the world in the light of day, with all the colours and brightness it has to offer... Perhaps he hates the night a little more, now.
Swallowing, he flexes his hands, not quite noticing how they were clenched until he came back to himself, tugged out of his thoughts by the sound of Godfrey's voice. It's soothing enough, Astarion thinks, and he focuses, not wanting to miss any of this. He had asked, after all. ]
It is a bit of a nuisance to learn, isn't it? Not usually fit for the tongue of the common folk. Or, well, country folk, perhaps.
[ Calling your friend(?)'s dead spouse "common" was hardly the way to earn eternal sanctuary from the threat of damnation, after all. Astarion speaks it well enough, but never bothered to use it - the others in camp didn't seem to have much concern for it. ]
But at least he tried. For you. That's... Sweet.
[ The word tastes wrong on his tongue, as if calling the effort of anyone sweet was poison. There's an air, now, of pained frustration settling on his shoulders, and he waves a hand to try and shrug it away. Now isn't the time to really trip into being morose; that will come later, when he is alone with thoughts and memories that seek to drown him. ]
[ Not for him - not entirely. His stumbling and awkward attempt at pronouncing an old Elvish declaration of love to him, yes. The effort overall, though, was unmistakably for the girl they had between them.
Or so Godfrey thinks. He had never asked him when he had the chance, and nor did he ever feel the need to. The marked maps he had found spoke plainly for themselves, regardless of what Vladimir could tell him. He had wanted to be ready if the day came that Iltha wanted to find her mother.
But even in this rare moment of happy reverie, he can see that something he said has pulled taut through Astarion. The petty correction is hardly worth upsetting the tenuous balance they've begun to strike - and nor is rising to that veiled unkindness he pays. Godfrey spent too long serving the underserved from his church to rise to every provocation he finds, and besides, he can't expect Astarion to have all respect for a man he never knew.
So instead, he smiles, and he nods along. ]
He certainly had his way.
[ Which is to say: charming or completely impossible, and you can't pick your poison because he chooses for you. ]
But-- surely it's no wont for stories of domesticity that has busied your thoughts. Perhaps you could share something of what has, and we can hope that I'll have thought of something better to share before we've talked it through.
[ Astarion doesn't want to turn the attention back to himself - for once - as the conversation is a little too... Real for him. The idea of admitting anything about himself aloud is a painful one, and his eyes glance over to Godfrey before he breathes out a little huff of noise, waving his hand absently. What a silly, foolish thing, to be so emotional over nothing more than a simple little story. ]
Many people do, or so I've heard.
[ The stars captivate him again, for a little while, and before he can get too lost in all his thoughts he tries to muster some kind of words. ]
Must there be something? When I look at the stars nothing in particular comes to mind. Simply the silence of a world that has rarely given any answer.
[ His expression flickers, and then he turns to look at Godfrey again, properly. ]
I don't have stories of husbands, or learning a language, or working in a church.
[ The notion of which makes his words curl with disdain. ]
Just what you already know.
[ The scrabbling of rats, hunger that never ends, his body under others with nothing but the darkness of a ceiling to keep him present in the moment. ]
[ There are a number of things he would know, if he could.
His companions, on the whole, had been reticent where their pasts were concerned - and that was their right. He doesn't think any of them had Astarion's nervous and timid secrecy. It was something he'd thought he understood, once he'd learned one truth of him - of course he would be cagey and secretive of his past, lest someone discover his undeath.
Not that he'd expected that would be the complete end of it, as vampires so often left a trail of broken lives behind them. But there had been a sense of false understanding in him then; that this would be, perhaps, the biggest secret, and like a plug pulled, the rest might come more easily. Not so. Instead, it seemed to Godfrey that some new tragedy tangled there to stopper things again. There seemed to him a multitude of unfairness, of horrible sadness and trauma, almost too much to keep so neatly contained in such a body.
And it was, of course, his right to contain it all. Astarion owed him nothing - certainly not a look at what hurt him. But it has been a challenge to keep this barrier in place when he sees the pain so clearly as he does now - the mere reminder of a tranquil and domestic life souring his mood entirely. Questions well up in him; he wants to know what about his anecdote, specifically, had tugged his mood downward so. He wants to know if there's anything happier he remembers - any scraps from before his life had been yanked from him. He wants to know what his aspirations were then, he wants to know what he was like, what he dreamt of, what he wanted, who he knew.
Godfrey wants to help, and in the case of a man like Astarion, that's a detrimental urge to give in to. The more questions he asked, the further he would push him.
So, instead, he swallows them back and smiles. ]
There need not be anything at all. [ Godfrey picks himself up from his bedroll and draws a little closer. ] Restlessness without cause is just as much a detriment as the sort that leads your thoughts somewhere. I can make my presence a quieter one, if that would better suit you.
[ Astarion doesn't like the idea of sharing too much of himself.
It is easier to keep people at arm's length, to allow himself the distance. When your entire world is only for the purpose of seduction and murder, it because easier to make sure you never get too close to someone, that you never permit them to see behind the walls you put up. The notion of not having that measure of control over a situation is a little alarming for Astarion, who would much rather play the game of it than have anything real.
That's what he had thought for a long time, at least, but perhaps some things are beginning to change his mind.
There's surprise about the situation, that a Paladin hadn't simply culled him where he stood, that the revelation of him being a vampire spawn hadn't been enough to offer divine retribution, but he can be thankful for what little life he has that remains. Godfrey has not killed him yet, and that might well have to be enough for Astarion. Still, the possibility of a future, of becoming stronger, of being more... It is a heady desire to ignore, even if a small part of him thinks he should.
Shaking his head, Astarion hums absently, as if it doesn't matter at all. ]
It doesn't bother me at all. Sometimes it's quite nice to hear some voices in the silence. Ones that aren't screaming, anyway.
Falling in with the paladin has been a...mixed blessing.
On one hand, it was simply very useful to have a wall of plate metal and (presumably) solid muscle between himself and the many, many entities who were interested in killing them all. Someone so luminous cast the kind of shadows that were very easy to duck in and out of, knife in hand, and Astarion has been taking advantage of that ever since they encountered the first wave of goblins. Lae'zel was no slouch with a sword either, but she wasn't nearly as distracting for their enemies.
Of course, Lae'zel probably wouldn't have even bothered getting involved in local politics, such was her determination to reach the Gith creche. That was one of the downsides - the investment in whatever heroic nonsense his faith demanded. Astarion would argue that anything not directly involving tadpole removal is a tremendous waste of their time, but not loudly. After all, when his choice is between enslavement to the Absolute and enslavement to Cazador, at least the former seems to be taking its time.
Then there's the other issue. Astarion is not a religious student by any means, but he has a distinct sense that the undead and undead-adjacent are not to be tolerated by those of Godfrey's faith. He's lost all sense of how obvious his vampirism...is. Yes, he has sharp teeth and red eyes and some rather distinctive scars, but he's also crossing babbling brooks in bright sunshine without even a twinge of discomfort. The average monster hunter would inspect their bestiary and give him a miss, surely?
As for his occasional nighttime dining, he's done his best to be discreet. Ultimately, one hunk of carrion looks much like another, drained or not.
It's for these reasons that he tells himself he has no reason for concern when the man approaches him at camp, after dinner.
"Our fearless leader," he says, setting his book aside. "Whatever can I do for you this evening?"
If he made an effort, he could probably stop everything he says from sounding like a come-on. He's not planning to try.
A tautness at the corners of his lips, in his throat, pulling it tight.
One might think this all had started with the fangs flashing in his mouth, or his red eyes. These were giveaways which were easier to conceal at night, in forgiving shadow. In hard daylight, however, they were betrayed; one couldn't easily mistake the red for brown, as might happen in a dark street, and neither could his fangs be easily explained away by a mere trick of the light. Even his deathly complexion could be warmed by torch and candlelight to something almost forgiveably human. Daylight, indeed, laid all of these details stark and bare.
But it hadn't. In truth, it was much earlier.
It started with his chest.
As unlife settles in, such basic biological imperatives fall to the wayside. A vampire might breathe for some time out of simple habit, the dead muscles still remembering the necessities of life. But over the years, inevitably, there came a day where a vampire's chest may rise, and fall, and stay that way. Getting it to rise again with regularity, with that soft innate motion that came naturally to living beings, was something rarely mastered even among the proudest vampire lords.
Lathander knows this, and knows it well. It's just one of the things he has been trained to watch. Godfrey had already seen it in their first meeting, how rarely it moved when he was not speaking.
After that, the rest came in a landslide; his pallid face, the fangs hiding in his mouth, the red eyes, the old puncture scars just beneath the collar of his doublet. Though Astarion's apparent immunity to typical vampiric weaknesses was something to be concerned with, the truth had been laid plain to him early in their acquaintanceship; Astarion was not a living man, and most signs pointed to vampirism.
Godfrey had not moved yet on this knowledge, however. He has his reasons - a complex network of ropes staying his hand. Among them, the obvious; that Astarion has proven himself a friend, and that had left Godfrey reluctant to bring him to harm. His fellows might call this blindness, cowardice, stupidity - a heresy, at its worst. But Astarion didn't seem like a bloodthirsty monster to him. Godfrey had been watching, and he had not yet caused any harm that he could detect to their fellows. He had been slaking his thirst some other way, and the effort has gone a long way in Godfrey's estimation of his trustworthiness.
But their friends don't know what he does - haven't been watching as he has, and the bloodless animals have them asking questions. They have more than once named what Godfrey had already concluded, though not in Astarion's direction. Yet.
Such is what he comes, nervously, to discuss - it can't be an easy thing, being confronted by a man of his stature and leanings with proof that you are the very thing he should want to destroy. He takes a quick breath through his nose and squares his shoulders with it.
"I wish to discuss something with you. A... sensitive matter."
He's nervous. Visibly trying to steel himself. It's - adorable, frankly. Like a bear afraid of a mouse. Astarion has not discarded the idea of Godfrey approaching him with the whole the-Morninglord-does-not-suffer-your-kind-to-exist song and dance, but it fades into lesser likelihood with every passing day. If this is that, he has a couple of potions to hand which should facilitate a quick escape, and if it isn't...
Well, his evening has become unexpectedly interesting, regardless.
"By all means, lead the way." He gestures away from camp in a way he feels is appropriately grandiose. "I'm in your hands."
Godfrey's response is less of a nod and more of a tense, split-second incline of his head. Not so much agreement as it is acknowledgment.
Astarion is, as always, a difficult read. He seems agreeable now, certainly, and though his tin-soldier shoulders remain square and sharp, Godfrey finds himself grateful for this. He had no desire to embarrass Astarion or jeopardize his safety by divulging the truth of him where the others could hear. Only to find somewhere safe to discuss things.
He seems to so far be oblivious - but Godfrey would be a fool to think that Astarion could be summed up in a glance. There is every chance that he knows exactly what this conversation is bound to be beneath his easy exterior, and he knows that it can't help things, Godfrey walking tensely in front of him like this. Leading him to only the Gods knew where, alone, away from the few individuals he knows.
There's nothing Godfrey can do about the circumstances. Willing himself to calm does little to loosen his fingers, and if they were going to breach this subject with the rest of their companions, they had to do it as a united front. Godfrey divulging this out of the blue would only risk him unnecessarily. If he explained things at Astarion's side, though...
He doesn't lead him far into the woods - just out of earshot. He finds a passably flat stone and takes his seat, mountainous and tense.
Godfrey releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and slowly, he tries; "I wanted to call you here to discuss some things I've noticed."
He leaves it there, between them, and brings his eyes up to Astarion. Gently, "I think you know what it is I mean. Yes?"
Astarion lifts his eyebrows, smiling inscrutably. As if he knows any other
way to do it.
"I'm sure you wouldn't be looking so solemn if you were here to discuss
my increasingly depraved interest in your body, but I can never tell with
you oath-taking types," he says, with lightness which then dissolves.
"...I don't like being asked to spool out enough rope to hang myself
with, darling, so please. Use your words."
Not that he should expect anything less. Such a remark would be only slightly less easy to discard in the context of a normal conversation. Here, it could be nothing but a valve to release steam, or some form of light deflection. Or, if he's being uncharitable, some convoluted, last-ditch effort to pay insult to Godfrey before Godfrey could do it to him. A knee jerking in the face of what is to be a moment of tense discomfort - or so he hopes.
The stranger thing would be if he had meant this remark in complete seriousness, and particularly with how that levity falls away like brittle leaves when next he speaks. Godfrey's first instinct is to try and soften Astarion's words for him, as the conversation in his head certainly calls not for talk of hanging oneself. But he knows what this is - stalling - and he knows that Astarion would surely not appreciate the effort until he puts his hand down for him to see.
So; he takes another breath, touching Astarion's gaze with his own, and he speaks; "I know you're dead, Astarion. And I know why you still walk. It's high time we had a conversation about it."
There. He's let it out in the air.
Godfrey sits, completely still, elbows hanging from his knees, hands clasped.
Astarion steeples his fingers lightly. He has a vial of Invisibility in his sleeve; having to reach for a pocket is far too obvious.
"So - and this is sheerly curiosity, you understand. Is this a 'my mercy demands that I give you a head start before I hunt you down like the Hells-begotten wretch are are' sort of conversation, or is this a 'my honour demands that I pierce your heart in twain from the front and not the back' sort of conversation?"
It's a sensible response. A predictable one, even. That doesn't keep that sliver of hurt from lodging in his chest as Astarion expresses it, asks how it is Godfrey would kill him.
It has no right to startle him like this. This sort of concern is just what he was afraid of tripping over in the course of this talk. He knew how loudly his doctrine tended to speak for him - the overzealous parts of it, at the very least. He knew what Astarion would think when he opened this conversation. He knew there would be fear in him, that he might assume the worst. But there's something about hearing this particular charge, among the soft sounds of the night around them, which flashes reflexively in his face.
"Neither," His voice is light, soft, quick to reassure, "It's neither."
He straightens up a little, inching back from full flight-or-fight mode.
"Well, then. You already know what I am. You already seem to have decided what to do, or rather what not to do about it. What element of this conversation is there for me to participate in, exactly?"
Godfrey watches a shade of the tension slip from him. Astarion is still poised to spring away at the barest hint of aggression, but he's relaxing, bit by bit.
He exhales, and lets his gaze low. Watches his hands wring between his knees as he slips a little further into the conversation.
"I've known for some time. I stayed my judgment and watched you - and the others. I wanted to know that you would not hurt them."
Because, naturally, that has always been on the table. He had watched Astarion tensely once, hand resting deceptively gentle at the hilt of his sword. He had been ready, in those early and nervous days, to end him at the first hint of harm - but not before then. The Oath calls for compassion to all - even his enemies, though tempered with wisdom. That is what he gave him.
And Astarion had proven himself worthy of it enough times over that, though it hasn't totally been taken from the table, his hands might set to separating Astarion from whatever altercation befell him before they went to his sword and his magic.
His thumb presses into the white inside of his fingers, and they curl around it. A birdcall echoes from somewhere in the woods, deeper still than they are.
"But they have not cultivated the same insight that I have. They have found what you've left behind, and they are... discussing amongst themselves what they have seen."
Godfrey sucks in a breath, his fingers hard against his knuckles, and he looks back up to Astarion.
When he speaks, it's slow. All softness, all gentle and placating reassurance; "I think if you had wanted to hurt anyone here, you would have. But you haven't. And I suspect that if we tell them together - if you would trust me to help - they may be more inclined to trust you as I have come to."
Edited (immediately Bothered by a line) 2023-09-14 00:22 (UTC)
Oh. So what he's offering isn't, in fact, the necessary purification of a
swift death, but...moral support?
Astarion supposes he might perform some indignation. Thank you so
very much, great and mighty paladin, but I am in fact more
than capable of showing my fangs and facing the consequences, I am
not afraid of a lizard, a Shar-worshipping amnesiac and a man who
can't even get his entire body through a portal.
But if that was true, he would have done it by now, wouldn't he? He
wouldn't have affected ignorance when Lae'zel had found the husk of a boar
he'd drained the previous night; he wouldn't avoid them when he hears
mutterings of other such discoveries at camp. He's been letting the days
roll by in the hope that, by the time they realise his ability to walk in
the sun is an aberration, he's proven too valuable to dispose of.
Godfrey's no fool. He'll be as aware of that as Astarion is himself. So
he really has no choice in this matter, has he?
"You do seem to have become the bar by which our choices are measured,"
he says, reflective. "So I can hardly deny that your endorsement would be
valuable."
Now all he has is to sit on his hands, regarding Astarion - watching for tension that might graduate beyond the thoughtful knot in his brow, the words he can see passing in his thoughts, like schools of shimmering fish - and hold his breath in the space that's left between the two of them.
Why should he be so nervous, in the face of a friend? Godfrey himself couldn't answer this question, were he asked. Not precisely, at least. He knew that it must lie between Astarion's evasiveness, his secrecy when it came to himself. Somewhere near the constant condescension he felt from him - the way he spoke as though every word he spoke was part of some larger joke that Godfrey would never understand. And naturally, under the ever-looming grander threat of it all; that he was exposing a larger and more threatening truth that Astarion had tried to hide. Dead or alive, this was tender territory for most thinking beings to tread.
Thankfully, his path has been thus far well-chosen. When Astarion does speak, he concedes to the wisdom of what Godfrey has said. He exhales, shoulders unwinding, and he nods.
"You have my endorsement, and more." His hands unwind and rest between his knees. "You have my word."
He does not overstate the importance of this, despite its immensity; to go back on his word would be to go back on his Oath. His promise to Astarion is as good to a promise to the Morninglord himself.
"... I wish not to pressure you, but- with how the others are talking, it may be best to breach this discussion sooner, rather than later. I feel we give ourselves the best chance if we head things off at the pass, rather than let them discover the truth themselves."
Though he wishes he could dispel it, Godfrey knows that he likely won't be enough to evaporate his nerves totally. Revealing a truth like this is not something he can directly imagine, but he can conjure enough to understand that he will be afraid until it's over with.
So he watches him consider his options for a moment, staring through the leaf-cover to quickly analyze the figures beyond, lit by flickering firelight, their voices vague from the moment they've carved for themselves. Godfrey sits patiently, feeling his own nerves untangle as Astarion seems to settle more and more into his hands.
"If you need time, we still may take it." He settles on his stone a little more, and for the first time in their conversation, lets himself smile. "All I mean to say is that we ought do it tomorrow morning, if not tonight. I do not mind extending our wait that far, should it help."
Astarion presses his fingertips to his lips for a moment, then drops his
hands.
"...No. No, actually, I think now is an excellent time. I'd rather they
have the night to sleep on it than the day to spend inventing reasons to
kill me."
Is this also a means of clawing back a little control? Maybe! Regardless,
being offered more time feels like charity he refuses to accept. If this is
happening, it's happening now.
It matters little to Godfrey, truthfully, why it is Astarion is reticent to wait. Whether this is a tactical decision on his part, some kind of emotional reflex, or simply a grab at more control. Whether he thinks the rays of dawn will evaporate Godfrey's good will as they do the darkness of night. Whether Godfrey registers his concerns as sound or mere paranoia. All that matters is that he is reticent to wait; this is all Godfrey needs to know.
He plants his hands on his knees and pushes himself to his feet, exhaling as he rises. Godfrey regards him easily, blue eyes soft and kind.
"Then we spare ourselves the wait and speak with the others now." His face... it doesn't firm, not quite. This implies hardness, and Godfrey's expression is careful in this regard. But he does look suddenly serious, before he continues; "Tell me this, my friend, and speak true; what can I do to help ease this conversation?"
"Nothing - literally nothing, just - keep your distance, darling. I
was going to tell you. All of you," he adds, looking faintly aggrieved.
"Frankly, I don't need this to look any more like I've been marched over
there with my arm twisted than it already will."
Godfrey has no wish to force Astarion to accept his idea of help, of course. Not with something as intensely personal and daunting as this. He was here to help, not to push him.
This does not help the way that insistence squirms in his gut, however, that reflexive nervousness as his assistance is rebuffed. The motion doesn't offend him - Astarion has more than his share of reasons to remain evasive and cagey on the subject, and doubly so, considering who was attached to this helping hand being offered to him. The pervading feeling is concern. Godfrey's plan was to advocate for him to their companions, to address their misgivings and concerns directly instead of forcing Astarion to handle them. Vampires are known for nothing if not their social trickery, their ability to charm and deceive. He's perfectly aware of how easily the conversation could get out of hand, and how they might discard out of hand anything that Astarion could say to them.
But also, he knows that insisting and pushing the point would hardly help matters. Astarion has the right to decide his role in this conversation, far more than Godfrey does. He nods once.
"All right. I will speak only if my voice is needed."
With that, the matter is settled.
"I suppose, then, that one of us should return to the fire before the other."
"They absolutely should," Astarion says briskly, and starts closing the distance between their privacy and the campfire before Godfrey can have any thoughts about volunteering.
The revelation is actually something of an anticlimax.
Lae'zel seemed to have already known, and says some things about his scent that he feels are overly descriptive coming from someone with hardly any nose. Halsin, likewise, doesn't seem surprised and Astarion can only imagine he learned it from some adorable woodland creature who outran him recently. Shadowheart has apparently burnt through most of her racism while dealing with Lae'zel, and therefore doesn't care about the predator in their midst, so long as he predates elsewhere. Gale doesn't have a foot to stand on re. an unusual dietary habit to sate an unnatural hunger, and so keeps his mouth shut. Karlach is fine with it - what's one reasonably courteous vampire, after ten years in Avernus? - and Wyll at the very least affects fineness to better keep the peace with Karlach.
And then the question is asked about Godfrey's thoughts on the subject, which has Astarion calling over his shoulder:
"Darling! Please come over here and reassure the masses that I haven't put any holes in you."
[ stand by while he tries to word this respectfully. ]
I think I do not quite feel that you've been deceitful. Not in this regard.
But this teasing is your way, or it has seemed to be. You've not hurt me by this, of course... but I suppose that I've come away with the impression that you've thought me an absurdity.
I hadn't anticipated that I would interest you. That I could interest you, I suppose.
Darling, what part of you could be uninteresting? Your deep history and faith aside, you offer a very appealing figure. A man could swoon to be held in your arms. And to know that capturing your eye would mean one is properly courted only sweetens the deal.v
[ This one comes quickly and decisively; ] I am in my tent.
[ Walls of cream-coloured canvas, tassled and trimmed and painted in golden holy symbols. Books, scripture, pillows. A child's drawing pinned to one post and a heavy stone-cutter's axe leaning against the other. The privacy seems sensible at first; he doesn't spare a thought to the implication of it.
Instead, he waits in tense silence, and tries to force his nerves to quiet. ]
[Well, that makes it easy. It's not long at all before Astarion's pushing the entrance to Godfrey'sv tent open, stepping inside and tying it closed behind him. He turns to face Godfrey then with an easy smile, spreading both hands out before him in offering.]
[ Godfrey is already climbing to his feet once he sees the shadow of him approach the flap.
Here he is. With hardly any time to array his words, to cage his thoughts, to petition his Lord for guidance - here he is, easy as ever. Speaking in the same low and breathy murmur.
Godfrey feels his breath catch in his throat. Cerulean eyes flicker up to touch Astarion's, then away, as he gingerly takes one of his hands in his own, drapes his cool fingers over the edge of his palm.
The pad of his thumb grazes his pale fingers, and he glances back up to him, smiling wanly. He takes a tight breath, and he speaks gently. ]
Come-- please, Astarion. Make yourself comfortable. [ He turns his body to the side to avail Astarion the cluster of pillows slumped in his small tent - blues, lavenders, and pinks in a soft pile.
He leads him those few short steps by his hand, speaking slowly and deliberately as he does so, choosing his words with care-- ] I... well. I have some things I would say, before we allow this to... proceed, I suppose, any farther.
[Oh, but Astarion wasn't expecting the tenderness of Godfrey's touch. It only startles him for a moment, and thankfully Godfrey himself seems quite distracted with his own thoughts. He plasters it over with a soft smile quickly enough, curling his fingers around Godfrey's with a soft squeeze.
He lets himself be led, settling down into the cushions while keeping Godfrey's hand held in his.]
[ That startled moment is lucky enough to escape Sir Godfrey's notice - but he might as well have his hand around his heart for how that light squeeze tightens in his chest.
Godfrey settles down deliberately; near to him, near enough to still be joined by the gentle clasp of their hands, but only so near. Open, but not imposing. Godfrey knew well enough that it was Astarion who ought to have control over how close they would come. So it is that Godfrey settles back and stretches his legs before him, propped up at his elbow to rest facing Astarion, still cradling his hand in his in the short space between them.
He studies their hands together, the stark paleness of his skin against Godfrey's own rosy tone. Astarion will see his downcast eyes cringe as his smile touches them, breaking his solemn and thoughtful silence - the humour still flashing in them when he does look up and let his gaze linger on him, his face softening after a thin moment too long.
Then, he looks back down, lets himself indulge in Astarion's delicate wristbone, his pale fingers. He touches gently the fingers of his other hand against the peaks of his thin knuckles. ]
I know that I am not as... available, in this regard, as some others.
[ This is spoken softly, and with apology. He swallows. ]
It has not been solely that I thought you spoke in jest. I have not courted, or been courted, since-- my husband. I have thought it impossible that I would ever be again, for so long. I do not tell you this to make my burden yours, I wish for nothing less than to burden you. But I want to speak plainly of this, that you know and may decide yourself if I can give you what you seek from us, because--
[ He brushes the warmth of his hand over Astarion's, then, and sighs briskly, brow knotting. For as much as he wished it, he couldn't spend the rest of this conversation avoiding his eyes. He gives himself a moment, then, lifts his eyes to Astarion's, in gentle and quiet resolve. ]
I do care for you, Astarion. Whatever is decided here, if you take only one sentiment to your heart, let it be this - for you will not change it. I have come to care for you, very much.
[Godfrey's quiet deliberation in this moment feels worshipful, sacred. Astarion can't stop his heart from fluttering uncomfortably in his throat, as much as he wishes he was in control of the moment. But he has enough control at least to keep it from showing in his expression when Godfrey looks to him.
He reaches up, cupping Godfrey's cheek in his hand, his thumb brushing softly over his skin.]
My dear, I would never doubt you. I could never doubt the depths of your heart, your devotion.
[ There's more Godfrey would have said, of course. Not all conversations needed to happen tonight - he saw no reason yet to mention his daughter to Astarion, for instance, for he knew that no relationship which did not prioritize her could last. But all the same, Godfrey had more to excavate; he had planned to unearth more grief, more hardship. Perhaps even reassure him, gingerly, that he held no expectation that he might try to place him in the hole Vladimir had left in him, Godfrey's sadnesses felt paltry when put next to Astarion's, yes, but sadnesses still they were, and he had no desire to oblige Astarion to them.
This is before he feels the touch of Astarion's hand, cool and soft, on his cheek.
Godfrey stops. His thoughts, chest, mouth - all, for a moment, stop. He can't remember when last he felt another's touch like this, only who it came from. He regards Astarion with a gentle trepidation and, slowly, exhales. Releases. The grave and serious resolve on his face gives way to what waited underneath. Soft, warm yearning.
And so far, the moment lives long enough for Godfrey to begin to think that all of his concerns, perhaps, mattered less than he thought they did.
The tent is quiet, but for his own soft breathing. Godfrey presses Astarion's hand gently with his own, leaning just slightly into this tiny piece of affection. His eyes slip closed.
He turns his face into his palm, grazing the edge of his pale hand with warm, living, even breaths. He kisses its heel. Then, the still inner of his wrist.
He says nothing. ]
Edited (i need to be clear that hes kissing him twice here its Imperative) 2023-10-22 04:04 (UTC)
[Oh, Astarion can see that yearning. And he doesn't want to acknowledge how it stirs something in his chest. But more to the point, that look, the touch of Godfrey's lips to his hand means everything. He wanted to worm his way into this man's heart for his own protection, and surely this sort of pure and unadulterated adoration means he's well on his way.
Astarion lets his fingers trace against Godfrey's skin as his hand is held still, softening his own gaze with a warm smile of his own.]
You are a lovely man. I'm sure you know that. I can't imagine how anyone could look at you and not be enraptured.
Though I can appreciate the nuance and differences in the two of us and your talents alike, I tell you this plainly now; an option that consigns innocents to death to ease our own shortcomings is no option at all. We overcome, or we fail.
[ his kingdom for a NORMAL scry cast tbh ]
Likely not without risking ourselves further in travel. Setting a campsite would be safer.
Our betters are ever eager to trade lives for some amorphous idea of a greater good. Personally, I have no illusions. But good on you, I'll take conviction over dawdling.
[ Her proposal is informed by expedience before ethics; she belongs to neither of the aforementioned schools of thought and whether that makes her a person of low character is somebody else's business. ]
Praise be! I'd petition you to carry me before braving another rolling hill, seeing how brazenly uninconvenienced you are by physical labour.
[ The young woman is really gaunt and short of breath and yet surprisingly tenacious despite her difficulty keeping up, as if propelled forwards by her spite. As they set camp Samarie walks the perimeter, tracing a circle around their refuge with a crooked stick while muttering indiscernible grievances to herself. ]
[ Just in case she was starting to feel that his conviction's a one-way road.
And he leaves the conversation at that, for the moment. He settles into work without being asked; as she's already observed, he's ready for it, both by training and abundance of physical endurance. Godfrey shoulders the work himself of gathering wood, preparing their fire, and pitching both tents, with not a word of complaint and all of the precision of a soldier out of training. He asks her for nothing - not because of any fear or lacking trust, but simply because of the stark differences in their physicalities. Godfrey is strong, and taller, and hardly winded by the road they've walked - not so for her.
Besides... whatever she's doing has some import, maybe.
He isn't sure. He knows little about this worship; they're a secretive group. Godfrey has tried always to bear in mind his own lack of knowledge whilst dealing with Samarie, but-- well, it would be a lie to say that he has not felt himself hold his breath a little in her presence, and he swore an Oath.
For the time being, Godfrey - free of his heavy plate - squats by the fire. He cuts carrots from his pack into a hot iron pot, currently perched over the flame, driving the blade through the root and against his thumb.
Godfrey doesn't disturb her - but he watches her, as he might any idle curiosity. ]
[ His solitary attendance to the physical labours of establishing a camp would be par for the course were she a woman of status in the company of her knight, but from Samarie's standpoint, she is no different from the spawn of "cow shit," to use the verbiage of the gentry in reference to peasants, and therefore she ought to contribute like a dirty little peasant girl should. Well, she'd probably fumble the pitching of the tent and his pre-emptive intervention in the matter spares her the indignity of asking, but she is in fact playing her part in securing their sleep. The seemingly aimless scribble the dark priest etches into the dirt is in service of thwarting an ambush, a necessary precaution in enemy territory.
Godfrey is cutting carrots when, apropos of nothing, Samarie suddenly explodes: ]
Kaa! Do you think I'm some feckless rube? I studied sorcery at Fiend Petr's Basilica!
[ Before he can so much as part his lips, the young woman whips out a blade and opens her outstretched forearm with the end of the knife. Blood runs hot from the gash and speckles the grass and soil at her feet. A burst of flame casts shadows upon the their faces as fire travels the circumference of their camp like the lit fuse of a dynamite before vanishing into the darkness from which it came, leaving a ring of evaporating smoke about the camp. The tell-tale signature of blood magic: self-mutilation. ]
N-no need to trade shifts... Gro-goroth will protect us.
[ Samarie sits on an incline and stares pointedly into the heart of the fire. The blood on her arm has yet to clot and slithers from the cut. It's not fatal, but there. The worked up sorcerer pays no heed to the wound. ]
[ If Godfrey thinks she ought contribute to the making of their camp, he doesn't let it on.
Just as he doesn't let on if he knew to expect this sudden eruption from her. His knife stops, mid-rasp, on its way through this most recent round.
Godfrey witnesses it all in silence - the blade driving into her arm, the flash of fire carving through the grass, penning them in with a sharp, bright burning. The brief, black deafness that falls across them, as though the air grew too full for sound for a slim moment. The deathly exhalation. The overbearing heat.
The campfire stirs. Godfrey remains seated, and his knife travels no further through the vegetable in his hand.
The moment eases. The arcing fire dies to cinders, forming around them a black perimeter. The air smells hot, as Godfrey suspects it will for the night's remainder - beyond, perhaps. He is no expert on these teachings, but he knows enough to recognize what he's seen here; and though he can appreciate her effort, the livid pain she still appears blind to, he would have happily stood vigil instead of invited His presence to their campfire.
He lets the knife pass the rest of the way. The orange round drops into the pot. Godfrey thinks on her - her teachings, her age. She's young - no child, Gods willing. But she is no older than he, or so Godfrey feels assured. What must her life be comprised by, to come into such knowledge; worse, to take not even a moment to resort to it?
He cuts to the carrot's stem and drops it to the soil. Godfrey climbs to his feet and steps away in silence. He cleans his hands.
Shoulders a bag from his tent and walks toward Samarie's incline, lowering himself on one knee next to her, her wounded arm between them. ]
I don't know that you'll wish me to close the wound - though you need only ask if you do. But we ought at least see it cleaned and covered.
No trouble at all. You shall know they've arrived when you hear me rap the door.
[ Very, very gently, of course. ]
If I've anything that may help clear this morning fog, trust that it will arrive as companions to your broth and sweetmint. Worry yourself not with tithe if you do not speak in jest.
I will try my utmost to make myself presentable, but please forgive my lack of polish, if you will.
[ The gesture will certainly be appreciated. Elves have rather sensitive hearing, after all. ]
My friend, I may not be the most pious of knights, but I would never deign to jest in the face of your own piety. Truly, your good works have been invaluable to our team, and I feel I ought to repay your kindness in some small way.
[ A high elf cannot help but put on airs, Godfrey. Why do you think they are called such?
Julien doesn't bother with reading the message, their ears already pricked to the sound of gentle knocking at their door.
The latch clicks, the door swings open partway, and Julien peers around the frame, blue eyes squinting through their lashes against the brightness streaming through the windows. Their fiery hair hangs loose about their face, unkempt and bristling with unruly curls. Their face bears no hint of powder, nor makeup, though their eyes are shadowed from poor sleep. An old blanket is draped over their shoulders, giving them the unfortunate appearance of a vagrant begging for alms.
They catch sight of Godfrey's broad shoulder turning from them, his blond hair catching the light, turning it to burnished gold.
He's a saint, truly, for aiding them in their hour of need. ]
A moment, friend. [ Julien's gaze drops to the offerings laid by the door, then quickly shifts toward the interior of their room. ] ...would you like some tea?
And I am unsure as to how my Lord might feel about my... pot-stirring, besides. In the conventional definition. I have been one tasked to create and foster unions, not to unsettle them.
No, bully you: appropriate space between rp and life having ass, healthy boundary having ass
More for me, then. I’ll say not all unions are worth the work: I had one couple who would have a row about the wife’s mother all the time, so of course I went to meet this lady on my own time and she and I became good friends. Come to find out, the mother refused to see them because the husband had first married the wife’s cousin, gave her a child and then broke things off to take up with the wife. So armed with this, the next time they get to fighting I get between them and tell them about what a lovely birthday his child had just had. The looks on their faces, Gwilym, I’ll never forget.
You know, that's perfectly fair. There are some things we are just not meant to know. I can appreciate the courage to be open about it, but I don't want to discover it.
Ah, yes. All things in the name of comedy. I guess we benefit a little from some levity, though...
Not like that.
[Even Nepione has standards for comic relief.]
Maybe you should have a little talk with this certain company of yours. Use honey in your words. With the right delivery, you could even move mountains.
I'm sure that I fret over our separation more than she does, for she is yet small.
[ He hopes, anyway.
But... he's not holding his breath. She's quickly becoming not so little at all. Her advancing age is the exact thing that keeps him determined to return home; to Godfrey's assessment, she had been too young to truly and meaningfully register the last loss she had.
Not necessarily so now. ]
What you say is true, of course. I have you, Gale, and all the others, just as you have me. I hope that my moment's lamenting does not give the impression that I've forgotten. We have been so rarely apart that I've no choice but to fuss to myself, I suppose.
I hope that does indeed lessen the ache for her. Tara has made sure to let me know several times over that my mother is sick over my absence, and I don't care for the thought of her wringing her hands and worrying herself so.
You're allowed far more than a moment's lamenting, if you ask me. I'll gladly remind you as many times as you need.
I am heartened to hear of your closeness to her. You are lucky to have a parent so loving, and she a son like you.
In fact, it has just inspired me to think of something - perhaps instead of lamentations, we ought share stories of more peaceful times :) A happier journey into the past, no? I could tell to you a story of my daughter, and if it would not intrude, I could ask of you a story in turn.
I do consider myself fortunate. I likely don't tell her enough— I'll be certain to rectify that when I'm able to see her again without putting her in danger.
Stories from our past, hm? I'd quite enjoy that, though perhaps not through enchanted text. The telling of the story is just as important as the tale itself, and I've no doubt you have quite the knack for rhetoric!
Hah. You understand me right, my friend. As it would happen, I think that pulpitry was among the few popular things that I managed to do during my time as Dawnlord.
[ is this true? is this just godfrey being godfrey?? only the morninglord knows.... ]
May I assume that I will find you retired to your tent, Gale? Or have you wandered?
Ah, yes, here as ever, enjoying the evening as much as one can given our circumstances. We picked up several interesting volumes during our travels today that I've been investigating in depth. You are always welcome, as you well know.
[ It's hardly a difficult night to enjoy. The air is tepid, filled still with the singing of insects and birds. The sky is made livid with dying daylight. The trees penning their tents in only just begin to fade into shadow, the shapes of their leaves cutting a strict, black figure against the sky.
Above all, though, they are here - they are all of them here, they are safe. The evening is shaping into the closest approximation Godfrey had found to perfect during their travels; the day's travails had been tiring, but not so tiring. Nothing beyond the fundamental comfort of a warm fireside meal.
With dinner put behind them, their respective evenings begin; some of the others, doubtless, preparing for some small-hour revelry which Godfrey would not sacrifice dawn prayer for.
But Godfrey decides that they won't miss one bottle for the evening.
So it is that Godfrey's footfalls rasp through sweet grass to Gale's violet tent; from one hand dangling the neck of a bottle, the fingers of the other caught with the stems of two battered pewter wine glasses. ]
Gale, [ Said to the tent flap, before he reminds himself that he was invited; surely it's permissible to work his hand beneath that flap and lift it just a little, a careful cautioning as to his entry without striding in unwelcome, ] may I enter?
[Though he often chose to lounge or work outside his tent to enjoy the fire and the companionable chatter that would float across their camp from various corners, Gale has spent this evening tucked inside— with books, of course, a stack of which are visible through the partially raised flap when Godrey requests permission to enter.
The wizard looks up from the journal he'd been writing in with an easy smile, setting his pen down.]
Godfrey, please— come in. You're expected, after all.
[He'd hardly had to ask, but they are both polite sorts, and so Gale can hardly hold it against him. He gestures to the space in front of him, where Godfrey has his pick of cushions to sit on, should he so choose.]
[ And, like the polite sort he is, Godfrey gives a gentle duck of his head before ducking the rest of himself through the threshold and stepping inside, letting the tent's flap slip the length of his broad back. ]
Thank you.
[ He picks his few steps carefully, around that stack with a cursory glance at their spines. He recognizes few titles in Gale's current program of studies - which he expected, their respective fields of knowledge have little overlap. Still, he could do with more to meaningfully contribute. Perhaps he ought pick a title and inquire...
That is not what he's come for this evening, but - if their stories waned, perhaps that was a second discussion to keep them afloat. Godfrey dutifully sits on a larger, square cushion, and sets the bottle and glasses down. ]
I snuck a bottle from the others, if you might like a glass. [ Red, and a decent table wine - but a table wine all the same. ] They ought not miss a few cupfuls, I think.
[ And likely, Godfrey thinks, they would drink little more than that. ]
[His smile hitches wider as he teases warmly, setting his journal aside as his companion makes himself comfortable.]
You know me, I've always a weakness for a glass. I used to be a bit more specific about the quality, but these days, I find most will do in a pinch. This one, I do believe I recognize— quite decent, in fact, especially when compared to some of the others we've come across in our travels. We'll make a sommelier of you, yet.
[Just in case being a Paladin of the Morninglord doesn't work out, naturally.]
[ Where camp supply is concerned, Godfrey has stolen nothing - they all have as much right to the alcohol as he.
When it comes to the question of where the wine came from... well. This is something mired in ambiguity.
And it is no conundrum he's willing to entertain right now; not while the evening has such warm and quiet promise to it. Godfrey settles in his seat and pours each glass carefully, nodding slowly as he listens to Gale speak. Smiling to himself even before he turns his eyes up, bright and warm, to extend the first full cup to him. ]
Then I am gratified to know that I chose well.
[ He's as faultlessly genuine as he's always been - his tone as light and bright as though he had never considered that Gale's approval would not be significant.
Drink distributed, Godfrey carefully corks the bottle and sits back with his own glass. ]
I imbibe only occasionally. I cannot boast any particularly significant palate. Tragic that I could not make use of your expertise when last I was honoured to contribute to Waterdhavian Rhyestertide celebrations.
Edited (i didnt like some of the phrasing last edit i promise) 2024-01-23 00:19 (UTC)
[Gale accepts the glass gratefully, waiting until Godfrey has corked the bottle and settled with his own before holding it up in a wordless toast. They may not feel much like celebrating at the moment, but at this point, he'll gladly drink a glass to another day where they've managed to stay alive, and hopefully many more to come. Otherwise, this was a different sort of drink; they both had a great deal on their minds and could likely stand to unburden themselves a bit further— and wine, good, bad or middling, was always best enjoyed with good company.]
Oh, dear. Disaster struck, I take it?
[He smiles at Godfrey from behind the rim of his cup before taking a generous sip. Really, for found wine, it's quite good.]
I aim not to imbibe with excess, but a good glass of wine can go a long way in complementing a meal. I confess, I lose myself rather quickly if I have too much, so I do make an effort to exercise caution. Tonight, however, I believe myself to be in trustworthy company. If I help myself to a second glass, you'll not think any less of me for it, I hope.
[He gives a smile that manages to be just a touch weary and self-deprecating beneath the usual optimism. It's been an especially exhausting few days for the lot of them, really.]
Nothing so dramatic, [ Smiling, Godfrey lowers self and cup as he retreats from Gale's toast, knees folded and back straight, thoughtfully swirling the dark wine, ] Although I fear that your perspective may differ, my friend, when I tell you that a taste of Lathander's Red was wasted on a tongue as unsophisticated as mine.
[ And, really, Godfrey could hardly fault him this inevitable conclusion. He's very sure that Gale will register the magnitude of what was wasted on him, even if he won't give voice to his feelings on the matter. Appreciative of the high honour as Godfrey was, he could not lie to himself as to pretend that the sliver of valuable and rare red vintage, so lovingly brewed and aged by monks of his Lord's dawn, tasted like anything more than over-stewed plums to him.
But this is the sort of thing Godfrey had come for, wasn't it? Far-flung pieces of the path that had led them here. Stories of home. He raises his cup to his lips and takes a slow, meandering drink.
Tastes of grapes.
He keeps this to himself and tries, instead, to think of some description that wouldn't gall poor Gale. He looks up as he swallows and smiles, meaningful. ]
I doubt much that there is any way you might tarnish my esteem of you, Gale. [ His voice is warm and gentle, resonant in the little tent they sit in, ] Indeed, it would do me some good, to see you well and at ease.
Edited (didnt acknowledge toast and that cant stand) 2024-02-12 14:03 (UTC)
['Wasted,' he says— a difficult vintage to come by outside of specific circumstances, and Gale can only imagine what other connoisseurs might say to such a thing. He may quite enjoy wine himself, but he's hardly going to shame Godfrey for not acquiring the taste.
Still, it does sting just a little bit, hearing that, and he shakes his head in disbelief.
He helps himself to another sip, pausing to let the flavor bloom on his tongue, and its second impression is not so different from the first. Nothing outstanding, but they could do far worse, like the vinegar they'd managed to pick up among the goblin camps.
Godfrey's reassurance causes his smile to warm and soften, his shoulders dropping as he lets some of the tension of the day further ease from him.]
Is that so? I could say much the same about you. Of course, I asked you here for a reason— I won't have you taking all of our burdens onto those broad shoulders of yours without insisting that you allow us to do the same in turn. Relax tonight, at the very least. Gods know you deserve it as much as any of us, perhaps moreso.
Godfrey naturally hadn't been unappreciative of the opportunity - indeed, even to a palate as uncultured as his own, it had been a great honour to know the taste and bouquet of such a valued and prized labour of his monastic brothers and sisters.
Having said that, conveying his appreciation had required a good bit of smiling and nodding along, and none of his own words. Godfrey hardly found stewed plums an unpleasant comparison in its experience, but couldn't deny that it hardly sounded so. And besides that, listening to the others find limitless complexity in the same glasses made his own thoughts feel simple and juvenile.
Much the same as what keeps him silent on the glass he has in his hand now. He takes another thin sip and finds another element to add to his collection of thoughts - this sip tastes like dry grapes.
He wonders idly if Gale ever experiences these banal little examples of thoughts best kept in one's own head. It seems not, or so he thinks, as he swirls the ruby table wine in his cup and watches its depths move. He knows he must reasonably, despite how loquacious and eager he may seem. But it's difficult to apply such convention to a man like him; to a life that seems to know no idle thought or wasted exercise of the mind.
This impression proves itself again; Godfrey glances up from his cup as Gale answers and reveals the truth - that he has been deceived, and that only after it closes around his ankle is the snare in the leaves where he steps revealed. ]
I am betrayed, then. Not only to a good drink in pleasant company, but also to reprieve and fellowship. [ Voice still just as mellow, smile just crinkling his eyes. ] There are far worse double-crossings.
[ And there are few who know just how necessary such measures are better than Godfrey himself. Selfish in pain. He's like a dog; he has to be tricked into showing his wounds. ]
Very well, then I shall be the one to lead our ramblings for the evening. I cannot promise any particularly interesting revelations, but if there is a burden you would particularly like to investigate...
[ Seems prudent to give him the choice, if he wants to carry something. Even if the room is dark, and all he may take on his back remains uncertain and vague. ]
Edited (if ur getting this i lied and dusted it up now bc im trapped here until this box of food arrives) 2024-03-28 14:38 (UTC)
[The wizard lets out a warm, amused peal of laughter in response; his snare had been well-meant, of course, and he's glad that it has been received as such. As ulterior motives went, this really was rather tame.]
Betrayed, yes, but with the greatest of intentions!
[He smiles again in turn, a bit of pleasant crinkling forming around his own eyes, as it so often did when he was in a merry mood.]
Of course, I'll not attempt to extract anything you aren't willing to share, but it seemed imperative that you have at least half an hour where you did not feel as though you must hold yourself together for the good of all.
[Though his gaze becomes a bit more somber, his expression remains pleasant, the inviting countenance of a good friend.]
This journey has been hard on all of us. I know it cannot be easy to lead this rag-tag band of rascals and ruffians, especially under the present circumstances. Certainly, there are days where each one of us must feel like giving up entirely.
[ Distance and a trick of the light, surely. This is all that he sees in the way Gale looks at him.
Holding to what he knows helps him little. His gaze touches Gale's as he laughs, warm in the dying light, the barest flickering by his eyes, the illusion of movement cast just slightly downward, and he feels his chest swell.
Sir Godfrey busies himself with his glass and a steadying breath. The light plays tricks as it dies, and Godfrey had seated himself distantly enough to fall vulnerable to them. That was all. He needed not cast his own aspersions over the evening, over this evening least of all. Gale's kindness and good will needed none of Godfrey's compounded loneliness to colour it, nor to turn it into anything but what it was.
Another sip likely wouldn't help, tempting though it may be. Sufficiently chastened, Godfrey unbusies himself from the ruby depths of his cup, and he looks again to Gale, with only the hope that the warmth blooming in his chest isn't as visible as it feels.
And truly, he wishes the care Gale shows him now untouched by the years he's spent encased in mourning. It is one deeply admirable; selfless and extended for no gain of his own. To project such hunger to him here - either his own, or to veil him and this evening in it - felt an unkindness, an unnecessary sullying of something wonderful and rare. Godfrey, eyes smiling, cants his head toward it as it is expressed, taking a moment of thought. He takes a breath through his nose. ]
Here... once, perhaps. [ This answer comes softly, unsure. As though this is the first moment's thought he's granted to the question. ] Shortly after we became stranded by the Nautiloid, and we began learning of our affliction.
[ He had allowed himself to think of his daughter. Of taming her wild Wood Elven hair into braids, and of laying out her clothes for the morning before bed. Of her hand in his. Of watching her eat, and listening to her play, and reading to her. Of listening to her outlandish thoughts and seeing the world through her young eyes. Of the way she would, baby-fat cheeks sagging just a little with grim and childish severity, stand up and run to crowd his stomach with her face after every long day of training.
Of what the word ceremorphosis would do to it. He had wept alone. ]
Though not since. Our friends have failed to instill such feelings in me, if that is indeed their goal. I am... I think, good at trying for others. I think not of myself for as long as I do.
[ What might happen now that Gale is asking him to stop doing that? Godfrey hasn't asked himself that quite yet.
Godfrey glances back to his cup now, considers another drink, decides against it. ]
At home... many times, it pains me to say. The church did not always appreciate my leadership, and often did I ask myself if all of the fighting was worthwhile. As well...
[ Did Gale know of his husband? Godfrey can't say. But he'd asked for the walls which kept these old tragedies in to come down, for the silence stretching between them to be filled with all that he's kept in his chest. Godfrey asks himself to oblige. He swallows. ]
I am a widower, and the time after my husband passed was difficult and long.
[Gale's expression turns rather more somber as he listens, his smile fading even as his attention never wavers— he watches Godfrey as he answers him with intent, with patience, wishing to offer the same understanding that their de-facto leader has offered him so many times now. He takes another measured sip of his drink, his gaze momentarily lingering on the way the low light catches against the very outline of Godfrey's features.
That he was a widower wasn't entirely surprising, though they had never discussed it in detail.]
I imagine it must have been so. I did not know for certain if you were a widower, but you have mentioned that you are Iltha's only remaining family. I confess, I assumed as much.
[It was, in fact, one of the myriad reasons why Gale had convinced himself his interests were inappropriate— even if he weren't considering the amount of danger he would put someone in, given the disastrous consequences of his own actions and the burden he now bore.]
As someone who has come to both respect and depend upon your leadership, I'm afraid the church may not have realized what they had. I suppose they might have lacked a certain sense of pragmatism.
[ A perfectly serviceable guess, really; it wasn't as though Godfrey had done much to educate his new friends on the truth of him.
In this respect, he has done them a disservice. This is something that has always perched at the edge of his awareness; always there, but simple enough to avoid. All Godfrey truly needed to do was to remind himself of the simple fact that none of them could know him - that they all had things more important and pertinent to know than the silver-and-gold knight who had just blundered into their lives. They did not need to know him. He could know them, and surely, that would be enough.
This was before the first of them had tried to return the favour by knowing Godfrey as Godfrey had come to know them. Gale, attentive and careful, looking to absorb anything of Godfrey, sits before him. Ready and eager for anything that he might give.
And yet, his tongue guides the conversation in circles. He does not seek an ear nor a shoulder tonight, and he asks not that Godfrey remain sturdy and strong where he cannot. These things are simple; his own strength can stand in for others, and he can listen, and he can take in their tragedies, and he can hope that they weigh a little less on them for how they now weigh on Godfrey himself. Gale asks something else of him entirely. Godfrey hardly knows where to begin. And, indeed, where the others have slowly done him the honour of giving Godfrey pieces of themselves, Godfrey finds himself retreating, clutching those shards in his hands.
Why, Godfrey? He could not say. It was not as though Gale was an untrustworthy friend - and yet he hesitates. Even in the face of his kindness, he hesitates.
Sir Godfrey had sworn an oath. ]
You are kind to say so.
[ This small concession, first. He does not agree, and Godfrey does not hide this. He lifts his glass to his lips and takes a long, thoughtful sip, the bell-curve of its belly glinting in the low light. It hangs loose in his fingers when he finds his thirst satisfied, leaning casually against the inner edge of of his leg. ]
But it was me who lacked pragmatism. I think it will not surprise you to hear that my leadership was a touch... idealistic. I did not always keep in the forefront of my thoughts the well-being of the Temple.
I do confess that my own view of you has certainly been colored by our very unusual circumstances, but no, I cannot say that surprises me a great deal.
[His smile quirks to one side as he drinks deep from his glass, a simple pleasure that he finds himself incredibly grateful for in these trying times. For all of his experiences, all of his talents, all of his elegant taste, it was the simple moments he always found the most comfort in.]
I would go so far as to say that there are times when your leadership is still a touch idealistic, but given that what we face has the potential to lead to disastrously poor choices under tremendous pressure, but the optimist in me rather appreciates the standing reminder to be considerate of the consequences of our actions.
[Gale is rather pragmatic when he needs to be, but he does still like to hope for the best while preparing for the worst.]
[ He lets himself live just a little too long in that moment, studying the way he smiles and his face as he takes that deep drink of wine. Tries to read his thoughts through his closed eyes and the way his chest moves as he breathes, exhaling as he allows the taste to fill him.
Suns himself in this small approval, as he recounts a time when not even his own household fully appreciated his efforts.
Godfrey glances away then. The lingering smile fades as he delves deeper. ]
I like to think that my time in the clergy taught me a thing or two. [ Perhaps more accurate; he likes to hope. ] My heart was well-placed and did not falter, but... well. I prioritized what it told me over what my rational mind did.
[ Here, his gaze gets trepidatious and shy; he glances toward Gale for a thin moment, gauging his reaction in slim seconds before looking away again, allowing the buzz of the night outside to take the moment again. ]
The temple had many... implicit, shall we say, initiatives to help the underprivileged. [ His gaze distances as he rolls the glass in his hand, feeling its weight slosh precariously in its glass belly. ] We offered direct help to the children and the newly born, and that was well. We sheltered travelers and adventurers, for they often proved lucrative prospects and particularly helpful hands. But never the parents of those children. There was an air that we ought not take responsibility for them, that their problems lie with themselves where their children were blameless, that the church ought keep funding our other initiatives instead. It all appeared, to me, rather... self-serving.
[ And the hesitation is no trepidation regarding blasphemy - the Morninglord uses His clergy first and foremost to revise the old traditions, that Lathander may be improved continuously as His priests use Him for their own betterment. Criticism and debate of scripture and its use is, always, a healthy part of any good Lathanderian worship. ]
It was my assessment that a man cannot be expected to improve himself when he knew not where his next meal came from, or when he had no cover from the sun or the rain. And it also was my assessment that our scripture demanded we pull those around us in our wake, tow them toward a tomorrow ever brighter. That this was our divine duty. I followed this call. I became the Temple's Dawnlord, and I fought to keep its doors open to the poor and the destitute.
[ He exhales, slowly, through his nose. His shoulders fall, and his brow tightens a little. The note of the statement swings downward instead of upward. ]
[Gale's brow furrows as he echoes the paladin, having watched his expression carefully as he told his tale, that exhale alone a great indicator of a turning point to come. He grimaces, his own smile having faded, and he shakes his head as he lowers his glass, eyebrows knit together in disapproval— not of Godfrey, but of those who would take advantage of his ideals.]
I wish such things were unheard of, people turning on the very hands that feed them. Your heart was certainly in the right place, wishing to aid those the temple had previously overlooked. I've not been unfortunate enough to experience true hunger— the traditional kind, at least— but I do know how difficult it can be to try and improve one's situation when plagued with doubt, with pain.
[He lets out a sigh of his own, lifting his glass and giving it another even swirl before he drinks.]
Even then, it seems you believed the best of mankind. What happened to the one who assaulted you?
[ Godfrey's taken on a mournful air as Gale gives his thoughts - but the air is sucked from the tent completely at that question.
In the heavy vacuum of silence left behind, Sir Godfrey sits, swallowing. ]
She was found to have made an intentional attempt on my life by the courts, whilst I lay in recovery. I could not intervene before she was hanged by the neck.
[ And intervene he would have; the assailant was a young woman known to him. He had no wish to see her put to death for a crime she had committed in desperation, not while he remained dedicated to helping her. He had walked himself through the alternatives he could have offered for weeks - had he only been able to attend.
Though, somewhere in Godfrey's chest, this story had never quite sat right. He had never been able to fathom how it had been that multiple days had been lost; his fellow clergymen pointed their fingers at Vladimir and claimed that all had been handled at home, that the Temple had presumed him missing in the crucial hours after the assault had been discovered. And Vladimir would not speak of the incident at all. ]
Vladimir was furious with me. [ Godfrey's gaze has drifted down to his shoes, one ankle crossed over the other, as he murmurs. ] He was a stern man for all of our time together, but never had I seen him angry, either before or since. He told me, the bastards will eat you alive, and you'll think nothing of anyone who loved you. Only to be sorry for the way you'll stick in their damned teeth.
[ Another quiet moment passes.
Something shifts across Godfrey's face. A subtle furrowing of his brow and a slow-dawning regret as he wishes he could pull back that anecdote - the fear that he's compromised the careful image of Vladimir that Godfrey's curated, one of the few which exists.
Godfrey takes his glass and drains the rest of the wine from it and, in a woozy moment, decides to prove his late husband's frustrations right; he untucks his shirt and, carefully, lifts a bit of its cover from his waistband.
Beneath it is a criss-crossing mess of pink scarring, the remains of a savage assault. Repeated, rapid intrusions, clustered to the lower-right of his firm abdomen. A bloody remainder.
[He had not expected a happy end to that tale, and yet the answer he was almost certain he would receive still hangs heavy in the air between them. Godfrey tells him much, but there are things he leaves unspoken, as well— had he not been in recovery, Gale is certain he would have done everything within his power to see the woman's life spared. It was simply who he was.
The tale is a grim one. He frowns slightly as Godfrey recounts Vlad's words to him, his brow furrowing further still.]
I imagine he was furious because he was terrified.
[Coming so close to losing the person you loved... such things were enough to push people to do or say things they wouldn't normally.
His gaze moves downwards as Godfrey shifts, and it takes him a moment or two longer than it should to realize what it is that his companion is doing, thanks to the wine. The scar is a stark contrast against the rest of his skin, and yet despite the solemnity of the moment, Gale feels his heart rise into his throat and his mouth go suddenly dry as he finds his gaze taking in other details, as well— the plane of Godfrey's stomach, the hard-won muscle.
He swallows hard, averts his gaze, and quickly drains the last of the contents of his glass.]
It must have been a very close thing, that injury. I'm glad you lived to tell the tale.
[Gods above, the way he was feeling in this moment was wildly inappropriate.]
Edited (I literally forgot the most important line) 2024-05-18 03:37 (UTC)
Yes, [ Godfrey tugs the bottom edge of his shirt back over his firm stomach, ] just so.
[ If Godfrey is aware of the sudden flash of colour in Gale's ears, he doesn't show it. He clears the tension from his throat and rests his other hand on his stomach, rolling the wine in the bottom of his glass. Feels its thin weight rock between hand and palm as he stares through the tent walls.
Softly; ]
I never did learn just what happened.
[ The uncertainty, though frightening, was a better avenue of conversation to travel than others which branched from this event; the fighting, or the cold guilt. Feeling the life leak out of him in that locked, silent office. ]
My fellow clergymen told me that Vladimir had handled everything. And he would not speak on it.
[ Not while he could, anyway, and Godfrey had thought the day would not come.
Perhaps he had died. He'd never know now, and had spent some years convincing himself that the uncertainty perched in the back of his head didn't bother him.
The subject matter sufficiently disturbing for a change in focus, Godfrey's eyes return to the tent. He glances up at Gale and sees his glass empty. ]
Ah. [ Godfrey shifts, wrapping a gentle hand around the neck of their bottle. ] Another, perhaps?
[He finds himself immensely grateful for the offer of wine, not only because of his empty glass, but because the shift in topic, however slight, might help him to feel slightly less at odds with himself— a momentary thought that he immediately feels guilty for allowing to pass through his mind at all. It had been important to him to encourage Godfrey to share, it still was, but he has not, perhaps, been entirely honest about why that might be, with Godfrey or with himself.
He leans forward to hold out his glass, balancing himself against the ground with one hand.]
Ah, yes— please, though I hope you will join me for another, as well.
[The space between them had already been small, narrow, and leaning forward brings them inordinately close to one another in a way that is bordering on terribly distracting. Gale finds himself keenly aware of the fact that this is the first time Godfrey has ever physically joined him in his tent, but he's certainly thought about what might happen if he did on more than one occasion.
Gods above, he is certainly going to find himself in one of the nine hells for thinking such things of a still-grieving widower— devoted to the church, at that. Gale has never considered himself to be particularly hedonistic, but when comparing himself to Godfrey, he feels downright sinful.]
[ He would, however, likely keep himself at two glasses for the rest of his visit. Not that that's anything to discount; Godfrey has kept his one-glass limit strict through their travels. Nothing has motivated him to bend this rule prior to this evening.
What has changed? Godfrey can't say. Not precisely; that is to say, he cannot give a singular, satisfying explanation. The closest his own thoughts come is to say that everything has. There is little about this evening they're sharing that isn't unorthodox for him, at least slightly. He's yet to intrude on the quarters of any of his new companions in this manner, lounging so casually in their private corners of their campsites. He has shared things which only few people know - stories he's been reticent to tell even in Baldur's Gate. Stranger still, he feels at ease about it.
One more paltry glass of table wine in the company of a friend who is trying for him seems, perhaps, an innocent enough diversion to add to the pile.
He sets his own down as Gale works his way nearer, just a little unsteady on the rocky ground. Godfrey's hand comes to his. Strong, rough fingers cradle the hand around his glass gingerly, just enough to hold him steady as he extends. They don't move as Gale steadies, and Godfrey pours more dark wine. He pours him a respectable glass - something vague in him dictates this line, between "respectable" and some shadowy alternative. Not too heavy, lest he be pressured to drink more than he might have; not too stingy, lest he think Godfrey thinks him some sort of sot who needs mediating. The glass is perfectly respectable when Godfrey pulls away; just tiptoeing to half-full.
Godfrey finishes his own glass and pours himself just a little less. ]
Gale had been about to offer a witty but warm response when he feels Godfrey's hand coming to steady his own, causing him to suddenly draw a blank where he had previously been full to the brim with far more thoughts than even he knew what to do with.
It's such a small thing. Insignificant to most, likely, but tonight, in this space, after so very long without experiencing any human touch aside from any that coincided with recent mending of wounds—
It feels like something.
Surely he's overthinking it. Surely, he is allowing the dim light and the cheap table wine to go to his head, but the strong, warm touch of Godfrey's hand is still enough to convince Gale to shift so that they're now seated alongside one another, rather than across.]
You're welcome to stay all night, if you wish.
[It comes so easily that he doesn't even consider the implications of it, and he flusters just a touch as he revises.]
That is— you're always welcome, as far as I'm concerned. My thanks.
[He lifts his glass, giving a tip of his head before drinking deep.
Very deep.
Gods, didn't he used to be good at this sort of thing? He swears he was.]
[ Shivering warmth floods the back of his neck, runs down his spine as he hears the low ease in Gale's voice.
Ridiculous. Pathetic, his desperation. That it would drive him to resort to crawling into accidental innuendo for warmth - and, indeed, to assign warmth where there likely wasn't any. A blind worm seeking moisture by the tip of his nose. He ought to be ashamed of himself. Certainly he would pray for his Lord's guidance tomorrow morning - but it isn't shame he feels thrilling in the bottom of his chest.
Something else. A queer giddiness. A tiny exhilaration. Small wings beating against the inside of him, too small to fill him completely but yet unmistakable. The wine and the thin and fleeting notion that it might have been meant precisely how Godfrey had first thought conspire to make something impossible, irresistible. He'd not even imagined such a thing in years. There is no way for Godfrey to thank Gale for what currently stirs in him, the tiny wings lightening his shoulders and the stone he's carried in his chest, yet he feels he must.
Instead, he releases a soft breath as Gale course corrects. Of course. It couldn't take what he had given him, though, selfish as it may be to hold it. He would lock it deep within himself. It would stay there until his body would rot and break its aroma to the world. Until then, he would lock it in a box. He would inhale it for the rest of his days. ]
I ought impose upon your hospitality more often, my friend.
[ If there is some mirrored implication in Godfrey's words, he doesn't let on that he realizes it. He takes a polite drink of his glass as Gale dives into his, lets the alcohol sit on his tongue, swallows.
More grape, but pleasantly so. ]
I think I have rather handily defeated my own purpose in being here. [ He's smiling, gently, as he says it. ] I wish not to dwell on unpleasantness while I take your time. Perhaps I ought tell a happier tale.
[ He would lend the floor to Gale, but he seems uninterested in himself as a subject of conversation, and Godfrey feels indebted to appease him after all of that sorrowing he's just done. ]
[That smile of his— always warm and full of reassurance, and Gale finds himself wondering if, perhaps, he had not been so far off the mark after all. It would be so, so easy to imagine such things after so many long months sequestered away from the world, so much time spent keenly aware of the fact that any given day could not only be his last, but was more likely to be than not. That last part, he supposes, hasn't changed much in the least.
Perhaps it's the wine bolstering his courage, or the fact that there's so little left to lose. What do any of them really have left to hold onto, at this point?
Certainly not pride. He's had his fill of that, personally.]
Oh, I do wish you would.
[... wait.]
'Impose' more often, I mean, though it is certainly no imposition at all. The story would be more than welcome, of course. I am certain I would enjoy any tale you had to tell.
[ ... well. There's a certain warmth and familiarity in Gale's tone for a moment that not even Godfrey can ignore, the low implication of something more just beneath his words ringing too clearly for Godfrey to plug his ears to.
He can't be surprised, though. Not after seeing personally how quickly he started into his glass. It's likely the wine talking; Godfrey can feel it himself, the way the alcohol begins to blur the lines between the two of them, the way it flourishes in his chest. He was at risk of the very same thing - precisely why he must remain cognizant of it. It was hardly fair to ascribe something personal to Gale's burgeoning inebriation, and less fair to hold it against him.
Godfrey sits and smiles amiably, but keeps his back straight and his hips beneath him. He does not return to his earlier posture, lounging back on the piled cushions. It felt improper now, in ways that Godfrey could not elaborate upon. He watches the shimmering, ruby heart of his glass, and he delves. ]
I have shown you sadness tonight, but that is not all that my life has been. [ It likely went without saying, but it was a reminder that Godfrey himself could do with. There were many sadnesses, but just as much laughter, and a litter of stories he could use to prove it. ] I remember once-- Iltha was quite angry at me.
[ She seemed his safest bet. Vladimir felt inexorably couched in that same sadness he was trying to escape, though he had his share that always brought a smile to his face - and, strangely, it feels impolite to conjure him back into the conversation. He takes a deep sip. ]
She had... I believe, said some disparaging things to her schoolteacher. She became angry that I had not taken her side in the matter and confined her to her room. [ Even had she been, as Iltha's assessment went, lacking in intelligence and not worth listening to, it would not do to have her saying so. ] I had assumed the matter would cool in the evening, but I suppose that I underestimated her.
[ There's a distance in his eyes now, a warm fondness in the curve of his lips. ]
I said good-night to her, as I often did. She was scrunched into her bed, you know, looking sullen still. And she began-- [ Something ripples in him, a sensible chuckle he tries to suppress, ] She began to point out other things in the room and address them. Good-night book, good-night chair, good-night hairbrush. I love you, comb. I'd spent my time watching over the children with the church, but I'd no clue they were capable of that sort of... I suppose, passive-aggression.
[He laughs warmly, shaking his head before taking another pull from his glass, more measured this time. The tale reminds him of how he'd responded to his mother when she'd initially refused to allow him to get a cat.]
It's quite remarkable, how long children can hold onto grudges. It would seem your girl is especially clever, if she's able to make such a savage point so young.
[He lets out a chuckle of his own; it's good to hear Godfrey laugh, to laugh together, given all they've endured these past weeks.]
She's going to grow up to be a force to be reckoned with, I've no doubt. I'd quite like to meet her someday, if the opportunity ever presents itself. If my hunch is correct, she's likely to have quite a knack for debate.
[Even through stories alone, he can recognize a kindred spirit.]
Godfrey stills, then, brow knotting tight as he considers how he could begin to approach putting her into a tidy little sentence. ]
She's frightfully serious. [ A twinge of amusement ripples the seriousness in Godfrey's own face as he considers it, seems to mirror the attitude for himself for a moment. ] Quite severe and pensive. And she is the sort of child, I suppose, who expects that everyone will take her as seriously as she takes herself. And - you know, this is unfortunate, because all of that on a girl so small...
[ Well. You try keeping your face straight as a three-year-old girl seriously tells your husband that you told her not to say anything if you have nothing nice to say regarding dinner. The pensive silences only serve to enhance the comedy of situations, and the grave frowns are impossible to take seriously in those babyfat cheeks.
But there is something that twinges in him as Gale expresses a want to meet her. The sensation that he has opened a door into his life, and instead of stepping back from it, Gale has walked inside. It's a breathless sort of hope, intoxicating and fragile. Something he wants to grab, but fears would be crushed in his grip. ]
I would like that.
[ The fluttering in his chest lightens his voice, and his palm grows a little too warm around his glass. He takes a breath. ]
As would she, I think. I suspect you would get along well.
I can only imagine that when others find it difficult to take her quite so seriously, she's not entirely pleased.
[His smile pulls easily to one side as he imagines, briefly, how such a scene might play out, and the idea alone is terribly familiar. He probably wasn't quite so severe as Iltha sounds to be when he was a child, but he had taken himself quite seriously in his own right and set grand expectations for himself that he expected everyone to be onboard with. Unfortunately for him, they weren't always.
For the briefest of moments, he has the self-awareness to look just the slightest bit shy about what he'd implied, and feels something in him lift at that lightness in Godfrey's voice as he lowers his glass.]
You think so? I promise, I'd not tell any embarrassing stories regarding your time with us on the road— of course, I suppose I'm being rather presumptuous about it all, aren't I?
[Inviting himself into Godfrey's life like that. It was some streak of fortune that had brought them all together, granted them the opportunity to aid one another in this unfortunate venture, but he has found himself rather hoping that when it all comes to an end... maybe they needn't all go their separate ways.
He sighs a bit, though his easy smile remains.]
All the more reason to make it through this, yes? Perhaps making those sorts of plans will be just the push we need.
[ A light note of concern in his voice accompanies this response; much had transpired over the course of their travels together, but he hadn't thought there had been much embarrassment to be had.
More accurately, perhaps, he hadn't thought there had been much embarrassment to be had that Gale was aware of. This evening is suddenly full of incidents Godfrey would deem an embarrassment - but ones which, if Godfrey had any say in the matter, would remain carefully concealed secrets from Gale. There was no need to inflict the loneliness yawning at his own feet; the humiliating, exhilarating pressure beginning to build in him as Gale insinuates himself closer and closer to his heart, conspiring with the low tones he had just earlier written off. No one needed such a thing foisted upon them, but particularly not Gale, particularly not tonight. He'd only wanted to extend some kindness to him. He hardly deserved for Godfrey to twist something so good into anything else.
And such, Godfrey begins to act almost as soon as he feels it, his lips pressing for an uncomfortable moment. The tightline before him is delicate; head off the problem at the pass before Gale becomes aware of his discomfort and assumes himself at fault. Godfrey hauls his thoughts back and attempts to corral himself with a quiet breath.
He also, with a hesitance he tries to make casual, pulls the leg closest to Gale up just a little, bending his knee to a shallow peak. ]
Indeed so. I would like very much to see all of you, after our travels conclude - but...
[ He clears his throat, abruptly, his voice softened when he continues; ]
I would be... very glad, if this were not the last night we spend together like this.
[While Gale doesn't think anything of Godfrey's shift in posture, that new softness in his voice causes him to still, his breath catching in his throat as he's midway through another sip of his wine, holding it for a moment too long before he exhales.
Maybe it wasn't so foolish for him to read into Godfrey's actions. Perhaps he wasn't entirely out of line, after all?
There was really only one way to say for sure. He lowers his glass, setting it down atop a nearby stack of books that also has some unfurled parchment spread atop it, the closest thing he has to a table inside the tent itself. He turns his gaze to the larger man directly, his eyes soft with both fondness and a faint questioning.]
I, ah— well. If I hadn't already made that apparent, I would be very glad, as well.
[He clears his own throat, one side of his mouth quirking upwards again for a moment before he proceeds, cautious.]
I would like to keep in touch with everyone, but— I would like to see you, especially. When I say you're always welcome, I do mean... there's truly no one who's company I'd like more.
[Carefully, so carefully, he brings his hand to lightly rest against Godfrey's wrist.]
[ There is obvious gravity at his side, suddenly; the priesthood had given him a canny sense for revelations close to the surface of a conversation. Godfrey is taking a drink from his glass when it makes him abruptly aware of the silence in the room, as Gale sets his own cup down and turns to face him fully.
Godfrey turns to him, wine glass in hand, in the weighty sliver of silence which precedes. Their conversations hadn't exactly been perpetually light in nature, but this is a gravity he's not yet felt from Gale; not quite the anticipatory and impossible weight that news of the orb bore, but something heavy, something enduring, lingering still in the air. Something which must surely have all of Godfrey's attention, and all of Godfrey's attention it shall have.
It begins to fall into place around him as Gale speaks, and he becomes aware of the look in his eyes - the soft, longing fondness. That same distant and foolish part of him conspires to lock that away, too - to press it into his mind until nothing could take the memory of being seen through those eyes. The notion that he may not need to steal it like some sort of starving animal dawns on him slowly, becomes a sunrise less and less avoidable as Gale continues, voice low and brimming with softness.
For him.
Godfrey swallows his wine, and exhales. He stares in unguarded surprise, his clear cerulean eyes darting between Gale's face and his hand, tender and carefully placed at his wrist. As though the dream might be broken and scattered if he looked away. Time stretches between the two of them. ]
Ah-- oh.
[ His throat tightens, and a sudden and terrible awareness of himself hurries through him. Without looking away, Godfrey's hand drops out of Gale's sight, hurriedly trying to find satisfactory purchase for his own glass. He places it on the rocky edge of a flat stone and the glass topples, and the remains of his glass soaks dark into the earth - this draws his attention from Gale with a thin, displeased noise, as he looks to ensure that none of the cushions have been ruined.
He looks back to Gale, tight with self-consciousness. He's still there, somehow.
Hurriedly, Godfrey looks down to Gale's hand, warm against his wrist. Unavoidable. He takes it in both of his own. ]
I- I hope that-- [ His throat conspires to choke him. He looks to Gale's hand in his own, brushes his thumb over his smooth knuckles, and tries to center himself. ] You have honoured me. I hope that you will forgive my... lack of grace. And that you have not mistaken it for reticence. I did not--
[ A slight tightening of his broad hands around Gale's. ]
[For a moment, Gale thinks his interest might be ill-received, even as Godfrey sets his glass aside and spills its contents— prestidigitation will manage that easily enough later on— and he prepares to steel himself for rejection, to apologize for assuming too much, for misreading.
To anyone who wasn't well-acquainted with either of them, Gale's remark might have been innocuous enough, but the wizard knows better. Neither he nor Godfrey are the sort to do anything by halves, nor are they the sort to engage in such things without considering the long-term implications. They had both loved and lost, in their own ways. Godfrey was a widower with a young child, Gale was a man who knew what he wanted from his future, should he live long enough to have one.
It isn't until Godfrey closes both hands around his own that he feels himself let out a breath of relief, the thundering of his heartbeat in his own ears receding as he gives a more earnest smile.]
If I'm to forgive you for any lack of grace, then I should hope you could forgive me for the same. I'm— a touch out of practice, as it turns out.
[He hasn't expressed his feelings to another mortal in more years than he can remember. For so long, it was only Mystra. The charming, mischievous scholar he'd been in his youth was a distant memory, at times.]
Truth be told, I thought the same. That— there was not enough left of me to offer, in fact.
[They could still die before they reach the end, and he remains on borrowed time, but he has all sorts of reasons to fight for a future now. Godfrey, he's come to realize in recent weeks, is one of them.]
[ Typically, the second standard he sets for himself, and the irony which comes with it, occur to him casually. Some idle thought, a passing realization. Some notion folded into another's words, hidden until he unwraps and thinks on it. Very rarely has the sight of his own standards against his standards for another confronted him so.
He can see the sentiment Gale expresses so clearly; the sense of diminishment. That a person leaves slivers of themselves in others as their lives touch against the lives of others, pieces which could not be restored or retrieved. It's a feeling Godfrey has often existed alongside; it often felt as though he could feel the broken edges of the pieces he'd lost of himself. The pieces he'd entrusted to his husband. They'd been buried with him.
Godfrey had just been running his fingers along those edges, as it turns out, as Gale expresses the very same sensation. His thoughts immediately recoil against the idea he had just spent so many years fostering, disbelieving the very ragged seams he had just been contemplating. It all suddenly seemed ludicrous; that the man before him, storied and intelligent and kind and careful, could have been diminished by anything.
But this was not a train of thought Godfrey would follow; not now, blighting into a world after that breathless admission. And nor was it a point he would argue with words - Godfrey knew that debate would not be what disproves this thinking to him. Godfrey brings his hand to his lips and presses into it a kiss, exhaling slow and warm across the back of his hand.
Willing that uncomfortable pressure, still building steadily, to settle one last time before he slips his hand from Gale's and relaxes his posture to offer to him his strong, broad chest, his smile touching his eyes in the soft light. ]
[Gale is by no means a small man, but he still remains absolutely dwarfed by Godfrey as he pushes himself to his knees and moves forward, eagerly leaning in to take advantage of the shift in position. It doesn't take much, given that they're already in close quarters, and he invites himself to reach out and thread dexterous fingers through the paladin's soft, champagne-pale hair, letting out a shuddering breath as he does so, having gone far, far too long without the touch of another, even in friendship.
He tips his head for a kiss, lips soft and parted as he seeks out Godfrey's own. His curiosity peeks through even in this; it is an opportunity to learn him, taste him, and he pulls himself flush against the offered chest as his free hand comes to rest against the larger man's upper arm, kneeling between his thighs. Only when he leans into Godfrey himself does he feel the press of his arousal against his own thigh, and he stills for only a moment before he lets out a laugh, warm and bright and enough for him to break that searching kiss as he drops his head.]
Oh, thank the gods, I hardly wanted to be the only one.
[They were far enough now from any somber conversation that it no longer felt inappropriate, and even less so with another glass of wine in him and the warm plane of Godfrey's broad chest beneath his own.]
[ It isn't what he intended to invite, but it's hardly unwelcome.
Godfrey sighs hard against his lips, as though setting down some great weight, and now lets himself fall back into the pillows. Both of his hands occupy themselves immediately as Gale's lips part against his, running down the gentle slope of his back, fingers wringing the embroidered waist of his bedclothes until the bottom seam slips high enough to expose his back.
It isn't a conscious effort to undress him - were Godfrey made aware of it, a temporary embarrassment might break through the moment, pull him to something more proper and principled than the man currently relishing in the warmth of his skin, mapping the muscle of his lower back with his palm. It is raw need coursing him; his body reaching out for the thing his rational mind would deny him, instinct driving his hand to run his fingertips just beneath the band of his waist to claim the warmth there, pulling him to wind his calf gently against the inside of Gale's -- and to pull his voice from him, surprised and hitching against Gale's parted lips as he presses against him.
Hot pressure pulls his cock tight for a moment, a strong throb he is only half-aware that Gale can certainly feel, and the fever breaks. Gale's breath is not on his tongue, and the soft press of his lips is gone. Godfrey's eyes flutter, and that respectable part of him regains control again as he sees his hand down the length of Gale's back - his fingers having wandered just a little too far below the waist. His hand recoils.
His next breath might have been an apology, but for Gale's own breathless, laughing confession. Flushed and panting, a rough hah pulled from him in response. Disbelieving. He hardly even needs to see it. Knowing that he had not been the only one concealing himself is enough to send a hot thrill through his body, and he brings his fingers to his hair, gently combing long strands from his ear to sigh hotly against it, to kiss its tender edge before whispering to him; ]
I had feared that it would drive me to cut the evening short.
[ Instead, he begins to think, it's only made it longer. ]
[The moment he begins to feel Godfrey's hand retreat from below his waist, he moves his hand downwards to catch the paladin's wrist and guide his touch back to where it had been, encouraging those curious fingertips to explore beneath the band at his waist if they see fit, his own breathless laughter subsiding.
The press of lips and heated breath against his air send a shudder running through him, and he catches his lower lip against his teeth to just barely stifle what would have most certainly been an embarrassingly wanton groan. It was almost ludicrous, how quickly he found himself aroused in this man's presence— more than once now, by his own admission— and the throb of Godfrey's own arousal against his leg only fuels his own, that familiar pressure building as he ceases his efforts in trying to will it away.
Godfrey's fingers in his hair and his voice against the shell of his ear only serve to stoke the embers, and his own fingers curl as they remain woven through the paladin's hair, turning his head to steal a kiss from the corner of his mouth, making a very slight but deliberate shift so that his thigh pulls against the larger man's clothed cock, the press of it enough to have Gale already straining against his trousers.]
That would have been a terrible, terrible shame. I would hate to think of you taking yet another burden upon yourself to bear.
[ Poor Godfrey does not have the same luxury of choice that Gale has; his entire body seems to pull tense as Gale pulls his leg against his stiff cock, hands pulling tight into fists, his legs squeezing inward.
He releases the handful he's grabbed of Gale's hair and waits for the waves of throbbing heat to subside. It has been some years since his husband died, this is true; what Gale may be starting to put together is that sex with others is not the only thing Godfrey has sacrificed. Though he's not completely abstained, his restraint extends to matters of self-pleasure as well, besides in cases where it would be impossible for Iltha to apparate at his door in need of something. That needed only happen once for him to take extra precaution.
If Iltha appears here, there's far bigger problems to worry about, but that hadn't made him much more forgiving; he had simply traded Iltha for any of the strangers he'd taken up travel with, for their strange schedules that never seemed to allow for sleep at a regular hour. This was amenable until recently. They certainly had those bigger problems and more to concern themselves with. He'd not felt the need to hide in his tent, holding his breath and watching the entry as he ran his oiled hand up and down the length of his hard dick until just recently; he could normally think himself out of such predicaments. This evening - well.
Outrunning the heat in his belly had been uncertain already. It was certainly impossible now. And his restraint has been diminished such that he's not sure it would actually satisfy.
Godfrey's nose scrubs into his stubbled jaw, hips flexing again against his firm thigh with a hitching sigh. Gale's words come to him on a delay, and the mention of that other burden goes straight to his dick again, the notion that this had been something hiding behind the evening - that this was just the sort of thing Gale would have imagined in secret, had he left.
His eyes roll and slip shut as he feels, in a burst of warmth, his hips relax, the subtle rub against his leg. His other hand gingerly tugs the waistband of his trousers around the curve of his ass. ]
Please-- [ Please what, Godfrey? He can't answer that, because to answer would be to think on it, and he's trying to make himself last. ]
[That single word on his lips is beyond sweet, and Gale turns his head to chase them for another kiss, eager to taste him after so many nights of wondering what it might be like— far more than he felt it was gentlemanly to admit to, even if manners be damned at the moment. They have no place here, not when Godfrey's calloused touch is on his ass and he's already achingly hard, not when he can feel the larger man struggling not to rut against him before they've even undressed themselves.]
Don't stop touching me.
[It's a request bordering on breathless already. Gale seals his lips over Godfrey's own and drinks deep, slipping his searching tongue past parted lips while his heart races, thundering in his ears, and he uses both hands to start tugging at the lacings of the other man's shirt, no longer having to guide his touch. When there's no immediate give, he starts impatiently tugging Godfrey's shirt free from his waist, pulling it up with one hand as the other glides over his abdomen, eager fingers passing over the scar he had been shown and feeling out the sculpt of his muscles.
He feels his own cock twitch as the heated touch of skin against skin sparks something in him, something that he'd worried was long dead, and he lets out a needful moan against Godfrey's mouth as he tugs the paladin's shirt upwards, intent on getting it off and away, to keep it from barring them from one another any longer.]
There is no thought in Godfrey greater than the warmth of his skin, the curve of his hip as he feels his trousers pull taut and then slacken as they shift down the back of his thighs, the slip of his hair between his fingers. The way the curve of his ass feels beneath his thick and calloused hand. He would live in the way his tongue slides against his if he could, in that glassy thrill contained in the very moment before Godfrey gives himself to the sensation, in the ambitious handful he grasps of his exposed rear.
Godfrey, naturally, takes longer to become aware of his own hunger. Gale's weight against him, hot and eager, seems nearly too much as it is; he's content to run his hand across him for the moment, up the curve of his backbone, running beneath his clothing. Urgency tenses in his other hand now; strands of dark hair wound in his fingers as he groans against his lips, takes a harsh breath through his nose to taste his tongue. Desperate to feed the moment all that he has.
Until it is that Gale's mouth is no longer against his, he has been content to fit his body to Gale's and feel his warmth through the rough homespun of his shirt. Godfrey's stomach flutters to feel Gale's hand against it, muscle tensing below his fingers. This is when he realizes his impatience - and also, as his lashes flutter, that he's right.
A slow, dozy smile comes to his lips, breathless with gentle laughter. He sighs his name to break his impatience, and kisses him - slow, deliberate - to suffocate the impatience.
Then, he leans back against the cushions, and lifts the bottom hem of his shirt over his head. Beneath it is hard muscle twitching below his skin with the small effort of pulling his wrists from his sleeves. A handful of thin and superficial training scars mar his flushing chest like pale thread.
Godfrey leaves the empty shirt in a wrinkled heap above his head, lips parted, staring up at Gale as he rests on his elbows.
[There is no elegance in the way Gale hurriedly kicks his way out of his trousers and briefs, helped along by Godfrey's previous efforts— he already longs for the other man to grab hold of him again, for the heated press of lips and tongues. He kneels between Godfrey's legs and crosses his arms to take hold of the front of his tunic, pulling it up and over his head as his beloved does the same with his own, tossing it aside to land unceremoniously among the books and cushions within his tent, revealing a smattering of dark hair over his surprisingly toned chest. The mark left behind by the netherese orb has begun to glow with as that eager anticipation grows, soft rather than blinding as his heart races beneath it.
Just as Godfrey emerges from his own shirt and looks down to find Gale already hard and wanting, the wizard feels his breath knocked out of him all at once as he looks upon him in turn. It's hardly the first time he's seen Godfrey without his shirt; considering their circumstances, it was impossible not to catch the occasional glimpse when it came to tending to wounds or bathing in the river, but it had never been like this.
He exhales steadily, a smile pulling at his lips as he rakes his gaze over that expanse of well-defined muscle, the evidence of years upon years of training and dedication, enhanced rather than marred by the littering of scars.]
Aren't you a sight.
[He leans forward to cup Godfrey's face in his hand before drawing his touch down along the curve of his neck, over the broad plane of his pectoral, letting out a soft groan of approval as he pulls close again and leans in for a slow and deliberate kiss of his own, seeking out the slide of Godfrey's tongue against his own.]
[ Godfrey had indeed seen Gale unclothed before. He has seen his limbs and chest bare. He has felt his skin warm below his hands.
But these moments had always come with other things. The heavy scent of blood in his nose, for instance. The knowledge of pain. The screaming clamour of a battle. The remaining sizzle of magic electrifying the air. Dryness in his mouth and desperation in his heart as he tries to ignore the pain and death all around him.
He hadn't had the luxury of admiring how the thin light of nighttime catches in the musculature of his firm chest. Godfrey hadn't been able to see that pale violet glow flashing in his hungry eyes. He'd not been able to think on running his fingers through that downy brown chest hair - not while he could see it, and not while entertaining the thought while knowing that he could.
And there was certainly one thing in this situation he had not seen.
Godfrey exhales softly as his eyes rest on his manhood, hot-blooded and just as turgid as his own. He wonders how long it's been so and feels a small, disbelieving thrill down his spine, his trousers pulling tight around his pelvis.
Gale's palm against his face - hardly warm anymore, for the flush in his cheek. Godfrey glances up to him, lips gently parted, and feels his touch brush against his strong neck, his fingers following his gaze along his strong chest. Godfrey's lashes flutter, and awestruck, he moves his own hangs up Gale's hard chest, running fingers through that smattering of dark hair. Feeling it between his fingers.
He loses track of where his hands are once Gale leans down fully for a kiss, pressing his body against his. Godfrey knows all he needs to; Gale is in his arms, and he feels warmth beneath his hands, and he tastes his tongue. He sighs harshly against his lips and feels his fingers dig firm into his skin. ]
[He had long lost count of how many months he had spent alone, without the touch of another, and for so much of that time, it had been the furthest thing from his mind— when merely getting out of bed felt like a day's crowning achievement, it changed one's perspective, but he is well past that now, and in this moment, he feels exactly how starved he's been for touch, for affection.
Godfrey's arms are warm and inviting, his hold easy to melt into as Gale pulls against him, his touch sending electricity racing along the surface of Gale's own skin as he explores, and it is perfect. It is something he only now realizes just how badly he had longed for it, and he fully intends to relish the opportunity.
His breath comes a bit shorter between kisses, his hands gliding down the length of Godfrey's well-muscled arms, feeling his breath catch in his throat as they taste one another and the other man's fingers dig into him, a firm reminder of how very real this is. They become further entwined as they kiss, and Gale slides a hand between the pair of them to skate downwards along the surface of Godfrey's abdomen, his deft fingers catching against the waist of his trousers.
He tips his head to press their foreheads together, his voice just barely above a whisper as he refuses to pull back, lips still hovering close, kiss-swollen.]
[ A guilty, ecstatic little ripple follows Gale's hands as they run down the seam between them, gasping against his lips as he feels that fleeting and desperate touch.
Godfrey hardly has time to dwell on the little guilt, the thin undertow trying to pull him to something dark and deep. A lucky thing - there is nothing he wants less than to be pulled away from the man sinking into his arms, breathing heavy against his lips, hot against his bare chest. And something in him knows where all of those riptide currents lie, where he may not dwell if he wishes to avoid them.
The skin of his chest has gone untouched, his lips unkissed, his body unbeheld, for - it feels - more years than he can count on both of his hands. Long enough for each and every touch to feel sensitive and new, for greedy hands and hungry eyes to feel like an exhilarating novelty. These avenues are safe.
It's when he begins to wander further, toward the thing that had blocked all of these things, that things turn treacherous.
He would live here forever, and that is a dangerous thing, for it would only beckon him down these internal causeways. Gale does not give him the chance, and just as he begins to process the absence of his lips, he speaks to him in a hissing torrent. His hands pull at his trousers. No other thought could hope to stand a chance.
Gently, Godfrey steals one more kiss, parts with the taste of his lips on his tongue, his fingers luxuriating in his dark hair. Then, he slips his hand free and props himself up, raising his hips. Tugging his hips first around the firm swell of his backside before working the one at his front free.
He glances down at his work just in time for his waistband to make its way far enough down his strong thighs to free his cock, pinned and aching against the inner leg. It springs forth, standing firm against his stomach, close to--
Godfrey sighs harshly as it's freed, feels himself flood with heat as he tries to shift his pants further down, pinning the ankles to pillows with his heel to pull each leg free. ]
[Gale feels his heart leap into his very throat as Godfrey works his way out of his trousers; he grabs hold of them just long enough to help him free and at last they are both free and unhindered. His appreciation for Godfrey's form is plain on his face, in his shuddering exhale, in the hunger of his gaze.
The moment in itself is surreal, but the heat between them is proof enough of how very real this is, keeps him present, and he cards fingers through Godfrey's champagne-colored hair as he leans in for another kiss, a low sound of approval hinting towards a growl at the back of his throat.]
You put the very stars to shame, dear heart.
[He eagerly claims Godfrey's lips once more as he blindly takes hold of him, fingers curling around his cock, firm enough not to tease when he knows just how badly they have both been deprived, and he lets out a soft moan that is swallowed up in the kiss between them as his fingertips become acquainted with the heated silk of Godfrey's skin, the weight of his eagerness hard and heavy against his palm.]
[ Godfrey supposes he should have expected nothing less; he looks at him, need in his eyes, whispers poetry warm across his lips, and then reclaims them before he has a chance at rebuttal.
Godfrey can only hope, while he has the presence of mind, that he can provide an equivalent response in the endless hunger of his hands across his warm skin, in the way his arms so eagerly settle him back in against his broad chest. His fingers winding anew in his hair, fingertips rubbing against the back of his neck. The drop as Godfrey settles them both back against the pillows, to free up the arm propping him up, that it may grab an immediate and hungry handful of his ass as he holds him close.
The brief break between their kiss as his voice escapes him, beneath a hard sigh, as Gale wraps his hand around his stiff cock and floods him.
It takes all that Godfrey has in him to keep himself from rutting against his hand. He stiffens against the impossible drive toward the pleasure welling in him, drowning his every thought. The hard pang that pushes through him as his dick throbs gratefully against Gale's fingers.
The world had been falling away in shreds from the moment their lips first touched. Gale had easily turned falling into peeling; every susurrous breath blushing against Godfrey's skin only served to strip the world beyond this tent down further, to make all but this pile of fine pillows and the man in his arms seem the only consequential parts of it. Godfrey's dark lashes flutter, and he finds Gale through them, his rosy lips parted before thin, quick breath.
He doesn't know that he'll ever get used to it; to a man like this, looking on him like that. To knowing that he can let his eyes roam, and his hands follow. Godfrey finds himself demurring even now, averting his eyes whenever they travel too low, feeling warm shame flower in him as he sinks his hands hungrily into his flesh. Godfrey draws his eyes along the line of him, up the firm seam where their skin meets and back to his face, takes in with soft helplessness the hunger and need in Gale's face.
Feels his coarse jaw against the palm of his hand as his eyes slip shut, and the pressure begins to mount, and soft as the breeze he tries to warn him; ]
[Gale had already been sure of it from the heat of Godfrey's own skin, the shallow nature of his breath, and truth be told, he knows himself to be almost embarrassingly close, the thrill of the moment paired with going so long without the touch of another making the press of Godfrey's lips and the hunger of his touch urge him onward. His own breath hitches as Godfrey's fingers sink eagerly into the soft curve of his ass, and he lets out noise of distinct appreciation as their brows remain pressed together, Godfrey's palm dragging along the line of his jaw and sending a pleasant jolt through them.]
Then don't.
[He all but exhales the words, granting the larger man permission to let himself go— Gale has barely touched him and yet he can feel just how tightly Godfrey is wound beneath them. He loosens his hold, but just long enough to alter the slant of his own hips so that he can take them both in hand, fingers curling around both shafts as he presses the heat of them together.
Even without friction, a shudder rolls through him, down the length of his spine and to its very base, and he swipes a thumb across the head of Godfrey's cock before he finally proceeds to stroke in earnest, encouraging him towards that quick release, his own breath starting to come short as he begins a calculated roll of his hips that rubs them against one another in a way that makes desire coil hotly in his belly.
Afterwards, they could take their time. Barring any unfortunate interruptions, they had all night.]
Edited (i left out like half a sentence) 2024-07-29 22:05 (UTC)
Ahh-- [ A twitching, tight moment, his voice pushed from him as his dick throbs desperately against Gale's fingers. That swipe of his thumb against that most sensitive part of him combusts against every nerve ending in his body - and still, Godfrey's instinct is to school it into submission. To contain it.
He exhales, slow and deep, tremulous as each relentless stroke erodes that instinct, the proof of his arousal flush against his own, rolling against it, making catching his breath an impossibility. His hand feels alive with the scrub of Gale's stubble as his hand moves, relishes in being able to hold his face against his own, his other hand stroking along the length of his thigh.
They are too close for Godfrey to look down and see, but he feels it. He feels Gale's hand around them, and he feels the stiff heat of his cock rubbing against him, and he feels the motion of his hips. There's a suffusion of places to put his hands and lips as his composure begins to unravel, the pressure becoming impossible, Godfrey's cerulean eyes fluttering open to try and glimpse how Gale's face had softened, his own flushed, pleading, entranced by the closeness he's been allowed. He is angling his jaw for a kiss when the moment overwhelms him.
His world bursts in that moment, every single touch magnified, groaning as his every muscle pulls tight. White-hot release floods him. Godfrey's eyes shut, and his hips twitch, pushing powerfully against Gale to shove it out in hot, pearlescent ropes over his own bare body.
His touch moves quick and insistent, skating from his thigh to his waist. As are his lips as they close around Gale's, flushed and hot and only made more eager by the moment's impossible relief. ]
[The vigor with which Godfrey bucks against him and into his hand is promising, to say the least, something Gale would likely be more cognizant of if he weren't so close to nearing his own end, spurred by flushed skin and desperate touch and even more desperate kisses. His grip remains firm as he feels Godfrey pulse against him, spilling hotly over his hand and onto his own stomach, and the wizard feels breathless even as he turns his head to meet him in a hungry, impossibly eager kiss, turning his jaw further into Godfrey's touch.
He strokes Godfrey through his climax, sparing only the barest glance downward; they're too close for him to see anything, but he can hardly tear his gaze from Godfrey's face to begin with. He can feel the heated mess between them as they continue to make themselves a needful, desperate tangle, and it only takes a few more strokes before he is following suit.]
I'm—
[Whatever warning he might have given is cut off as he feels himself quickly overcome; Godfrey's own release and the press of flush, kiss-swollen lips have made it all too easy to tip over that edge. To find that relief in the arms of another is worlds beyond whatever small, private moments he might have allowed himself tucked away in his tent here and there; he lets out a sharp, wordless cry against the crush of Godfrey's lips, his fingers curling tightly into pale hair as he turns his face against the paladin's temple as that first twitch is immediately followed by a sharper, more insistent thrust into his own hand, against Godfrey's newly-spent cock and abdomen.
He spends himself over his own fingers and both their stomachs; that sharp cry gives way to a low, wanton groan of relief as he, too, angles for another kiss, his fingers slipping from Godfrey's hair so that he can lay his hand against the side of his neck. He exhales even as he finds his lips once more and kisses him deeply while he slowly ruts against him, grateful for the relief that will surely allow them to take the time to become properly acquainted with one another.]
[ What questions Godfrey might have had, if the Morninglord had revealed this particular embarking to him during his sunrise prayers.
How might he have felt? What might he have thought, to know that his hands would be allowed to roam so over his bare skin? How would knowing the warm outcome of their evening, spilled upon his fluttering abdomen, changed its course?
He can't say. He can't even think about it. Not after hearing the sound of his desperation, tasting its heat against his tongue. Godfrey has no thought for anything but the warmth of him in his arms, the flutter of firm musculature beneath his gentle touch, the flash of his own tongue beneath his lips. He seizes a handful of dark hair as Gale surges against him. Hardly anything else matters; he's warm and insistent in his arms. The very earth could crack below the tent and swallow him whole, and he'd hardly know any better.
Impatience rises in him, and he breaks the kiss with a hard sigh. Godfrey presses against the side of his warm throat, smearing kisses against his sensitive neck before nosing against his ear, smiling. ]
[Gale lets out a breathless laugh, the press of Godfrey's lips burning pleasantly against his throat, the nuzzling against his ear sending another sudden thrill through him. He had thought about what it might be like to be entangled with Godfrey like this on more than one occasion; even when it was the sight of their leader covered in blood on the battlefield that made Gale yearn for him, he was always certain that the other man's touch would be gentle, warm, all-encompassing. How good it was to find out firsthand just how right he had been.]
I would do about anything you asked, in this moment.
[There's a playful, affectionate note in his voice as he turns nose against Godfrey's jawline in turn, pressing a warm and lingering kiss against it as he blindly raises a hand to, with a flick of his wrist, do away with their shared mess by way of a simple cantrip. They'll only make more, he's certain.
Though his tent is only barely big enough for two, there's room enough for them to do as Godfrey suggests; Gale reaches past him just long enough to tug a pillow into place before they recline together, and he inhales the scent of Godfrey's skin and sweat as he buries his face in the man's pale hair for several moments, resting his weight against his chest as he feels his own heartbeat begin to slow, steadily moving towards normal.]
I hope you don't think that was all there is to it.
[His smile tugs to one side, mischievous.]
have a fat titty godfrey to celebrate, on the house
[ Godfrey settles in, and in turn, feels Gale settle into him.
He has missed passing nights like this. He had not been one whom Vladimir could rest his weight against, but often had he held Iltha through her growing years against himself. He had passed afternoons with her swaddled against his chest as he cleaned, comforted her through restless nights, read stories to her snuggled against his shoulder. To have her physical weight against his, comfortable and at ease, was one of his utmost comforts.
He'd not been of a stature to do the same for Vladimir. Indeed, it would have been Godfrey weighing on Vladimir's chest, in these moments of quiet intimacy. Settling a lover against him is a new experience - warm skin and sweat, which he's free to indulge himself in after that delicate flash of his wrist, palm broad and hot against his firm stomach. The heat of his body radiates as he presses himself into it, feels softness beneath them and hot breath carding through his hair. Godfrey sighs into his chest and closes his eyes.
Fatigue tugs at him like a child at his mother's skirts as his eyes slip shut, as he soaks in that glowing warmth. His routines are predictable; he has been early to bed and early to rise for the entirety of his 35 years. Not once has Sir Godfrey missed a sunrise, a treasured chance to greet the new day and commune with his Lord.
Never has it been easier to jeopardize a sunrise.
He doesn't answer Gale with words. He noses against the very center of his chest, his hand runs up his side to hold his chest as he presses a kiss into his skin, heavy with promise. ]
[Gale's eyelids slide closed as he lets out a soft hum of approval, that kiss burning pleasantly against his skin. He had not dared to imagine he might be able to enjoy moments like these once more; indeed, until very recently, the act itself would have been reckless and potentially deadly, a very real fear that had no doubt played a part in his hesitance to show his hand earlier. These quiet moments as they regain themselves are as precious as they are comforting, and he smiles to himself as he shifts to entangle his fingers in Godfrey's hair once more, carding through it and stroking it back from his brow where the sheen of sweat remains.
He rather likes Godfrey's wordless answer.]
Does that mean you'll be making an exception to your usual routine?
[Don't think he hasn't noticed. With as much a creature of habit as Godfrey has shown himself to be, Gale knows full well he's tempting him into an unusually late night— but it would seem his companion is quite amenable to the idea.
He shifts so that they are nearly a tangle of limbs, each point of contact distinct, the warm press of flushed skin something he has not felt in an age. He'd nearly forgotten how pleasant it was to simply be mortal— for all that the Weave had offered him, for as many ways as he had found to express love and as many more he intended to seek, it was good to be reminded that some earthly matters were still well-worth his attention.]
[ It isn't as though his routine has been a secret; Godfrey has never minced words where his devotion is concerned, nor has he concealed his worship of every sunrise he is privileged enough to attend.
Godfrey's never felt the encroaching daylight to be an intrusion. The promise of a sunrise has always been something to be treasured; a beginning, rather than an inevitable end. The distant sunrise Gale conjures now is an end, something which threatens to pull his nose from his warm chest.
He fights it for a moment, as though it put a hand on his shoulder; his strong arms pull just a little tighter around him, a hot sigh blushes against his chest. Godfrey's tongue tracks the length of his sternum from the center of his chest to his collarbone, lying more warm kisses against his skin, relishing in warmth below his hands, the flutter of his chest beneath him.
He breathes against Gale's neck as he urges him to his back, his arms sinking into the piled pillows below the two of them. The barest movement, and his lips are against his. Closeness Godfrey would never have imagined for himself again. He exhales, tremblingly, against his lips, and he feels the softness of his hair between his fingers, and he sighs out; ]
[Every press of Godfrey's lips against his skin is searing hot; a soft groan lodges itself at the back of Gale's throat as his fingers slip through the paladin's fair hair and curl against the nape of his neck. There is so much of him to touch, to explore; they've hardly even begun, fumbling their way ahead as they have been, but the warm press of flesh against flesh and the pleasant scent of sweat and lust that now clings to them is enough to make his heart race all its own.
He offers no resistance when Godfrey seeks to guide him, instead tipping his head to one side to offer up his neck as his companion exhales against it; the soft nest of pillows he's made of his tent envelops them and he makes a soft noise of satisfaction against his lips once they meet again. Gale's hand traces the curve of the larger man's spine and comes to grab hold of his ass as he parts his lips once more to taste him, the gentle tug of his hair and Godfrey's soft touch and warm breath stirring something in him all over again.
He smiles, radiating his own warmth as their lips remain but a breath apart, cupping the side of Godfrey's face and tracing the lines of his cheek, his jaw with his thumb.]
I have wanted this for longer than I dare to say. Please— stay with me tonight.
[ It's a strange hunger - the sort he couldn't feel until it was sated.
Sir Godfrey had felt those warm and lonely pangs, certainly, in the solitary nights since his widowing. Something hollow at the pit of his chest which ached for companionship. Nights passed in lonely silence, when the cool of his sheets was felt just a little harder.
Of course he'd felt a certain longing in that dark quiet. He was only a man - only if he were any less would he feel nothing at all. He has remembered this as he allows it to pass through him, as he prays to the sunrise for His guidance. And pass it did - the fires would die if he only waited, perhaps with sparse help from his hand. That he struggles is human. That he feels the cold and empty space beside him is proof against that very loneliness - proof of his beating heart. It is a pain to be treasured.
But it is not one that follows him to the streets. This loneliness has always been a passing and brittle thing, one that dies before it wounds too deeply. So long as there's something else to be thought about, Sir Godfrey can stave it off a little while longer. He's tricked himself into believing that this is the same thing as resilience.
Now that he feels bare skin against his, needful hands and hot whispering words urging him forward, he knows what a lie he had fed himself. The hunger for this skinship had always been there. Godfrey had just kept it out of sight.
Now, gloriously satiated, Godfrey can look back and see only how starved he had been. He exhales as though he's been holding his breath for a year, a great and warm heaving of his broad chest. Godfrey's hand finds Gale's, and he pushes against his palm, soaking desperately in the contact as he shifts his body against his. Godfrey presses his lips into the heel of his palm, the inside of his wrist. Then, his lips, soft and warm, his tongue darting between them as he lets his hand wander down his chest. Down his stomach.
Thrills for the way he flutters beneath his hand. ]
[He had gone so long without mortal touch that Gale had almost convinced himself that it was something not to be missed, that he had somehow transcended such things because of his own worldly experience, but he cannot remember ever being so glad to be proven wrong, and a shuddering exhale passes his lips Godfrey's touch glides down his chest and over his abdomen, his pulse quickening once more, muscles just beneath the skin reacting and pulling pleasantly tight as his hand continues to wander downwards.
With urgency having been sated, there is nothing to do but to take their time and enjoy one another— and Gale has always prided himself on being thorough in all things, as dedicated a lover as he was a scholar.
He passes his thumb lightly over Godfrey's lips, his gaze dark and heated as he nods to encourage him further. Even so soon after release, he can feel himself beginning to stir again, a slower rouse now that the frantic edge has been blunted. The soft glow of the orb lights what little space remains between them as he lets his own fingers trace their way up the length of Godfrey's arm, the curves of muscle and flushed skin, a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth as he guides his touch over the other man's chest and abdomen.]
Where shall we begin, hm? The possibilities are so many, I hardly know.
[ Godfrey knows that his can't be the first hands on Gale; surely more pairs have run over his skin than have Godfrey's. It strikes him as foolishness to think otherwise of a man who had lain with a God, that he would not have had his share of mortal trysts before.
And still, there is a newness to this, the way Gale's body receives his touch. The breath in his chest shivers and his muscles pull in response to the skating touch of his hands. A thawing, as though his hand were the spring over a long winter. It's at once relief and intoxicant. His hand finds his hip and his soft breath finds his lips, as Godfrey lowers himself to taste of their warmth. It splashes through him as his hand roves, his other driving into the pillows holding his weight, and he presses further into the warmth of skinship - for once, without a care for anything but the pursuit of it, for the pooling warmth in his hips.
His lips find the underside of his jaw next, and breathlessly, he responds-- ]
Slowly.
[ --before they press again into his fluttering and tender throat, his hand playing at his chest.
Then, lowering again, until his hand finds something firm. ]
[Gale echoes him fondly, an affectionate note in his voice as his breath hitches softly, Godfrey's lips against his jaw making his own pulse rise so that he can nearly taste it on his own tongue. The freedom to touch is almost overwhelming after so many weeks spent watching from afar, nights where he had discouraged himself from even considering such things, and Godfrey's hair is like silk between his fingers as he entangles them within it once more.
The press of lips against his throat spurs an approving sound at the very back of it, but it's cut off by another sharp hitch of breath as Godfrey's hand finds him hard and wanting, already eager to be touched even so soon after their shared release, and he lets out a shuddering exhale of breath as Godfrey's fingers curl against him, lowering his brow to rest atop the paladin's head.]
Please...
[However slowly, he only wants Godfrey to touch him, however he so pleases— just let it continue.]
[ He shivers against his throat, feeling him twitch against his hand as it finds him.
Godfrey sighs harshly and presses his lips against the stubbly underside of Gale's jaw. His fingers close take loose hold of the throbbing length beneath his fingers, drawing his warm handprint up to the firming head, and slowly back down.
A hot chill down the back of his neck, to feel warm breath and hard fingers in his hair again. Godfrey continues guiding the throbbing dick in his hand, ignoring the impatient twitch pulling between his own legs, and shifts to take the tender lobe of his ear between his teeth, sighing against its shell.
The warm swell in his chest might be replaced by a sinking stone of ice if he were to dwell for a moment on the impropriety, the boldness. And from there, likely, he would be dragged to further unfair depths, distorting what was currently underway. A betrayal of the love he once shared with his husband. The infinitesimal smallness that must be the shadow of him against the lost favour of a goddess. None of those things are more important than the warmth, the skinship, the shiver in Gale against his bare skin as he feels his cock respond to the slow and gentle attention of his hand. There was no room for such second-guessing, no time for reticence.
Beyond words, how close he is - that it takes only the barest shift, a slight turn, to meet Gale's lips with his own. Warmth thrills through him.
Then, breathless, he moves down. Lips to chest. Tongue to the tender glow.
[His breath catches, every touch and whisper of breath amplified; Godfrey's warmth fills the tent and Gale finds himself content to drown in it, to leave reason behind and give himself over entirely to relearning the joys of mortal flesh. A groan escapes him; he bows his head forward to rest his brow against Godfrey's shoulder as the larger man takes him in firm, steady strokes. That something so simple could be so absolutely dizzying is somehow wondrous to him, and it keeps him from even considering the potential complexities of all of this, his hips rolling forward every time Godfrey allows him even the slightest bit of give, chasing that slow build.
His fingers remain tangled in champagne hair as Godfrey begins to sink downwards, and suddenly Gale feels as though he has no breath at all, swallowing his voice completely for several moments as lips steadily trail their way down his throat, his chest, all the way to his abdomen, the anticipation of what's to come making him absolutely ache even as he remains in the paladin's grasp.
Gods above, it was hardly unusual to see Godfrey on his knees, and yet Gale had never allowed himself to even imagine this, even when he'd allowed himself to indulge in the occasional fantasy.]
[ There is something pure and intoxicating in his responsiveness, a newness. Each touch leaned into, a sigh for every kiss, hungry fingers pressing through his hair. Every moment urged further, pressed into. Anything to prolong the moment of warm contact a fraction longer.
What else would his body chase? What other touch would he prolong? The thought thrills through his spine and drives Godfrey forward; sighing hotly against his skin, feeling the tender and pebbly skin of his nipple beneath his lips and pressing in. Godfrey's broad hand flattens against his hardened dick and desperately pushes, moving with the whole of his body as his hips flex toward his warmth, the throb between his own legs for now unheeded.
By the time he reaches his hips, Godfrey's fingers are again finding his shaft, his body gently tangled in crushed pillows and his lovers' legs. He lifts his gaze to catch Gale's above him, studies his face in the hot half-second he has before the throb between his legs pushes him to move again; takes both thighs on his shoulders and, reverently, presses another kiss against the tender crook, the soft flesh between pelvis and inner thigh, sighing harshly. He had wanted this to last forever, naturally - to take his time exploring him.
This intention was set before the hot throb between his legs had begun to grow urgent.
He centers himself; both legs to a shoulder, his eyes lifting, seeking to touch Gale's own gaze as he rises slowly along his hard length, tongue first. His gaze lowers as he comes to its firm head, wraps his lips around it, and swallows it as far back as he can.
Until hot and shivering throat-muscles contract against its tip. ]
[The sight alone is breathtaking; Godfrey cradled between his knees, pillows crushed beneath them as he catches Gale's gaze once more, the wizard's own now dark and heavy with lust, with near-desperate wanting, cock twitching against Godfrey's thick fingers in a bid for more. He lets out a soft, plaintive sound that sticks at the back of his throat as a kiss is pressed against his innermost thigh, and already he feels his arms threatening to give way beneath him even as he aims to remain propped up to enjoy the view, feeling his pulse beat in his mouth.
What follows is so much more than he could have anticipated, having been so long without mortal touch. Anyone else would look positively sinful in such a position; Godfrey remains earnest, beatific, pulling a sigh from Gale as his tongue drags along his turgid length. Gale meets his gaze, his own all heat, and the very picture goes straight to his cock, another surge of wanting, the featherlight brush of lips against him almost too much to bear— and then he is lost, sheathed in wet heat, the close of Godfrey's lips drawing for a strangled sound that borders on a half-choked sob.
His head drops back and he fights the urge to buck into Godfrey's mouth, remaining as still as he can manage as he finds himself swallowed deep, white-knuckled grip clutching at the pillow jutting out from beneath him. The sound that escapes him is guttural and wordless, one he had never known himself able to make before now, and his fingers blindly tangle into Godfrey's hair as he struggles to ground himself.]
Gods, h-how—
[Any question, rhetorical or otherwise, is abandoned, lost to another moan that feels as though it has been coaxed forth from the very furthest depths.]
[ Wet, internal contours quiver against the firm head of his cock as Godfrey's voice buzzes around him. His head draws back up its length, lips over wet skin, pale gold hair falling before his eyes as Gale's fingers aimlessly shift through. He watches in thick silence each movement, every shift, his mouth draws from him. The raw wanting in him - the effort it takes to restrain it, to keep from pressing his hips to Godfrey's nose and the back of his throat to his cock, to push himself as far down his throat as he could reach.
Godfrey takes a hard breath through his nose and, wrapping his hands gently around its girth, lowers himself once again. He passes the tender underside of his hard dick over his tongue, leading him slowly back down his neck, his fingers following closely the trajectory of his mouth. His other hand braces softly against his hip as Godfrey finds something approaching a rhythm; his head bobs up and down in his lap, already heading down once the head of his cock nearly breaches his lips.
The thump of his heartbeat between his legs grows more and more incessant with each spit-slick pass of his hand over his shaft, with each gagging pull of the back of his throat around his hard dick as he swallows him back. ]
[It is positively sinful, the way Godfrey pulls him deeper into wet heat, the slide of his tongue soft as velvet; the squeeze of his throat wrings another obscene noise from Gale's own, tugging against his hair as he fights to keep himself still. The muscles of his abdomen are pulled taut at this angle, fluttering beneath Godfrey's efforts, the paladin's hand against his hip only just managing to keep him grounded as his tongue laves against the most sensitive part of him, muting the involuntary buck of his hips that particular attention causes.
It's almost too much; the steady rhythm Godfrey has struck, the way his hands never leave him untended for even a moment, following in the wake of debaucherous lips and tongue, the way Godfrey so eagerly swallows him back, the effort betrayed by the soft gagging that Gale feels vibrating against his cock, and oh, even that is so much better than he had expected. His thighs tremble, his breath coming short— gods, if they wanted this night to last, it was going to be a challenge, but there is nothing that could get him to tell Godfrey to slow his efforts now.
He only vaguely recognizes the sounds that are pulled from him now, distant enough that they sound to him like someone else entirely, his fingers curling tighter into Godfrey's hair as he takes the side of his lover's face and bites at his own lower lip, a vain effort to stifle himself that's met with middling success.]
I don't— I don't know that I can last—
[The warning is gasped rather than spoken, the last words swallowed down as another swallow pulls at the head of his cock and threatens to wring him out entirely.]
Edited (I posted it by accident oops) 2025-03-03 05:39 (UTC)
[ Godfrey has no such fear of the fate of the evening; the incessant thud of his pulse between his thighs tells him exactly what to do.
It had been no secret, how long the pair of them had gone without a lover's touch - that both had thought their prior partners would be their last forays into romance. Each fleeting pass of his fingers is an agony, and even those more innocent touches flare through him. Were they to make this a night to remember, a night which lingered to allow sufficient expression instead of burning white-hot for a few sparing moments, there would need to be some relieving.
This is the only way Godfrey knows how - Vladimir's preferred order of operations. And Godfrey hadn't realized how he had missed it until hard cock had been slid down his throat.
He hears Gale, of course; he is all he will hear. Godfrey hears the plaintive, gasping note of his voice, the desperation. The thought that, perhaps, the night might not withstand this first climax. He glances up with a fluttering, holding his gaze in his own. Thoroughly undaunted by the prospect as he, slowly, descends again, his throat shuddering around the rock-firm head of his warm dick. Godfrey shifts his hips to show himself plainly; his own thick and engorged cock, standing with all firmness against his abdomen. Twitching with each sound his mouth earns from him as he continues; forming his tongue to the sensitive head of his dick, focusing his efforts where he's most tender, his gaze sliding back down to his work as he bobs, shorter and quicker. ]
[He could swear his heart stops beating in the moment that Godfrey locks eyes with him. That alone is near enough to make him come entirely undone, the pulsing arcane light where the orb had marked him glowing brighter still. Godfrey's gaze drops as he redoubles his efforts, focused, dedicated, and Gale's head drops back as a vocal sigh leaves him, a brief moment of calm before Godfrey's tongue rapidly pushes him towards the edge, each stroke and bob sharp and short and absolutely exquisite.]
Godfrey—
[That warning tone remains, but gives way to an impassioned, wordless cry, the sound of sweet release as Godfrey's efforts push Gale past his peak. He feels himself unravel, complete and overwhelming, and he is unable to resist the roll of his hips as he spends himself in Godfrey's mouth, spilling over his talented tongue as lets out a sound he scarcely even recognizes as his own voice.]
[ It's not quite the tone of voice he uses when he smokes an intimidation check because durge proficiency calmly informs someone that they'll cooperate or he'll crush their skull, but it's on the same frequency. Aren has learned by now that Godfrey is even worse than Shadowheart when it comes to receiving care— gaining satisfaction suffering in silence, being in denial due to holy magic, he doesn't know, but it's a stubborn thing.
He is a stubborn thing as well. And he may not have a devotee's healing touch, but he has an eye for all things medical. (He says it's because it's what he was researching, as a wizard from a destitute background. No fancy jobs in towers for those without prolific mentors. In truth, he has no idea.) So he stands there in the opening of the paladin's tent, an ominous shadow of an almost-elf.
Less spooky: he's carrying what appears to be warm towels and a tin. It smells like menthol. ]
Your posture and gait have been wrong for days, despite being healed. Is it your ribs?
[ It has little to do with denial, and perhaps less to do with any faith-based numbing agent.
What, then? For anybody else, it's the sheer distaste for the space he might occupy - the permanent, nagging presence of someone else in yet greater need, the threat of having to draw attention to himself. Thoughts which twist his own need into a threat (of inconvenience, of deprivation, of irritation,) are all that Sir Godfrey needs to turn his efforts to numbing himself to that periodic stab accompanying his steps.
Godfrey can't say this is all that holds him back where Aren is concerned, however. He spent enough time leading his congregation to know a man lost when he sees one. He's seen how Aren's gaze lingers over the strewn gore they so often left behind, how he watched the blood soak the soil. As though he would sink his fingers into it.
Medical curiosity - Godfrey tells himself this is the kinder, more reasonable assumption. He had already expressed an affinity for the medicinal sciences. His immediate conclusion feels unfair. Still, there is something about his fascination that Godfrey cannot settle in himself; he cannot make it sit right, no matter where he puts it. Always do his thoughts return to the lurid glee he'd thought he glimpsed in him as those hyenas burst on the road.
It flits behind his eyes now, as Aren cuts a tall shadow in the doorway of his military tent. He clears his throat. ]
Perhaps so. [ If he'd meant to kill him, there were better ways to go about it. This is what he tells himself as he eases down to his bedroll, ginger as his left side begins to shriek again. ] I've an old wound as well, though it's not ached before.
[ Aren is aware that he's not the paladin's favorite person in their shambling gang. That's alright— Aren thinks that's pretty reasonable, given he frightens himself from time to time. But it just makes him more determined to say nothing of the instincts he feels, or the amnesia that's robbed him of his life and identity.
Maybe there will come a time when he decides it's best to just leave, and slip away in the night to find his own resolution with his tadpole (or his own end). He wants to stay, but not at the cost of being a danger to the people who've accepted him and allowed him to stick with them through navigating this disturbing crisis. He'll go if he has to. The option is there, waiting on a shelf for an emergency.
Until then, he'll try to make himself useful. ]
Tell me about it?
[ A more neutral tone now, instead of the bullying. He waits until he can meet the man's eyes for permission to kneel down beside him, though when he does, he doesn't reach out to touch him yet. Assessment first. He thinks he can help, possessing an innate understanding of musculature and the body for reasons unknown to him. All it's done so far is guided him on the quickest way to disable a person. This, he hopes, is a better turn. ]
It is just as likely that those same chems will destabilize them, whilst the dust from all of this settles. I will sit by and await some hypothesized ideal no sooner than I will carry on your misguided charge forward.
We must create this luck for ourselves, or I will rectify this situation without further assistance.
They're gonna get chems either way, rusty. They're fiends. Wait until they're fucked out of their minds and you got the chance to surprise 'em. As much as I'd love to watch you try and kiss and make up, you're not gonna get a chance at much else.
You are good to ask, friend. Speaking of her, perhaps, will conjure a piece of her to soothe my heart.
Iltha, she is called. She will be seven years this Tarsakh, and dreadfully serious. I think she has trouble sometimes, understanding why it is the rest of the world does not take her as seriously as she takes herself.
I've thought much on this matter, in fact. I would like nothing more than to provide her some sort of contact - I vanished so suddenly that I cannot imagine what she must think happened. But the volatility of our current circumstance stays my hand.
I had suspected that you two may find something of an understanding in one another, should you ever meet. She is like her father; quiet and sharply perceptive. I miss her more each day.
Alas, you're not wrong. But there must be some way to keep her from thinking the worst, surely. Just knowing that you are alive would surely bring her comfort.
Is she a fellow lover of books, perchance? We could keep an eye out for gifts for her, once you see her. I suppose a child might prefer dolls at that age, but I'm much more an expert in the area of books.
I suppose that I'm left unsure what is best. I worry of what it would do to her to receive such comfort and then have it taken away by an unfortunate twist of our path. She has suffered such a loss once already, you see.
[ when you're the party therapist so you know everybody's tragic backstory but nobody knows yours so it gets dropped in horrifying bits and pieces because you never talk about yourself with them. ]
Her reading comes slowly, but she quite enjoys being read to. If naught else, I would like to come back with something new, if you've a recommendation from your own childhood :-) [ not the dadmojis ]
[ Hey man, it's just like with fishing. Sometimes, you have to twitch the rod a little to make the bait look more alive than it is. ]
Ha. Were that true, I suspect that my star would instead drive me to conflict with the entire country, Mr. Morgan.
It is hardly my place to judge such pursuits. In my time here, it has indeed come to seem as though capitol is as vital to life as food and water. I am a poor excuse for an outdoorsman, but I think I may prefer the light in the sky, myself.
[ dont think that father has any splainin to do. he doesnt. dont ask any more questions. ]
A matter of time, surely.
Well, if capital gain is what cuts your path in life, then I am all the more grateful. How wonderful it is that we were able to make an acquaintanceship despite my clear lack! Haha :-)
I'm unsure if this is cause for concern or comfort, but in truth, you have little to worry about. I doubt that the Church would accept any tithe I could offer.
I cannot speak to any others you have met, nor their transgressions. I know the nature of mine, and it leads me to think that very few indeed have begged for my return.
Oh, I would not say that I'm maintaining my sobriety consciously. I suppose it's simply something I have gone without for so long that its absence is now a fact of life.
I must admit to holding some trepidation when first this subject was opened, but your curiosity is refreshing, my friend!
(directions blah blah how the fuck are they texting in 1899 anyway)
[Even though Keane's Saloon sat in the shadow of its competition down the street, Arthur considered his past misadventures at Smithfield's before recommending it to Godfrey. His jaw ached, and the sensation of splintered glass made his hair stand up at the memory. No, a used up watering hole with three items on the menu, and about as many stools, would better suit reintroducing a priest to the elements of debauchery.
This came with a few benefits, at least: the bartender didn't flinch the moment Arthur walked through the door, the air wasn't hazy with a noxious mix of cheap cologne and perfume, and the slightest movement on the old floorboards let out such a creak that no one could catch him unawares. Not while sober, at least.
It was late afternoon, and motes of dust danced in the golden light pouring through the windows and reflecting off the bottles on the shelves behind the bar. Arthur ordered two beers and waited. If Godfrey didn't show by sundown, he'd simply have a second drink to keep him company instead.]
[ It's a strange thing, to feel his own feet slow where other men's quicken.
Were Godfrey a man of less self-awareness, he might scapegoat the sucking mud for that, for there are no paved or cobbled streets in Valentine; the very ground is a dark and hungry slurry of mud. Godfrey has often feared it may swallow his boots on particularly rainy days, if he fought its grasp too hard.
No, it isn't the suction force of mud fighting his every step. It's simple force of habit that draws him to a slow and miserable stop as the building comes into view. Before him squats a peeling, tired-looking old box, neighbours with an equally exhausted little chapel. Faded lettering behind the leering and half-drunk patrons hanging their elbows from the balustrade above the entry proclaims this place Keane's Saloon, home of Liquor and Hot Food.
Put your finger on a regret in England, Godfrey has found, trace it back - and you will hit a place like this. And yet, not like this. It's something he has come to notice about the Americas; that so many of the towns he sees look temporary, built from the same slatted wood, and yet older and more tired than the brick-work pubs of his own home rock. Keane's Saloon appears to him four walls lashed together in a fit of desperation; it also appears to have stood here through a thousand storms. There are pubs in England said to have been frequented by Robin Hood that appear younger to the eye than Keane's Saloon.
Cultural, Godfrey thinks - or related to the climate. To a fair-complexioned Brit like Godfrey, both seem poised to grind a man to dirt. Why would it not be so with their architecture?
But, of course, he is dilly-dallying. The gentlemen watching the road from above are beginning to look at him, exchanging words. He's had no reason to doubt his new friend yet - why does he tarry now? Godfrey takes a breath, empties his thoughts, and pushes forward, mounting the front steps, pulling one of the batwing doors aside for a wobbling (and incredulous) patron as he stumbles back out.
And just like that, here he is - standing in a cramped little alehouse, dressed cleanly groomed, his golden waves tied tastefully at the back of his neck. Helpless and out of place, even as he catches sight of his guide for the evening. Smiling as easily as he can, Godfrey creaks his way through the bar and its cloying reek. ]
Arthur, [ He speaks, as always, softly, ] how good to see you. You've not been waiting long, I hope.
[Valentine and all its surrounding hovels have stood in defiance of blizzards, tornadoes, and maybe even a war or two. However, while Godfrey saw miraculous endurance, Arthur could only imagine the encroaching black smoke from the stacks of the oil refinery down the road, carried ever closer by an expanding railroad track. All the grit that pulled it through so far would face inevitable, if not outright compliant, bulldozing. The name "Valentine" might remain, but if he lived to see the place in ten years' time, Keane's and Smithfield's both would be a forgotten memory of the brick and mortar laid out over their torn remains.
Those maudlin thoughts encircle Arthur's head in the wreath of cigarette smoke he's produced while waiting, when they would be better drowned in the bottles of beer the bartender finally places before him. Before that temptation can take full hold, all heads in the saloon turn toward the new face at the door, though Arthur is the only one to do it with a smile. He plucks the cigarette from between his lips and dashes it to the floor while waving away the plumes he'd left lingering in the air around him.]
There he is. Pull up a seat. [He pats the stool next to him and snorts at Godfrey's concern.] Nah, the place needs help lookin' busy anyways.
[The sidelong glance he shoots over his shoulder at the bartender is not returned as mirthfully.]
[ If he has a particular opinion about Keane's Saloon and what help it may or may not need, Godfrey does not betray it. He smiles warmly, and lowers himself into his seat with care.
Curious this, too, that he already should have a seat. Arthur means nothing by this, of course - how strange would it be, to invite him out only to impassively sit at opposing corners of the place? - but there is nonetheless warmth in being expected. Godfrey has not felt it in some time; the slot he had thought the world kept for him has long since rejected him, and so has the country underneath it. A longing for this, he thinks, must be why he has allowed the lie to take root and prosper for as long as it has. There's shades of it in being called Father, even though the title has rebuked him.
The stool creaks dangerously under him - which fits, he supposes, after some thought. Godfrey self-consciously adjusts his perch. ]
Thank you, my friend, for the invitation. [ There's trepidation welling in him still, yes. But also a certain precipice giddiness which he expects most men have outgrown by now; the sensation of trying new, of perching oneself at the edge of an experience that cannot ever be taken back. ] I'll do what I can to keep myself from embarrassment. This is mine--
[ He takes the glass neck of the bottle nearest to him gently, shifting it nearer with his fingers - before glancing quickly toward Arthur. ]
[If the creak of Godfrey's stool is audible, it just joins the chorus coming from every other strained wooden surface in the bar, Arthur's own seat included. He takes about as much notice of it as the hairline cracks in the shot glasses and the sticky spots on the floorboards-- all part of the decor.
Godfrey's little nervous tics catch his eye instead. Arthur had seen them before, though more often in someone taking a wild horse for a gallop, or a kid about to draw a gun on a bank clerk for the first time-- not a grown man sitting down for a beer. It proves oddly infectious as Arthur's thoughts take the time to catch up with his actions. He's seen disgraced clergymen go to seed before. He even he shared a camp with one, but he wasn't responsible for the reverend's degeneracy. This is a bit more proactive of a step, but--
Arthur chuckles, more at himself. Hell, it's one beer, and there's worse things on his conscience.]
'Course. Not one to stiff a man on a drink.
[He lifts his own bottle and knocks it against Godfrey's with a dull clink. Arthur takes a swig, but sinks it slowly. Keane's was an armpit, but at least the ice box kept the drinks cold enough to be refreshing.]
[ He feels that clink in his fingers and lifts the bottle to his mouth, but holds for a thin moment - his first instinct is to take a perfectly civilized pull from the bottle, but he knows from his flashing periphery how wrong this is already.
The drink Arthur takes is certainly more reserved than those he sees others taking - perhaps for Godfrey's own sensibilities, he can't say. Regardless of what has inspired this more sensible swig, Godfrey appreciates it; he's not sure he would be able to drink half so deeply and with nearly so much fortitude as the other patrons.
Fortified, Godfrey tilts the bottle against his lips. The cold fizz needling his tongue and tender throat startles him, though mildly. There's a bitter freshness, an edge that is hard but not overbearing. And also...
Godfrey lowers the butt of the bottle against the table and, contemplating, licks the roof of his mouth. ]
[Beer always struck him more as a utility than a drink-- a means of cooling off in summer, warming up in winter, or dulling nerves sharpened to a razor's edge. Arthur takes another sip, this time actually considering the taste in a way he hadn't since he was twelve years old.]
S'pose it does. [He furrows his brow.] That good or bad?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tfln overflow
@goodbeary
Think nothing of it, my friend. We're bound to run into misunderstandings sooner or later - I'm simply glad of the chance to amend my meaning.
And I must confess, you are right about that. Just as I think I have finished adjusting to camping, some other sound rattles me anew! It's a longer process than I might have first assumed, I suppose.
But it makes me wonder if there is any stimulation in the city to which I am accustomed, but you would not be.
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And yet I find that I hope, with the Oakfather's blessings, that I won't have to go close enough to any city to discover what I'm not accustomed to, especially one that frowns upon animals any larger than a small cat.
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[ ... ]
Although I am unhappy to say that our road will inevitably lead to Baldur's Gate.
Does this play on your thoughts?
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If naught else, I will do everything in my power to stay with you, should that help. Personal matters may briefly waylay me, but if I can be a comfort, then I will do all that I can.
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If I may help with this, then I will do what small things I can to assure it.
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@coupris
I supposed there was some reason you favoured the trees! I might be tempted to take a page from your book and try it myself, though I fear that it would take quite a tree to comfortably sleep me.
I wonder if your nighttime visitors are as generous as mine have proven to be.
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Trees are safer, that's all. And they are more resilient than you might imagine.
[A pause.]
Probably best to seek out hickory or oak in your case, regardless.
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You seem thoroughly used to this arrangement. Is it a habit fallen into out of traveling alone?
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[This is almost a joke. He's getting there.]
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@lolthsworn
Darkest night before brightest dawn, my Lady. Some of the greatest tales of heroism ever penned are such. I meant no insult.
[ you know yr boy is gonna flex his priest card at all provocations. ]
Tales taller than our truth? I fear you may not be able to capture such things. Their heads would surely vanish in the clouds.
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[ If she could text the eye roll, she would. Luckily Ines has a long held practice in not arguing doctrine unless asked. She'd rather write down all beliefs accurately before maybe writing her own book on Heresy Towards Loth, et al. ]
Mhm. That is the issue, sir. I wonder if your great storytellers in days of old felt they too could not capture what transpired around them. Truth can be stranger then the finest creation.
For example, rhyming "tadpole" in verse is difficult.
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[ thought bards were supposed to know about literary devices? whats with that ]
Is it really?
Tadpole... goal, stroll, cajole, patrol.
Control?
@chk
[ .....puts down device, gets up, sits down somewhere else with that to choke quietly before returning. ]
Thank you, Lae'zel. Truly.
[ To be honest about his appreciation for that small human kindness and her effort in bringing it to him, for just what those few words struck in his heart, would likely be to embarrass her.
But still, he's not about to let the moment pass by without some acknowledgement. ]
And I also thank you for your concern. You are a worthy friend, and I am more thankful every day that we met. [ failed step 1 ] It could be as you say, perhaps. But I am not sure that it could be as you say for me. She has been my all for so long, I struggle to imagine involving myself with someone who would not know her.
I suppose I have some thinking to do.
1 / 2
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Those sharp teeth of hers clench, an unpleasant warmth traveling through verdant skin. Lae'zel can feel her heart hardening once more as she reads the rest of his message. She supposes she should be grateful that Godfrey does not linger on the subject for long. A sharp exhale through upturned nostrils punctuates her reply.]
As I have said, you are a formidable ally. This is why I choose to fight among your ranks. That and the common goal we share. A cure. Do not lose sight of it.
But understand this as well, priest. There is no shame in desiring someone for yourself. Even if the one you pledged yourself to is no longer of this plane. But I will not tolerate indecision. The longer you remain distracted, the less use you will serve to me. Or your child. Or anyone.
[Man, these githyanki pep talks could really use some work, huh?]
Consider your options, then act. Or do nothing.
[Chk. Still not satisfying. Another quick sending.]
Do as you like. It is none of my concern.
[You were the one who started this whole interrogation in the first place, Lae'zel...]
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[ We all know the last thing Lae'zel would ever do is care. ]
Well, I think we have both well and truly had enough conversation about me.
Though perhaps whilst we're discussing our companions, we might discuss your thoughts on them.
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Very well.
What of them?
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I wanted to see if you had anything to say regarding your own.
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Could that be the source of tension you noticed?
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It had rather seemed to me that the two of you had put that behind yourselves, but perhaps not. And so, I thought to ask after it.
@vitrines
My concern is entirely appropriate. I simply also have to worry on your behalf due to your own lack of self-preservation as you put yourself at the mercy of strange wizards with groin-exploding magic.
[ take some off of his plate once in awhile maybe, jeez ]
As much as I would truly like to direct the conversation elsewhere, I must now ask if undergarments are truly the target of this spell at all.
It seems that it simply affects [ How to write "scrote" in a Lathander-honouring way ] the nether regions, rather than targeting the garment itself.
@narsinssist
[ yeah bud i bet you think its not so bad ]
You could say he does.
I do not know if you will not ask.
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Well, no matter, I suppose. Let me speak as plainly as I am able. Your friend carries knowledge of a certain part of the weave -- or to clarify, something that is like the weave but not. I wish to know what he knows.
[ He knows enough, of course, plenty of it. Probably very little would be different than what he has, but what Gale offers is the perspective of a scholar, and the ability to take information and draw conclusions. That is what Raphael wants. ]
@backscar
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Astarion doesn't like it. It feels too quiet, with the others around them sleeping and him busy staring idly at the stars, as if they'd reveal all the secrets of the universe to him. It's a little baffling to imagine that he has somehow come this far and finds himself with so many more questions, but the end is in sight. That's what he tells himself when sleep eludes him, unfamiliar in the dark of the night when he is accustomed to being awake and alive.
At least he isn't entirely alone; Godfrey is still awake, for some reason, and nearby, and after a moment and a rather dramatic huff Astarion pushes himself up and waltzes over, all drama and effect as he crosses his arms and watches. ]
Does the sky ever respond when you stare at it?
[ It never does for him, irritating beast that it is. ]
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[ Selûne and the Morninglord are something like cousins, but his prayers have never been hers to answer. The moon and the stars hold other, rarer voices than hers for Godfrey.
And really, that's another reminder that his continued consciousness is a disaster; his routines hanging precariously ahead of him. Godfrey didn't know how far away sun-up was, but he knew that he'd not slept through dawn prayer in years. One poor night wasn't about to make him start - as much as the Godfrey of tomorrow morning might grudge him for it while he rubs their eyes and pages through their book of holy scripture, trying to luxuriate in another sacred dawn.
He'd never grudge Astarion's company, but the sound of him dramatically circling to his bedroll is an especially welcome one tonight as he lays there, fingers laced behind his head, one ankle crossed over the other. Thoroughly unable to fall into sleep, and with naught but the soft breathing of their campsite and the crackle of the fire between all of them to accompany the impending pressure of a sleepless morning. Conversation is a dear distraction. ]
Seems as though the night is determined to give to neither of us what we need. [ He carefully untangles his fingers and rouses his arms from idle stiffness to prop himself up, giving both thickly muscled legs a trembling stretch before smiling to his visitor. ] Though I can't promise I'll be as impassive in conversation as the stars, I can still do my all in giving you what they won't.
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[ Astarion is still adjusting to being awake during the sunlight hours and not ducking and covering at every single moment. Being able to see things in colour, being able to enjoy the warmth of the daylight without the single of fire is a gift in itself, and it makes him feel a little bit too close to happy for comfort. Perhaps things would be easier if he was able to go back to being a creature of the night - but that isn't what he wants. This is what he wants - freedom, joy, the experience of living once again.
He's seen Shadowheart and Lae'zel kneel and do whatever thoughts and prayers come to their mind, just as he had watched Godfrey make his own each morning. Another thing he struggles to wrap his mind around; do their Gods truly speak to them, and hear a response? When he had cried out for salvation, for freedom, for - anything, really, he had been ignored. Silence had greeted him as he wept, and he could only imagine that he deserved it.
Huffing a quiet chuckle, he makes himself more comfortable, turning his head to look at Godfrey properly. An intimidating man by all accounts, but Astarion finds himself less afraid these days. He can speak his mind a little more, tiptoe around conversations that cause irritation - like the heroics.
Ugh. ]
You're far better company.
[ Shaking his head, he hums idly. ]
Why don't you tell me something from home, then?
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And, really, that's something he ought to open up with Astarion too, at some point. Much noise had been made about Godfrey's trusting him - and even Godfrey himself could see why the decision might be perplexing. But Astarion had managed his thirst safely until his lapse; had he wanted, he's more aware than the others just how easily he could have drained them all as they slept, and he hadn't. That was enough for Godfrey to extend some clemency.
But on the neglected other half of this exchange sits Astarion, no doubt knowing exactly what the Morninglord had to say about vampires and undead. Eradication was to be the salvation of those like Astarion - stakes, holy water, smiting. His scripture was unavoidably clear; the only way Astarion's new ally could make the God to whom he had so openly devoted his life happy was to reduce him to ash, and now he knew it.
Surely holding his head under the riverwater as he prayed at dawn would have been safer for him than Godfrey with the full knowledge of who and what he is - but he had also extended his trust. It deserved just as much recognition, if not more.
He might have begun forming these important words, had Astarion not asked something unexpected - to hear stories of Godfrey's life. He supposes it's expected, and he's entitled to as much - Godfrey had taken enough of the stories of his companions and given little of his own. ]
I surely could. [ He nods amiably - and really, figures that he should have guessed that someone would be curious enough to probe him back after he had pried so much at them. ] Although I'm not sure that anything I could give you of my home would be terribly entertaining. My life until recent events has been wonderfully mundane.
[ ... the bits he's willing to share have been wonderfully mundane. Godfrey turns to lay on his side, his weight on one elbow instead of two, facing Astarion fully as he starts reaching through his memory. ]
I'm Baldurian, just as you are... and I was a priest.
[ If the tadpole hadn't given their companions that much, then they had surely smelled the cloth on him despite him giving it up - it had forever been the first guess of countryside farmers selling their wares in street markets.
So, as Astarion had trusted him with so much, Godfrey would in turn trust him with something new; ]
I was married, too, once.
[ Of the two people who had taken over his life, he thinks, Vladimir has a better chance of amusing than Iltha - delightful as she is to Godfrey, he can't be sure yet that Astarion will feel the same about tales of her young wildness and proclivity to say just what she shouldn't. By contrast, his husband with all of his stoicism and seriousness seemed as though he would have inherent comedy to Astarion.
So he glances down the edge of himself, thoughtful contours of his face caught by the glow of the campfire at his back, trying to call back his ghost.
Abruptly, he catches on to something, and he smiles, and he recounts his memory in a low and soft voice. ]
You know-- for a time, he had been trying very hard to learn Elvish. I had helped him find all of these books, and he spent so many weeks reading from them. Reciting syllables. Only - my Vladimir, he was... he grew up in the countryside, came to the city to learn a trade. He just had that very dour, rough way of speaking - the kind of man you couldn't imagine speaking in any other way. And I don't need to tell you, Elvish is such a musical language, light on the tongue.
[ Godfrey himself knows precious little Elvish beyond the basics, but has heard enough of it to know how the language sat in his husband's mouth - awkward, broad, deadly serious. All of the things about him that Godfrey had always been inescapably fond of. ]
'He drops the words like stones,' is what I heard an Elven neighbour of ours tell her brother after she heard him practicing.
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What does strike him is how little he can imagine it. Being married - being in love, even, choosing to devote his very long life to someone. The very notion is something senseless, not when he is well aware of his position in life. This is not the type of story that he is ever going to be able to write for himself, especially not if he fails in his quest for eternal freedom. Cazador remains a threat hanging over his head, and Astarion thinks...
Marriage. Happiness. A life, with a family, with love.
The last two hundred years have been completely without the majority of those things. One might describe his 'brothers' and 'sisters' as a family, but it isn't the same, is it now? They were sired together, perhaps, with a single master, or father, but it wasn't a choice. He did not ask to dig his way out of his own grave, did not ask to be used as a tool to summon food back for his master while being given nothing but rats. That is not the family he chose, and the reminder leaves a dead, sinking weight in his stomach as he frowns, staring at the stars.
The night used to be everything to him; when he could move, when he could slip away, the flickering hint of colour in alleys. Seeing the world in the light of day, with all the colours and brightness it has to offer... Perhaps he hates the night a little more, now.
Swallowing, he flexes his hands, not quite noticing how they were clenched until he came back to himself, tugged out of his thoughts by the sound of Godfrey's voice. It's soothing enough, Astarion thinks, and he focuses, not wanting to miss any of this. He had asked, after all. ]
It is a bit of a nuisance to learn, isn't it? Not usually fit for the tongue of the common folk. Or, well, country folk, perhaps.
[ Calling your friend(?)'s dead spouse "common" was hardly the way to earn eternal sanctuary from the threat of damnation, after all. Astarion speaks it well enough, but never bothered to use it - the others in camp didn't seem to have much concern for it. ]
But at least he tried. For you. That's... Sweet.
[ The word tastes wrong on his tongue, as if calling the effort of anyone sweet was poison. There's an air, now, of pained frustration settling on his shoulders, and he waves a hand to try and shrug it away. Now isn't the time to really trip into being morose; that will come later, when he is alone with thoughts and memories that seek to drown him. ]
He sounds perfectly charming.
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Or so Godfrey thinks. He had never asked him when he had the chance, and nor did he ever feel the need to. The marked maps he had found spoke plainly for themselves, regardless of what Vladimir could tell him. He had wanted to be ready if the day came that Iltha wanted to find her mother.
But even in this rare moment of happy reverie, he can see that something he said has pulled taut through Astarion. The petty correction is hardly worth upsetting the tenuous balance they've begun to strike - and nor is rising to that veiled unkindness he pays. Godfrey spent too long serving the underserved from his church to rise to every provocation he finds, and besides, he can't expect Astarion to have all respect for a man he never knew.
So instead, he smiles, and he nods along. ]
He certainly had his way.
[ Which is to say: charming or completely impossible, and you can't pick your poison because he chooses for you. ]
But-- surely it's no wont for stories of domesticity that has busied your thoughts. Perhaps you could share something of what has, and we can hope that I'll have thought of something better to share before we've talked it through.
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Many people do, or so I've heard.
[ The stars captivate him again, for a little while, and before he can get too lost in all his thoughts he tries to muster some kind of words. ]
Must there be something? When I look at the stars nothing in particular comes to mind. Simply the silence of a world that has rarely given any answer.
[ His expression flickers, and then he turns to look at Godfrey again, properly. ]
I don't have stories of husbands, or learning a language, or working in a church.
[ The notion of which makes his words curl with disdain. ]
Just what you already know.
[ The scrabbling of rats, hunger that never ends, his body under others with nothing but the darkness of a ceiling to keep him present in the moment. ]
sorry for the wait!!
His companions, on the whole, had been reticent where their pasts were concerned - and that was their right. He doesn't think any of them had Astarion's nervous and timid secrecy. It was something he'd thought he understood, once he'd learned one truth of him - of course he would be cagey and secretive of his past, lest someone discover his undeath.
Not that he'd expected that would be the complete end of it, as vampires so often left a trail of broken lives behind them. But there had been a sense of false understanding in him then; that this would be, perhaps, the biggest secret, and like a plug pulled, the rest might come more easily. Not so. Instead, it seemed to Godfrey that some new tragedy tangled there to stopper things again. There seemed to him a multitude of unfairness, of horrible sadness and trauma, almost too much to keep so neatly contained in such a body.
And it was, of course, his right to contain it all. Astarion owed him nothing - certainly not a look at what hurt him. But it has been a challenge to keep this barrier in place when he sees the pain so clearly as he does now - the mere reminder of a tranquil and domestic life souring his mood entirely. Questions well up in him; he wants to know what about his anecdote, specifically, had tugged his mood downward so. He wants to know if there's anything happier he remembers - any scraps from before his life had been yanked from him. He wants to know what his aspirations were then, he wants to know what he was like, what he dreamt of, what he wanted, who he knew.
Godfrey wants to help, and in the case of a man like Astarion, that's a detrimental urge to give in to. The more questions he asked, the further he would push him.
So, instead, he swallows them back and smiles. ]
There need not be anything at all. [ Godfrey picks himself up from his bedroll and draws a little closer. ] Restlessness without cause is just as much a detriment as the sort that leads your thoughts somewhere. I can make my presence a quieter one, if that would better suit you.
samesies, curse my lack of internet
It is easier to keep people at arm's length, to allow himself the distance. When your entire world is only for the purpose of seduction and murder, it because easier to make sure you never get too close to someone, that you never permit them to see behind the walls you put up. The notion of not having that measure of control over a situation is a little alarming for Astarion, who would much rather play the game of it than have anything real.
That's what he had thought for a long time, at least, but perhaps some things are beginning to change his mind.
There's surprise about the situation, that a Paladin hadn't simply culled him where he stood, that the revelation of him being a vampire spawn hadn't been enough to offer divine retribution, but he can be thankful for what little life he has that remains. Godfrey has not killed him yet, and that might well have to be enough for Astarion. Still, the possibility of a future, of becoming stronger, of being more... It is a heady desire to ignore, even if a small part of him thinks he should.
Shaking his head, Astarion hums absently, as if it doesn't matter at all. ]
It doesn't bother me at all. Sometimes it's quite nice to hear some voices in the silence. Ones that aren't screaming, anyway.
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Falling in with the paladin has been a...mixed blessing.
On one hand, it was simply very useful to have a wall of plate metal and (presumably) solid muscle between himself and the many, many entities who were interested in killing them all. Someone so luminous cast the kind of shadows that were very easy to duck in and out of, knife in hand, and Astarion has been taking advantage of that ever since they encountered the first wave of goblins. Lae'zel was no slouch with a sword either, but she wasn't nearly as distracting for their enemies.
Of course, Lae'zel probably wouldn't have even bothered getting involved in local politics, such was her determination to reach the Gith creche. That was one of the downsides - the investment in whatever heroic nonsense his faith demanded. Astarion would argue that anything not directly involving tadpole removal is a tremendous waste of their time, but not loudly. After all, when his choice is between enslavement to the Absolute and enslavement to Cazador, at least the former seems to be taking its time.
Then there's the other issue. Astarion is not a religious student by any means, but he has a distinct sense that the undead and undead-adjacent are not to be tolerated by those of Godfrey's faith. He's lost all sense of how obvious his vampirism...is. Yes, he has sharp teeth and red eyes and some rather distinctive scars, but he's also crossing babbling brooks in bright sunshine without even a twinge of discomfort. The average monster hunter would inspect their bestiary and give him a miss, surely?
As for his occasional nighttime dining, he's done his best to be discreet. Ultimately, one hunk of carrion looks much like another, drained or not.
It's for these reasons that he tells himself he has no reason for concern when the man approaches him at camp, after dinner.
"Our fearless leader," he says, setting his book aside. "Whatever can I do for you this evening?"
If he made an effort, he could probably stop everything he says from sounding like a come-on. He's not planning to try.
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A tautness at the corners of his lips, in his throat, pulling it tight.
One might think this all had started with the fangs flashing in his mouth, or his red eyes. These were giveaways which were easier to conceal at night, in forgiving shadow. In hard daylight, however, they were betrayed; one couldn't easily mistake the red for brown, as might happen in a dark street, and neither could his fangs be easily explained away by a mere trick of the light. Even his deathly complexion could be warmed by torch and candlelight to something almost forgiveably human. Daylight, indeed, laid all of these details stark and bare.
But it hadn't. In truth, it was much earlier.
It started with his chest.
As unlife settles in, such basic biological imperatives fall to the wayside. A vampire might breathe for some time out of simple habit, the dead muscles still remembering the necessities of life. But over the years, inevitably, there came a day where a vampire's chest may rise, and fall, and stay that way. Getting it to rise again with regularity, with that soft innate motion that came naturally to living beings, was something rarely mastered even among the proudest vampire lords.
Lathander knows this, and knows it well. It's just one of the things he has been trained to watch. Godfrey had already seen it in their first meeting, how rarely it moved when he was not speaking.
After that, the rest came in a landslide; his pallid face, the fangs hiding in his mouth, the red eyes, the old puncture scars just beneath the collar of his doublet. Though Astarion's apparent immunity to typical vampiric weaknesses was something to be concerned with, the truth had been laid plain to him early in their acquaintanceship; Astarion was not a living man, and most signs pointed to vampirism.
Godfrey had not moved yet on this knowledge, however. He has his reasons - a complex network of ropes staying his hand. Among them, the obvious; that Astarion has proven himself a friend, and that had left Godfrey reluctant to bring him to harm. His fellows might call this blindness, cowardice, stupidity - a heresy, at its worst. But Astarion didn't seem like a bloodthirsty monster to him. Godfrey had been watching, and he had not yet caused any harm that he could detect to their fellows. He had been slaking his thirst some other way, and the effort has gone a long way in Godfrey's estimation of his trustworthiness.
But their friends don't know what he does - haven't been watching as he has, and the bloodless animals have them asking questions. They have more than once named what Godfrey had already concluded, though not in Astarion's direction. Yet.
Such is what he comes, nervously, to discuss - it can't be an easy thing, being confronted by a man of his stature and leanings with proof that you are the very thing he should want to destroy. He takes a quick breath through his nose and squares his shoulders with it.
"I wish to discuss something with you. A... sensitive matter."
Away from the others.
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He's nervous. Visibly trying to steel himself. It's - adorable, frankly. Like a bear afraid of a mouse. Astarion has not discarded the idea of Godfrey approaching him with the whole the-Morninglord-does-not-suffer-your-kind-to-exist song and dance, but it fades into lesser likelihood with every passing day. If this is that, he has a couple of potions to hand which should facilitate a quick escape, and if it isn't...
Well, his evening has become unexpectedly interesting, regardless.
"By all means, lead the way." He gestures away from camp in a way he feels is appropriately grandiose. "I'm in your hands."
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Astarion is, as always, a difficult read. He seems agreeable now, certainly, and though his tin-soldier shoulders remain square and sharp, Godfrey finds himself grateful for this. He had no desire to embarrass Astarion or jeopardize his safety by divulging the truth of him where the others could hear. Only to find somewhere safe to discuss things.
He seems to so far be oblivious - but Godfrey would be a fool to think that Astarion could be summed up in a glance. There is every chance that he knows exactly what this conversation is bound to be beneath his easy exterior, and he knows that it can't help things, Godfrey walking tensely in front of him like this. Leading him to only the Gods knew where, alone, away from the few individuals he knows.
There's nothing Godfrey can do about the circumstances. Willing himself to calm does little to loosen his fingers, and if they were going to breach this subject with the rest of their companions, they had to do it as a united front. Godfrey divulging this out of the blue would only risk him unnecessarily. If he explained things at Astarion's side, though...
He doesn't lead him far into the woods - just out of earshot. He finds a passably flat stone and takes his seat, mountainous and tense.
Godfrey releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and slowly, he tries; "I wanted to call you here to discuss some things I've noticed."
He leaves it there, between them, and brings his eyes up to Astarion. Gently, "I think you know what it is I mean. Yes?"
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Astarion lifts his eyebrows, smiling inscrutably. As if he knows any other way to do it.
"I'm sure you wouldn't be looking so solemn if you were here to discuss my increasingly depraved interest in your body, but I can never tell with you oath-taking types," he says, with lightness which then dissolves.
"...I don't like being asked to spool out enough rope to hang myself with, darling, so please. Use your words."
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Not that he should expect anything less. Such a remark would be only slightly less easy to discard in the context of a normal conversation. Here, it could be nothing but a valve to release steam, or some form of light deflection. Or, if he's being uncharitable, some convoluted, last-ditch effort to pay insult to Godfrey before Godfrey could do it to him. A knee jerking in the face of what is to be a moment of tense discomfort - or so he hopes.
The stranger thing would be if he had meant this remark in complete seriousness, and particularly with how that levity falls away like brittle leaves when next he speaks. Godfrey's first instinct is to try and soften Astarion's words for him, as the conversation in his head certainly calls not for talk of hanging oneself. But he knows what this is - stalling - and he knows that Astarion would surely not appreciate the effort until he puts his hand down for him to see.
So; he takes another breath, touching Astarion's gaze with his own, and he speaks; "I know you're dead, Astarion. And I know why you still walk. It's high time we had a conversation about it."
There. He's let it out in the air.
Godfrey sits, completely still, elbows hanging from his knees, hands clasped.
He doesn't move.
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"I see."
Astarion steeples his fingers lightly. He has a vial of Invisibility in his sleeve; having to reach for a pocket is far too obvious.
"So - and this is sheerly curiosity, you understand. Is this a 'my mercy demands that I give you a head start before I hunt you down like the Hells-begotten wretch are are' sort of conversation, or is this a 'my honour demands that I pierce your heart in twain from the front and not the back' sort of conversation?"
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It has no right to startle him like this. This sort of concern is just what he was afraid of tripping over in the course of this talk. He knew how loudly his doctrine tended to speak for him - the overzealous parts of it, at the very least. He knew what Astarion would think when he opened this conversation. He knew there would be fear in him, that he might assume the worst. But there's something about hearing this particular charge, among the soft sounds of the night around them, which flashes reflexively in his face.
"Neither," His voice is light, soft, quick to reassure, "It's neither."
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He straightens up a little, inching back from full flight-or-fight mode.
"Well, then. You already know what I am. You already seem to have decided what to do, or rather what not to do about it. What element of this conversation is there for me to participate in, exactly?"
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He exhales, and lets his gaze low. Watches his hands wring between his knees as he slips a little further into the conversation.
"I've known for some time. I stayed my judgment and watched you - and the others. I wanted to know that you would not hurt them."
Because, naturally, that has always been on the table. He had watched Astarion tensely once, hand resting deceptively gentle at the hilt of his sword. He had been ready, in those early and nervous days, to end him at the first hint of harm - but not before then. The Oath calls for compassion to all - even his enemies, though tempered with wisdom. That is what he gave him.
And Astarion had proven himself worthy of it enough times over that, though it hasn't totally been taken from the table, his hands might set to separating Astarion from whatever altercation befell him before they went to his sword and his magic.
His thumb presses into the white inside of his fingers, and they curl around it. A birdcall echoes from somewhere in the woods, deeper still than they are.
"But they have not cultivated the same insight that I have. They have found what you've left behind, and they are... discussing amongst themselves what they have seen."
Godfrey sucks in a breath, his fingers hard against his knuckles, and he looks back up to Astarion.
When he speaks, it's slow. All softness, all gentle and placating reassurance; "I think if you had wanted to hurt anyone here, you would have. But you haven't. And I suspect that if we tell them together - if you would trust me to help - they may be more inclined to trust you as I have come to."
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Oh. So what he's offering isn't, in fact, the necessary purification of a swift death, but...moral support?
Astarion supposes he might perform some indignation. Thank you so very much, great and mighty paladin, but I am in fact more than capable of showing my fangs and facing the consequences, I am not afraid of a lizard, a Shar-worshipping amnesiac and a man who can't even get his entire body through a portal.
But if that was true, he would have done it by now, wouldn't he? He wouldn't have affected ignorance when Lae'zel had found the husk of a boar he'd drained the previous night; he wouldn't avoid them when he hears mutterings of other such discoveries at camp. He's been letting the days roll by in the hope that, by the time they realise his ability to walk in the sun is an aberration, he's proven too valuable to dispose of.
Godfrey's no fool. He'll be as aware of that as Astarion is himself. So he really has no choice in this matter, has he?
"You do seem to have become the bar by which our choices are measured," he says, reflective. "So I can hardly deny that your endorsement would be valuable."
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Now all he has is to sit on his hands, regarding Astarion - watching for tension that might graduate beyond the thoughtful knot in his brow, the words he can see passing in his thoughts, like schools of shimmering fish - and hold his breath in the space that's left between the two of them.
Why should he be so nervous, in the face of a friend? Godfrey himself couldn't answer this question, were he asked. Not precisely, at least. He knew that it must lie between Astarion's evasiveness, his secrecy when it came to himself. Somewhere near the constant condescension he felt from him - the way he spoke as though every word he spoke was part of some larger joke that Godfrey would never understand. And naturally, under the ever-looming grander threat of it all; that he was exposing a larger and more threatening truth that Astarion had tried to hide. Dead or alive, this was tender territory for most thinking beings to tread.
Thankfully, his path has been thus far well-chosen. When Astarion does speak, he concedes to the wisdom of what Godfrey has said. He exhales, shoulders unwinding, and he nods.
"You have my endorsement, and more." His hands unwind and rest between his knees. "You have my word."
He does not overstate the importance of this, despite its immensity; to go back on his word would be to go back on his Oath. His promise to Astarion is as good to a promise to the Morninglord himself.
"... I wish not to pressure you, but- with how the others are talking, it may be best to breach this discussion sooner, rather than later. I feel we give ourselves the best chance if we head things off at the pass, rather than let them discover the truth themselves."
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Astarion looks back towards the camp with a faint, thoughtful frown.
"The others haven't turned in yet," he says, after a brisk headcount. "So we might as well."
It's not going to get any easier to swallow, and he's started wondering if Shadowheart in particular is just choosing her moment.
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Though he wishes he could dispel it, Godfrey knows that he likely won't be enough to evaporate his nerves totally. Revealing a truth like this is not something he can directly imagine, but he can conjure enough to understand that he will be afraid until it's over with.
So he watches him consider his options for a moment, staring through the leaf-cover to quickly analyze the figures beyond, lit by flickering firelight, their voices vague from the moment they've carved for themselves. Godfrey sits patiently, feeling his own nerves untangle as Astarion seems to settle more and more into his hands.
"If you need time, we still may take it." He settles on his stone a little more, and for the first time in their conversation, lets himself smile. "All I mean to say is that we ought do it tomorrow morning, if not tonight. I do not mind extending our wait that far, should it help."
But not much longer than that.
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Astarion presses his fingertips to his lips for a moment, then drops his hands.
"...No. No, actually, I think now is an excellent time. I'd rather they have the night to sleep on it than the day to spend inventing reasons to kill me."
Is this also a means of clawing back a little control? Maybe! Regardless, being offered more time feels like charity he refuses to accept. If this is happening, it's happening now.
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It matters little to Godfrey, truthfully, why it is Astarion is reticent to wait. Whether this is a tactical decision on his part, some kind of emotional reflex, or simply a grab at more control. Whether he thinks the rays of dawn will evaporate Godfrey's good will as they do the darkness of night. Whether Godfrey registers his concerns as sound or mere paranoia. All that matters is that he is reticent to wait; this is all Godfrey needs to know.
He plants his hands on his knees and pushes himself to his feet, exhaling as he rises. Godfrey regards him easily, blue eyes soft and kind.
"Then we spare ourselves the wait and speak with the others now." His face... it doesn't firm, not quite. This implies hardness, and Godfrey's expression is careful in this regard. But he does look suddenly serious, before he continues; "Tell me this, my friend, and speak true; what can I do to help ease this conversation?"
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This requires not even a moment's thought.
"Nothing - literally nothing, just - keep your distance, darling. I was going to tell you. All of you," he adds, looking faintly aggrieved. "Frankly, I don't need this to look any more like I've been marched over there with my arm twisted than it already will."
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This does not help the way that insistence squirms in his gut, however, that reflexive nervousness as his assistance is rebuffed. The motion doesn't offend him - Astarion has more than his share of reasons to remain evasive and cagey on the subject, and doubly so, considering who was attached to this helping hand being offered to him. The pervading feeling is concern. Godfrey's plan was to advocate for him to their companions, to address their misgivings and concerns directly instead of forcing Astarion to handle them. Vampires are known for nothing if not their social trickery, their ability to charm and deceive. He's perfectly aware of how easily the conversation could get out of hand, and how they might discard out of hand anything that Astarion could say to them.
But also, he knows that insisting and pushing the point would hardly help matters. Astarion has the right to decide his role in this conversation, far more than Godfrey does. He nods once.
"All right. I will speak only if my voice is needed."
With that, the matter is settled.
"I suppose, then, that one of us should return to the fire before the other."
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The revelation is actually something of an anticlimax.
Lae'zel seemed to have already known, and says some things about his scent that he feels are overly descriptive coming from someone with hardly any nose. Halsin, likewise, doesn't seem surprised and Astarion can only imagine he learned it from some adorable woodland creature who outran him recently. Shadowheart has apparently burnt through most of her racism while dealing with Lae'zel, and therefore doesn't care about the predator in their midst, so long as he predates elsewhere. Gale doesn't have a foot to stand on re. an unusual dietary habit to sate an unnatural hunger, and so keeps his mouth shut. Karlach is fine with it - what's one reasonably courteous vampire, after ten years in Avernus? - and Wyll at the very least affects fineness to better keep the peace with Karlach.
And then the question is asked about Godfrey's thoughts on the subject, which has Astarion calling over his shoulder:
"Darling! Please come over here and reassure the masses that I haven't put any holes in you."
tfln overflow......2
@sangwhine
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[ ..... ]
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1/whatever sorry to your inbox
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ok thats it
I suppose I've no real choice but to be completely honest with you, my friend, however much dishonour it may bring.
My immediate assumption has been that you've been saying these things to mock me.
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I think I do not quite feel that you've been deceitful. Not in this regard.
But this teasing is your way, or it has seemed to be. You've not hurt me by this, of course... but I suppose that I've come away with the impression that you've thought me an absurdity.
I hadn't anticipated that I would interest you. That I could interest you, I suppose.
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If a proper courtship is your expectation, then I think we ought continue this discussion face to face.
[ He's taking a breath and holding it... ]
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Just tell me where to find you, my dear.
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[ Walls of cream-coloured canvas, tassled and trimmed and painted in golden holy symbols. Books, scripture, pillows. A child's drawing pinned to one post and a heavy stone-cutter's axe leaning against the other. The privacy seems sensible at first; he doesn't spare a thought to the implication of it.
Instead, he waits in tense silence, and tries to force his nerves to quiet. ]
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Here I am, darling.
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Here he is. With hardly any time to array his words, to cage his thoughts, to petition his Lord for guidance - here he is, easy as ever. Speaking in the same low and breathy murmur.
Godfrey feels his breath catch in his throat. Cerulean eyes flicker up to touch Astarion's, then away, as he gingerly takes one of his hands in his own, drapes his cool fingers over the edge of his palm.
The pad of his thumb grazes his pale fingers, and he glances back up to him, smiling wanly. He takes a tight breath, and he speaks gently. ]
Come-- please, Astarion. Make yourself comfortable. [ He turns his body to the side to avail Astarion the cluster of pillows slumped in his small tent - blues, lavenders, and pinks in a soft pile.
He leads him those few short steps by his hand, speaking slowly and deliberately as he does so, choosing his words with care-- ] I... well. I have some things I would say, before we allow this to... proceed, I suppose, any farther.
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He lets himself be led, settling down into the cushions while keeping Godfrey's hand held in his.]
Go on, dear. I'm all pointy ears.
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Godfrey settles down deliberately; near to him, near enough to still be joined by the gentle clasp of their hands, but only so near. Open, but not imposing. Godfrey knew well enough that it was Astarion who ought to have control over how close they would come. So it is that Godfrey settles back and stretches his legs before him, propped up at his elbow to rest facing Astarion, still cradling his hand in his in the short space between them.
He studies their hands together, the stark paleness of his skin against Godfrey's own rosy tone. Astarion will see his downcast eyes cringe as his smile touches them, breaking his solemn and thoughtful silence - the humour still flashing in them when he does look up and let his gaze linger on him, his face softening after a thin moment too long.
Then, he looks back down, lets himself indulge in Astarion's delicate wristbone, his pale fingers. He touches gently the fingers of his other hand against the peaks of his thin knuckles. ]
I know that I am not as... available, in this regard, as some others.
[ This is spoken softly, and with apology. He swallows. ]
It has not been solely that I thought you spoke in jest. I have not courted, or been courted, since-- my husband. I have thought it impossible that I would ever be again, for so long. I do not tell you this to make my burden yours, I wish for nothing less than to burden you. But I want to speak plainly of this, that you know and may decide yourself if I can give you what you seek from us, because--
[ He brushes the warmth of his hand over Astarion's, then, and sighs briskly, brow knotting. For as much as he wished it, he couldn't spend the rest of this conversation avoiding his eyes. He gives himself a moment, then, lifts his eyes to Astarion's, in gentle and quiet resolve. ]
I do care for you, Astarion. Whatever is decided here, if you take only one sentiment to your heart, let it be this - for you will not change it. I have come to care for you, very much.
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He reaches up, cupping Godfrey's cheek in his hand, his thumb brushing softly over his skin.]
My dear, I would never doubt you. I could never doubt the depths of your heart, your devotion.
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This is before he feels the touch of Astarion's hand, cool and soft, on his cheek.
Godfrey stops. His thoughts, chest, mouth - all, for a moment, stop. He can't remember when last he felt another's touch like this, only who it came from. He regards Astarion with a gentle trepidation and, slowly, exhales. Releases. The grave and serious resolve on his face gives way to what waited underneath. Soft, warm yearning.
And so far, the moment lives long enough for Godfrey to begin to think that all of his concerns, perhaps, mattered less than he thought they did.
The tent is quiet, but for his own soft breathing. Godfrey presses Astarion's hand gently with his own, leaning just slightly into this tiny piece of affection. His eyes slip closed.
He turns his face into his palm, grazing the edge of his pale hand with warm, living, even breaths. He kisses its heel. Then, the still inner of his wrist.
He says nothing. ]
hello hi sorry life ate me
Astarion lets his fingers trace against Godfrey's skin as his hand is held still, softening his own gaze with a warm smile of his own.]
You are a lovely man. I'm sure you know that. I can't imagine how anyone could look at you and not be enraptured.
@radiatingsoul
Though I can appreciate the nuance and differences in the two of us and your talents alike, I tell you this plainly now; an option that consigns innocents to death to ease our own shortcomings is no option at all. We overcome, or we fail.
[ his kingdom for a NORMAL scry cast tbh ]
Likely not without risking ourselves further in travel. Setting a campsite would be safer.
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[ Her proposal is informed by expedience before ethics; she belongs to neither of the aforementioned schools of thought and whether that makes her a person of low character is somebody else's business. ]
Praise be! I'd petition you to carry me before braving another rolling hill, seeing how brazenly uninconvenienced you are by physical labour.
[ The young woman is really gaunt and short of breath and yet surprisingly tenacious despite her difficulty keeping up, as if propelled forwards by her spite. As they set camp Samarie walks the perimeter, tracing a circle around their refuge with a crooked stick while muttering indiscernible grievances to herself. ]
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[ Just in case she was starting to feel that his conviction's a one-way road.
And he leaves the conversation at that, for the moment. He settles into work without being asked; as she's already observed, he's ready for it, both by training and abundance of physical endurance. Godfrey shoulders the work himself of gathering wood, preparing their fire, and pitching both tents, with not a word of complaint and all of the precision of a soldier out of training. He asks her for nothing - not because of any fear or lacking trust, but simply because of the stark differences in their physicalities. Godfrey is strong, and taller, and hardly winded by the road they've walked - not so for her.
Besides... whatever she's doing has some import, maybe.
He isn't sure. He knows little about this worship; they're a secretive group. Godfrey has tried always to bear in mind his own lack of knowledge whilst dealing with Samarie, but-- well, it would be a lie to say that he has not felt himself hold his breath a little in her presence, and he swore an Oath.
For the time being, Godfrey - free of his heavy plate - squats by the fire. He cuts carrots from his pack into a hot iron pot, currently perched over the flame, driving the blade through the root and against his thumb.
Godfrey doesn't disturb her - but he watches her, as he might any idle curiosity. ]
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Godfrey is cutting carrots when, apropos of nothing, Samarie suddenly explodes: ]
Kaa! Do you think I'm some feckless rube? I studied sorcery at Fiend Petr's Basilica!
[ Before he can so much as part his lips, the young woman whips out a blade and opens her outstretched forearm with the end of the knife. Blood runs hot from the gash and speckles the grass and soil at her feet. A burst of flame casts shadows upon the their faces as fire travels the circumference of their camp like the lit fuse of a dynamite before vanishing into the darkness from which it came, leaving a ring of evaporating smoke about the camp. The tell-tale signature of blood magic: self-mutilation. ]
N-no need to trade shifts... Gro-goroth will protect us.
[ Samarie sits on an incline and stares pointedly into the heart of the fire. The blood on her arm has yet to clot and slithers from the cut. It's not fatal, but there. The worked up sorcerer pays no heed to the wound. ]
meant to get to this way earlier, apologies....
Just as he doesn't let on if he knew to expect this sudden eruption from her. His knife stops, mid-rasp, on its way through this most recent round.
Godfrey witnesses it all in silence - the blade driving into her arm, the flash of fire carving through the grass, penning them in with a sharp, bright burning. The brief, black deafness that falls across them, as though the air grew too full for sound for a slim moment. The deathly exhalation. The overbearing heat.
The campfire stirs. Godfrey remains seated, and his knife travels no further through the vegetable in his hand.
The moment eases. The arcing fire dies to cinders, forming around them a black perimeter. The air smells hot, as Godfrey suspects it will for the night's remainder - beyond, perhaps. He is no expert on these teachings, but he knows enough to recognize what he's seen here; and though he can appreciate her effort, the livid pain she still appears blind to, he would have happily stood vigil instead of invited His presence to their campfire.
He lets the knife pass the rest of the way. The orange round drops into the pot. Godfrey thinks on her - her teachings, her age. She's young - no child, Gods willing. But she is no older than he, or so Godfrey feels assured. What must her life be comprised by, to come into such knowledge; worse, to take not even a moment to resort to it?
He cuts to the carrot's stem and drops it to the soil. Godfrey climbs to his feet and steps away in silence. He cleans his hands.
Shoulders a bag from his tent and walks toward Samarie's incline, lowering himself on one knee next to her, her wounded arm between them. ]
I don't know that you'll wish me to close the wound - though you need only ask if you do. But we ought at least see it cleaned and covered.
@elfenritter
No trouble at all. You shall know they've arrived when you hear me rap the door.
[ Very, very gently, of course. ]
If I've anything that may help clear this morning fog, trust that it will arrive as companions to your broth and sweetmint. Worry yourself not with tithe if you do not speak in jest.
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[ The gesture will certainly be appreciated. Elves have rather sensitive hearing, after all. ]
My friend, I may not be the most pious of knights, but I would never deign to jest in the face of your own piety. Truly, your good works have been invaluable to our team, and I feel I ought to repay your kindness in some small way.
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I meant no insult, to you nor myself. I meant only to say that you need not feel obliged to compensate His tithe for my aid. I offer it freely.
[ Speaking of; three very gentle knocks at the door, beyond it waiting a mug of bone broth, sweetmint sprigs, and some jarred pickles. ]
I just knocked. I hope you heard me.
I've left some things outside for you. Trouble yourself not with seeing me - you ought be in rest, not putting on airs.
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Julien doesn't bother with reading the message, their ears already pricked to the sound of gentle knocking at their door.
The latch clicks, the door swings open partway, and Julien peers around the frame, blue eyes squinting through their lashes against the brightness streaming through the windows. Their fiery hair hangs loose about their face, unkempt and bristling with unruly curls. Their face bears no hint of powder, nor makeup, though their eyes are shadowed from poor sleep. An old blanket is draped over their shoulders, giving them the unfortunate appearance of a vagrant begging for alms.
They catch sight of Godfrey's broad shoulder turning from them, his blond hair catching the light, turning it to burnished gold.
He's a saint, truly, for aiding them in their hour of need. ]
A moment, friend. [ Julien's gaze drops to the offerings laid by the door, then quickly shifts toward the interior of their room. ] ...would you like some tea?
@forrestertailor
I am the sort who has but one spoon, I fear.
And I am unsure as to how my Lord might feel about my... pot-stirring, besides. In the conventional definition. I have been one tasked to create and foster unions, not to unsettle them.
No, bully you: appropriate space between rp and life having ass, healthy boundary having ass
So armed with this, the next time they get to fighting I get between them and tell them about what a lovely birthday his child had just had. The looks on their faces, Gwilym, I’ll never forget.
@divinestrike
There is value in what you say.
But I do fail to see the greater path waiting to be revealed by throwing open a set of barn doors to reveal them in the act of coitus, purely in jest.
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The point of objection was not the sight itself, Lady.
It was the needless fight that broke out afterward. They were both quite furious.
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Well. Maybe a really good bard might be able to.
Why were they interrupted to begin with?
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But all the same, certain present company insisted, and threw the doors open whilst I had turned my back to leave.
Because they thought it would be funny.
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Not like that.
[Even Nepione has standards for comic relief.]
Maybe you should have a little talk with this certain company of yours. Use honey in your words. With the right delivery, you could even move mountains.
@netherese
I'm sure that I fret over our separation more than she does, for she is yet small.
[ He hopes, anyway.
But... he's not holding his breath. She's quickly becoming not so little at all. Her advancing age is the exact thing that keeps him determined to return home; to Godfrey's assessment, she had been too young to truly and meaningfully register the last loss she had.
Not necessarily so now. ]
What you say is true, of course. I have you, Gale, and all the others, just as you have me. I hope that my moment's lamenting does not give the impression that I've forgotten. We have been so rarely apart that I've no choice but to fuss to myself, I suppose.
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You're allowed far more than a moment's lamenting, if you ask me. I'll gladly remind you as many times as you need.
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In fact, it has just inspired me to think of something - perhaps instead of lamentations, we ought share stories of more peaceful times :) A happier journey into the past, no? I could tell to you a story of my daughter, and if it would not intrude, I could ask of you a story in turn.
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Stories from our past, hm? I'd quite enjoy that, though perhaps not through enchanted text. The telling of the story is just as important as the tale itself, and I've no doubt you have quite the knack for rhetoric!
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[ is this true? is this just godfrey being godfrey?? only the morninglord knows.... ]
May I assume that I will find you retired to your tent, Gale? Or have you wandered?
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Ah, yes, here as ever, enjoying the evening as much as one can given our circumstances. We picked up several interesting volumes during our travels today that I've been investigating in depth. You are always welcome, as you well know.
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Above all, though, they are here - they are all of them here, they are safe. The evening is shaping into the closest approximation Godfrey had found to perfect during their travels; the day's travails had been tiring, but not so tiring. Nothing beyond the fundamental comfort of a warm fireside meal.
With dinner put behind them, their respective evenings begin; some of the others, doubtless, preparing for some small-hour revelry which Godfrey would not sacrifice dawn prayer for.
But Godfrey decides that they won't miss one bottle for the evening.
So it is that Godfrey's footfalls rasp through sweet grass to Gale's violet tent; from one hand dangling the neck of a bottle, the fingers of the other caught with the stems of two battered pewter wine glasses. ]
Gale, [ Said to the tent flap, before he reminds himself that he was invited; surely it's permissible to work his hand beneath that flap and lift it just a little, a careful cautioning as to his entry without striding in unwelcome, ] may I enter?
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The wizard looks up from the journal he'd been writing in with an easy smile, setting his pen down.]
Godfrey, please— come in. You're expected, after all.
[He'd hardly had to ask, but they are both polite sorts, and so Gale can hardly hold it against him. He gestures to the space in front of him, where Godfrey has his pick of cushions to sit on, should he so choose.]
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Thank you.
[ He picks his few steps carefully, around that stack with a cursory glance at their spines. He recognizes few titles in Gale's current program of studies - which he expected, their respective fields of knowledge have little overlap. Still, he could do with more to meaningfully contribute. Perhaps he ought pick a title and inquire...
That is not what he's come for this evening, but - if their stories waned, perhaps that was a second discussion to keep them afloat. Godfrey dutifully sits on a larger, square cushion, and sets the bottle and glasses down. ]
I snuck a bottle from the others, if you might like a glass. [ Red, and a decent table wine - but a table wine all the same. ] They ought not miss a few cupfuls, I think.
[ And likely, Godfrey thinks, they would drink little more than that. ]
resurrects myself
[His smile hitches wider as he teases warmly, setting his journal aside as his companion makes himself comfortable.]
You know me, I've always a weakness for a glass. I used to be a bit more specific about the quality, but these days, I find most will do in a pinch. This one, I do believe I recognize— quite decent, in fact, especially when compared to some of the others we've come across in our travels. We'll make a sommelier of you, yet.
[Just in case being a Paladin of the Morninglord doesn't work out, naturally.]
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When it comes to the question of where the wine came from... well. This is something mired in ambiguity.
And it is no conundrum he's willing to entertain right now; not while the evening has such warm and quiet promise to it. Godfrey settles in his seat and pours each glass carefully, nodding slowly as he listens to Gale speak. Smiling to himself even before he turns his eyes up, bright and warm, to extend the first full cup to him. ]
Then I am gratified to know that I chose well.
[ He's as faultlessly genuine as he's always been - his tone as light and bright as though he had never considered that Gale's approval would not be significant.
Drink distributed, Godfrey carefully corks the bottle and sits back with his own glass. ]
I imbibe only occasionally. I cannot boast any particularly significant palate. Tragic that I could not make use of your expertise when last I was honoured to contribute to Waterdhavian Rhyestertide celebrations.
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Oh, dear. Disaster struck, I take it?
[He smiles at Godfrey from behind the rim of his cup before taking a generous sip. Really, for found wine, it's quite good.]
I aim not to imbibe with excess, but a good glass of wine can go a long way in complementing a meal. I confess, I lose myself rather quickly if I have too much, so I do make an effort to exercise caution. Tonight, however, I believe myself to be in trustworthy company. If I help myself to a second glass, you'll not think any less of me for it, I hope.
[He gives a smile that manages to be just a touch weary and self-deprecating beneath the usual optimism. It's been an especially exhausting few days for the lot of them, really.]
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[ And, really, Godfrey could hardly fault him this inevitable conclusion. He's very sure that Gale will register the magnitude of what was wasted on him, even if he won't give voice to his feelings on the matter. Appreciative of the high honour as Godfrey was, he could not lie to himself as to pretend that the sliver of valuable and rare red vintage, so lovingly brewed and aged by monks of his Lord's dawn, tasted like anything more than over-stewed plums to him.
But this is the sort of thing Godfrey had come for, wasn't it? Far-flung pieces of the path that had led them here. Stories of home. He raises his cup to his lips and takes a slow, meandering drink.
Tastes of grapes.
He keeps this to himself and tries, instead, to think of some description that wouldn't gall poor Gale. He looks up as he swallows and smiles, meaningful. ]
I doubt much that there is any way you might tarnish my esteem of you, Gale. [ His voice is warm and gentle, resonant in the little tent they sit in, ] Indeed, it would do me some good, to see you well and at ease.
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['Wasted,' he says— a difficult vintage to come by outside of specific circumstances, and Gale can only imagine what other connoisseurs might say to such a thing. He may quite enjoy wine himself, but he's hardly going to shame Godfrey for not acquiring the taste.
Still, it does sting just a little bit, hearing that, and he shakes his head in disbelief.
He helps himself to another sip, pausing to let the flavor bloom on his tongue, and its second impression is not so different from the first. Nothing outstanding, but they could do far worse, like the vinegar they'd managed to pick up among the goblin camps.
Godfrey's reassurance causes his smile to warm and soften, his shoulders dropping as he lets some of the tension of the day further ease from him.]
Is that so? I could say much the same about you. Of course, I asked you here for a reason— I won't have you taking all of our burdens onto those broad shoulders of yours without insisting that you allow us to do the same in turn. Relax tonight, at the very least. Gods know you deserve it as much as any of us, perhaps moreso.
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Godfrey naturally hadn't been unappreciative of the opportunity - indeed, even to a palate as uncultured as his own, it had been a great honour to know the taste and bouquet of such a valued and prized labour of his monastic brothers and sisters.
Having said that, conveying his appreciation had required a good bit of smiling and nodding along, and none of his own words. Godfrey hardly found stewed plums an unpleasant comparison in its experience, but couldn't deny that it hardly sounded so. And besides that, listening to the others find limitless complexity in the same glasses made his own thoughts feel simple and juvenile.
Much the same as what keeps him silent on the glass he has in his hand now. He takes another thin sip and finds another element to add to his collection of thoughts - this sip tastes like dry grapes.
He wonders idly if Gale ever experiences these banal little examples of thoughts best kept in one's own head. It seems not, or so he thinks, as he swirls the ruby table wine in his cup and watches its depths move. He knows he must reasonably, despite how loquacious and eager he may seem. But it's difficult to apply such convention to a man like him; to a life that seems to know no idle thought or wasted exercise of the mind.
This impression proves itself again; Godfrey glances up from his cup as Gale answers and reveals the truth - that he has been deceived, and that only after it closes around his ankle is the snare in the leaves where he steps revealed. ]
I am betrayed, then. Not only to a good drink in pleasant company, but also to reprieve and fellowship. [ Voice still just as mellow, smile just crinkling his eyes. ] There are far worse double-crossings.
[ And there are few who know just how necessary such measures are better than Godfrey himself. Selfish in pain. He's like a dog; he has to be tricked into showing his wounds. ]
Very well, then I shall be the one to lead our ramblings for the evening. I cannot promise any particularly interesting revelations, but if there is a burden you would particularly like to investigate...
[ Seems prudent to give him the choice, if he wants to carry something. Even if the room is dark, and all he may take on his back remains uncertain and vague. ]
thank you for your endless patience, I adore you
Betrayed, yes, but with the greatest of intentions!
[He smiles again in turn, a bit of pleasant crinkling forming around his own eyes, as it so often did when he was in a merry mood.]
Of course, I'll not attempt to extract anything you aren't willing to share, but it seemed imperative that you have at least half an hour where you did not feel as though you must hold yourself together for the good of all.
[Though his gaze becomes a bit more somber, his expression remains pleasant, the inviting countenance of a good friend.]
This journey has been hard on all of us. I know it cannot be easy to lead this rag-tag band of rascals and ruffians, especially under the present circumstances. Certainly, there are days where each one of us must feel like giving up entirely.
always and forever my dude
Holding to what he knows helps him little. His gaze touches Gale's as he laughs, warm in the dying light, the barest flickering by his eyes, the illusion of movement cast just slightly downward, and he feels his chest swell.
Sir Godfrey busies himself with his glass and a steadying breath. The light plays tricks as it dies, and Godfrey had seated himself distantly enough to fall vulnerable to them. That was all. He needed not cast his own aspersions over the evening, over this evening least of all. Gale's kindness and good will needed none of Godfrey's compounded loneliness to colour it, nor to turn it into anything but what it was.
Another sip likely wouldn't help, tempting though it may be. Sufficiently chastened, Godfrey unbusies himself from the ruby depths of his cup, and he looks again to Gale, with only the hope that the warmth blooming in his chest isn't as visible as it feels.
And truly, he wishes the care Gale shows him now untouched by the years he's spent encased in mourning. It is one deeply admirable; selfless and extended for no gain of his own. To project such hunger to him here - either his own, or to veil him and this evening in it - felt an unkindness, an unnecessary sullying of something wonderful and rare. Godfrey, eyes smiling, cants his head toward it as it is expressed, taking a moment of thought. He takes a breath through his nose. ]
Here... once, perhaps. [ This answer comes softly, unsure. As though this is the first moment's thought he's granted to the question. ] Shortly after we became stranded by the Nautiloid, and we began learning of our affliction.
[ He had allowed himself to think of his daughter. Of taming her wild Wood Elven hair into braids, and of laying out her clothes for the morning before bed. Of her hand in his. Of watching her eat, and listening to her play, and reading to her. Of listening to her outlandish thoughts and seeing the world through her young eyes. Of the way she would, baby-fat cheeks sagging just a little with grim and childish severity, stand up and run to crowd his stomach with her face after every long day of training.
Of what the word ceremorphosis would do to it. He had wept alone. ]
Though not since. Our friends have failed to instill such feelings in me, if that is indeed their goal. I am... I think, good at trying for others. I think not of myself for as long as I do.
[ What might happen now that Gale is asking him to stop doing that? Godfrey hasn't asked himself that quite yet.
Godfrey glances back to his cup now, considers another drink, decides against it. ]
At home... many times, it pains me to say. The church did not always appreciate my leadership, and often did I ask myself if all of the fighting was worthwhile. As well...
[ Did Gale know of his husband? Godfrey can't say. But he'd asked for the walls which kept these old tragedies in to come down, for the silence stretching between them to be filled with all that he's kept in his chest. Godfrey asks himself to oblige. He swallows. ]
I am a widower, and the time after my husband passed was difficult and long.
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That he was a widower wasn't entirely surprising, though they had never discussed it in detail.]
I imagine it must have been so. I did not know for certain if you were a widower, but you have mentioned that you are Iltha's only remaining family. I confess, I assumed as much.
[It was, in fact, one of the myriad reasons why Gale had convinced himself his interests were inappropriate— even if he weren't considering the amount of danger he would put someone in, given the disastrous consequences of his own actions and the burden he now bore.]
As someone who has come to both respect and depend upon your leadership, I'm afraid the church may not have realized what they had. I suppose they might have lacked a certain sense of pragmatism.
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In this respect, he has done them a disservice. This is something that has always perched at the edge of his awareness; always there, but simple enough to avoid. All Godfrey truly needed to do was to remind himself of the simple fact that none of them could know him - that they all had things more important and pertinent to know than the silver-and-gold knight who had just blundered into their lives. They did not need to know him. He could know them, and surely, that would be enough.
This was before the first of them had tried to return the favour by knowing Godfrey as Godfrey had come to know them. Gale, attentive and careful, looking to absorb anything of Godfrey, sits before him. Ready and eager for anything that he might give.
And yet, his tongue guides the conversation in circles. He does not seek an ear nor a shoulder tonight, and he asks not that Godfrey remain sturdy and strong where he cannot. These things are simple; his own strength can stand in for others, and he can listen, and he can take in their tragedies, and he can hope that they weigh a little less on them for how they now weigh on Godfrey himself. Gale asks something else of him entirely. Godfrey hardly knows where to begin. And, indeed, where the others have slowly done him the honour of giving Godfrey pieces of themselves, Godfrey finds himself retreating, clutching those shards in his hands.
Why, Godfrey? He could not say. It was not as though Gale was an untrustworthy friend - and yet he hesitates. Even in the face of his kindness, he hesitates.
Sir Godfrey had sworn an oath. ]
You are kind to say so.
[ This small concession, first. He does not agree, and Godfrey does not hide this. He lifts his glass to his lips and takes a long, thoughtful sip, the bell-curve of its belly glinting in the low light. It hangs loose in his fingers when he finds his thirst satisfied, leaning casually against the inner edge of of his leg. ]
But it was me who lacked pragmatism. I think it will not surprise you to hear that my leadership was a touch... idealistic. I did not always keep in the forefront of my thoughts the well-being of the Temple.
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[His smile quirks to one side as he drinks deep from his glass, a simple pleasure that he finds himself incredibly grateful for in these trying times. For all of his experiences, all of his talents, all of his elegant taste, it was the simple moments he always found the most comfort in.]
I would go so far as to say that there are times when your leadership is still a touch idealistic, but given that what we face has the potential to lead to disastrously poor choices under tremendous pressure, but the optimist in me rather appreciates the standing reminder to be considerate of the consequences of our actions.
[Gale is rather pragmatic when he needs to be, but he does still like to hope for the best while preparing for the worst.]
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Suns himself in this small approval, as he recounts a time when not even his own household fully appreciated his efforts.
Godfrey glances away then. The lingering smile fades as he delves deeper. ]
I like to think that my time in the clergy taught me a thing or two. [ Perhaps more accurate; he likes to hope. ] My heart was well-placed and did not falter, but... well. I prioritized what it told me over what my rational mind did.
[ Here, his gaze gets trepidatious and shy; he glances toward Gale for a thin moment, gauging his reaction in slim seconds before looking away again, allowing the buzz of the night outside to take the moment again. ]
The temple had many... implicit, shall we say, initiatives to help the underprivileged. [ His gaze distances as he rolls the glass in his hand, feeling its weight slosh precariously in its glass belly. ] We offered direct help to the children and the newly born, and that was well. We sheltered travelers and adventurers, for they often proved lucrative prospects and particularly helpful hands. But never the parents of those children. There was an air that we ought not take responsibility for them, that their problems lie with themselves where their children were blameless, that the church ought keep funding our other initiatives instead. It all appeared, to me, rather... self-serving.
[ And the hesitation is no trepidation regarding blasphemy - the Morninglord uses His clergy first and foremost to revise the old traditions, that Lathander may be improved continuously as His priests use Him for their own betterment. Criticism and debate of scripture and its use is, always, a healthy part of any good Lathanderian worship. ]
It was my assessment that a man cannot be expected to improve himself when he knew not where his next meal came from, or when he had no cover from the sun or the rain. And it also was my assessment that our scripture demanded we pull those around us in our wake, tow them toward a tomorrow ever brighter. That this was our divine duty. I followed this call. I became the Temple's Dawnlord, and I fought to keep its doors open to the poor and the destitute.
[ He exhales, slowly, through his nose. His shoulders fall, and his brow tightens a little. The note of the statement swings downward instead of upward. ]
They closed when I was stabbed.
[ He takes another drink. ]
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[Gale's brow furrows as he echoes the paladin, having watched his expression carefully as he told his tale, that exhale alone a great indicator of a turning point to come. He grimaces, his own smile having faded, and he shakes his head as he lowers his glass, eyebrows knit together in disapproval— not of Godfrey, but of those who would take advantage of his ideals.]
I wish such things were unheard of, people turning on the very hands that feed them. Your heart was certainly in the right place, wishing to aid those the temple had previously overlooked. I've not been unfortunate enough to experience true hunger— the traditional kind, at least— but I do know how difficult it can be to try and improve one's situation when plagued with doubt, with pain.
[He lets out a sigh of his own, lifting his glass and giving it another even swirl before he drinks.]
Even then, it seems you believed the best of mankind. What happened to the one who assaulted you?
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In the heavy vacuum of silence left behind, Sir Godfrey sits, swallowing. ]
She was found to have made an intentional attempt on my life by the courts, whilst I lay in recovery. I could not intervene before she was hanged by the neck.
[ And intervene he would have; the assailant was a young woman known to him. He had no wish to see her put to death for a crime she had committed in desperation, not while he remained dedicated to helping her. He had walked himself through the alternatives he could have offered for weeks - had he only been able to attend.
Though, somewhere in Godfrey's chest, this story had never quite sat right. He had never been able to fathom how it had been that multiple days had been lost; his fellow clergymen pointed their fingers at Vladimir and claimed that all had been handled at home, that the Temple had presumed him missing in the crucial hours after the assault had been discovered. And Vladimir would not speak of the incident at all. ]
Vladimir was furious with me. [ Godfrey's gaze has drifted down to his shoes, one ankle crossed over the other, as he murmurs. ] He was a stern man for all of our time together, but never had I seen him angry, either before or since. He told me, the bastards will eat you alive, and you'll think nothing of anyone who loved you. Only to be sorry for the way you'll stick in their damned teeth.
[ Another quiet moment passes.
Something shifts across Godfrey's face. A subtle furrowing of his brow and a slow-dawning regret as he wishes he could pull back that anecdote - the fear that he's compromised the careful image of Vladimir that Godfrey's curated, one of the few which exists.
Godfrey takes his glass and drains the rest of the wine from it and, in a woozy moment, decides to prove his late husband's frustrations right; he untucks his shirt and, carefully, lifts a bit of its cover from his waistband.
Beneath it is a criss-crossing mess of pink scarring, the remains of a savage assault. Repeated, rapid intrusions, clustered to the lower-right of his firm abdomen. A bloody remainder.
Unhealed by priestly magic. ]
It was quite a shock to him, I think.
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The tale is a grim one. He frowns slightly as Godfrey recounts Vlad's words to him, his brow furrowing further still.]
I imagine he was furious because he was terrified.
[Coming so close to losing the person you loved... such things were enough to push people to do or say things they wouldn't normally.
His gaze moves downwards as Godfrey shifts, and it takes him a moment or two longer than it should to realize what it is that his companion is doing, thanks to the wine. The scar is a stark contrast against the rest of his skin, and yet despite the solemnity of the moment, Gale feels his heart rise into his throat and his mouth go suddenly dry as he finds his gaze taking in other details, as well— the plane of Godfrey's stomach, the hard-won muscle.
He swallows hard, averts his gaze, and quickly drains the last of the contents of his glass.]
It must have been a very close thing, that injury. I'm glad you lived to tell the tale.
[Gods above, the way he was feeling in this moment was wildly inappropriate.]
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[ If Godfrey is aware of the sudden flash of colour in Gale's ears, he doesn't show it. He clears the tension from his throat and rests his other hand on his stomach, rolling the wine in the bottom of his glass. Feels its thin weight rock between hand and palm as he stares through the tent walls.
Softly; ]
I never did learn just what happened.
[ The uncertainty, though frightening, was a better avenue of conversation to travel than others which branched from this event; the fighting, or the cold guilt. Feeling the life leak out of him in that locked, silent office. ]
My fellow clergymen told me that Vladimir had handled everything. And he would not speak on it.
[ Not while he could, anyway, and Godfrey had thought the day would not come.
Perhaps he had died. He'd never know now, and had spent some years convincing himself that the uncertainty perched in the back of his head didn't bother him.
The subject matter sufficiently disturbing for a change in focus, Godfrey's eyes return to the tent. He glances up at Gale and sees his glass empty. ]
Ah. [ Godfrey shifts, wrapping a gentle hand around the neck of their bottle. ] Another, perhaps?
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He leans forward to hold out his glass, balancing himself against the ground with one hand.]
Ah, yes— please, though I hope you will join me for another, as well.
[The space between them had already been small, narrow, and leaning forward brings them inordinately close to one another in a way that is bordering on terribly distracting. Gale finds himself keenly aware of the fact that this is the first time Godfrey has ever physically joined him in his tent, but he's certainly thought about what might happen if he did on more than one occasion.
Gods above, he is certainly going to find himself in one of the nine hells for thinking such things of a still-grieving widower— devoted to the church, at that. Gale has never considered himself to be particularly hedonistic, but when comparing himself to Godfrey, he feels downright sinful.]
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[ He would, however, likely keep himself at two glasses for the rest of his visit. Not that that's anything to discount; Godfrey has kept his one-glass limit strict through their travels. Nothing has motivated him to bend this rule prior to this evening.
What has changed? Godfrey can't say. Not precisely; that is to say, he cannot give a singular, satisfying explanation. The closest his own thoughts come is to say that everything has. There is little about this evening they're sharing that isn't unorthodox for him, at least slightly. He's yet to intrude on the quarters of any of his new companions in this manner, lounging so casually in their private corners of their campsites. He has shared things which only few people know - stories he's been reticent to tell even in Baldur's Gate. Stranger still, he feels at ease about it.
One more paltry glass of table wine in the company of a friend who is trying for him seems, perhaps, an innocent enough diversion to add to the pile.
He sets his own down as Gale works his way nearer, just a little unsteady on the rocky ground. Godfrey's hand comes to his. Strong, rough fingers cradle the hand around his glass gingerly, just enough to hold him steady as he extends. They don't move as Gale steadies, and Godfrey pours more dark wine. He pours him a respectable glass - something vague in him dictates this line, between "respectable" and some shadowy alternative. Not too heavy, lest he be pressured to drink more than he might have; not too stingy, lest he think Godfrey thinks him some sort of sot who needs mediating. The glass is perfectly respectable when Godfrey pulls away; just tiptoeing to half-full.
Godfrey finishes his own glass and pours himself just a little less. ]
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Gale had been about to offer a witty but warm response when he feels Godfrey's hand coming to steady his own, causing him to suddenly draw a blank where he had previously been full to the brim with far more thoughts than even he knew what to do with.
It's such a small thing. Insignificant to most, likely, but tonight, in this space, after so very long without experiencing any human touch aside from any that coincided with recent mending of wounds—
It feels like something.
Surely he's overthinking it. Surely, he is allowing the dim light and the cheap table wine to go to his head, but the strong, warm touch of Godfrey's hand is still enough to convince Gale to shift so that they're now seated alongside one another, rather than across.]
You're welcome to stay all night, if you wish.
[It comes so easily that he doesn't even consider the implications of it, and he flusters just a touch as he revises.]
That is— you're always welcome, as far as I'm concerned. My thanks.
[He lifts his glass, giving a tip of his head before drinking deep.
Very deep.
Gods, didn't he used to be good at this sort of thing? He swears he was.]
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Ridiculous. Pathetic, his desperation. That it would drive him to resort to crawling into accidental innuendo for warmth - and, indeed, to assign warmth where there likely wasn't any. A blind worm seeking moisture by the tip of his nose. He ought to be ashamed of himself. Certainly he would pray for his Lord's guidance tomorrow morning - but it isn't shame he feels thrilling in the bottom of his chest.
Something else. A queer giddiness. A tiny exhilaration. Small wings beating against the inside of him, too small to fill him completely but yet unmistakable. The wine and the thin and fleeting notion that it might have been meant precisely how Godfrey had first thought conspire to make something impossible, irresistible. He'd not even imagined such a thing in years. There is no way for Godfrey to thank Gale for what currently stirs in him, the tiny wings lightening his shoulders and the stone he's carried in his chest, yet he feels he must.
Instead, he releases a soft breath as Gale course corrects. Of course. It couldn't take what he had given him, though, selfish as it may be to hold it. He would lock it deep within himself. It would stay there until his body would rot and break its aroma to the world. Until then, he would lock it in a box. He would inhale it for the rest of his days. ]
I ought impose upon your hospitality more often, my friend.
[ If there is some mirrored implication in Godfrey's words, he doesn't let on that he realizes it. He takes a polite drink of his glass as Gale dives into his, lets the alcohol sit on his tongue, swallows.
More grape, but pleasantly so. ]
I think I have rather handily defeated my own purpose in being here. [ He's smiling, gently, as he says it. ] I wish not to dwell on unpleasantness while I take your time. Perhaps I ought tell a happier tale.
[ He would lend the floor to Gale, but he seems uninterested in himself as a subject of conversation, and Godfrey feels indebted to appease him after all of that sorrowing he's just done. ]
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Perhaps it's the wine bolstering his courage, or the fact that there's so little left to lose. What do any of them really have left to hold onto, at this point?
Certainly not pride. He's had his fill of that, personally.]
Oh, I do wish you would.
[... wait.]
'Impose' more often, I mean, though it is certainly no imposition at all. The story would be more than welcome, of course. I am certain I would enjoy any tale you had to tell.
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He can't be surprised, though. Not after seeing personally how quickly he started into his glass. It's likely the wine talking; Godfrey can feel it himself, the way the alcohol begins to blur the lines between the two of them, the way it flourishes in his chest. He was at risk of the very same thing - precisely why he must remain cognizant of it. It was hardly fair to ascribe something personal to Gale's burgeoning inebriation, and less fair to hold it against him.
Godfrey sits and smiles amiably, but keeps his back straight and his hips beneath him. He does not return to his earlier posture, lounging back on the piled cushions. It felt improper now, in ways that Godfrey could not elaborate upon. He watches the shimmering, ruby heart of his glass, and he delves. ]
I have shown you sadness tonight, but that is not all that my life has been. [ It likely went without saying, but it was a reminder that Godfrey himself could do with. There were many sadnesses, but just as much laughter, and a litter of stories he could use to prove it. ] I remember once-- Iltha was quite angry at me.
[ She seemed his safest bet. Vladimir felt inexorably couched in that same sadness he was trying to escape, though he had his share that always brought a smile to his face - and, strangely, it feels impolite to conjure him back into the conversation. He takes a deep sip. ]
She had... I believe, said some disparaging things to her schoolteacher. She became angry that I had not taken her side in the matter and confined her to her room. [ Even had she been, as Iltha's assessment went, lacking in intelligence and not worth listening to, it would not do to have her saying so. ] I had assumed the matter would cool in the evening, but I suppose that I underestimated her.
[ There's a distance in his eyes now, a warm fondness in the curve of his lips. ]
I said good-night to her, as I often did. She was scrunched into her bed, you know, looking sullen still. And she began-- [ Something ripples in him, a sensible chuckle he tries to suppress, ] She began to point out other things in the room and address them. Good-night book, good-night chair, good-night hairbrush. I love you, comb. I'd spent my time watching over the children with the church, but I'd no clue they were capable of that sort of... I suppose, passive-aggression.
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It's quite remarkable, how long children can hold onto grudges. It would seem your girl is especially clever, if she's able to make such a savage point so young.
[He lets out a chuckle of his own; it's good to hear Godfrey laugh, to laugh together, given all they've endured these past weeks.]
She's going to grow up to be a force to be reckoned with, I've no doubt. I'd quite like to meet her someday, if the opportunity ever presents itself. If my hunch is correct, she's likely to have quite a knack for debate.
[Even through stories alone, he can recognize a kindred spirit.]
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[ ... how does one describe Iltha Horngaard?
Godfrey stills, then, brow knotting tight as he considers how he could begin to approach putting her into a tidy little sentence. ]
She's frightfully serious. [ A twinge of amusement ripples the seriousness in Godfrey's own face as he considers it, seems to mirror the attitude for himself for a moment. ] Quite severe and pensive. And she is the sort of child, I suppose, who expects that everyone will take her as seriously as she takes herself. And - you know, this is unfortunate, because all of that on a girl so small...
[ Well. You try keeping your face straight as a three-year-old girl seriously tells your husband that you told her not to say anything if you have nothing nice to say regarding dinner. The pensive silences only serve to enhance the comedy of situations, and the grave frowns are impossible to take seriously in those babyfat cheeks.
But there is something that twinges in him as Gale expresses a want to meet her. The sensation that he has opened a door into his life, and instead of stepping back from it, Gale has walked inside. It's a breathless sort of hope, intoxicating and fragile. Something he wants to grab, but fears would be crushed in his grip. ]
I would like that.
[ The fluttering in his chest lightens his voice, and his palm grows a little too warm around his glass. He takes a breath. ]
As would she, I think. I suspect you would get along well.
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[His smile pulls easily to one side as he imagines, briefly, how such a scene might play out, and the idea alone is terribly familiar. He probably wasn't quite so severe as Iltha sounds to be when he was a child, but he had taken himself quite seriously in his own right and set grand expectations for himself that he expected everyone to be onboard with. Unfortunately for him, they weren't always.
For the briefest of moments, he has the self-awareness to look just the slightest bit shy about what he'd implied, and feels something in him lift at that lightness in Godfrey's voice as he lowers his glass.]
You think so? I promise, I'd not tell any embarrassing stories regarding your time with us on the road— of course, I suppose I'm being rather presumptuous about it all, aren't I?
[Inviting himself into Godfrey's life like that. It was some streak of fortune that had brought them all together, granted them the opportunity to aid one another in this unfortunate venture, but he has found himself rather hoping that when it all comes to an end... maybe they needn't all go their separate ways.
He sighs a bit, though his easy smile remains.]
All the more reason to make it through this, yes? Perhaps making those sorts of plans will be just the push we need.
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[ A light note of concern in his voice accompanies this response; much had transpired over the course of their travels together, but he hadn't thought there had been much embarrassment to be had.
More accurately, perhaps, he hadn't thought there had been much embarrassment to be had that Gale was aware of. This evening is suddenly full of incidents Godfrey would deem an embarrassment - but ones which, if Godfrey had any say in the matter, would remain carefully concealed secrets from Gale. There was no need to inflict the loneliness yawning at his own feet; the humiliating, exhilarating pressure beginning to build in him as Gale insinuates himself closer and closer to his heart, conspiring with the low tones he had just earlier written off. No one needed such a thing foisted upon them, but particularly not Gale, particularly not tonight. He'd only wanted to extend some kindness to him. He hardly deserved for Godfrey to twist something so good into anything else.
And such, Godfrey begins to act almost as soon as he feels it, his lips pressing for an uncomfortable moment. The tightline before him is delicate; head off the problem at the pass before Gale becomes aware of his discomfort and assumes himself at fault. Godfrey hauls his thoughts back and attempts to corral himself with a quiet breath.
He also, with a hesitance he tries to make casual, pulls the leg closest to Gale up just a little, bending his knee to a shallow peak. ]
Indeed so. I would like very much to see all of you, after our travels conclude - but...
[ He clears his throat, abruptly, his voice softened when he continues; ]
I would be... very glad, if this were not the last night we spend together like this.
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Maybe it wasn't so foolish for him to read into Godfrey's actions. Perhaps he wasn't entirely out of line, after all?
There was really only one way to say for sure. He lowers his glass, setting it down atop a nearby stack of books that also has some unfurled parchment spread atop it, the closest thing he has to a table inside the tent itself. He turns his gaze to the larger man directly, his eyes soft with both fondness and a faint questioning.]
I, ah— well. If I hadn't already made that apparent, I would be very glad, as well.
[He clears his own throat, one side of his mouth quirking upwards again for a moment before he proceeds, cautious.]
I would like to keep in touch with everyone, but— I would like to see you, especially. When I say you're always welcome, I do mean... there's truly no one who's company I'd like more.
[Carefully, so carefully, he brings his hand to lightly rest against Godfrey's wrist.]
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Godfrey turns to him, wine glass in hand, in the weighty sliver of silence which precedes. Their conversations hadn't exactly been perpetually light in nature, but this is a gravity he's not yet felt from Gale; not quite the anticipatory and impossible weight that news of the orb bore, but something heavy, something enduring, lingering still in the air. Something which must surely have all of Godfrey's attention, and all of Godfrey's attention it shall have.
It begins to fall into place around him as Gale speaks, and he becomes aware of the look in his eyes - the soft, longing fondness. That same distant and foolish part of him conspires to lock that away, too - to press it into his mind until nothing could take the memory of being seen through those eyes. The notion that he may not need to steal it like some sort of starving animal dawns on him slowly, becomes a sunrise less and less avoidable as Gale continues, voice low and brimming with softness.
For him.
Godfrey swallows his wine, and exhales. He stares in unguarded surprise, his clear cerulean eyes darting between Gale's face and his hand, tender and carefully placed at his wrist. As though the dream might be broken and scattered if he looked away. Time stretches between the two of them. ]
Ah-- oh.
[ His throat tightens, and a sudden and terrible awareness of himself hurries through him. Without looking away, Godfrey's hand drops out of Gale's sight, hurriedly trying to find satisfactory purchase for his own glass. He places it on the rocky edge of a flat stone and the glass topples, and the remains of his glass soaks dark into the earth - this draws his attention from Gale with a thin, displeased noise, as he looks to ensure that none of the cushions have been ruined.
He looks back to Gale, tight with self-consciousness. He's still there, somehow.
Hurriedly, Godfrey looks down to Gale's hand, warm against his wrist. Unavoidable. He takes it in both of his own. ]
I- I hope that-- [ His throat conspires to choke him. He looks to Gale's hand in his own, brushes his thumb over his smooth knuckles, and tries to center himself. ] You have honoured me. I hope that you will forgive my... lack of grace. And that you have not mistaken it for reticence. I did not--
[ A slight tightening of his broad hands around Gale's. ]
I did not think this could happen again.
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To anyone who wasn't well-acquainted with either of them, Gale's remark might have been innocuous enough, but the wizard knows better. Neither he nor Godfrey are the sort to do anything by halves, nor are they the sort to engage in such things without considering the long-term implications. They had both loved and lost, in their own ways. Godfrey was a widower with a young child, Gale was a man who knew what he wanted from his future, should he live long enough to have one.
It isn't until Godfrey closes both hands around his own that he feels himself let out a breath of relief, the thundering of his heartbeat in his own ears receding as he gives a more earnest smile.]
If I'm to forgive you for any lack of grace, then I should hope you could forgive me for the same. I'm— a touch out of practice, as it turns out.
[He hasn't expressed his feelings to another mortal in more years than he can remember. For so long, it was only Mystra. The charming, mischievous scholar he'd been in his youth was a distant memory, at times.]
Truth be told, I thought the same. That— there was not enough left of me to offer, in fact.
[They could still die before they reach the end, and he remains on borrowed time, but he has all sorts of reasons to fight for a future now. Godfrey, he's come to realize in recent weeks, is one of them.]
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He can see the sentiment Gale expresses so clearly; the sense of diminishment. That a person leaves slivers of themselves in others as their lives touch against the lives of others, pieces which could not be restored or retrieved. It's a feeling Godfrey has often existed alongside; it often felt as though he could feel the broken edges of the pieces he'd lost of himself. The pieces he'd entrusted to his husband. They'd been buried with him.
Godfrey had just been running his fingers along those edges, as it turns out, as Gale expresses the very same sensation. His thoughts immediately recoil against the idea he had just spent so many years fostering, disbelieving the very ragged seams he had just been contemplating. It all suddenly seemed ludicrous; that the man before him, storied and intelligent and kind and careful, could have been diminished by anything.
But this was not a train of thought Godfrey would follow; not now, blighting into a world after that breathless admission. And nor was it a point he would argue with words - Godfrey knew that debate would not be what disproves this thinking to him. Godfrey brings his hand to his lips and presses into it a kiss, exhaling slow and warm across the back of his hand.
Willing that uncomfortable pressure, still building steadily, to settle one last time before he slips his hand from Gale's and relaxes his posture to offer to him his strong, broad chest, his smile touching his eyes in the soft light. ]
Come.
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He tips his head for a kiss, lips soft and parted as he seeks out Godfrey's own. His curiosity peeks through even in this; it is an opportunity to learn him, taste him, and he pulls himself flush against the offered chest as his free hand comes to rest against the larger man's upper arm, kneeling between his thighs. Only when he leans into Godfrey himself does he feel the press of his arousal against his own thigh, and he stills for only a moment before he lets out a laugh, warm and bright and enough for him to break that searching kiss as he drops his head.]
Oh, thank the gods, I hardly wanted to be the only one.
[They were far enough now from any somber conversation that it no longer felt inappropriate, and even less so with another glass of wine in him and the warm plane of Godfrey's broad chest beneath his own.]
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Godfrey sighs hard against his lips, as though setting down some great weight, and now lets himself fall back into the pillows. Both of his hands occupy themselves immediately as Gale's lips part against his, running down the gentle slope of his back, fingers wringing the embroidered waist of his bedclothes until the bottom seam slips high enough to expose his back.
It isn't a conscious effort to undress him - were Godfrey made aware of it, a temporary embarrassment might break through the moment, pull him to something more proper and principled than the man currently relishing in the warmth of his skin, mapping the muscle of his lower back with his palm. It is raw need coursing him; his body reaching out for the thing his rational mind would deny him, instinct driving his hand to run his fingertips just beneath the band of his waist to claim the warmth there, pulling him to wind his calf gently against the inside of Gale's -- and to pull his voice from him, surprised and hitching against Gale's parted lips as he presses against him.
Hot pressure pulls his cock tight for a moment, a strong throb he is only half-aware that Gale can certainly feel, and the fever breaks. Gale's breath is not on his tongue, and the soft press of his lips is gone. Godfrey's eyes flutter, and that respectable part of him regains control again as he sees his hand down the length of Gale's back - his fingers having wandered just a little too far below the waist. His hand recoils.
His next breath might have been an apology, but for Gale's own breathless, laughing confession. Flushed and panting, a rough hah pulled from him in response. Disbelieving. He hardly even needs to see it. Knowing that he had not been the only one concealing himself is enough to send a hot thrill through his body, and he brings his fingers to his hair, gently combing long strands from his ear to sigh hotly against it, to kiss its tender edge before whispering to him; ]
I had feared that it would drive me to cut the evening short.
[ Instead, he begins to think, it's only made it longer. ]
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The press of lips and heated breath against his air send a shudder running through him, and he catches his lower lip against his teeth to just barely stifle what would have most certainly been an embarrassingly wanton groan. It was almost ludicrous, how quickly he found himself aroused in this man's presence— more than once now, by his own admission— and the throb of Godfrey's own arousal against his leg only fuels his own, that familiar pressure building as he ceases his efforts in trying to will it away.
Godfrey's fingers in his hair and his voice against the shell of his ear only serve to stoke the embers, and his own fingers curl as they remain woven through the paladin's hair, turning his head to steal a kiss from the corner of his mouth, making a very slight but deliberate shift so that his thigh pulls against the larger man's clothed cock, the press of it enough to have Gale already straining against his trousers.]
That would have been a terrible, terrible shame. I would hate to think of you taking yet another burden upon yourself to bear.
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[ Poor Godfrey does not have the same luxury of choice that Gale has; his entire body seems to pull tense as Gale pulls his leg against his stiff cock, hands pulling tight into fists, his legs squeezing inward.
He releases the handful he's grabbed of Gale's hair and waits for the waves of throbbing heat to subside. It has been some years since his husband died, this is true; what Gale may be starting to put together is that sex with others is not the only thing Godfrey has sacrificed. Though he's not completely abstained, his restraint extends to matters of self-pleasure as well, besides in cases where it would be impossible for Iltha to apparate at his door in need of something. That needed only happen once for him to take extra precaution.
If Iltha appears here, there's far bigger problems to worry about, but that hadn't made him much more forgiving; he had simply traded Iltha for any of the strangers he'd taken up travel with, for their strange schedules that never seemed to allow for sleep at a regular hour. This was amenable until recently. They certainly had those bigger problems and more to concern themselves with. He'd not felt the need to hide in his tent, holding his breath and watching the entry as he ran his oiled hand up and down the length of his hard dick until just recently; he could normally think himself out of such predicaments. This evening - well.
Outrunning the heat in his belly had been uncertain already. It was certainly impossible now. And his restraint has been diminished such that he's not sure it would actually satisfy.
Godfrey's nose scrubs into his stubbled jaw, hips flexing again against his firm thigh with a hitching sigh. Gale's words come to him on a delay, and the mention of that other burden goes straight to his dick again, the notion that this had been something hiding behind the evening - that this was just the sort of thing Gale would have imagined in secret, had he left.
His eyes roll and slip shut as he feels, in a burst of warmth, his hips relax, the subtle rub against his leg. His other hand gingerly tugs the waistband of his trousers around the curve of his ass. ]
Please-- [ Please what, Godfrey? He can't answer that, because to answer would be to think on it, and he's trying to make himself last. ]
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Don't stop touching me.
[It's a request bordering on breathless already. Gale seals his lips over Godfrey's own and drinks deep, slipping his searching tongue past parted lips while his heart races, thundering in his ears, and he uses both hands to start tugging at the lacings of the other man's shirt, no longer having to guide his touch. When there's no immediate give, he starts impatiently tugging Godfrey's shirt free from his waist, pulling it up with one hand as the other glides over his abdomen, eager fingers passing over the scar he had been shown and feeling out the sculpt of his muscles.
He feels his own cock twitch as the heated touch of skin against skin sparks something in him, something that he'd worried was long dead, and he lets out a needful moan against Godfrey's mouth as he tugs the paladin's shirt upwards, intent on getting it off and away, to keep it from barring them from one another any longer.]
This needs to go.
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There is no thought in Godfrey greater than the warmth of his skin, the curve of his hip as he feels his trousers pull taut and then slacken as they shift down the back of his thighs, the slip of his hair between his fingers. The way the curve of his ass feels beneath his thick and calloused hand. He would live in the way his tongue slides against his if he could, in that glassy thrill contained in the very moment before Godfrey gives himself to the sensation, in the ambitious handful he grasps of his exposed rear.
Godfrey, naturally, takes longer to become aware of his own hunger. Gale's weight against him, hot and eager, seems nearly too much as it is; he's content to run his hand across him for the moment, up the curve of his backbone, running beneath his clothing. Urgency tenses in his other hand now; strands of dark hair wound in his fingers as he groans against his lips, takes a harsh breath through his nose to taste his tongue. Desperate to feed the moment all that he has.
Until it is that Gale's mouth is no longer against his, he has been content to fit his body to Gale's and feel his warmth through the rough homespun of his shirt. Godfrey's stomach flutters to feel Gale's hand against it, muscle tensing below his fingers. This is when he realizes his impatience - and also, as his lashes flutter, that he's right.
A slow, dozy smile comes to his lips, breathless with gentle laughter. He sighs his name to break his impatience, and kisses him - slow, deliberate - to suffocate the impatience.
Then, he leans back against the cushions, and lifts the bottom hem of his shirt over his head. Beneath it is hard muscle twitching below his skin with the small effort of pulling his wrists from his sleeves. A handful of thin and superficial training scars mar his flushing chest like pale thread.
Godfrey leaves the empty shirt in a wrinkled heap above his head, lips parted, staring up at Gale as he rests on his elbows.
Then, his eyes drift downward. ]
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Just as Godfrey emerges from his own shirt and looks down to find Gale already hard and wanting, the wizard feels his breath knocked out of him all at once as he looks upon him in turn. It's hardly the first time he's seen Godfrey without his shirt; considering their circumstances, it was impossible not to catch the occasional glimpse when it came to tending to wounds or bathing in the river, but it had never been like this.
He exhales steadily, a smile pulling at his lips as he rakes his gaze over that expanse of well-defined muscle, the evidence of years upon years of training and dedication, enhanced rather than marred by the littering of scars.]
Aren't you a sight.
[He leans forward to cup Godfrey's face in his hand before drawing his touch down along the curve of his neck, over the broad plane of his pectoral, letting out a soft groan of approval as he pulls close again and leans in for a slow and deliberate kiss of his own, seeking out the slide of Godfrey's tongue against his own.]
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But these moments had always come with other things. The heavy scent of blood in his nose, for instance. The knowledge of pain. The screaming clamour of a battle. The remaining sizzle of magic electrifying the air. Dryness in his mouth and desperation in his heart as he tries to ignore the pain and death all around him.
He hadn't had the luxury of admiring how the thin light of nighttime catches in the musculature of his firm chest. Godfrey hadn't been able to see that pale violet glow flashing in his hungry eyes. He'd not been able to think on running his fingers through that downy brown chest hair - not while he could see it, and not while entertaining the thought while knowing that he could.
And there was certainly one thing in this situation he had not seen.
Godfrey exhales softly as his eyes rest on his manhood, hot-blooded and just as turgid as his own. He wonders how long it's been so and feels a small, disbelieving thrill down his spine, his trousers pulling tight around his pelvis.
Gale's palm against his face - hardly warm anymore, for the flush in his cheek. Godfrey glances up to him, lips gently parted, and feels his touch brush against his strong neck, his fingers following his gaze along his strong chest. Godfrey's lashes flutter, and awestruck, he moves his own hangs up Gale's hard chest, running fingers through that smattering of dark hair. Feeling it between his fingers.
He loses track of where his hands are once Gale leans down fully for a kiss, pressing his body against his. Godfrey knows all he needs to; Gale is in his arms, and he feels warmth beneath his hands, and he tastes his tongue. He sighs harshly against his lips and feels his fingers dig firm into his skin. ]
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Godfrey's arms are warm and inviting, his hold easy to melt into as Gale pulls against him, his touch sending electricity racing along the surface of Gale's own skin as he explores, and it is perfect. It is something he only now realizes just how badly he had longed for it, and he fully intends to relish the opportunity.
His breath comes a bit shorter between kisses, his hands gliding down the length of Godfrey's well-muscled arms, feeling his breath catch in his throat as they taste one another and the other man's fingers dig into him, a firm reminder of how very real this is. They become further entwined as they kiss, and Gale slides a hand between the pair of them to skate downwards along the surface of Godfrey's abdomen, his deft fingers catching against the waist of his trousers.
He tips his head to press their foreheads together, his voice just barely above a whisper as he refuses to pull back, lips still hovering close, kiss-swollen.]
Please— I want to see all of you.
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Godfrey hardly has time to dwell on the little guilt, the thin undertow trying to pull him to something dark and deep. A lucky thing - there is nothing he wants less than to be pulled away from the man sinking into his arms, breathing heavy against his lips, hot against his bare chest. And something in him knows where all of those riptide currents lie, where he may not dwell if he wishes to avoid them.
The skin of his chest has gone untouched, his lips unkissed, his body unbeheld, for - it feels - more years than he can count on both of his hands. Long enough for each and every touch to feel sensitive and new, for greedy hands and hungry eyes to feel like an exhilarating novelty. These avenues are safe.
It's when he begins to wander further, toward the thing that had blocked all of these things, that things turn treacherous.
He would live here forever, and that is a dangerous thing, for it would only beckon him down these internal causeways. Gale does not give him the chance, and just as he begins to process the absence of his lips, he speaks to him in a hissing torrent. His hands pull at his trousers. No other thought could hope to stand a chance.
Gently, Godfrey steals one more kiss, parts with the taste of his lips on his tongue, his fingers luxuriating in his dark hair. Then, he slips his hand free and props himself up, raising his hips. Tugging his hips first around the firm swell of his backside before working the one at his front free.
He glances down at his work just in time for his waistband to make its way far enough down his strong thighs to free his cock, pinned and aching against the inner leg. It springs forth, standing firm against his stomach, close to--
Godfrey sighs harshly as it's freed, feels himself flood with heat as he tries to shift his pants further down, pinning the ankles to pillows with his heel to pull each leg free. ]
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The moment in itself is surreal, but the heat between them is proof enough of how very real this is, keeps him present, and he cards fingers through Godfrey's champagne-colored hair as he leans in for another kiss, a low sound of approval hinting towards a growl at the back of his throat.]
You put the very stars to shame, dear heart.
[He eagerly claims Godfrey's lips once more as he blindly takes hold of him, fingers curling around his cock, firm enough not to tease when he knows just how badly they have both been deprived, and he lets out a soft moan that is swallowed up in the kiss between them as his fingertips become acquainted with the heated silk of Godfrey's skin, the weight of his eagerness hard and heavy against his palm.]
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Godfrey can only hope, while he has the presence of mind, that he can provide an equivalent response in the endless hunger of his hands across his warm skin, in the way his arms so eagerly settle him back in against his broad chest. His fingers winding anew in his hair, fingertips rubbing against the back of his neck. The drop as Godfrey settles them both back against the pillows, to free up the arm propping him up, that it may grab an immediate and hungry handful of his ass as he holds him close.
The brief break between their kiss as his voice escapes him, beneath a hard sigh, as Gale wraps his hand around his stiff cock and floods him.
It takes all that Godfrey has in him to keep himself from rutting against his hand. He stiffens against the impossible drive toward the pleasure welling in him, drowning his every thought. The hard pang that pushes through him as his dick throbs gratefully against Gale's fingers.
The world had been falling away in shreds from the moment their lips first touched. Gale had easily turned falling into peeling; every susurrous breath blushing against Godfrey's skin only served to strip the world beyond this tent down further, to make all but this pile of fine pillows and the man in his arms seem the only consequential parts of it. Godfrey's dark lashes flutter, and he finds Gale through them, his rosy lips parted before thin, quick breath.
He doesn't know that he'll ever get used to it; to a man like this, looking on him like that. To knowing that he can let his eyes roam, and his hands follow. Godfrey finds himself demurring even now, averting his eyes whenever they travel too low, feeling warm shame flower in him as he sinks his hands hungrily into his flesh. Godfrey draws his eyes along the line of him, up the firm seam where their skin meets and back to his face, takes in with soft helplessness the hunger and need in Gale's face.
Feels his coarse jaw against the palm of his hand as his eyes slip shut, and the pressure begins to mount, and soft as the breeze he tries to warn him; ]
I can't--
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Then don't.
[He all but exhales the words, granting the larger man permission to let himself go— Gale has barely touched him and yet he can feel just how tightly Godfrey is wound beneath them. He loosens his hold, but just long enough to alter the slant of his own hips so that he can take them both in hand, fingers curling around both shafts as he presses the heat of them together.
Even without friction, a shudder rolls through him, down the length of his spine and to its very base, and he swipes a thumb across the head of Godfrey's cock before he finally proceeds to stroke in earnest, encouraging him towards that quick release, his own breath starting to come short as he begins a calculated roll of his hips that rubs them against one another in a way that makes desire coil hotly in his belly.
Afterwards, they could take their time. Barring any unfortunate interruptions, they had all night.]
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He exhales, slow and deep, tremulous as each relentless stroke erodes that instinct, the proof of his arousal flush against his own, rolling against it, making catching his breath an impossibility. His hand feels alive with the scrub of Gale's stubble as his hand moves, relishes in being able to hold his face against his own, his other hand stroking along the length of his thigh.
They are too close for Godfrey to look down and see, but he feels it. He feels Gale's hand around them, and he feels the stiff heat of his cock rubbing against him, and he feels the motion of his hips. There's a suffusion of places to put his hands and lips as his composure begins to unravel, the pressure becoming impossible, Godfrey's cerulean eyes fluttering open to try and glimpse how Gale's face had softened, his own flushed, pleading, entranced by the closeness he's been allowed. He is angling his jaw for a kiss when the moment overwhelms him.
His world bursts in that moment, every single touch magnified, groaning as his every muscle pulls tight. White-hot release floods him. Godfrey's eyes shut, and his hips twitch, pushing powerfully against Gale to shove it out in hot, pearlescent ropes over his own bare body.
His touch moves quick and insistent, skating from his thigh to his waist. As are his lips as they close around Gale's, flushed and hot and only made more eager by the moment's impossible relief. ]
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He strokes Godfrey through his climax, sparing only the barest glance downward; they're too close for him to see anything, but he can hardly tear his gaze from Godfrey's face to begin with. He can feel the heated mess between them as they continue to make themselves a needful, desperate tangle, and it only takes a few more strokes before he is following suit.]
I'm—
[Whatever warning he might have given is cut off as he feels himself quickly overcome; Godfrey's own release and the press of flush, kiss-swollen lips have made it all too easy to tip over that edge. To find that relief in the arms of another is worlds beyond whatever small, private moments he might have allowed himself tucked away in his tent here and there; he lets out a sharp, wordless cry against the crush of Godfrey's lips, his fingers curling tightly into pale hair as he turns his face against the paladin's temple as that first twitch is immediately followed by a sharper, more insistent thrust into his own hand, against Godfrey's newly-spent cock and abdomen.
He spends himself over his own fingers and both their stomachs; that sharp cry gives way to a low, wanton groan of relief as he, too, angles for another kiss, his fingers slipping from Godfrey's hair so that he can lay his hand against the side of his neck. He exhales even as he finds his lips once more and kisses him deeply while he slowly ruts against him, grateful for the relief that will surely allow them to take the time to become properly acquainted with one another.]
will i win and finally get a tag out
How might he have felt? What might he have thought, to know that his hands would be allowed to roam so over his bare skin? How would knowing the warm outcome of their evening, spilled upon his fluttering abdomen, changed its course?
He can't say. He can't even think about it. Not after hearing the sound of his desperation, tasting its heat against his tongue. Godfrey has no thought for anything but the warmth of him in his arms, the flutter of firm musculature beneath his gentle touch, the flash of his own tongue beneath his lips. He seizes a handful of dark hair as Gale surges against him. Hardly anything else matters; he's warm and insistent in his arms. The very earth could crack below the tent and swallow him whole, and he'd hardly know any better.
Impatience rises in him, and he breaks the kiss with a hard sigh. Godfrey presses against the side of his warm throat, smearing kisses against his sensitive neck before nosing against his ear, smiling. ]
Lie back with me.
you did it!
I would do about anything you asked, in this moment.
[There's a playful, affectionate note in his voice as he turns nose against Godfrey's jawline in turn, pressing a warm and lingering kiss against it as he blindly raises a hand to, with a flick of his wrist, do away with their shared mess by way of a simple cantrip. They'll only make more, he's certain.
Though his tent is only barely big enough for two, there's room enough for them to do as Godfrey suggests; Gale reaches past him just long enough to tug a pillow into place before they recline together, and he inhales the scent of Godfrey's skin and sweat as he buries his face in the man's pale hair for several moments, resting his weight against his chest as he feels his own heartbeat begin to slow, steadily moving towards normal.]
I hope you don't think that was all there is to it.
[His smile tugs to one side, mischievous.]
have a fat titty godfrey to celebrate, on the house
He has missed passing nights like this. He had not been one whom Vladimir could rest his weight against, but often had he held Iltha through her growing years against himself. He had passed afternoons with her swaddled against his chest as he cleaned, comforted her through restless nights, read stories to her snuggled against his shoulder. To have her physical weight against his, comfortable and at ease, was one of his utmost comforts.
He'd not been of a stature to do the same for Vladimir. Indeed, it would have been Godfrey weighing on Vladimir's chest, in these moments of quiet intimacy. Settling a lover against him is a new experience - warm skin and sweat, which he's free to indulge himself in after that delicate flash of his wrist, palm broad and hot against his firm stomach. The heat of his body radiates as he presses himself into it, feels softness beneath them and hot breath carding through his hair. Godfrey sighs into his chest and closes his eyes.
Fatigue tugs at him like a child at his mother's skirts as his eyes slip shut, as he soaks in that glowing warmth. His routines are predictable; he has been early to bed and early to rise for the entirety of his 35 years. Not once has Sir Godfrey missed a sunrise, a treasured chance to greet the new day and commune with his Lord.
Never has it been easier to jeopardize a sunrise.
He doesn't answer Gale with words. He noses against the very center of his chest, his hand runs up his side to hold his chest as he presses a kiss into his skin, heavy with promise. ]
thank you I love him
He rather likes Godfrey's wordless answer.]
Does that mean you'll be making an exception to your usual routine?
[Don't think he hasn't noticed. With as much a creature of habit as Godfrey has shown himself to be, Gale knows full well he's tempting him into an unusually late night— but it would seem his companion is quite amenable to the idea.
He shifts so that they are nearly a tangle of limbs, each point of contact distinct, the warm press of flushed skin something he has not felt in an age. He'd nearly forgotten how pleasant it was to simply be mortal— for all that the Weave had offered him, for as many ways as he had found to express love and as many more he intended to seek, it was good to be reminded that some earthly matters were still well-worth his attention.]
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Godfrey's never felt the encroaching daylight to be an intrusion. The promise of a sunrise has always been something to be treasured; a beginning, rather than an inevitable end. The distant sunrise Gale conjures now is an end, something which threatens to pull his nose from his warm chest.
He fights it for a moment, as though it put a hand on his shoulder; his strong arms pull just a little tighter around him, a hot sigh blushes against his chest. Godfrey's tongue tracks the length of his sternum from the center of his chest to his collarbone, lying more warm kisses against his skin, relishing in warmth below his hands, the flutter of his chest beneath him.
He breathes against Gale's neck as he urges him to his back, his arms sinking into the piled pillows below the two of them. The barest movement, and his lips are against his. Closeness Godfrey would never have imagined for himself again. He exhales, tremblingly, against his lips, and he feels the softness of his hair between his fingers, and he sighs out; ]
If you'll have me.
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He offers no resistance when Godfrey seeks to guide him, instead tipping his head to one side to offer up his neck as his companion exhales against it; the soft nest of pillows he's made of his tent envelops them and he makes a soft noise of satisfaction against his lips once they meet again. Gale's hand traces the curve of the larger man's spine and comes to grab hold of his ass as he parts his lips once more to taste him, the gentle tug of his hair and Godfrey's soft touch and warm breath stirring something in him all over again.
He smiles, radiating his own warmth as their lips remain but a breath apart, cupping the side of Godfrey's face and tracing the lines of his cheek, his jaw with his thumb.]
I have wanted this for longer than I dare to say. Please— stay with me tonight.
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Sir Godfrey had felt those warm and lonely pangs, certainly, in the solitary nights since his widowing. Something hollow at the pit of his chest which ached for companionship. Nights passed in lonely silence, when the cool of his sheets was felt just a little harder.
Of course he'd felt a certain longing in that dark quiet. He was only a man - only if he were any less would he feel nothing at all. He has remembered this as he allows it to pass through him, as he prays to the sunrise for His guidance. And pass it did - the fires would die if he only waited, perhaps with sparse help from his hand. That he struggles is human. That he feels the cold and empty space beside him is proof against that very loneliness - proof of his beating heart. It is a pain to be treasured.
But it is not one that follows him to the streets. This loneliness has always been a passing and brittle thing, one that dies before it wounds too deeply. So long as there's something else to be thought about, Sir Godfrey can stave it off a little while longer. He's tricked himself into believing that this is the same thing as resilience.
Now that he feels bare skin against his, needful hands and hot whispering words urging him forward, he knows what a lie he had fed himself. The hunger for this skinship had always been there. Godfrey had just kept it out of sight.
Now, gloriously satiated, Godfrey can look back and see only how starved he had been. He exhales as though he's been holding his breath for a year, a great and warm heaving of his broad chest. Godfrey's hand finds Gale's, and he pushes against his palm, soaking desperately in the contact as he shifts his body against his. Godfrey presses his lips into the heel of his palm, the inside of his wrist. Then, his lips, soft and warm, his tongue darting between them as he lets his hand wander down his chest. Down his stomach.
Thrills for the way he flutters beneath his hand. ]
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With urgency having been sated, there is nothing to do but to take their time and enjoy one another— and Gale has always prided himself on being thorough in all things, as dedicated a lover as he was a scholar.
He passes his thumb lightly over Godfrey's lips, his gaze dark and heated as he nods to encourage him further. Even so soon after release, he can feel himself beginning to stir again, a slower rouse now that the frantic edge has been blunted. The soft glow of the orb lights what little space remains between them as he lets his own fingers trace their way up the length of Godfrey's arm, the curves of muscle and flushed skin, a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth as he guides his touch over the other man's chest and abdomen.]
Where shall we begin, hm? The possibilities are so many, I hardly know.
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And still, there is a newness to this, the way Gale's body receives his touch. The breath in his chest shivers and his muscles pull in response to the skating touch of his hands. A thawing, as though his hand were the spring over a long winter. It's at once relief and intoxicant. His hand finds his hip and his soft breath finds his lips, as Godfrey lowers himself to taste of their warmth. It splashes through him as his hand roves, his other driving into the pillows holding his weight, and he presses further into the warmth of skinship - for once, without a care for anything but the pursuit of it, for the pooling warmth in his hips.
His lips find the underside of his jaw next, and breathlessly, he responds-- ]
Slowly.
[ --before they press again into his fluttering and tender throat, his hand playing at his chest.
Then, lowering again, until his hand finds something firm. ]
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[Gale echoes him fondly, an affectionate note in his voice as his breath hitches softly, Godfrey's lips against his jaw making his own pulse rise so that he can nearly taste it on his own tongue. The freedom to touch is almost overwhelming after so many weeks spent watching from afar, nights where he had discouraged himself from even considering such things, and Godfrey's hair is like silk between his fingers as he entangles them within it once more.
The press of lips against his throat spurs an approving sound at the very back of it, but it's cut off by another sharp hitch of breath as Godfrey's hand finds him hard and wanting, already eager to be touched even so soon after their shared release, and he lets out a shuddering exhale of breath as Godfrey's fingers curl against him, lowering his brow to rest atop the paladin's head.]
Please...
[However slowly, he only wants Godfrey to touch him, however he so pleases— just let it continue.]
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Godfrey sighs harshly and presses his lips against the stubbly underside of Gale's jaw. His fingers close take loose hold of the throbbing length beneath his fingers, drawing his warm handprint up to the firming head, and slowly back down.
A hot chill down the back of his neck, to feel warm breath and hard fingers in his hair again. Godfrey continues guiding the throbbing dick in his hand, ignoring the impatient twitch pulling between his own legs, and shifts to take the tender lobe of his ear between his teeth, sighing against its shell.
The warm swell in his chest might be replaced by a sinking stone of ice if he were to dwell for a moment on the impropriety, the boldness. And from there, likely, he would be dragged to further unfair depths, distorting what was currently underway. A betrayal of the love he once shared with his husband. The infinitesimal smallness that must be the shadow of him against the lost favour of a goddess. None of those things are more important than the warmth, the skinship, the shiver in Gale against his bare skin as he feels his cock respond to the slow and gentle attention of his hand. There was no room for such second-guessing, no time for reticence.
Beyond words, how close he is - that it takes only the barest shift, a slight turn, to meet Gale's lips with his own. Warmth thrills through him.
Then, breathless, he moves down. Lips to chest. Tongue to the tender glow.
Down his stomach. ]
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His fingers remain tangled in champagne hair as Godfrey begins to sink downwards, and suddenly Gale feels as though he has no breath at all, swallowing his voice completely for several moments as lips steadily trail their way down his throat, his chest, all the way to his abdomen, the anticipation of what's to come making him absolutely ache even as he remains in the paladin's grasp.
Gods above, it was hardly unusual to see Godfrey on his knees, and yet Gale had never allowed himself to even imagine this, even when he'd allowed himself to indulge in the occasional fantasy.]
Godfrey.
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What else would his body chase? What other touch would he prolong? The thought thrills through his spine and drives Godfrey forward; sighing hotly against his skin, feeling the tender and pebbly skin of his nipple beneath his lips and pressing in. Godfrey's broad hand flattens against his hardened dick and desperately pushes, moving with the whole of his body as his hips flex toward his warmth, the throb between his own legs for now unheeded.
By the time he reaches his hips, Godfrey's fingers are again finding his shaft, his body gently tangled in crushed pillows and his lovers' legs. He lifts his gaze to catch Gale's above him, studies his face in the hot half-second he has before the throb between his legs pushes him to move again; takes both thighs on his shoulders and, reverently, presses another kiss against the tender crook, the soft flesh between pelvis and inner thigh, sighing harshly. He had wanted this to last forever, naturally - to take his time exploring him.
This intention was set before the hot throb between his legs had begun to grow urgent.
He centers himself; both legs to a shoulder, his eyes lifting, seeking to touch Gale's own gaze as he rises slowly along his hard length, tongue first. His gaze lowers as he comes to its firm head, wraps his lips around it, and swallows it as far back as he can.
Until hot and shivering throat-muscles contract against its tip. ]
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What follows is so much more than he could have anticipated, having been so long without mortal touch. Anyone else would look positively sinful in such a position; Godfrey remains earnest, beatific, pulling a sigh from Gale as his tongue drags along his turgid length. Gale meets his gaze, his own all heat, and the very picture goes straight to his cock, another surge of wanting, the featherlight brush of lips against him almost too much to bear— and then he is lost, sheathed in wet heat, the close of Godfrey's lips drawing for a strangled sound that borders on a half-choked sob.
His head drops back and he fights the urge to buck into Godfrey's mouth, remaining as still as he can manage as he finds himself swallowed deep, white-knuckled grip clutching at the pillow jutting out from beneath him. The sound that escapes him is guttural and wordless, one he had never known himself able to make before now, and his fingers blindly tangle into Godfrey's hair as he struggles to ground himself.]
Gods, h-how—
[Any question, rhetorical or otherwise, is abandoned, lost to another moan that feels as though it has been coaxed forth from the very furthest depths.]
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[ Wet, internal contours quiver against the firm head of his cock as Godfrey's voice buzzes around him. His head draws back up its length, lips over wet skin, pale gold hair falling before his eyes as Gale's fingers aimlessly shift through. He watches in thick silence each movement, every shift, his mouth draws from him. The raw wanting in him - the effort it takes to restrain it, to keep from pressing his hips to Godfrey's nose and the back of his throat to his cock, to push himself as far down his throat as he could reach.
Godfrey takes a hard breath through his nose and, wrapping his hands gently around its girth, lowers himself once again. He passes the tender underside of his hard dick over his tongue, leading him slowly back down his neck, his fingers following closely the trajectory of his mouth. His other hand braces softly against his hip as Godfrey finds something approaching a rhythm; his head bobs up and down in his lap, already heading down once the head of his cock nearly breaches his lips.
The thump of his heartbeat between his legs grows more and more incessant with each spit-slick pass of his hand over his shaft, with each gagging pull of the back of his throat around his hard dick as he swallows him back. ]
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It's almost too much; the steady rhythm Godfrey has struck, the way his hands never leave him untended for even a moment, following in the wake of debaucherous lips and tongue, the way Godfrey so eagerly swallows him back, the effort betrayed by the soft gagging that Gale feels vibrating against his cock, and oh, even that is so much better than he had expected. His thighs tremble, his breath coming short— gods, if they wanted this night to last, it was going to be a challenge, but there is nothing that could get him to tell Godfrey to slow his efforts now.
He only vaguely recognizes the sounds that are pulled from him now, distant enough that they sound to him like someone else entirely, his fingers curling tighter into Godfrey's hair as he takes the side of his lover's face and bites at his own lower lip, a vain effort to stifle himself that's met with middling success.]
I don't— I don't know that I can last—
[The warning is gasped rather than spoken, the last words swallowed down as another swallow pulls at the head of his cock and threatens to wring him out entirely.]
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It had been no secret, how long the pair of them had gone without a lover's touch - that both had thought their prior partners would be their last forays into romance. Each fleeting pass of his fingers is an agony, and even those more innocent touches flare through him. Were they to make this a night to remember, a night which lingered to allow sufficient expression instead of burning white-hot for a few sparing moments, there would need to be some relieving.
This is the only way Godfrey knows how - Vladimir's preferred order of operations. And Godfrey hadn't realized how he had missed it until hard cock had been slid down his throat.
He hears Gale, of course; he is all he will hear. Godfrey hears the plaintive, gasping note of his voice, the desperation. The thought that, perhaps, the night might not withstand this first climax. He glances up with a fluttering, holding his gaze in his own. Thoroughly undaunted by the prospect as he, slowly, descends again, his throat shuddering around the rock-firm head of his warm dick. Godfrey shifts his hips to show himself plainly; his own thick and engorged cock, standing with all firmness against his abdomen. Twitching with each sound his mouth earns from him as he continues; forming his tongue to the sensitive head of his dick, focusing his efforts where he's most tender, his gaze sliding back down to his work as he bobs, shorter and quicker. ]
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Godfrey—
[That warning tone remains, but gives way to an impassioned, wordless cry, the sound of sweet release as Godfrey's efforts push Gale past his peak. He feels himself unravel, complete and overwhelming, and he is unable to resist the roll of his hips as he spends himself in Godfrey's mouth, spilling over his talented tongue as lets out a sound he scarcely even recognizes as his own voice.]
Gods above—
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[ It's not quite the tone of voice he uses when he
smokes an intimidation check because durge proficiencycalmly informs someone that they'll cooperate or he'll crush their skull, but it's on the same frequency. Aren has learned by now that Godfrey is even worse than Shadowheart when it comes to receiving care— gaining satisfaction suffering in silence, being in denial due to holy magic, he doesn't know, but it's a stubborn thing.He is a stubborn thing as well. And he may not have a devotee's healing touch, but he has an eye for all things medical. (He says it's because it's what he was researching, as a wizard from a destitute background. No fancy jobs in towers for those without prolific mentors. In truth, he has no idea.) So he stands there in the opening of the paladin's tent, an ominous shadow of an almost-elf.
Less spooky: he's carrying what appears to be warm towels and a tin. It smells like menthol. ]
Your posture and gait have been wrong for days, despite being healed. Is it your ribs?
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What, then? For anybody else, it's the sheer distaste for the space he might occupy - the permanent, nagging presence of someone else in yet greater need, the threat of having to draw attention to himself. Thoughts which twist his own need into a threat (of inconvenience, of deprivation, of irritation,) are all that Sir Godfrey needs to turn his efforts to numbing himself to that periodic stab accompanying his steps.
Godfrey can't say this is all that holds him back where Aren is concerned, however. He spent enough time leading his congregation to know a man lost when he sees one. He's seen how Aren's gaze lingers over the strewn gore they so often left behind, how he watched the blood soak the soil. As though he would sink his fingers into it.
Medical curiosity - Godfrey tells himself this is the kinder, more reasonable assumption. He had already expressed an affinity for the medicinal sciences. His immediate conclusion feels unfair. Still, there is something about his fascination that Godfrey cannot settle in himself; he cannot make it sit right, no matter where he puts it. Always do his thoughts return to the lurid glee he'd thought he glimpsed in him as those hyenas burst on the road.
It flits behind his eyes now, as Aren cuts a tall shadow in the doorway of his military tent. He clears his throat. ]
Perhaps so. [ If he'd meant to kill him, there were better ways to go about it. This is what he tells himself as he eases down to his bedroll, ginger as his left side begins to shriek again. ] I've an old wound as well, though it's not ached before.
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Maybe there will come a time when he decides it's best to just leave, and slip away in the night to find his own resolution with his tadpole (or his own end). He wants to stay, but not at the cost of being a danger to the people who've accepted him and allowed him to stick with them through navigating this disturbing crisis. He'll go if he has to. The option is there, waiting on a shelf for an emergency.
Until then, he'll try to make himself useful. ]
Tell me about it?
[ A more neutral tone now, instead of the bullying. He waits until he can meet the man's eyes for permission to kneel down beside him, though when he does, he doesn't reach out to touch him yet. Assessment first. He thinks he can help, possessing an innate understanding of musculature and the body for reasons unknown to him. All it's done so far is guided him on the quickest way to disable a person. This, he hopes, is a better turn. ]
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@ghouliecooper
This is not enough.
[ But you probably knew that. ]
It is just as likely that those same chems will destabilize them, whilst the dust from all of this settles. I will sit by and await some hypothesized ideal no sooner than I will carry on your misguided charge forward.
We must create this luck for ourselves, or I will rectify this situation without further assistance.
1/2
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@stoplickingthedamnthing
[ hmm....why does that wording feel unfortunate suddenly ]
Ah, well, my daughter. She has been a hole in my chest since the nautiloid.
I don't know that I've mentioned her to you, my friend.
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I can't even imagine how hard it must be for a parent to be apart from their child. Would you tell me more about her?
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Iltha, she is called. She will be seven years this Tarsakh, and dreadfully serious. I think she has trouble sometimes, understanding why it is the rest of the world does not take her as seriously as she takes herself.
[ which, naturally, only makes her funnier. ]
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A lovely name. I was something like that myself as a child. "Adorable" was something I absolutely loathed to be called as a child.
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I had suspected that you two may find something of an understanding in one another, should you ever meet. She is like her father; quiet and sharply perceptive. I miss her more each day.
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Is she a fellow lover of books, perchance? We could keep an eye out for gifts for her, once you see her. I suppose a child might prefer dolls at that age, but I'm much more an expert in the area of books.
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[ when you're the party therapist so you know everybody's tragic backstory but nobody knows yours so it gets dropped in horrifying bits and pieces because you never talk about yourself with them. ]
Her reading comes slowly, but she quite enjoys being read to. If naught else, I would like to come back with something new, if you've a recommendation from your own childhood :-) [ not the dadmojis ]
@cervid tfln overflow
[ Hey man, it's just like with fishing. Sometimes, you have to twitch the rod a little to make the bait look more alive than it is. ]
Ha. Were that true, I suspect that my star would instead drive me to conflict with the entire country, Mr. Morgan.
It is hardly my place to judge such pursuits. In my time here, it has indeed come to seem as though capitol is as vital to life as food and water. I am a poor excuse for an outdoorsman, but I think I may prefer the light in the sky, myself.
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Well, you're in luck. No one's figured out how to tax or charge for that yet.
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A matter of time, surely.
Well, if capital gain is what cuts your path in life, then I am all the more grateful. How wonderful it is that we were able to make an acquaintanceship despite my clear lack! Haha :-)
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Alright, father. I think you've got the "how" out of me.
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[ ... and here he sits for a minute, wondering how he should proceed. ]
the truth of the matter is that I have not officially been affiliated with the Church in some time.
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I must admit to holding some trepidation when first this subject was opened, but your curiosity is refreshing, my friend!
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Well, if you'll have the patience for me, what harm? Where shall we meet?
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[Even though Keane's Saloon sat in the shadow of its competition down the street, Arthur considered his past misadventures at Smithfield's before recommending it to Godfrey. His jaw ached, and the sensation of splintered glass made his hair stand up at the memory. No, a used up watering hole with three items on the menu, and about as many stools, would better suit reintroducing a priest to the elements of debauchery.
This came with a few benefits, at least: the bartender didn't flinch the moment Arthur walked through the door, the air wasn't hazy with a noxious mix of cheap cologne and perfume, and the slightest movement on the old floorboards let out such a creak that no one could catch him unawares. Not while sober, at least.
It was late afternoon, and motes of dust danced in the golden light pouring through the windows and reflecting off the bottles on the shelves behind the bar. Arthur ordered two beers and waited. If Godfrey didn't show by sundown, he'd simply have a second drink to keep him company instead.]
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Were Godfrey a man of less self-awareness, he might scapegoat the sucking mud for that, for there are no paved or cobbled streets in Valentine; the very ground is a dark and hungry slurry of mud. Godfrey has often feared it may swallow his boots on particularly rainy days, if he fought its grasp too hard.
No, it isn't the suction force of mud fighting his every step. It's simple force of habit that draws him to a slow and miserable stop as the building comes into view. Before him squats a peeling, tired-looking old box, neighbours with an equally exhausted little chapel. Faded lettering behind the leering and half-drunk patrons hanging their elbows from the balustrade above the entry proclaims this place Keane's Saloon, home of Liquor and Hot Food.
Put your finger on a regret in England, Godfrey has found, trace it back - and you will hit a place like this. And yet, not like this. It's something he has come to notice about the Americas; that so many of the towns he sees look temporary, built from the same slatted wood, and yet older and more tired than the brick-work pubs of his own home rock. Keane's Saloon appears to him four walls lashed together in a fit of desperation; it also appears to have stood here through a thousand storms. There are pubs in England said to have been frequented by Robin Hood that appear younger to the eye than Keane's Saloon.
Cultural, Godfrey thinks - or related to the climate. To a fair-complexioned Brit like Godfrey, both seem poised to grind a man to dirt. Why would it not be so with their architecture?
But, of course, he is dilly-dallying. The gentlemen watching the road from above are beginning to look at him, exchanging words. He's had no reason to doubt his new friend yet - why does he tarry now? Godfrey takes a breath, empties his thoughts, and pushes forward, mounting the front steps, pulling one of the batwing doors aside for a wobbling (and incredulous) patron as he stumbles back out.
And just like that, here he is - standing in a cramped little alehouse, dressed cleanly groomed, his golden waves tied tastefully at the back of his neck. Helpless and out of place, even as he catches sight of his guide for the evening. Smiling as easily as he can, Godfrey creaks his way through the bar and its cloying reek. ]
Arthur, [ He speaks, as always, softly, ] how good to see you. You've not been waiting long, I hope.
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Those maudlin thoughts encircle Arthur's head in the wreath of cigarette smoke he's produced while waiting, when they would be better drowned in the bottles of beer the bartender finally places before him. Before that temptation can take full hold, all heads in the saloon turn toward the new face at the door, though Arthur is the only one to do it with a smile. He plucks the cigarette from between his lips and dashes it to the floor while waving away the plumes he'd left lingering in the air around him.]
There he is. Pull up a seat. [He pats the stool next to him and snorts at Godfrey's concern.] Nah, the place needs help lookin' busy anyways.
[The sidelong glance he shoots over his shoulder at the bartender is not returned as mirthfully.]
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Curious this, too, that he already should have a seat. Arthur means nothing by this, of course - how strange would it be, to invite him out only to impassively sit at opposing corners of the place? - but there is nonetheless warmth in being expected. Godfrey has not felt it in some time; the slot he had thought the world kept for him has long since rejected him, and so has the country underneath it. A longing for this, he thinks, must be why he has allowed the lie to take root and prosper for as long as it has. There's shades of it in being called Father, even though the title has rebuked him.
The stool creaks dangerously under him - which fits, he supposes, after some thought. Godfrey self-consciously adjusts his perch. ]
Thank you, my friend, for the invitation. [ There's trepidation welling in him still, yes. But also a certain precipice giddiness which he expects most men have outgrown by now; the sensation of trying new, of perching oneself at the edge of an experience that cannot ever be taken back. ] I'll do what I can to keep myself from embarrassment. This is mine--
[ He takes the glass neck of the bottle nearest to him gently, shifting it nearer with his fingers - before glancing quickly toward Arthur. ]
-- or so I hope.
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Godfrey's little nervous tics catch his eye instead. Arthur had seen them before, though more often in someone taking a wild horse for a gallop, or a kid about to draw a gun on a bank clerk for the first time-- not a grown man sitting down for a beer. It proves oddly infectious as Arthur's thoughts take the time to catch up with his actions. He's seen disgraced clergymen go to seed before. He even he shared a camp with one, but he wasn't responsible for the reverend's degeneracy. This is a bit more proactive of a step, but--
Arthur chuckles, more at himself. Hell, it's one beer, and there's worse things on his conscience.]
'Course. Not one to stiff a man on a drink.
[He lifts his own bottle and knocks it against Godfrey's with a dull clink. Arthur takes a swig, but sinks it slowly. Keane's was an armpit, but at least the ice box kept the drinks cold enough to be refreshing.]
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The drink Arthur takes is certainly more reserved than those he sees others taking - perhaps for Godfrey's own sensibilities, he can't say. Regardless of what has inspired this more sensible swig, Godfrey appreciates it; he's not sure he would be able to drink half so deeply and with nearly so much fortitude as the other patrons.
Fortified, Godfrey tilts the bottle against his lips. The cold fizz needling his tongue and tender throat startles him, though mildly. There's a bitter freshness, an edge that is hard but not overbearing. And also...
Godfrey lowers the butt of the bottle against the table and, contemplating, licks the roof of his mouth. ]
It tastes like... bread.
[ Somewhat. ]
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[Beer always struck him more as a utility than a drink-- a means of cooling off in summer, warming up in winter, or dulling nerves sharpened to a razor's edge. Arthur takes another sip, this time actually considering the taste in a way he hadn't since he was twelve years old.]
S'pose it does. [He furrows his brow.] That good or bad?
@zlato tfln overflow
Have ever you read the Scriptures, Lady?
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