#{{ Everyone else: groaning that they now have TWO massive geeks to contend with. }}

[chaoticbard]

"Every piece of information that I write down will end up in my work somewhere, somehow. If the words aren't useful now, they might inspire me in the future. Over time, and with more and more life experience, you find that strings of words can take on entirely new meanings depending on context. And plenty of other factors." She snorted. "As for Astarion in particular, he will have to live with whatever I write about him, good and bad. I've already assured him that I won't write slanderous and completely inaccurate ballads like Volo would. But I never outright promised I wouldn't include something embarrassing."

As Gale spoke about himself, Alaara feverishly wrote. Splatters of ink came to make yet another art piece upon her journal's pages. 'A beloved Tressym companion- cares greatly about others,' she wrote. 'Has a library...'

Alaara drew a line connecting 'library' to her note about his knowledge.

'Good taste in wine. Enjoys the finer things in life.'

'Writes poetry-'

Her hand stopped immediately and she looked up. Gale. A wizard. A man that spent practically every waking hour steeped in magic wrote poetry as a hobby? He was full of surprises.

"Yes," she replied. "What are lyrics in a song but poetry accompanied by an ensemble? And what is a story if not poetry of life itself, written to parchment or orated to a crowd from memory?"

"All of them express the heart, nay, the very soul of the creator, regardless of skill level. And if you study a work enough, if you pick between the lines carefully enough, you'll always see the author laid bare. I would enjoy reading whatever you've written. Please, always feel free too share your work with me. Just as you're always welcome to peruse mine." "What would I find buried among the words in Gale's works?" she wondered to herself. What could she learn about a man who spoke so little about himself outside of being a wizard? She was deathly curious. "You know... I hail from Waterdeep; I moved there several years ago. I've heard plenty of stories, poems, and songs in the taverns there, even my own. There was one tale I heard often in every form of the art of words, and it changed with every person who told it. After hearing it for the hundredth time, I started making a game of piecing together the truth from everyone's interpretation. Or- the best truth possible."

Alaara paused, closing her eyes and idly tapping dots onto her journal's paper as she collected her thoughts.

"Somewhere in the city of splendors resides a man," she began. "He was young once. And when he was young, he was endlessly kind and giving. He loved spending time with people, loved helping people. But over time, as he grew older and wiser, he grew cold of heart. No more did he want to be around others. No more was his gaze upon the world kind. No more did he give to others. Waterdhavian citizens practically marked their calendars of the day the Recluse Wizard took to his tower and refused to leave it ever again. They wept, not for the loss of a beautiful soul, but for the loss of his talents."

Alaara finally opened her eyes, briefly snarling at the last bit. How selfish of Waterdhavians. "Some say when the Recluse Wizard locked himself away in his tower, he was ancient, far beyond mortal lifespan, and that his beard was to the floor and white as snow. Others say he was strikingly handsome, so much so that if you looked at him you would fall to your knees and weep. It was as if he exuded magic to make others fall in love with him. Still others said that if you were lucky enough to have looked into his eyes just before he ascended into his tower one last time, there was nothing but a sea of sadness in them...

It's probably just a story, but I've found it intriguing nevertheless. I looked for him off and on before getting tadpoled without any luck. I'd almost give my left horn to hear the real story straight from the source. Almost. But if I cut my left horn off as a trade for the allegedly very old but tragically handsome wizard's story, my head would be unbalanced...

Have you ever heard the tale? You're a wizard and you're into poetry. Perhaps you've been in a tavern and heard similar weavings before? Perhaps you've got your own take on the legend? Or maybe you've got a charming poem of your own tucked into your pocket that you'll lighten the mood with now that I've made it melancholic?"

"Apologies! Apologies!" Gale exclaimed, not at all intending to startle the bard. His attempt to stoop down and reclaim the fallen pen was hindered by his aching knees. It had been a long day of trekking, and between the wear and tear of the orb and the relentless passage of time, his joints suffered from the strain of their journey. By the time he had managed to crouch down, the pen was already being reclaimed by the other.

Gratefully accepting the offer to occupy the vacant spot beside Alaara, Gale settled in with as much grace as a weary wizard could muster. A soft groan accompanying, of course.

"Like a dying owlbear? Oh, I doubt our pale friend would appreciate that. I implore you to keep that snippet of description in your works come publication," he replied with a hint of amusement, craning his neck to see if he could detect the phrase in her writings.

However, his eyes paused mid-scan upon the explanation for his absence in the texts. It would be a lie to say the reasoning didn't cause a wave of relief to wash over Gale. For being unremarkable was possibly the worst thing to be as a wizard. His gaze flicked up from the page to the bard as she perused through her own work, then back down as she paused.

His brows knitted in concentration as he swiftly absorbed the notes dotted about him. Sparking eyes? An unusual observation, but a kind one. His dedication to his craft was evidently clear to others, aside from his vast knowledge. Yes, magic in its entirety, his goddess included, was everything to him. He had no need to attempt to hide as much.

He could dedicate hours, entire nights to discussing the Weave with another if they so wished. But to talk about himself, the man behind the magic? It felt foreign. At times, he didn't think he was more than merely a shell to contain a fraction of the Weave.

The previously knitted brows unfolded as he tried to consider who Gale was when not a wizard.

"Hmm…" Fingers drummed against the ground in thought. "Well, I have a companion—Tressym—a library, and a good taste in wine. When time allows, I may also dabble my hand in poetry. Would you happen to have much experience in the poetic arts?"