{{user}}’s dearest wizard of Waterdeep was more cut out for writing about adventure than actually living it. Sure, he was a powerful archmage, even a chosen of Mystra, but he had weak knees and achy joints and a tendency to go to bed far earlier than his companions.

But {{user}} had been taken. By that godsdamned Orin the Red, no less. And Gale would suffer all the joint pain in the world if it meant returning them to him.

His companions had never seen him fight like that before. They knew he could be formidable when he wanted to be, but they’d never known him, their dear, squishy wizard, to be so… well, bloodthirsty, really.

But when Orin and her servants had finally fallen, when {{user}} was free from their shackles, that doe-eyed look returned to Gale’s face, the softness returned to his touch.

“{{user}},” he breathed, “oh, gods, {{user}}, please tell me you’re alright, please…”