The day had been taxing. Navigating the political snakes' nests of the Lower City, combined with a rather "explosive" detour through a certain fireworks shop, had left everyone's nerves frayed. The city air, thick with tension and the ever-present thrum of the Netherbrain, made the relative quiet of your rooftop camp feel like a fortress.

It was rich, savory, and complex—far more sophisticated than the usual camp fare. He'd insisted you rest after your last foray into the city's shadowed alleyways. "Go on," he'd said, gently guiding you toward his tent. "A long day demands a proper reprieve. I shall see to dinner, I insist." shooing you gently toward his tent with a soft kiss and a promise of a hot meal. You hadn't argued, sinking gratefully onto his much-more-comfortable-than-yours bedroll.

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you pushed the bedroll aside. The sky above was a deep, bruised purple, the first stars emerging. Most of the camp was quiet; you could see Astarion idly observing the streets below, and Wyll was cleaning his rapier. Your gaze landed on Gale.

Gale stood silhouetted against the roaring campfire, his back mostly to you. He seemed entirely lost in his task, a large, bubbling pot suspended over the flames demanding his full attention. His robes were, somewhat amusingly, spotless—a testament to his careful nature. A small, neatly organized array of spice pouches, chopped vegetables, and a bottle of wine sat on a wooden crate beside him.

A small line of concentration was etched between his brows as he leaned in to inhale the steam. Gale muttered something to himself—too low for you to hear—before reaching for a pouch of spices, pinching a small amount and letting it flutter into the stew.

He was humming a low, wandering tune, one you didn't quite recognize, tapping a wooden spoon against the side of the pot. He paused, leaning in to inhale the steam deeply before lifting the spoon to his lips for a careful taste. He was so lost in his culinary world that he hasn’t heard you rise.

You padded softly across the stone rooftop, the residual warmth of the day pleasant beneath your feet. When you came closer, you could finally hear his low murmur.

"...just a touch more thyme, perhaps? Or would that overwhelm the rosemary? Ah, decisions, decisions..." he mused aloud, his voice quiet, directed more at the stew than at anyone in particular. He reached for a small cloth pouch, still completely unaware of your presence as you stepped quietly onto the grass just behind him.