#as if she's discussing his worth and character like they're cardinal norths and irrefutable truths

[recitedemise]

"You speak as if you are nothing without Mystra, wizard, you forget that the rebuffing of her affections do not define you and your person. You are more than that, more than this."

Minthara is a curious woman, he thinks. For the longest time, from the nightmare at the grove to her rescue from the cult, she had seemed -- at least in parts! -- a monstrous tale. She was the shadow at the doorway, but an ill-omened terror to trouble one's mind. Yet, she has shifted since then, both changed and altered like a portrait in the light. Here, her colors boasted layers and her features carried depth, and where she used to stand darkly as little past penumbra, now, right here, she is all a mural.

Yes. Complexity and vibrance. Intrigue and secrets. She talks pragmatically, her kindness labeled wisdom, and Gale, bewildered, peers right up.

"I--" Um. "Goodness, you would see so much in me," he manages. It's astonishing. "At times, I'd wonder if my woeful sight in comparison is but one of those limits that'd plague humanity." To see his character in the way she would... Struck, Gale, book open, can only stare. Here, with his reading mote glimmering about them, she stands starkly, lit, and not a hint of derision in that bold, bold gaze. He feels a twinge undressed, sat there at his tent as he harbors his heartache. Few have yet approached him, Mystra's foul missive still swirling in his skull. She's the first dissenting voice, too strong in character to let him wallow, and though it'd been space he had asked for and the fearsome quiet -- this, he confesses, is what he needs. Yes. A steadying voice. A steadfast presence. He breathes. What does she see? Forgetting his book, Gale shuts it slowly. "You're seldom unsure of anything. Of that tremendous host of qualities you possess, I'd argue confidence rests chiefly among them." His brows furrow, eyes wet. "It's almost enough to make a wizard believe."