ArcaneArrangements.com

by Anonymous

Summary:

Once CIO of a major arcanotech firm, Gale is looking to spend his time and money on the finer things in life.

or

Gale accidentally creates a profile on a sugar-baby dating site.

Notes:

• For AlwaysMauria.

Generated from a request for an online dating-related BG3 story for AlwaysMauria

💖

Chapter 1: The Culinary Conjurer

Gale Dekarios was three glasses of Arabellan Dry deep when he realized the “prestigious mentorship platform” he’d been excitedly filling out for the last forty-five minutes was, in fact, a sugar-baby website.

By then it was far too late. The damage (pride-related) was already done. He stared at the question blinking innocently on his monitor.

---

Your Magical Love Language is:

• Conjuration (gifts + showing up)
• Evocation (passion + intensity)
• Illusion (flirtation + aesthetics)
• Divination (communication + intuition)
• Abjuration (protection + stability)
• Enchantment (affection + charm)
• Transmutation (growth + transformation)

He clicked Conjuration, shrugged, and muttered, “Accurate enough.”

 

What Gift is Most Romantic?:

• A handwritten letter
• A weekend trip
• A custom spell
• A familiar
• A rare book
• A Weavetooth-controlled sex toy

A custom spell and a rare book both begged to be chosen. He picked a rare book, then cheerfully ticked every option for his potential partner except a familiar. Gifting a familiar? Obscene.

 

What’s Your Conflict Style?:

• Talk it out
• Freeze up
• Dramatic monologue
• Casting Counterspell
• Passionate Sex
• I don’t believe in conflict

The honest answer was Freeze up until his heart threatened to explode out of his chest, followed by a dramatic monologue no one asked for.
He selected Passionate Sex and took a fortifying sip of wine.

 

My Greatest Character Flaw (That I will Cheerfully Deny in Person):
I don’t want to be alone.
I’m in love with my tressym (j/k. mostly.)
I’m a hopeless romantic.

Username Suggestions:
WaterdeepPocket$
LonelyProf69
Patronus_Prime
PhDeezNutz

Gale recoiled so hard he nearly knocked over the decanter.
He typed CulinaryConjurer instead, because at least it sounded like a person who owned more than one saucepan.

One final read-through, one more “what in the Nine Hells am I doing,” and he slammed the Post Profile button like it owed him money (which, given the nature of the website, was a rather funny way to push that button).

---

ArcaneArrangements.com

“Weaving Destiny from Desire since 2002”

✦ Patron Profile ✦

CulinaryConjurer

35 • Waterdeep (formerly Baldur’s Gate)

Occupation: Former CIO of a major arcanotech firm • Current adjunct professor • Full-time tressym butler

Looking For:
Long-term arrangement. Companionship and affection. Someone to spoil rotten, someone who lets me cook for them, someone who thinks “bibliophile” is a love language.

✦About Me✦
Once upon a time I commanded boardrooms. These days I 'command' a very opinionated tressym and a kitchen I finally have time to use.

I left the high-stakes life. Built a scholarship fund and began teaching again.

I savor what I once rushed past: cooking leisurely meals, annotating books at midnight, walking through tree-lined streets with nothing but my own thoughts for company. I live comfortably, not extravagantly; generously, not ostentatiously. Wealth, I’ve learned, is best used to soften the world for others, not to harden yourself against it.

I want connection that feels chosen, not transactional. I want to buy you first editions, beachy getaways, and that ridiculously overpriced lingerie that makes you feel like a godsdamned supernova. I want to come home to someone who missed me.

I come with a good heart, a steady hand, and the resources to make life easier for someone who deserves a gentler world.

If that resonates with you, I’d love to hear your story.

Also, I give excellent cuddles and truly heroic head. (References available upon request.)

Monthly Support Provided: Full Patronage – happily negotiated over wine and whatever dessert you like best.

Forms of Support I’m Comfortable Providing:
Rent • Travel (yes, planar too) • Tuition • Books • Spell components • Orgasms • experimental soufflés for taste-testing

What I Hope to Receive in Return:
Warmth • Wit • A hand in mine at full moon markets • Someone to share breakfast with • Someone to distract me while I cook it • A naked book reader (e-readers do not count)

Dealbreakers:
Cruelty to cats • Calling me “Daddy” unironically • Hating libraries • Describing self as a “god” or “goddess” unironically

Why You Should Message Me:
Because you’re tired of carrying everything alone. Because you deserve to be adored by someone who owns seventeen different kinds of food-grade oils and knows how to use all of them on you.

✦ Profile Photos ✦
Main Profile Photo:
A cropped portrait from the nose down, Gale turned slightly right to hide his scar, brandy snifter in hand. Behind him: a decadent wall of rare tomes. He wore his magisterial robes with identifying emblems blurred out (though anyone who’d ever set foot near Blackstaff Tower would know the color scheme). This one made him look bookish and approachable. And his jaw looked unreasonably sharp.

Casual photo:
In his state-of-the-art kitchen, sleeves rolled, chopping herbs. Tara lurked out of focus in the background wearing the unmistakable expression of a creature unimpressed by mise-en-place. His hair fell across his face in that maddeningly photogenic way he pretended he didn’t know he had.

Soft Thirst Trap:
Gale on the couch in a chunky sweater, glasses slipping down his nose, buried in a book. The book obscured his mouth; the lamplight gilded the hazel in his eyes. The overall effect was: professor who’ll ruin your life and make you thank him.

Hard Thirst Trap:
A mandatory “team-building nature outing” from his long-ago corporate retreat days. Shirtless, sweat-slick, laughing mid-collapse after a spectacularly failed trust fall. His face was half-buried against a colleague’s arm; he looked joyful. He looked like he had friends. He looked like he’d been tricked outdoors.

---

Gale exhaled, long and shaky, and accepted his fate.
The site immediately shoved five prospective babies in his face like a pushy matchmaker.

1. SilkStalkings
A striking drow woman with spidersilk hair piled into a loose bun. Her profile promised:

“Let’s entwine fates in a dance of dominance and delight, where mutual gains reign supreme.”
and
“A strategist of subtle power, inviting alliances that blend ambition with exquisite pleasure.”

Gale winced hard enough to feel it in his kidneys.
Hard pass.

 

2. KillingMoon
The photo loaded and Gale forgot how lungs worked. Pale. Silver hair. Crimson eyes that looked like they’d seen every sin and written a sonnet about it. He clicked Yes so fast he nearly sprained a metacarpal.

 

3. GallantEcho
Framed almost identically to Gale’s own main photo, nose-down, with visible scars. A veteran of many things. His profile read:

“Tempered by fate’s forge, offering tales of valor and velvet glances to a worthy companion.”
and
“Chivalry unbound: your generosity unlocks my world of wonder, wit, and whispered promises.”

Gale whispered, “Oh no,” and clicked Yes anyway.

 

4. Everg33nSage
A half-elven woman with a grim, I’ve lived too much life and not enough vacation expression. Gale was poised to hit No — until he read:

“A veteran of countless storms, now seeking calm harbors with thoughtful, generous souls.”
“Blending wisdom and whimsy, I bring tales and tenderness to enriching encounters.”
“Balance awaits in shared serenity.”

Gale made a noise roughly like a dying teakettle and smashed Yes.

 

5. InnocentBloom
A most beautiful and bookish human man with dark hair, beauty marks in all the right places, and huge honey-colored eyes stared back. Oh gods, he was holding a first-edition Treatise on the Undead Gale had personally salivated over in auction catalogues.

He was one second from clicking Yes when Tara landed on the keyboard like divine intervention.

---

“Catfish,” she announced.

“Pardon?”

“Reverse-image search, you absolute walnut.”

Three clicks later Gale was staring at a wall of Reddit threads, news articles, and one deeply upsetting true-crime podcast titled Seeing Red: Stealing Identities & Slaying Loved Ones in the City of Splendors.

He reported the profile, closed the tab, and seriously considered becoming a hermit.

Ping.

A new message.

From: Everg33nSage
Subject: Your kitchen looks like it has stories. Care to share one over dinner?

Gale stared at the screen so long the letters started swimming.

Tara released the long-suffering sigh of a creature who had watched this exact spiral of hope, fear, and romantic idiocy unfold more times than she’d like to count.

Against some lingering reservations and Tara’s better judgement, he opened the message.

To their mutual surprise, Tara purred appreciatively at the contents.

She head-butted his hand until he typed a reply.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But if this ends with me in a shallow grave somewhere, you are not inheriting my cookware.”

Tara chirped, utterly unbothered, and flicked her tail like she had already chosen her new dutiful household staff.

Notes:

A note on Mystra: believe it or no, I’m not a Mystra hater.

But in this story, she’s an asshole.

Chapter 2: Familiar

Summary:

On the night of his big date, Gale panics over outfits and small talk while Tara delivers sarcastic advice, red-flag quizzes, and a stern reminder that she will absolutely murder anyone who hurts him again.

Notes:

Surprise! We've graduated from a Teen-rated oneshot into something a little more juicy. Why can't I leave well enough alone?

✦Tara✦

Gale hadn't caught a wink of sleep since the previous night, and he still slightly smelled of stale grapes mingled with one of his bizarre, oil-slicked coffee brews—a far from ideal vibe for early evening.

Tara, perched atop the antique oak dresser like a judgmental gargoyle, watched him with the sort of patient disdain only a tressym could muster. Her wings twitched occasionally, as if debating whether to swoop in and save him from himself. Gale, meanwhile, was a whirlwind of activity in the spacious bedroom of his Waterdeep townhouse—a place that was a jigsaw puzzle of arcane gadgets from a bygone era, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, heavily populated by first editions, and near-bare walls that announced ‘professor too busy with lesson plans to ponder the tedium of decor.’

He rifled through his closet, pulling out shirt after shirt, each one scrutinized and discarded onto the growing pile on the bed. "Too formal," he muttered at a crisp button-down that still bore the faint crease of boardroom battles. "Too casual," he said to a soft linen number that screamed meditation retreat. Finally, he settled on a deep burgundy sweater—cashmere, because why not?—that hugged his frame just enough to remind him he wasn't entirely out of shape. As he tugged it on, a small, forgotten trinket tumbled out from the folds: a sleek WeaveLink keychain, engraved with the company's old logo. Gale froze, then tossed it into a drawer with a grimace.

Tara's ears perked. A ghost from the past, rattling its chains. She remembered the day Gale had won that trinket, back at the Blackstaff Academy's innovation fair. Sponsored by Mystra's startup, WeaveLink Enterprises, still clawing its way up from blip to powerhouse that now seemed to run Faerûn. Gale, barely sixteen, had won the top prize with a prototype device that fused a simple detect magic spell with a handheld scanner, allowing anyone to identify enchanted items without years of training. Democratizing magic, he'd called it. Mystra presented the award herself, her eyes lingering on him. Tara had thought it harmless then.

"Did you at least ask her on a proper date yet, Mr. Dekarios? Or is this for a selfie?" Tara's voice cut through the chaos of date prep, her tone a perfect blend of sarcasm and genuine concern. She stretched languidly, her paws kneading the dresser's edge.

Gale yelped at her surprise presence, nearly dropping the cologne bottle he'd just uncapped. The scent wafted—something woodsy and with amber to soothe his nerves. "As a matter of none of your business, yes. I’m awaiting her response about a proposed wine tasting followed by a home-cooked meal worthy of a... well, someone exceptional.”

Tara hopped down lightly, landing on his lap as he sat to tie his shoes. She began grooming herself with deliberate nonchalance, her tail flicking against his thigh. "Please don’t call her a queen. Or a goddess. We've had quite enough of that nonsense."

"I… haven’t." Gale seemed mostly sure as he pulled his phone out, chewing his lip. Tara casually spied as he tapped ArcaneArrangements app, bouncing with unread messages. A new one from Sage popped up: A flight sounds perfect. Let's align our worlds—Vine & Veil at 7? Gale's face lit up and he looked like a boy again.

"Ah. Good. She seems refreshingly straightforward," Tara said, peering at the screen. "Surprisingly so for a sugar-baby website, if you don’t mind me saying." Her suspicion lingered like a bad aftertaste, though; people were predictable in their pitfalls.

Missing her note of suspicion entirely, Gale practiced aloud: "So, Sage, tell me—what's the sharpest edge life's thrown your way lately?" He paused, frowning. "Too probing? How about: What's the last book that kept you up past midnight?"

"Charming. But if she dodges questions like a displacer beast, that's your cue to bail."

Gale snorted a laugh and ran the side of his thumb between her wings in that way that always made her raise her rear to meet his touch. “Ah Tara. So distrustful.”

"One of us has to be,” she huffed. “A public meeting first, though. Good," she added, purring a low rumble that vibrated through his legs. "But I’m not wild about you bringing a strange woman back to our place on the first date, I’ll have you know."

"Tara, I assure you, she is the model of a gentlewoman." He scratched behind her ears absently, earning a brief truce in her skepticism.

As Gale moved to the living room for a final sweep, Tara followed, her wings half-unfurled like a cape. She leaped onto the coffee table, deliberately knocking over a stray coaster—it clattered satisfyingly. "Try not to monologue about ancient corporate mergers on the first date, Mr. Dekarios. Or any mergers, for that matter."

Gale chuckled, straightening a vase of fresh illusionary flowers (low-maintenance, ever-blooming). But the laugh faltered as he spotted an old photo half-buried under a stack of journals: him and Mystra at a WeaveLink launch, all smiles and pride. He marched into his bedroom and shoved it into the same drawer as the keychain. Tara's tail lashed. Back then, as years blurred, Tara watched Mystra blur lines too: mentor to lover, the seduction unfolding like a slow incantation the moment Gale turned legal in Waterdeep’s eyes. Gale would always maintain he had been the one to pursue.

Promotions came fast—intern to junior dev, then CIO by twenty-two, married by twenty-three. WeaveLink exploded, weaving magic into cell phones, social apps, even household appliances. People connected like never before: sending stones as small as a grain of sand for holograph-rendered calls, emotion-transmuting texts that turned words into feelings.

But Mystra? A raging narcissist, like so many in her field, Tara had come to realize, cloaked in magnanimity. She ‘helped’ people to feel superior, clipping wings while pretending to teach flight.

Gale's bold move to impress her—the neural weave implant he'd secretly installed in himself to bring about the next evolution into bio-arcanotech—had backfired spectacularly. It exposed vulnerabilities, nearly tanking WeaveLink with a massive breach, not to mention the numerous ethical concerns. The divorce followed, hushed and brutal, coinciding with Gale's resignation. And the implant? It left him with chronic arcane surges, a persistent ache in his head, and crippling migraines that demanded rare components to quell, lest it flare into something catastrophic.

Tara worried this ‘arrangement’ was history repeating, or rhyming at the very least. Seeking validation through gifts, fearing rejection like it was a terminal spell.

As he returned to the room, she fixed him with a stare. "Red flags, then. Quiz time: If she asks about your ex right away?"

"Politely redirect," Gale said, waving a hand as he checked the wards on the front door—subtle abjurations for safety, nothing overt. A minor surge twinged in his head; he winced, popping a vial of acid-dissolved arcanotech from his pocket and downing it like a shot.

"If she pushes for extravagant gifts on a first date?"

"Clarify boundaries." He sounded optimistic, almost buoyant, as he adjusted his earring—a subtle sending stone for emergencies.

"And if she reminds you even a little of... her?"

Gale paused, fixing his hair in the hallway mirror to hide the scar from the implant on the right side of his head. "Then I walk away. I'm not that boy anymore, Tara."

She head-butted his leg in reluctant approval. Honestly, the boy was too trusting—locking him in with a ward spell seemed increasingly appealing. But off he went, chasing potential heartbreak. Gale deserved better than rattling around this echoey house alone, nursing his aches.

As he grabbed his coat, Tara reminded him. "I'll call in an hour. If it's not going well, pretend I spilled a potion on one of the rare books—a true emergency requiring your immediate attention."

Gale knelt to her level, pressing a kiss to her furry forehead. "You're a lifesaver. But I have a good feeling about this."

Tara watched him go, the door clicking shut with a wards' soft chime. She curled up on the windowsill, gazing at the tree-lined street below. Waterdeep hummed with mid-evening life—enchanted streetlamps flickering on, pedestrians chatting via weave-linked earpieces. Gale deserved connection, true and chosen. But if this Sage turned out to be another wing-clipper? Tara's claws were always sharp.

Notes:

Tara's got some feelings about Mystra, eh?

Chapter 3: Evergr33nSage

Summary:

Jaheira’s children watch in horror as their prank dating profile lands their mother a date with Gale Dekarios himself, and the Evergreen Panther prepares to hunt.

✦Jaheira✦

Jaheira was elbow-deep in a box of old case files—paper ones, the kind that smelled like dust and regret—when her phone buzzed so hard it nearly vibrated off the desk.

The notification banner read: ArcaneArrangements – CulinaryConjurer sent you a heart ♥️

She snorted so loudly that Rion, sprawled on the couch pretending to study for her alchemist certification, looked up.

“Please tell me that’s not another twenty-year-old wizard asking if you do ‘mommy milkers roleplay,’” Rion snarked.

“Worse,” Jaheira muttered, already tapping the notification. “It’s a man with taste.”

Three months ago the app had been a joke. Her cubs—bored, evil, and far too clever—had set up the profile while she was out tracking a philandering spice merchant through abandoned warehouses. They’d used a photo from last Wintershield, filled the bio with lines like “Veteran of countless storms, seeking calm harbors and someone else to pay the rent,” and set the monthly ask at “enough to retire yesterday.”

Jaheira had discovered it over breakfast, threatened to ground them until they were fifty, then left the profile live. Partly to watch them squirm. Partly because the Harper pension was a pittance and her private-eye office currently consisted of one desk, zero clients, and a coffee mug that read “World’s Okayest Mom.”

She did, however, change the username from EvergreenPu$$y to Everg33nSage (EvergreenSage was apparently taken). They found endless delight in her chosen PI business name: Evergreen Panther. Little trolls.

The profile loaded.

Nose-down portrait, black robes with silver filigree, all symbols of Blackstaff Academy blurred just enough to pretend at anonymity, shelves of rare tomes fanned behind him like a peacock’s tail.

Jaheira’s eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. She knew that photo very well.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she said, soft and reverent. “The gods do have a twisted sense of humor.”

Fig, her youngest, looked up from the table where she was honing a dingy sword. “Your language, Mother.”

“When you’ve fought a beholder naked, you earn the right to say ‘fuck,’ Fig.”

Rion abandoned all pretense of studying. “What? Who is it?”

Jaheira turned the phone so her daughter could see the cropped photo. Rion’s eyes went saucer-wide.

“Is that—wait, that’s Gale fucking Dekarios. The Gale Dekarios. Ex-CIO of WeaveLink, wrote The Architecture of Ambition, married-and-divorced-the-actual-Mystra, Gale Dekarios?”

“Language, Rion.”

“I’m twenty-three, I’ve killed three men, and pay rent. I’ll say ‘fuck’ when Gale fucking Dekarios hearts our mother.”

Fig sighed and fled the room to sharpen steel in peace.

“The very same,” Jaheira said, already scrolling. “And he hearted the joke profile you little trolls made.”

Rion cackled in sing-song: “You’re welcome, milf-y dearest.”

Across the room, Jord—who had been pretending not to listen while pruning a jasmine-assassin vine hybrid he definitely wasn’t supposed to have in city limits—piped up. “You’re not actually going to message him, are you?”

Jaheira gave him the look that once made a High Harper cry. “Watch me.”

To: CulinaryConjurer
Subject: Your kitchen looks like it has stories. Care to share one over dinner?
Everg33nSage: Your bookshelves are doing more flexing than most men manage with their shirts off. Impressive. Buy me a drink and I’ll decide if the rest of you lives up to the marketing.

CulinaryConjurer: In my defense, they’re load-bearing tomes.
CulinaryConjurer: Most people lead with their abs. I went with oak and vellum. Terrible life choice, or bold strategy?

Jaheira barked a laugh sharp enough to cut glass.

His own photo was literally the dust-jacket author’s headshot from The Architecture of Ambition, eyes cropped out. Subtle as a fireball in a library.

She’d read that book twice. Once for pleasure, once to annotate every place he’d glossed over WeaveLink’s shadier patents. Gale Dekarios was brilliant, occasionally naïve, and—according to every tabloid on the Sword Coast—had been gutted by Mystra in ways that made Jaheira’s own widowhood look like a polite disagreement.

Jaheira exhaled through her nose. She’d spent the last five years convinced half of WeaveLink’s “philanthropy” was a shell game for something uglier—data harvesting, planar surveillance, who knew. And now the company’s former golden boy was offering to buy her dinner and spoil her rotten.

Rion leaned over her shoulder. “You’re smiling. That’s terrifying.”

“I’m calculating how much seed money I can extract before he realizes I’m investigating his ex-wife’s empire,” Jaheira said.

Jord groaned. “Ma. You can’t blackmail your sugar daddies to fund your PI agency.”

“Watch me twice.”

 

They messaged until the sky over Baldur’s Gate turned the color of bruised peaches. Jaheira never let on she knew exactly who he was; Gale never asked why a Lower-City PI knew so much about arcanotech biohacking.

She liked that he asked what spices she kept on hand instead of what she ‘did for fun.’
She liked—to her own consternation—that he admitted, at three in the morning, he still set a second plate at the table some nights, then felt like a fool when no one sat opposite him. To a stranger.

She laughed out loud in her dark bedroom when he asked, deadly serious, if she had any food sensitivities.

Evergr33nSage: None. Unless you count an allergy to bullshit.

CulinaryConjurer(at 4:17a): Hypothetically, if a reclusive ex-CIO offered to cook for you in Waterdeep tomorrow night and sent portal tokens so travel was no obstacle… would that be too much too soon?

She stared at the glowing screen a long time.

Evergr33nSage: Probably yes to dinner. Drinks first. Let’s not scare the horses.
Evergr33nSage: Also, sending two portal jacks unprompted just became the smoothest flex I’ve seen in a decade, CC. Don’t ruin it.

He sent a little blushing devil emoji, then immediately:
CulinaryConjurer: That was meant to be the chef’s kiss. Bloody predictive glyphs.

She fell asleep smirking.

 

Evening found her staring at a perfectly respectable green dress the way a druid stares at an iron cage. It was simple—deep green linen, high neck, slit up one leg just enough to hide a dagger. Practical. Elegant.

She set it aside with a soft huff.

Instead she pulled on a crisp white men’s-cut shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow and tucked into high-waisted black trousers cinched with a thin, scarred leather belt. Over it went a tailored charcoal waistcoat, left unbuttoned. The boots were old, polished, and scuffed in all the right places; the dagger rode inside the left one like it had been born there. A single silver Harper pin glinted at her collar—the only jewelry she bothered with.

In the mirror, the years looked back: laugh lines, the pale scar that split one brow, silver threading the war-braids she refused to cut.

Khalid had called the scar his lightning bolt. He’d traced it with a trembling finger the morning after some long-forgotten battle and whispered, voice shaking with leftover fear, “Proof the storm couldn’t take you.”

She’d rolled her eyes so hard she saw stars, then kissed him to shut him up.

She still rolled her eyes thinking about it. The kiss she couldn’t repeat.

Rion poked her head in. “You look like you’re about to interrogate a lich.”

“I am,” Jaheira said, sliding a Klauthgrass tincture into the inner pocket of the waistcoat. “Only this lich is sad, rich, and makes a decent béarnaise.”

Rion flopped onto the bed. “Don’t break him too fast. He seems… tolerable.”

“Tolerable is a low bar, cub. I plan to raise it.”

 

The portal jack was fucking wild. After downloading the app, entering the coordinates Gale provided, she pressed a button on her phone and it opened in her backyard like a wound in the air—ozone, burnt rat, and corporate arrogance. She stepped through and came out a block from Vine & Veil smelling faintly of scorched fur. Ah, romance.

She arrived five minutes early—old Harper habit—and spotted him immediately. Burgundy sweater, hair falling artfully into his eyes, clutching a small bouquet of white roses like a shield.

He stood when he saw her, smile equal parts eager and terrified.

“Sage,” he said, and her name in his mouth sounded like a spell he’d practiced too many times.

“Jaheira,” she corrected, sliding into the opposite chair. She accepted the roses, inhaled once, set them beneath her seat. “Gale, I presume?”

“Guilty.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I only just realised we never traded real names in all our correspondence. But I suppose that saves me the awkward speech about my infamous pa—”

“Gale.” She cut him off with a smile that could draw blood. “In one hour my daughter calls. If this is boring, the kitchen’s on fire and I’m gone. If it isn’t…” She let the smile sharpen further. “I let it ring.”

Gale’s eyes crinkled. “Then I shall endeavor to be worth ignoring a crisis for.”

She believed, to her private alarm, that he just might.

Notes:

Legit cried doing light research into Khalid for this one. What are these salty tracks!?

Chapter 4: A Flight

Summary:

Gale and Jaheira enjoy a Weave-touched wine flight.

✦Gale✦

Vine & Veil stood infamous among Waterdeep’s arcane set: a wine bar run by former Blackstaff graduates who approached each pour as if defending a thesis. Faint illusions shimmered along the walls, and the air carried a constant hint of petrichor from preserved enchantments.

When Jaheira entered, Gale Dekarios made a valiant effort not to stare outright. She was sharper and far more beautiful in person, her presence cutting through the bar’s refined bustle like a cool blade. And gods help him if he wasn’t utterly undone for a woman who dressed both for function over flourish and still made it look like high fashion: sleeves rolled high enough to reveal toned forearms, trousers and waistcoat tailored just enough for movement.

Heart quickening, he rose to greet her, roses offered like an awkward tribute. She accepted them with a nod that felt earned, a fleeting inhale, then tucked the bouquet beneath her seat without fuss.

Now, seated across from her at a semi-secluded table, he watched her settle—posture relaxed yet alert,like a great cat weighing whether to lounge or to leap. The space between them thrummed with potential. Gale felt both thrilled and off-balance, seated opposite the woman he’d messaged all night in lieu of sleep. She had a way of cutting through pretense, her dry wit a counterpoint to his more elaborate turns of phrase.

The sommelier approached, presenting the evening’s flight menu with a flourish.

House Special Flight: Weave-Touched Progression

The Opener
Veiled Sluth – Bright • Effervescent • Green Apple • Citrus with Sea Salt • Nutty Finish • Illusory Pixies
“Our first is a sparkling white, our playful riff on a Waterdhavian classic. Fortified with our house blend and lightly enchanted for delight. Enjoy.”

The young half-elf sommelier offered a knowing smile, bowed with hands pressed together, then summoned a mage hand to pour with graceful precision before departing.

“To new beginnings,” Gale toasted, clinking gently.

He examined the wine’s pale straw color and lively perlage first, then swirled it gently, inhaling deeply with his nose buried in the bowl. Crisp green apple, yeasty brioche, and bright citrus flooded his senses. He took a small sip, letting it coat his tongue to appreciate the surprising almond finish, then discreetly used the provided dump bucket. He huffed a laugh as the illusory pixies materialized, dancing along the rim before diving into the bubbles with gleeful splashes.

Jaheira watched him, one eyebrow arched. Gale’s grin widened as she simply upended her glass and drank it down.

“That was a weak pour,” she declared, eyeing the empty coupe glass. Gale chuckled, set the dump bucket aside, and finished his own.

More pixies swirled between them now, like mischievous sparks. Jaheira swatted at any that ventured too close to her face, dissolving them into motes of colored light. The fizz settled warm and buoyant in Gale’s chest—light, hopeful, edged with recklessness. Jaheira’s eyes caught the lantern glow, sharp with amusement. Under her steady gaze, he felt giddy and exposed.

The Crisp Awakening
Saerloonian Glowfire – Semi-Dry • Aromatic • Summer breezes and Lemongrass • Pear Finish • Mystical
"A luminous white from Sembia, glowing faintly with echoes of ancient Netheril—semi-dry, evoking summer dusks."

The second arrived in fresh glasses, wreathed in pale mist. The wine itself shimmered with a soft golden-green luminescence, as though alive.

Jaheira reached out, guiding the mage hand for fuller pours without a word. The sommelier’s brows lifted, but he smiled conspiratorially and withdrew.

Gale lifted the glass, inhaling lemongrass and warm orchards. “Saerloon’s pride,” he murmured. “They say the vines grow along old Netherese ruins. The glow is natural, or so they claim.”

“Convenient marketing,” Jaheira replied dryly, already sipping.

Gale savored his sip, the pear lingering on his palate. The effervescence from the first glass still danced in his veins, loosening his tongue already. He glanced at her, curiosity piqued.

“So you’re a mother. May I ask about your family?”

“You may.” She set her glass down with a soft clink.

“Ah.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not entirely sure what’s appropriate to ask here. But I’d genuinely like to know more about you as a parent.”

Jaheira’s expression softened a fraction. “I have five.”

Gale masked his surprise—five?—but not quickly enough; she chuckled and continued.

“They’re the reason I ended up on that ridiculous site—a prank my they thought hilarious. Until I kept the profile live. Now they’re mortified I’m on a date with a potential sugar daddy.”

He coughed, sipped water, and gestured for her to go on.

She leaned back, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “And you? What possessed a man of your... stature to sign up? Don’t say boredom.”

He chuckled, rubbing his neck as warmth rose in his cheeks. “Wine and hubris, I’m afraid. Three glasses of Arabellan Dry in, I mistook it for a mentorship platform. By the time I realized my error, well... curiosity, or perhaps pride, wouldn’t let me back out.”

Her laughter rang out, full and genuine, cutting through the ambient hum of the bar like sunlight through leaves. It warmed him more than the wine, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she shook her head.

“A mentorship platform? Gods, that’s almost endearing.” She leaned in, elbows on the table. “So we were both tricked into a sugaring site and too stubborn to leave.”

“Precisely,” he admitted, laughing with her.

The Playful Bloom
Ondal’s Tribute, La Vie en Rosé – Off-Dry • Sun-Warmed Stone Fruit • Rose Petals • A Surprise
“Next, our playful rosé twist on the infamous Ondal’s—off-dry, floral, laced with mild enchantment to whisper of wild magic. This vintage has a tendency to taste back, revealing unspoken desires. Savor the bloom.”

The rosé arrived in delicate stems, its pale pink hue shimmering like dawn light on petals. Gale inhaled the sun-ripened peaches and soft florals, a faint tingle of magic brushing his senses.

“Ondal’s original is legendary for its erratic effects. Deadly fun, by consensus,” he said, voice low and conspiratorial. “Rumors claim a single bottle once turned a duke’s banquet into a menagerie of summoned tentacles of the amorous variety, once uncorked. This version promises tamer illusions—wild magic whispers, nothing more.”

Jaheira’s phone buzzed on the table, but she silenced it with a flick of her wrist her gaze never leaving his. A moment stretched between them, her lips curving in a subtle smile that sent a quiet thrill through him. He felt the pull, the ease, the ache.

Discreetly, under the table, he texted Tara: All well. No need to call. Her reply came swift: If you’re not iced and missing a kidney, progress indeed. Behave. Followed by: Have fun, Mr. Dekarios. He stifled a grin.

Jaheira tilted her head. “Something amusing?”

“Just a message from home,” he said sheepishly.

She paused, as if considering her next words. “Bold profile photo choice—straight from your dust jacket. Lazy or cocky?” Teasing, challenging, her gaze lingering.

“Caught,” he admitted, leaning closer. “That photo was both a calculated risk and born of convenience. I was hoping to lure in fellow bibliophiles without completely outing my identity.” Her incredulity drew his laugh. “I cropped the eyes! Your profile photo had a certain... intensity. Like you were sizing up the world and finding it wanting.”

She leaned in, voice a playful murmur. “Perhaps I was. And perhaps I still am.” They drank deeply. Rose-scented fog enveloped the table briefly as their custom illusions bloomed.

A sleek panther prowled toward Gale, brushing his glass with affectionate nudges, its tail flicking in agitated excitement. Gale earmarked several pages of questions about druids and mating for a much later conversation. She was wrapped up in her own illusory treat: Gale in quiet repose, shirtless by candlelight, arms open as if inviting her closer.

His fingers twitched as he fought to not rub his neck and lower his gaze.

The fog lifted. They met each other’s eyes, unspoken questions and desires hovering. Gale’s thoughts raced; this intensity echoed old patterns, yet felt new. Untainted.

The moment was finally lanced when Gale noticed the stares from a nearby table—whispers and sidelong glances, phones subtly angled their way. He shifted, trying to ignore the prickling discomfort, focusing instead on the fading panther curled around his glass, licking at her paws.

The Bold Heart
Syl-Pashan Sup – Deep Garnet • Bold • Meaty • Loud • Raging Bull
“Our bold heart: a full-bodied Calishite red, untamed, with illusions of a raging bull’s charge. Robust tannins, dark fruit, spice—for those who crave intensity.”

The red poured like liquid garnet, its aroma rich with earth and heat. Jaheira paused at the Calishite mention, a fleeting wistful shadow crossing her face. Gale noted it, his curiosity deepening—a discussion, perhaps, best saved for away from prying eyes and ears.

They sipped, and the illusion hit: the thunder of hooves, the near-miss rush of a bull’s charge, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“Powerful,” she murmured. Then, with a casual air: “Speaking of intensity—WeaveLink’s biohacking patents must have been a bold charge in their day. Any regrets from that arena?”

The directness pricked him. He smiled to mask surprise—a learned skill from PR training. Was this mere curiosity or something sharper lurking beneath? “Plenty,” he said lightly, “but lessons learned. Why do you ask?” She shrugged, expression inscrutable. “Just wondering what drives a man from boardrooms to… this.”

The staring table grew impossible to ignore—open gawking now. Gale sighed inwardly, the old weariness settling in.

“Do you know them?” Jaheira asked, her tone sharp.

“Admirers or rubberneckers, most likely,” he replied wearily. “The price of a public past.”

She rose without a word, striding over like a lioness. Gale watched in quiet awe as she leaned in, her words low and lethal. Whatever she said drained the color from their faces. She stood over them, arms crossed, until they deleted the photos in front of her, mumbling apologies. She returned calmly.

“Thank you,” Gale said, genuine gratitude warming his words. There was a moment then—her hand brushing his as she reached for her glass. Despite the less than conventional circumstances of their meeting, the sugaring dynamic now felt like a funny story they could recount at gatherings, not a present concern. Or was he being naive again? His heart raced. This was moving fast. But even in recklessness, it felt right.

The Lingering Truth
Guldathen Nectar – Golden • Honey and Cinnamon • A Taste of True Forest
“The lingering truth: an exquisite elven nectar from the Forest of Tethyr, golden and sweet, with illusions evoking the wild heart of its origins—ancient woods whispering secrets, a surge of untamed nature.”

The nectar gleamed like liquid sunlight, its honeyed warmth filling the air.

Gale watched Jaheira savor it reverently—swirl, inhale, sip. Her eyes distant briefly. He followed suit, the illusion washing over him: towering trees, the scar of old battles etched in bark, a surge of raw power.

Then it hit, the familiar twinge in his head, the implant surging like a storm brewing. It felt like the barometric pressure in his skull drastically changed—like he could explode. He excused himself quietly, slipping to the restroom to down the dissolved component from his pocket, the bitter taste grounding him.

Returning, he caught Jaheira’s quiet concern, her gaze lingering on the scar half-hidden by his hair. He touched it absently, shame flickering, before pulling that side of his hair back—an undercut revealing a prominent circular scar with strands of wild weave radiating from it. “A folly. Ambition outpacing wisdom.” He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t push. The silence that followed felt oddly comfortable.

---

The streets were alive with lantern light and distant laughter, but Gale focused on Jaheira beside him—bouquet tucked under her arm, each brush of their shoulders sending a subtle spark through him. The wine’s lingering buzz made his steps a touch lighter, his laughter freer as they bantered about enchanted vintages and quirks of city living. His cheeks ached from smiling by the time they reached his townhouse.

At his doorstep, Gale turned to her, clearing his throat. "Fair warning: I have a roommate named Tara. Sharp tongue, lovely heart, opinions on everything, including my taste in company. She's protective, but I suspect you'll win her over."

Jaheira's smile was enigmatic, her hand lingering on his arm. "Challenge accepted."

From inside, Tara’s voice drifted through the door—eavesdropping little—“Is this the one who kept you texting till dawn like a lovesick apprentice, Mr. Dekarios? Don’t cock it up.”

Notes:

A tremendous thank you to two very special people who ensured this story didn't get shelved in the face of some self-doubt. Thanks for all your encouragement and support. Names to come once anonymity lifted January 2026. Muah.

WINES. Every wine referenced here is from (or slightly modified from) this Forgotten Realms Wiki.