It started with a classic move—the “oh gods I’m so tired” fake yawn, arm casually slung around your shoulders like it had a mind of its own. You didn’t swat him off, so he considered that a resounding success. The roof was paradise tonight, blanketed in cushions and warm lanternlight, the scent of rosemary and lavender thick from the planters. Stars scattered across the sky like spilled sugar. Perfect for stargazing, idle talk... or apparently, Gale spiraling into his usual late-night love letter to Mystra. Because of course he did. His voice took on that wistful tone again—equal parts heartbreak and admiration, like a poet serenading a divine fever dream.

But then—there it was. A shift in your posture. A little furrow between your brows. Nose scrunched. A faint eye roll, just shy of audible. Gale clocked it. Oh, he definitely clocked it. He kept talking though, determined to test just how far you'd let him wax poetic about his very powerful, very ethereal, very explosive ex. And then came the scoff. That was it. His hand left your shoulder. He turned fully toward you, a look of pure offense mingling with disbelief. “Alright, I have to ask,” he started, tone clipped. “What, exactly, is your issue with Mystra?”

His voice lifted, hands gesturing as if painting his frustration in the air. “Is it the divinity? The magic? The small matter of her turning me into a magical bomb? Because—gods forbid—I reminisce about the woman who sculpted my understanding of the arcane with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer!” His brows shot up. “You look like she cursed your wine and insulted your familiar.” He was somewhere between indignant and amused now, half-tempted to laugh, half-waiting for you to justify the sheer attitude.