Chapter Text
“Come now,” a resonant voice calls, “Wake up; it’s time to begin.”
Groggy and dazed Gale groans, blinking sleep heavy eyes against a bright light shining above him. He squints until the world focuses, fuzzy forms dotting his vision clearing into a bank of clouds.
He wasn’t where he last remembered being.
“Ah, there we are. Hello there, dear passenger.”
Gale pulls himself into a seated position, head still heavy straining to make sense of the words. Passenger? A passenger of what? Everything was muddled, his recent memories just out of frame. Where is he? And who is talking–Gale’s eyes slam open, his breath catching in his chest as he stares down the flickering visage before him.
Where a soft melody usually crooned came a deep register, “Oh do try not to be alarmed. I went ahead and scanned your memories for the most suitable appearance to project for you and it would be a shame for my effort to go to waste, would it not?”
Gale must truly be going insane. Must have hit his head on something or drank too many glasses in an attempt to drown his sorrows that he gave himself over to alcohol fueled hallucinations. That must be it, because there was no way some sort of hologram projection of his mother was floating in front of him right now. But the smack of his lips brought no taste but the bitterness of teeth a day past brush and the shaky hand he raises to his skull in a desperate search for a bump or bruise comes away empty.
For all intents and purposes, no matter how seemingly fantastical, this was his reality.
“I have found a familiar face to be the most welcoming upon finding oneself somewhere…unexpected,” The uncanny presence continues, rocking itself forward into his space with all the dainty plumpness of Morena Dekarios without any of the weight; Gale scrambles backward just as far. “You’d be surprised to learn how long it took me to figure that one out.”
Gale honestly doubts that.
“I’m sure you are probably brimming with questions, but sadly we haven’t much time,” not-Morena gestures loosely around itself, “much to do around here you see; but I’ll endeavor to cover the basics.” It pulls itself into a squared posture, hands fitting together behind its back like a professor preparing to lecture (a stance much familiar to Gale as a professor himself). “A short time ago you boarded a train, this train, my train to be exact, and in doing so you became an active passenger under my care.”
A train…a train–that’s right! Gale swings his head to his surroundings, happy to finally have a sense of the world only to find himself more lost than before. He remembers now boarding a train–or at least, stepping onto one–but that-that didn’t explain…all of this.
This was no train car, not an ordinary one at least. There were no seats or compartments, no baggage or other passengers in sight, all there appeared to be was clouds. Cotton-like clusters blotting about a seemingly endless stretch of sky. The very tips of autumn dipped trees peaking through, branches hidden and revealed as wisps of white float by but not a single tree trunk to be seen. Everything, even the ground beneath the padded casing that housed him he was shell-shocked to find, clouds.
“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” The projection asks softly. “And to think, I made this all for you.”
“For me?” Gale echoes in reverence as his eyes catch upon a curiosity in his peripheral. There was something out there, something too far away to discern flitting about the treetops leaving contrails in its wake. Captivated, Gale curls his fingers around the edge of the casing and attempts to pull himself up and over or a closer look. Instead, all he succeeds in doing is snagging the sleeve of his shirt on the metal and toppling himself face first onto the ground. He pushes himself to his knees with a grimace, a quick thanks given for the softness of a water vapor landing before the reality of his position becomes clear. The force of his fall must have displaced a section the floor beneath him, tufts of clouds dispersing to reveal a sheer and sudden drop.
Gale digs his fingers into the ground and turns frazzled eyes to the projection of his mother, seeking in its flickering form the comforting familiarity promised from before.
Not-Morena laughs, the sound not quite right but still somehow soothing to his nerves, “Oh don’t think yourself too special, Gale. I didn’t mean you exactly, but for those like you; for my passengers.” Patronizingly it smiles down at his bowed form, “You were at a crossroads, Gale. I merely seek to offer you the tools with which you might ultimately choose a path.”
“One way I accomplish this is by marking every passenger that boards my locomotive with a number. Think of it as a sort of numerical evaluation of your needed personal growth,” the projection elaborates then gestures to Gale’s right hand, “If you glance down at the palm of your hand, Gale, you’ll find yourself in possession of one I formulated just for you.”
Gale drops his eyes from the hologram to his hands still buried deep in the ground. Careful as to not sink too much of his weight into the cloud he relaxes his grip and flips his right palm skyward. A luminescent green number greets him as promised, setting his face ablaze. He traces the bracketed numerals with a fingertip, airily following along the 82 somehow magically inscribed upon his flesh. It doesn't hurt; doesn’t feel like much of anything at all really. No incised lines or rough brands–it doesn’t even smudge when he scrubs over it with his thumb. If Gale didn’t see the proof of it winking up at him, he’d find it hard to believe it was there at all.
Eighty-two, huh? Seems a bit high.
Gale closes his fist around the number and presses it back into the ground, snuffing out the eerie glow of his supposed ‘needed personal growth’ under the fat of his fingers and fluff of the cloud. He turns to the conductor still masquerading as his mother and lifts an insistent brow for it to continue.
“You want to go home, I presume?” It asks, as if that is even a question. “Get that number there down to zero and off you pop! We’re not a prison here Gale, we're a learning opportunity, your exit will come in time.”
Gale feels a slight unease settle in the pit of his stomach. What a strange distinction to feel one must make.
“One last thing, before I let you fend for yourself. This train holds a bit more variety than your regular passenger line,” it gestures pointedly at the wide-open sky around them. “That is to say our cars at their cores are experiences. No two are alike. So when you go traversing your way through them, I implore you–no, I beg of you–experience them. Explore, learn, grow–do whatever it is you passengers do. Your fate is now entirely in your own hands.”
The final parting words of the conductor ring as his mother’s projected form winks out of existence, leaving Gale on his own.
Without the visual effect of Morena to scrutinize, Gale’s attention now falls to the contraption that generated her, the same casing that housed himself before his curiosity had sent him careening to the ground. The egg shaped pod was hinged: lid lifted to create the background needed for the conductor’s introductory projection and base padded to offer the passenger inside a more comfortable ride as it transported them about.
The padded interior looks like an oasis to Gale at this moment, a remedy for the unstable cloud cover he finds himself slowly but steadily sinking into. Maybe, just maybe, he can climb back inside, close the lid, and shuttle himself off somewhere where solid ground awaits him.
Gale reaches a tentative hand out to attempt just that, fingertips just grazing the lip of the edge when the lid falls shut like a guillotine, his fingers almost taken with. Lights lining the side of the machine begin to flash as the pod quakes, waves of clouds surging outward from beneath its base knocking Gale off-kilter. It beeps, once, twice, then plunges into the ground.
The absence left in its wake hauls Gale forward, the fissure in the cloud a gaping maw threatening to swallow him whole. He fights against gravity to no avail, clawing desperately at the fringe of the chasm as massless water vapor slips through the cracks of his fingers.
He falls.
Down through one cloud then two, the water vapor clinging to his clothes only succeeding in dragging him down quicker.
He hadn’t thought to ask not-Morena if it was possible to die here, an oversight he was now greatly regretting as he plummeted through the stratosphere with no end in sight. Down, down he crashes, through endless cloud cover and boundless sky, hair whipping up a frenzy around his face. He rockets past flashes of orange and yellow, the pigment rich leaves taunting him from tree limbs just out of reach.
He falls, gut dropping and heart pounding in his ears until, finally, an olive branch.
The limb came out of nowhere but made its presence known with a sharp thwack to his side, the painful sensation shocking him out of his free-fall stupor and into action. Gale clutches at the lifeline, nails digging gouges into the bark as he scrambles for purchase, sap-bleeding bare wood left behind with every frenzied scrape of his fingers. He heaves himself up and straddles the tree limb, legs twisting together underneath to lock his position in place. He folds his torso over until his forehead knocks into the back of his hands clenched tight to the wood. He closes his eyes tight.
He’s safe. He’s stable, he’s somehow still alive, and he’s safe.
Gale’s breaths come in gasps as he fights to calm from his previous panic. Focusing on the pain in his side, a welcome proof of his continued survival, Gale grounds himself in the present, slowly filling his lungs with a breath through his nose before releasing it out of his mouth. He sits there for a moment and just breathes, observing each rise and fall of his chest, taking note of the texture beneath his fingertips and the colors flashing behind his closed lids. He breathes, he calms, and he settles.
And then a voice calls out, and he screams.
“Well don’t you look like you’re in need of a paw.”
Gale struggles upright, eyes wide with disbelief at the creature hovering before him. It was a cat…he thinks? A tortie if he was to guess, the black and orangish cream patchwork coloring of its coat indicative of the species, except where a regular cat's spine sloped down straight from its shoulders, this one was interrupted by wings. They were more bat-like than bird, pennons divided into segments by elongated finger bones, feathers filling the spaces between where leathery membranes would normally lie. The feathers themselves were ornate, made up of the same colors as the creature’s coat but dappled with circular patterns not unlike a peacock’s plumage.
It all together made for a beautiful, if shocking, sight.
With a final flap of its wings the cat-like creature dives from the sky to share refuge on Gale’s tree branch, the limb bobbing under the added weight. Gale tightens his grip on the branch, sending an unimpressed look across the divide. The creature stares back unphased.
“You know, in order to fly you’re supposed to extend your wings,” it demonstrates this point with a flex of its shoulders, feathers stretching out to either side to showcase an impressive wingspan. It cocks its head, “Or do you just enjoy falling?”
“I don’t have wings,” Gale grits out through clenched teeth.
“A design flaw then,” it declares, flicking an ear. “No matter, Tara’s here now and she’ll sort you right out.”
Gale releases his ire in a sigh, meeting Tara’s offer of help with a soft, grateful smile. “Yes, yes that would be much appreciated. I’d love any help you can spare.”
“I can spare quite a lot in this case. But, before we begin, where are my manners!” The creature bows, her speckled wings sweeping behind her in the equivalent of a skirt curtsy, “Tara, at your service.” She straightens and blinks wide eyes his way. “And you are?”
At Tara’s expectant look Gale scrambles into his own bow, albeit a clumsy and truncated one due to his continued position clinging to the branch. “Ah-yes, excuse my manners as well dear Tara, Gale of Waterdeep at yours.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Waterdeep.”
Gale straightens in shock. Oh. Realizing the error, he fumbles in his haste to correct the misconception, “Oh! Oh, no it’s um, it’s actually…” He pauses. What does it matter, really, if she calls him that? It’s close enough to the truth, is it not? He is Gale of Waterdeep: prodigy professor, chosen recipient of Mystra’s star, mathematician, physicist, astronomer.
What’s the harm in being known for his accolades?
“It’s actually…?” Tara prompts.
“Oh, um,” Gale shakes his head, “Nevermind. Mr. Waterdeep suits me just fine.”
Tara squints her eyes at him then hums, “Very well then.”
The steady glow beneath Gale's palm flickers where it rests on top of the tree branch. He raises it in front of him and watches as the bracketed numbers spin like the wheels of a slot machine before settling on a higher number than before. 126.
Tara tuts in sympathy, “Not off to a good start are you?” He glances her way confused and she clarifies, motioning to his hand, “Your number went up, Mr. Waterdeep. You’re losing progress before you’ve even truly begun.” At the defeated slump of his shoulders in response she hastens to add, “Not to fret! What goes up, must come down.” Stretching a wing his way, she runs the very tips of her primaries along his arm in reassurance. “We’ll get you home yet, Mr. Waterdeep, don’t you worry.”
Gale thanks her with a tentative smile then closes his right hand into a determined fist, “Of course, you’re right. Where do we start now?”
Tara jumps to her paws, excitement quivering down every feather at a new beginning. “We start at the top, Mr. Waterdeep! No one makes headway in their starting car,” she tilts her head and admits, “though most don’t lose progress there either. All we need to do is take the door out of this car and onto the next, that’s where your real journey begins.”
Gale nods along thoughtfully but finds himself unable to match her enthusiasm when a wrench was so clearly visible in her plan. “Yes well, that’s all well and good in theory Tara, but where in this car am I supposed to find a door?” He gestures pointedly to their surroundings of open sky and speckled clouds.
Tara rolls her eyes. “And here I believed you clever.”
“I am clever!” Gale attests.
“Not clever enough, it seems,” she sighs. “Might I offer a hint?” With a mighty flap of her wings, Tara launches herself into the sky and zips out of sight. A few seconds later a gust of wind tousles Gale’s hair back as she swoops down in front of him and floats. “We fly, Mr. Waterdeep. It would only make sense for our door to be further up, would it not?”
“Further...up…” Gale mutters beneath his breath before jerking his head skyward in realization. There, just there floating stories above them Gale could just about make out a bright red door seemingly suspended in the air. He turns an incredulous expression Tara’s way, “And how pray tell am I supposed to reach that?! We’ve covered this already Tara, no wings–” he runs a quick hand down the whole of him, “Flawed human design and all that jazz.”
“You don’t need wings to rise,” Tara huffs, “You just need a little ingenuity; we’ll take a cloud.”
“One of those death traps?” Gale exclaims. “Oh no, no no no no,” he leans forward and wraps his arms back tight around the tree branch acting as his sanctuary. “I think I’ll just stay right here, if you don’t mind. It’s got everything a man could want, after all! A view, solid support,” Gale accidentally runs the side of his thumb along one of the gouges from earlier and grimaces, “sap.”
“Oh come now, don’t be such a baby,” Tara moans, touching down on top of Gale’s back. “That fall from before was entirely the fault of ill circumstances. If you take this problem at a soft and easy pace I promise the cloud will hold.”
Gale twists his head to look at her over his shoulder. “But that makes no sense, scientifically speaking it should–”
Tara snaps, her claws flexing into his skin, “Scientifically speaking I don’t exist, this car is an impossibility, and that tree branch you are holding onto for dear life would need a trunk before it could ever think about holding your weight! I saw we just throw science and real-world reasoning out for this one, hm?” She retracts her claws with a sigh then kneads at the muscles of Gale’s back in apology. “Trust me, Mr. Waterdeep, the train works beyond the laws as you understand them. What may seem an impossibility before might present itself here as the only possible truth. I promise you, Mr. Waterdeep, I will not lead you astray.”
Moved by Tara’s words, Gale accepts his fate.
He nods for her take off then peeks a trepidatious look beneath the tree limb for a relatively close cloud. Target spotted not ten feet down, Gale takes a shuddering breath and slowly eases his crossed legs apart. Shifting his weight to one side he slides a leg up and over the branch and dangles from his arms. Taking one more extra long inhale to psych himself up, Gale releases his grip on the limb and sinks into the fall.
The cloud below catches him.
Tara glides to a stop next to his sprawled body. She bats at his nose, “There see, that wasn’t so bad.”
He catches her paw in his hand and gives it the slightest squeeze, “No. No it wasn’t. Thank you.”
Tara purrs. “No verbal thanks necessary, Mr. Waterdeep. Though, if you feel a display of gratitude is warranted, I wouldn’t mind an offering of say…physical touch?” She steps closer and stretches her neck outward, presenting him with an insistent cheek in need of pets.
Gale chuckles good naturedly at the display. He pushes himself to his knees in order to free up both hands for thankful scritches and gets to work. His fingers curl around her head and rub along her cheeks while his thumb trails back and forth beneath her chin. She tilts further into the caress, chasing the pleasurable sensation as a joyful rumble escapes her. “Ahh, yes, that’s the ticket. There is something to be said about the nuances of an opposable thumb.”
Something in Gale softens at the rumbling, the rush of adrenaline that shot through him on release easing with every swipe of his thumb. “I’m glad to hear that you appreciate at least one aspect of human design, Tara.”
She flicks a teasing look his way. “Well, they can’t get everything wrong. Even the worst of inventors stumble upon an innovation or two in their time.” Gale smiles and shakes his head.
“You know,” he begins, running a gentle hand down her spine, “I’ve always liked cats.”
“Certainly not!” Tara hisses in offense, wrenching her body away so she may swipe at his face with her paws.
“Apologies, apologies!” Gale cries around a laugh, “I meant no disrespect!”
Tara settles back onto all fours and sharply ruffles her feathers, her nose turning skyward as she corrects the misnomer, “I’m not a cat, I'm a tressym.”
“A tressym?” Gale confirms, watching as the feathers between her wings shake and realign. “I’ve never heard of one before. You suppose there’s much of a difference then?”
“Do I suppose there’s–!” Tara was positively shaking with theatrical indignation. “Do your cats have wings?!? Noooo?” She ludicrously mocks, “Is there much of a difference then. Honestly!”
“Alright alright! I get it. You’re a Tressym and nothing less.” Gale taps a finger to his temple and flashes her a wink. “Made a mental note and everything.”
“Good,” Tara harrumphs. “Now that that’s settled, how about we finally move this show along, hm?”
She climbs her way up Gale’s torso and perches atop his shoulder. Stretching her wings to their full potential, she raises them high above their heads then drops them downward in a heavy beat, rocketing them and a small portion of their cloudy platform steadily upward.
Gale lets out a little giddy laugh as Tara propels them through the air, his gaze sweeping the world as they rise. Now that he knows what he’s looking for he’s able to identify a few other tressyms soaring through the clouds around them, leaving smoke trail action lines with every twist and turn they take. He grins at the sight then grins harder when Tara’s most recent beat of her wings whips a tuft of hair into his eye.
“Are all cars like this then?” Gale calls out between beats.
“Not quite!” Tara shouts back, breathless from the exertion. “They’re all their own experience; I'll give them that! Some are calming while others are action packed, a few so easy to solve you can almost waltz right through them, then there are others that trap you in their complexity. It’s a real mixed bag, if I’m to be honest. But each has their merit! Their own purpose and worth.”
Gale huffs, “I believe that’s what that odd imitation of my mother said as well.”
Tara’s ears perk straight, “That was supposed to be your mother? Oh Mr. Waterdeep, she was so very beautiful! You have good genes, you know.” She sniffs haughtily, “Sadly they’re being wasted on you with that thing on your face.”
Gale lets loose an affronted squawk. “Tara! Are you talking about my beard?!” He laughs hard, palm pressed to his chest as he fights to make a response, “I’m-I’m sorry to say T-Tara but I find myself quite taken with the beard.” He throws a charming smile to an imagined crowd, “Besides, I think it makes me look quite the distinguished gentleman. A real embodiment of the professional professor aesthetic.” He sneaks a hand up and lightly tugs on the end of her tail, “The beard stays.”
“Well, you can’t always account for taste,” Tara mourns as one final flap of her wings stalls them at the exit door.
Gale stands on shaky legs, knees protesting at having stayed in such a position for so long, and takes careful steps closer to the exit, extremely cognizant of the ‘solid’ mass holding his weight. He stops in front of the door and hesitates.
“Go on then,” Tara encourages, standing from her perch with a stretch. “This is your stop, Mr. Waterdeep.”
Gale halts her movement with a touch, a hand softly placed upon her flank. “Our stop you mean, right Tara?”
She sits back on her haunches and considers him for a moment, tail lashing as she weighs the proposal. “If you’d like it to be, yes.”
“Yes then,” Gale pleads, “I…I find I’m not too keen on facing this whole ordeal alone.”
“Well, I guess I was getting quite bored with the daily docket,” Tara starts, settling back against his shoulder. “And heaven knows what mistakes you might make without me…” She nuzzles into his neck then nips it with her teeth, “Alright, quit pulling my tail, you’ve convinced me! It's been a while since I’ve gone sightseeing, anyhow. Besides,” she throws a cheeky look his way as she tickles the shell of his ear with the tip of her tail, “I’ve quite missed keeping a pet.”
“A-a pet! Tara you–” he glances over his shoulder and catches the mirth in her eyes. “Oh. You’re teasing me. Yes yes, very funny.”
“It was indeed.”
Companion for the journey now secured, Gale turns his mind back to the odd looking arched gateway before them. He ponders the half-moon handles for a moment then reaches out and turns one clockwise, the doors mechanism audibly spinning until his efforts are rewarded with the click of a lock unlatching. With a glance over his shoulder to Tara, Gale flattens his hand against the door and pushes.
His body freezes at the sight outside.
There was…there was nothing. A certifiable wasteland, desolate and dry. The sky was a raging storm of bloody reds and burnt oranges, the ground cracked and starving for water. He steps closer, hands wrapping tight around one of the rails of the gangway as he leans over the side and glances past the next car. As much as Gale could tell, there was no discernible end or beginning, the train just seemed to go on forever.
Tara curls her tail around his neck in semblance of a hug as she too stares out across the wasteland from her perch atop his shoulder. “Welcome to the infinite, Mr. Waterdeep; let’s endeavor to make your stay a short one, shall we.”
“Yes,” Gale stammers out, “I-I would appreciate that, I think.”
“Onwards and upwards then?” Tara prompts.
Gale nods, peeling white knuckled fingers away from the railing. He steps quickly across the gangway to the other coach and trails a fingertip along the edge of the door’s handle, letting the chill of the metal ground his racing thoughts. Nowhere to go but forward, nowhere to climb but up. He feels the tickle of Tara’s feathers on the back of his neck and smiles, at least he isn’t alone.
Hooking his fingers over the handle’s edge, Gale turns the symbol clockwise and pushes the door open.
“Onwards and upwards it is.”
