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After a while, all the caves begin to look the same.
Gale has no idea where he is. Scattered notes and letters raise more questions than they bring answers. He only knows that the land he's in is not Faerûn—that the portal he cast to transport himself safely from the Nautiloid to the surface misfired and sent him to another world.
In this place, he’s learned, there are horrible little vermin called skeevers, all of the shrines are dedicated to strange gods, and the word ‘dragonborn’ means something entirely different. If he weren’t so eager to get back home and figure out what those mind flayers did to him, he’d be enjoying the adventure of it all, but all he wants is to regain enough strength to cast another portal. So he rests and practices channeling whatever force makes magic work in this world.
It’s no Weave, but it’s working okay. He’s back up to level two spells.
His biggest issue is the orb. Thankfully, there are still magical artifacts around. Though they aren’t imbued with the Weave, they seem to satisfy his unique needs all the same. He just has to find them, and most of the damned things are in caves, surrounded by bandits.
The constant skirmishes certainly put a damper on his rest and relaxation.
For the fifth time since he landed in this world, Gale fights off some bandits in a cave, almost yawning as he dispatches them with thunderwaves and scorching rays. It's too easy.
They carried nothing but some iron ore and more lockpicks than Gale knows what to do with. Knowing he has to press on further, he sighs.
The humid air has a loamy sort of smell that sits heavy in his nostrils, only occasionally broken by the scent of magic-charred flesh. He skillfully misty-steps his way past some large spiders and a fire trap, and that’s when he finally sees something worth seeing: a large and ornate wooden chest, locked.
This is it. The hair on Gale’s skin stands on end; he can feel magic radiating from within the chest. Something inside it can satisfy his orb.
Casting knock grants him easy access.
Inside, there doesn’t appear to be anything remarkable. Some arrows, a helmet that’s too heavy for Gale to lift and a rock small enough to fit in the palm of his hand.
The rock is an odd sort of thing. On its surface, it appears to be an ordinary bit of limestone, oval and carved such that it has a polyhedral structure. It’s most definitely a source of magic, though. Gale can feel it in his veins, in his gut. The stone is pulsing with magic. He swallows hard as the orb in his chest burns for it.
He reaches out to touch the stone’s cool surface—
A NEW HAND TOUCHES THE BEACON.
Stunned, Gale freezes. The voice that’s confronted him is loud, booming. It almost sounds like Mystra when she’s especially unhappy. He glances from side to side, seeking the source of the voice. “Pardon?”
LISTEN. HEAR ME AND OBEY.
He can’t see anyone talking to him. It’s as though the harsh voice is being beamed directly into his mind, but it must be audible to all as the spiders have quickly vacated the area. Perhaps it’s coming from within the stone itself. He squints at it.
The edges of his vision whiten as the voice grows even louder.
A FOUL DARKNESS HAS SEEPED INTO MY TEMPLE. A DARKNESS THAT YOU WILL DESTROY.
Gale winces and covers an ear with his free hand. “Far be it from me to disobey a mysterious, disembodied voice coming from a stone, but I must inquire as to the nature of your request—”
RETURN MY BEACON TO MOUNT KILKREATH AND I WILL MAKE YOU THE INSTRUMENT OF MY CLEANSING LIGHT.
That doesn’t explain anything at all, and Gale doesn’t have time for this. Certain there’s another perfectly good artifact that doesn’t come with stipulations waiting for him in another cave, he attempts to set down the stone.
It immediately flies back into his hand, hitting his palm with force.
He groans. “I’m not overly interested in being an instrument of cleansing light. I serve Mystra.”
WHO?
“Lady of mysteries. Mother of all magic. You wouldn’t be acquainted with her, but she is my goddess, my muse, and at times my lover—”
YOUR HAND HAS TOUCHED THE BEACON.
“And I’m terribly sorry about that, but I must be on my way.”
HEAR ME AND OBEY.<
Gale isn’t sure whether it’s the work of the beacon or his orb’s usual discontentment, but he doubles over in agony as a shooting pain pulls through his chest. It nearly knocks the wind out of him, and he wheezes through the next booming words.
RETURN MY BEACON TO MOUNT KILKREATH.
Repetitive, this one is. The way the voice says the words this time is almost mocking. Whoever it belongs to, it seems she hurt Gale for declining to be her instrument.
This leaves him more than a bit annoyed. He’s not some sort of plaything for the powerful. He’s an archmage and a Chosen of Mystra, gods damn it. Perhaps not as much these days, but still. He’s never met a challenge he couldn’t face.
With a glint of resentment in his eyes, he pulls down the collar of his robe and shoves the beacon toward the orb. In the entire year that cursed thing has been with him, it’s been able to consume every magical object it’s touched. Never has it struggled.
Until now.
The vacuum of the orb is immediately countered by a blindingly bright flash of light. The beacon won’t permit itself to be absorbed. It actively fights against it.
Stunned, Gale falls to the dirt and drops onto his back beneath a mass of intense radiance. He's never before felt light that had a heft to it, but this does and it holds him down.
Unable to see anything, he begins patting wildly at his chest, trying to remove the beacon.
It doesn’t budge.
UNWORTHY SOUL. YOUR FOUL DARKNESS MUST BE PURGED.
What Gale wants to do is protest that it’s not him that contains a foul darkness, but the orb. He’s the biggest victim here, truthfully. He has a feeling those words would fall on deaf ears, though, and his mind is too scrambled to get them out.
What he does instead is moan softly as the beacon plunges softly into his chest.
Gale isn’t exactly sure how the orb exists within his body—it’s partly him, partly not—but he can feel everything it feels. When the orb hungers, so does Gale. When the orb finds satisfaction in consuming an artifact, so does Gale. When the orb feels the ridges of a stiff stone rolling across its surface…
“Ah!” Gale gasps.
He’s blind and there’s some sort of all-powerful being trying to destroy the orb in his chest, yet he can’t help but swell between his legs. It’s been over a year since anyone has touched him, and much longer than that since he’s been penetrated.
That’s what this is. A strange sort of intimacy. A surprise, to be sure, but not a wholly unwelcome one.
As the beacon’s light throbs within Gale’s chest, his cock strains against his trousers
YOUR UNCLEAN HAND SHOULD NEVER HAVE TOUCHED MY BEACON.
“Yes—of course—”
Just as Gale is wondering whether his own feelings affect the orb in some way—whether it too is deriving some satisfaction from this—it begins fighting back, rattling back and forth inside him.
“By the gods,” he moans.
HEAR ME AND OBEY.
As the orb and beacon try to overpower each other, Gale is caught in the middle with a bouldery ben-wa ball held tight in his billowing chest. Magical energy unlike anything he’s ever felt pulses and swells inside him. If he could somehow harness it, he’d be unstoppable.
But he can’t see and he can barely move. The formerly weightless beacon keeps him pinned to the ground. From there, he won’t be doing much of anything.
Except, it seems, enjoying himself.
The orb is a taker, yearning only to steal magical energy. The beacon is a giver, flooding the orb and thus Gale’s body with its light. Though the two objects act in opposition, there’s a pleasant synchronicity to their battle for dominance. For Gale, it’s like being fucked and sucked off at the same time.
He does what any wizard in this near-death scenario would do: he reaches down into his robe and pulls his cock from his trousers, taking himself in hand.
Either he's going to live to tell the tale of this bizarre quasi-sexual encounter, or he’s going to go out with a bang.
He begins tugging himself, and the light intensifies.
UNCLEAN. YOU WILL BE CLEANSED.
“Cleanse me,” he moans, pulling furiously.
The blinding light already had weight, and suddenly it has heat. It blooms from within Gale’s chest, spreading through his body to his limbs.
Overwhelming, almost burning heat. Almost. It's right at the edge between pleasure and pain, and that's a place Gale loves to find himself.
He's sweating profusely, biting his lip, ready to burst.
HEAR ME AND OBEY.
For the first time in a year, Gale's orb goes completely silent. Without it there to fight the beacon, Gale has no chance. He can barely breathe with it pinning him.
Everything is too bright, too heavy, too hot.
He feels the flesh peeling from his foreskin as he comes, and then nothing.