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Even before Gale steps across the threshold of the old plantation mansion, he can sense an intense, negative energy bearing down on him.
He braces against it, calming his breathing even as the tight coiling in his chest threatens to quicken it. Gale knows instantly what this must be. He has encountered vengeful spirits before. Normally, when he’s called to a location in the south, the séance that is performed reveals the ghost of an angry slave, their anger a hindrance, the intense emotion rendering them incapable of progressing beyond the mortal plane.
But this is different. It feels remarkably powerful and unforgiving. By his professional estimations, the house is not occupied by one spirit alone. The energy that is radiating within is so extreme that it must be from multiple, restless phantoms.
Gale composes himself, smoothing down the fronts of his frock coat. It won’t do any good to appear apprehensive. These people have called him for help, eager for a sense of reassurance that they aren't likely to get from anyone else, living or dead.
The woman of the house clutches at the string of pearls adorning her pale neck. Her skin is so fair, a telltale sign that she’s spent very little time in the sun, a physical boasting of her social status. Her brother is of similar complexion, their hair is styled to perfection, and their dress expensive and in vogue.
If Gale is successful, he knows he will be paid handsomely, but he never does this for the money.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Mr. Dekarios,” she greets sincerely. “Petras and I have been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”
“As I stated in my request for your services, we inherited this estate from our late father two weeks ago,” she explains. “But there isn’t a single night we’ve spent here where we have felt safe…”
The brother swings an arm around the back of her delicate shoulders, holding his sibling close.
“We don’t want any trouble,” he assures. “We’d like nothing more than to live here peacefully, without any - um - unwanted guests.”
Ghosts, he means. Spirits of the dead.
Gale nods his head in understanding. He’s been through this same procedure over and over again. Siblings Petras and Dalyria Szarr are hardly his first customers. He’s done house calls like this many times, and the process hardly changes. Some poor, terrified soul writes to him and he graciously accepts the call for help. His services are asked for often, especially in the south. Such is the privilege of being heralded as the country’s most reliable, solution-oriented medium. His particular brand of Spiritualism focuses on living in peace with the departed, whether they are the ghosts of known loved ones or agitated strangers.
Even from a young age, Gale was gifted. He could feel a haunting before seeing or hearing evidence of one, and communing with the dead would often come more naturally than speaking with the living. When his talents caught the eye of one of the most sought-after mediums in the country, Gale soon found himself under the mentorship of Mystra. Once Gale was in his late teens, their relationship began to blossom and developed into something far more intimate, and to this day, the wedding ring that he wears on his finger serves as a reminder of the love he once had.
“Peace is always the conclusion I seek, and I’ll remind you both to continuously keep sight of that goal,” Gale remarks as he sends the siblings a kind, comforting smile. “Now, I should be able to communicate with the spirits through a séance, but I'll need your participation as the residents of this household. I cannot understate the importance of your cooperation,” he explains as he glances between the two siblings, ensuring their comprehension of his instructions. “Now, have you done what I asked in my most recent letter?”
They lead him into the parlor room that already appears set for the nightly activity. A small, round table awaits them in the center of the room with three lit candles upon a white table cloth, and three chairs intended for the participants.
“Lovely,” Gale comments. “I see you followed the instructions I provided in my latest letter. This means we can start without delay. Are the two of you prepared?”
They all take their rightful seats at the table, and Gale steadies himself one last time before the séance begins.
“I will now open a channel of communication with the otherworldly,” he explains as the three of them reach for each other’s hands. “No matter what happens, it’s important that the two of you remain calm. It won’t do any good to waste energy on fear. Some spirits have the ability to feed off of that negativity, and I’ll remind you both that such will not cater to our intended outcome.”
Dalyria’s hand is trembling, and Gale gives it a light squeeze. He wishes he could tell her that there’s nothing to be afraid of, but the energy has intensified since he walked through the door. Whatever is in this house, it seems to know of his intentions, and the air buzzes with a tension that Gale can’t wait to journal about - as long as no harm befalls them.
It’s deathly quiet in the room. Gale can only hear the sound of the blood rushing in his ears and his own rehearsed, rhythmic breathing. This is how it always starts: the silence, the hyperawareness of his own body - of his vitality - followed by an abrupt, telling chill.
A shiver races down his spine, and Gale knows that his mystical abilities have succeeded.
"The channel has been opened,” he whispers into the dimly-lit room, voice quiet and calm. “Are you with us now, phantom?"
There is no response, at least none that is verbal, but Gale feels a shift in the air, the slightest hint of acknowledgement.
"It's here," Gale confirms for the residents. “I’m going to lower my mental wards which may allow for it to enter my body and possess me. Should it do so, the two of you are free to communicate with it as you please. Don’t be alarmed if it does not respond verbally. During my time as a medium, spirits have elected to convey information through movements such as gestures, physical touch, and even levitation.”
Dalyria’s hand shifts in his grasp, indicating that she isn’t pleased by these details. When Gale opens his eyes to watch her expression, her groomed brows seem permanently pinched together, a condition of severe worry. “What if - what if the spirit responds with violence?”
Gale blinks at her, wondering if her own ability to sense the dead is more skilled than the average person. Can she also detect how peculiar the paranormal presence is within this house? He pushes the curiosity away for now, choosing instead to answer her as soothingly as he can.
“I assure you that I have plenty of experience being possessed, and although I may temporarily surrender myself to the entity’s whim, I will be able to take back control to prevent any unsolicited actions.”
Sufficiently comforted, Dalyria nods her head, closing her eyes once again, and they proceed with the séance. She’s the one that speaks first, her voice trembling with uncertainty. "Spirit...we do not mean any harm," she calls out into the room. "We seek to communicate peacefully, and to help guide you into the next stage of afterlife."
At her question, the air in the room grows ever colder, and the candles on the table all flicker with a newfound liveliness. Gale wonders why the ghost does not simply speak. Its energy level must be high enough, but it refuses to make the connection to use the medium’s voice.
"If we ask specific questions," Petras inquires, “will it answer?"
Technically, it hasn't answered anything so far, but Gale doesn’t have any reason to believe that they can’t try.
“What would you like to ask?”
“I want to know if it’s a woman,” Petras proclaims, earning him a reprimanding smack against his shoulder. “What?” he hisses at his sister. “That’s a perfectly normal question!”
“Spirit,” Gale carefully addresses. “We have several inquiries for you. To begin, we would like to know if you’re a man or a woman.”
The room falls silent as they await the phantom’s answer. Only the wind can be heard rattling the wooden shutters outside. A storm must be approaching, but there’s no sign of it here. It’s as quiet as an unhaunted house - perhaps even more quiet than one.
“Are you still with us, phantom?” Gale wonders out loud. “If so, please make your presence known.”
Glass shatters in a nearby room and Dalyria shrieks with a forceful flinch while Petras loudly curses.
“It’s alright,” Gale is quick to console them. “The spirit is merely doing what we’ve asked of it.”
“No, but that’s just it! That’s the noise we’ve been hearing constantly!” Dalyria complains, clearly in distress as she rocks back and forth in her seat. “It’s always the glass shattering, then the lights flicker and then father’s silverware flies around the room like desperate, caged birds.”
She turns to Gale with wet, glassy eyes, her brow furrowed in despair. “Oh, please Mr. Dekarios - can’t you tell it to stop?”
“I could certainly try, but usually a spirit only does such things because they’re in distress, frustrated by loneliness or confusion. I assure you that it wants peace just as much as the two of you, and we need only find how to achieve it.”
“Can’t it be frustrated a little more quietly?” Petras groans. “We both wake several times a night from this nonsense.”
“Well, have you ever tried to understand it?”
They fall silent at the question, obviously perplexed by it, and Gale emits a patient sigh. He’s sure that the ghost is trying to communicate something, they just need to figure out what.
Glass. Light. Silver. What do all of these have in common?
With the integrity of the séance nearly forgotten, Gale squeezes Dalyria’s hand more firmly and forces her eyes to open.
“With all of these instances of you two hearing the shattering, has the spirit actually broken anything, or are they just residual noises?”
The siblings exchange a glance before Petras offers an eventual shrug. “The only thing that has ever broken is the mirror in the downstairs powder room.”
Glass. Light. Silver. Mirror.
He focuses on these four words, trying to draw the connection between them, attempting to bridge the gap to solve the-
Look at me.
Gale’s eyes widen as he hears the unexpected voice, and one quick glimpse at the siblings confirms that they have not spoken nor seemed to have detected it.
It’s been so long.
The spirit - it’s using the opened connection to speak to him, and the tone is oddly beckoning.
Gale gets to his feet, ignoring the living at the table as he focuses on the otherworldly. He feels the presence, radiating like a lighthouse signalling him through a storm, and he’s drawn to it, slowly gravitating towards it, step by step.
Closer, closer, closer.
Won’t someone look at me?
Besides the furniture, the only item that Gale can see in the unused powder room is a small, ornate hand mirror. It’s laying face down on a small, mahogany table. Against his better judgement, Gale reaches for it.
It happens in an instant.
When Gale picks up the mirror and turns it around, there’s a flash of something unexpected. For a split second, he meets the gaze of someone - or something - its eyes as red as blood. Gale stares into the glass, frowning at his own reflection. It’s almost easy to write off the brief flicker of crimson eyes as a figment of his imagination, but he knows better than to believe such falsehoods.
There is a spirit here, and for whatever reason, it's tethered to this mirror.
If the haunting is caused by this item, perhaps Gale can ease the Szarrs’ suffering by taking possession of it. He doesn’t have all of the answers yet, but he’s convinced that can find a way to help the ghost inside or exorcise the mirror completely. It’s in his nature to accept a challenge, so why should this incident be any different?
The new home owners are thrilled by the simplicity of the solution, and after receiving ample payment, Gale reenters his passenger carriage to begin the long trip back to his residence.
🕯
When he finally arrives home, Gale is eager to relax after such a tiring journey.
Tara, his most loyal servant and dearest friend, is quick to greet him. She makes her usual small talk, floats about him like a doting, winged-beast, hangs his hat and coat, and then dutifully draws him a much-needed bath.
It's the witching hour, and although he's very tired, Gale craves a long, warm soak before climbing into bed. The iron, clawfoot tub full of steaming water is the most welcoming sight he has seen in days. He is quick to leave his things upon his wooden dresser, the bag with the mirror as forgotten as his stripped clothes.
When he finally sinks into the tub, Gale heaves a sigh of relief. He lays with the back of his head over the edge, his eyes closed as he watches the flickering candlelight play through his eyelids.
Finally, some peace.
Until a familiar chill runs down his spine.
“My, my…aren’t you handsome.”
Gale’s eyes fly open.
Perched above him is a pale man with silver curls and an ethereal glow, like he is bathed in the blue light of distant stars. Not a vestige of someone that once was, but someone that still is.
A cool touch ghosts across Gale’s cheek, scratching against his beard, and he violently flinches away, sending water over the lipped edge of the tub.
And the ghost laughs at him.
“What an adorable reaction,” the specter continues, and the mists of midnight that wrap around him shift as he leers impossibly closer. “All that blood, rising into those rounded cheeks. Why, you look absolutely delicious, darling.”
If Gale were any less shocked, perplexed, and embarrassed, he might be flattered to be called that. No one has called him that before - living or dead - and not even Mystra ever-
Oh, but this is all horribly improper, isn’t it?
“Excuse me,” he eventually rasps when he manages to find his voice. “I’m - er - uncertain if you’ve noticed, but I’m in the bath and it’s - well, it’s quite rude to stare.”
“Oh, I most certainly noticed,” the ghost snickers. “Who wouldn’t?”
That strange, crimson gaze rakes down Gale’s bare chest, and the ghost’s transparent appearance is as obvious as his appreciation for what he’s viewing. It makes Gale’s blood race hot in his veins, being leered at like a fresh pastry in a glass display.
“Oh, but what’s this?” the ethereal man asks as he suddenly reaches for Gale’s left hand, chilling fingers tracing the silver band on his ring finger. “You’re married and yet live alone? Hm. More for me, I suppose.”
Gale snatches his hand away and pulls it tight to his chest. He suddenly doesn’t feel far enough under the sudsy water to escape such an invasive gaze - a gaze that he actually recognizes. Those eyes are as red as rubies - it must be the same ones that Gale spotted in the mirror. This is the same ghost from the Szarr plantation, and Gale has brought him home where the spirit seems to have more strength.
“Might we have a proper conversation?” Gale suggests. “And I’ll clarify - by proper I mean allow me some time to dress so that I may be better, more presentable company, and reconvene in my parlor downstairs?”
“Actually, I rather like the atmosphere here,” the ghost says as he floats until he’s gracefully sitting on the edge of the tub, gesturing about the room. “The candlelight, the charming scent of rose water, and the steam in the air really makes for a bit of romance, don’t you think?”
A bit of-?
“Mutual consent from both participating parties is an incredibly imperative part of romance!” Gale points out without missing a beat. “Which you are falling decidedly short of.”
“Oh, but the game changes completely when one of said parties is dead.”
Gale swallows hard, tension thick in his throat. “And what about manners?” he asks tentatively as he crawls beneath those eyes that continue to roam across naked, hair-speckled skin. “Do those change for dead people, too?”
The dancing grin that the ghost flashes is as thrilling as it is irritating, causing a strange, conflicted reaction within Gale’s chest.
“You’re fun,” the ghost chuckles as he flickers a few fingers into the water, which Gale finds more intrusive than that persistent gaze. “And speaking of consent…you touched the mirror and took it home, so now you’re stuck with me. You might as well accept it.”
Maybe he’s right, but Gale can still wish he was being haunted by a less obtrusive fellow.
“Alright,” he begins curtly. “Fine. I accept it. Now…will you turn around so I can get dressed?”
That cheshire smile that is starting to sear a hole straight into Gale’s soul is brighter and more mischievous than ever. Wispy bishop sleeves float in the air as the ghost makes a show of inspecting his pale, blue nails.
“I’ve been forced to watch nothing more than a wooden table for god knows how long…and now you want me to stare at a wall? I take back what I said earlier - you’re no fun at all.”
Is that what the spirit wants? Playful banter and something to look at? Gale isn’t used to entertaining. He doesn’t get many visitors, but perhaps amusing someone that has been bored for an insurmountable amount of time may be an easy task.
“How about this,” Gale starts as the water shifts around him. “You let me get dressed, and I’ll talk with you all night if you’d like. We can discuss whatever topic your heart desires.”
“I don’t have a heart.”
“Semantics. You still have desires, don’t you?”
“Oh, more than you could ever know, darling - but alright. I’ll play your game. It’s a deal.”
🕯
The hearth within the parlor has roared to life by the time Gale is dry, dressed, and decently presentable. The ghost is waiting by the fire, perched in a velvet-upholstered chair, his nose buried in a book. Ah, so it seems the spirit already helped himself to Gale’s library. Perhaps a polite tour of the house is unnecessary.
He takes a moment to inspect the phantom, making note of his curious clothes. The shirt is loose and has a lot of extra fabric, cleanly tucked into a pair of colonial breeches. Gale wonders if this is the outfit that the man died in, and if he’s been in this for an entire century - the amount of time the ghost has ascertained that he’s been within that little mirror.
When Gale takes a seat in the matching chair by the fireplace, his guest snaps his book shut and turns his attention to the homeowner.
“Astarion.”
Gale blinks at the phantom, unsure of what he’s referring to.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s my name,” the ghost claims with a purr. “You can use it if you’d like.”
Gale wonders if talking with this ghost - with this Astarion - is always like this. Truth beneath a carefully-constructed flirtation, a constant merry-go-round of disguising some sort of ulterior motive.
With a sigh, Gale feels compelled to ask his next question, unable to ignore the potential that the phantom is merely playing a game with him. “And would you prefer that I use it?”
“Darling, I haven’t heard my name spoken by someone other than my merry old self in a hundred years. What do you think?”
Those haunting, red eyes seem to burn in the unamused silence that stretches between them, and Gale can’t help but relent under that gaze, surrendering like a wilting candle wick.
“Very well then. Astarion, it’s a pleasure to officially meet you. I’m Gale Dekarios, and-”
“Oh, I know who you are, darling. I heard all about it from those sniveling Szarr siblings. They spoke about you ceaselessly for about two nights before Dal finally decided to write, and I’m so glad she did. Those two were absolutely clueless. They didn’t understand a single thing I tried to tell them.”
The sneer on Astarion’s face is unmistakable, and it gives Gale pause. Such spoken impatience points to the truth of the ghost’s previous claim. Perhaps he really had been imprisoned within that mirror for a long time.
“And what about the previous owner of the house? The Szarr patriarch?” Gale wonders as he watches Astarion roll his eyes in an exceedingly theatrical manner.
“Ugh. I don’t even want to talk about him,” the ghost groans, but then he continues as if he does. “He was worse than his dreadful children - his spoiled spawn.”
“I see,” Gale responds, for no other reason than he feels like he must. In truth, he doesn’t see anything. He feels no closer to understanding Astarion than before. If the ghost really had been trapped and cursed by a long duration of loneliness, then wouldn’t any interaction with the living be seen as an opportunity to seize?
The light from the fire does not reflect on the ghost’s moonglow skin. The dancing lights seem to go straight through him, and Gale hadn’t noticed it before, perhaps because he had been too mortified while being harassed in his bathtub, but Astarion appears awfully cold.
“You know the really ironic thing about being confined within a mirror?”
Gale watches Astarion’s face closely as he speaks, those piercing, scarlet eyes fixated on the moving fire, an entire symphony of thoughts happening behind that haunted gaze.
“You can’t even look at yourself. Not even my own pretty reflection could keep me company.”
How funny to be discussing reflections, and suddenly Gale can see himself within that sorrowful gaze. He too knows what it’s like to be alone, to endure the constant pang of longing, to wish for something more than what he can have, to crave a special someone beside him, and to want nothing more than that person to actively choose to love him.
But Gale isn’t naive enough to believe that he and Astarion are exactly the same. The feeling of isolation and yearning may be similar, but Astarion speaks of himself. His own reflection.
Vanity. Is that what matters to Astarion?
Gale leans forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he hovers closer to the fire’s warm embrace.
“Astarion,” Gale begins, and he waits to receive the ghost’s full attention. Red eyes regard him, narrowed with sad suspicion.
“You’re very beautiful.”
For the briefest fraction of a second, Astarion’s face reflects surprise before he resorts to his characteristic smirk. Despite the playfulness that replaces the melancholy, Gale believes it’s the first genuine expression he’s seen on Astarion’s face.
“Darling, why are you saying that as if it’s something I don’t already know?”
🕯
Over the next few weeks, Gale spends a lot of time recording observations in his journal.
Astarion can’t be outside of the mirror during the daytime. He hasn’t seen a sunrise since he was alive, and he claims to hardly remember the colors of it, so Gale delights in describing them all to him. The sunsets, too - each detail he witnesses is brought to Astarion’s ears, painting a vibrant picture with carefully-chosen words.
Sometimes Astarion asks if Gale would like to try and touch him, but he always declines. There’s no point in that sort of experiment. Gale already knows that during the witching hour, Astarion is capable of tangible touch. He caressed the medium’s cheek on their very first night together, and Gale does not desire to feel such chilling contact again.
But there are times, in the deep of night when he spies Astarion from across the room, that Gale finds himself admiring the twinkling, starlight glow of the ghost’s silver curls and the blue, moonlight pallor of his skin.
During such episodes of odd temptation, Gale twists the wedding band on his finger, and tries to steer his thoughts in a different direction. The deflecting thoughts almost always circle back to Mystra. He has never been able to contact her. There have been long nights when he has opened the connection, but has received no response from the other side. Perhaps Mystra has passed on, leaving her husband behind entirely. He dares not consider the alternative.
At least he has a new friend now, someone to share the space of his large home, even though Astarion sometimes proves to be quite the odd roommate. He paces around at odd hours of the night, tries to look in every mirror within the house - which always results in a disappointing lack of a reflection - and has already read nearly every book in Gale’s library. Astarion has even started to request some novels that Gale has never heard of - which is both shocking and unnerving. He hates to add onto Astarion’s reasons to mope.
The more that Gale interacts with him, the further he feels from solving the riddle that will allow the ghost to be released from this mortal plane. He has to continuously remind himself of the importance of such a goal. As much as he has secretly enjoyed Astarion’s presence within his home, he has no intention of trapping his nightly guest forever. At some point, as all things in Gale’s life do, this too must come to an end.
“Darling?”
Gale pauses, his fountain pen perched against the parchment of his latest journal as he glances up at Astarion.
“Yes?”
“How long have you been able to see and talk to people like me?”
Ah. Gale has been wondering when questions of this nature might arise.
“Nearly my entire life,” he says, politely setting his pen aside and closing his logbook. It’s probably best that Astarion doesn’t see his notes anyways, especially since all of them are about him these days. “I seemed to always have this gift.”
“And you’re sure it’s a gift?” Astarion says before he rolls his eyes and scoffs at his own word choice. “I mean I know getting to see and interacting with me is a gift, but what about the others? Has it really been good for you, or do you find it miserable?”
“Miserable? Why, I could never consider such a talent to cause such unhappiness. I’ve found plenty of fulfillment helping the departed cross over and leave this plane of existence. In that sense, I think it’s been-”
“Am I the only ghost you’ve not been able to help?”
Baffled by the inquiry, Gale settles further back in his chair, thumbing the underside of his wedding ring once again.
“I’ll caution you against that mindset,” Gale informs mildly. “Just because you haven’t crossed over yet, doesn’t mean that you never will.”
“But what if I don’t want to?” Astarion tentatively murmurs. “What if I’d like to stay here with you?”
The silence that follows doesn’t carry the weight of negativity or fear. The only tension that Gale detects comes straight from within him, from the intense anticipation that forces his heart to quicken.
“I feel safe with you. Seen - quite literally,” Astarion continues, crimson gaze fixated on the polished, cast iron mantle of the fireplace within the study. “And whatever the future holds for me, I don’t want to lose that.”
The apprehension that causes the pressure within Gale’s chest slowly dissipates into full-fledged astonishment. Despite the assurance that Astarion wishes to stay here, Gale can’t help but think that all of this sounds like a resolution. Being genuine and authentic about what he’s feeling…shouldn’t that allow for Astarion to move on? Weren’t his insecurities, the desire to see himself, and his constant, sarcastic insincerity preventing him from obtaining peace and a proper afterlife?
Confusion and conflict are making it difficult for Gale to find the proper words to reply, but eventually he believes he comes up with an appropriate response.
“Astarion…the state that you’re in, existing between two worlds, it’s best if such a circumstance is a temporary one.”
“Why?”
Because that’s what Mystra preached. She explained that spirits are lost and in need of guidance, and that with a medium’s help, they might be led towards the light.
“Don’t you want it to be?”
Astarion's arms cross across his chest, puffy sleeves wrinkling as the fabric is stretched, and the embracing, blue wisps of death that surround him seem to do the same. “Did you not just hear a word I said?” he hisses. “I want to stay here with you. I’ve spent enough time trapped - dead or not, it’s time to try living again.”
But one can’t live again. Gale is all too aware of this rule. He knows it for a fact. If there were anyone that should live again, it would be Mystra - but she’s gone.
Gale opens his mouth to answer, but Astarion doesn’t allow for it, jumping at the opportunity to say more.
“Come on, darling. You were just saying you like helping ghosts - so help me.”
Gone is the chatty, flirtatious Astarion that practically assaulted Gale while in the bathtub. This new Astarion is different and direct, full of bursting conviction, his intentions as clear as a cloudless night sky - and Gale is struck with a sudden sense of guilt.
What if Astarion isn’t the only one to have this sentiment? Has Gale spent his entire life commanding spirits to take actions that they may not have wanted or weren’t prepared for? Has he demanded that they disappear from the mortal realm entirely for no other reason than he believed it right? Has he sent ghost after ghost to a conclusion that they may not have desired?
He has never hoped for a ghost’s existence. Even though hauntings make for his sole source of income, Gale had never actually wished for their appearances. The only ghost he has ever craved the presence of is Mystra, and yet she seems to have crossed over long ago without his assistance. Gale is a selfish man. He hasn’t wanted her by his side for her sake.
Who is he to dictate what his late wife’s happiness should be? Who does he think he is trying to control Astarion’s, too?
“Arlight,” he finally concedes after a long moment of quiet contemplation. “You may stay with me for as long as you’d like, but only on one condition.”
Relief doesn’t completely overtake Astarion’s demeanor, but Gale can see some slight alleviation taking place behind that red gaze.
“Ask me anything, and it will be yours.”
Even with such a promising response, Gale still hesitates to impart his suggestion.
🕯
Just as Gale initially suspected, Astarion hates being enclosed. He tries to give the mirror plenty of room as it lays within his Gladstone bag, but the ghost still complains, speaking directly through their connection that has never been closed.
Are we there yet? I swear, this is the bumpiest carriage ride I’ve ever been on. Where do these people live? In the mountains?
Gale chuckles and gives the leather bag a reassuring pat even though Astarion is not likely to feel it.
“This road seems to be rather unimproved, and likely isn’t used to carriages of this size, but yes - we’re very close now.”
Good. I didn’t know it was possible to feel so awfully sick - not that the smell of your ink is helping. Must you take that dreadful fountain pen everywhere? What if it leaks in here?
“There’s nothing more important than recording observations while they’re still fresh,” Gale calmly explains. “Otherwise, I might be prone to forgetfulness of a situation I’d rather remember.”
Might you choose a writing utensil that’s less stinky?
“I’ll consider your request,” Gale easily submits. “But for now, I hope the unpleasant scent in there doesn’t distract you from discovering this spirit’s true desire.”
You’ve picked the right assistant, you know, Astarion haughtily explains. I’m very good at discovering secrets.
Gale doesn’t doubt that for a moment.
Their banter continues until they reach their destination. The inn is old, creaking, and the people have written for his assistance to identify the spirit within that haunts their business. They’ve had far too many frightened, disgruntled guests leave in the middle of the night.
The moment Gale makes it into the dining hall, he hears Astarion scoff.
Do you really need my help with this, darling? Don’t you think it’s all rather obvious? There are guests that have simply never checked out. Some poor soul probably died in one of the upstairs beds and hasn’t realized it.
Being among living company, Gale elects not to verbally respond to Astarion. He’d hate for these customers to assume he’s insane.
But it’s been a while since I’ve been in a tavern. I used to frequent them a lot when I was alive, which means I know what sort of characters run amok in them. Darling, if this spirit happens to be seedy and charming, don’t go getting any ideas. You’re not allowed to bring any other ghosts home. I would rather hate to have to share you.
A small smile dances across Gale’s lips as he closes his eyes, effortlessly falling into the familiar routine of necessary introductions and then a séance.
He makes a mental reminder that once they’re alone, he must tell Astarion how much he would rather hate that, too.