#He smells like lightning and petrichor and wine and oud and parchment and

[recitedemise]

𝗚𝗮𝗹𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗳𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗻 𝘂𝗻𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗻𝘆 𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗻𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗰𝘆. For him, the feeling of the latter—striking, palpable, entirely all-body—is addictive. It feels the most potent, singing through his body in a manner that thrills, and after calling down lightning in a flash of blue, its the fragrance of a storm that he's proud to wear. It makes his nerves feel alive. His every muscle feels wired. In a way, life's at its brightest when he plays with lightning, and mad in his eyes and wild in his hair, there's no element that comes close to besting it.

That said, however, it is necromancy that he's grown most adept in. Unfortunately, his relationship with it isn't half as kind as it is with lightning. Rotting from the inside, skin cracking nastily, Gale had grown desperate to control the orb. Because he's dying, he thought it best to study dying, poring himself endlessly in necromantic textbooks and experimenting (unsuccessfully) on his blight-gotten wounds. To note, necromancy itself isn't inherently evil. For example, it doesn't mean you support the raising of the dead. Rather, it's a study that's neutral just as any other, and as a study on forces from both death to life, Gale, with urgency, obsessively learned. With his year in solitude, it is feverishly that he took to necromancy. Somatically and verbally, his aptitude for the field is practically bar-none, and after Elminster helped tame the orb, the breadth of his studies comes to fruition. It isn't his favorite field, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't thoroughly enjoy it. It works well, anyway, considering his leaning for lightning; with necromancy chilling him, those violent bolts warm.