albinomilksnake | the one with fade rift threads;

A foolish and short-sighted set of restrictions to impose upon you.

[It's the first thought, blunt and childish, that flashes through Fenris' mind— and like so many of his thoughts, it slips right past his lips without filter.

But really: I cannot enter homes uninvited, I cannot dream, I cannot suffer running water, I cannot endure holy magic, and Fenris will not fault Astarion for a single one of those limitations, but oh, what a stupid master. Danarius would have agreed (and in the distant reaches of his mind, Fenris can hear his voice echoing in time with the rhythmic tap-tap of his staff. What if his master has need of him in the Chantry? What if he falls into the river and might drown if his slave doesn't dive in?). There are certain restrictions that make sense, in an awful sort of way— what Danarius wouldn't have given to ensure that Fenris could never, ever disobey— but the rest . . .

But he's being foolish. Curse, Astarion had said. Blood, he says now, his face buried in his hands. And blood magic (for it must be that) always has a price.]

Though little wonder you do not know how to cook . . .

[It's not funny, but he says it only to gently defuse, for he knows what it is to flinch in anticipation for the cry of monster. But lest Astarion mistake diffusion for irreverence, he adds:]

To what end did he impose those limitations? For magic for himself, for which you were forced to bear the consequences— or something else?

[The repetition doesn't haunt, it possesses; at this rate it's going to take a near eternity to acclimate to the dead drop feel of weightlessness that's ingrained itself within his neophytic pulse each time he braces for the worst— for what should, by all rights, come attached to an admission as damning as this one— only to remain blissfully spared the sight of narrowed eyes or dawning horror.

What a terrifying thing, realizing you'd follow someone so devoutly without coercion or a second thought.

Exhilarating, too. Moreso than all the rest.]

Not an untrue statement to be seen. [Offered through the sly tip of his clawed fingers as his own chin blithely lifts. What few of them perch broken barely detracting from the pale elf's practiced poise....and well afforded praise (for Fenris).] But I doubt he'd have chosen those exact conditions were it not a byproduct of the magic used to forever bind us to his side. Some, yes— not all.

That was the deal, you see. Bleeding at death's door in desperation, peripheral vision already a muddy swath, and in he'd swoop like a shining beacon of salvation in the night. There to save us from certain oblivion with no other hope in sight, sweet and mercifully noble. [And what a familiar tale that is.] It's the fine print that gets left out. The fact that we'll be no cherished thing once we surrender to his....alterations, but an eternal slave with no body of our own. No freedom even in our own minds, for all he'd need do was demand we speak, and sanguine compulsion gladly did the rest.

It was his curse that granted those of us too unlucky or stupid to fall victim to his offer those myriad weaknesses, along with fangs. Claws. Eyes that shine with the truth of what we are.

Another leash, to make certain we could never leave unless he bade it.

[Threaded, that narrow little pause.]

....you're the only soul I've ever met that doesn't seem to care what I've become. I don't know what to make of that.

[A choice, then. A choice that wasn't a choice at all, and oh, yes, that's a familiar tale, isn't it? A slave driven to the brink with desperation, clawing at the walls and so desperate that he'd take any out offered to him— gods, is there any sadism a master won't stoop to? Us, Astarion says, ours, and Fenris wonders how many times such a ritual was performed.

(How many times would Danarius have done it if he could have? Hundreds of times, if the magic didn't dilute, for what magister wouldn't give an arm and a leg to have such control over all his slaves? No need to fret about rebellion; no need to worry about health or resentment, the vengeful mother with a knife or the heartbroken lover who decides to end it all in one spectacular bang, oh, no. Better to make sure they're all docile, and who cares if their souls are screaming?

And he hates that even now, his first comparison is Danarius, but it is what it is— and of all the scars he bears, that, at least, is a small one).

He wants to know more. To ask how long it's been since Astarion was able to converse freely, if he was ever able to at all; to wonder if those compulsion spread even to thoughts, and this is the first time his newfound companion could even think without having to fear undue influence.

But there's that last sentence— and oh, that takes priority, for he can hear the wariness threaded there, tentative and fearful both.]

Well, do not think me a saint for it.

[He doesn't look away from those hollow eyes shining across the fire, whether they return his gaze or not.]

I am no endlessly doting figure, here to accept any and all as they come. I find magic to be the source of most of the world's problems— blood magic especially— and I am not inclined to coddle what mages I find. They are dangerous creatures at the best of times— and we are not in the best of times. Nor am I often compelled to share my fire like this, not with those I find on the road. I am not cruel, but nor am I some bleeding heart ready to empty my pockets for the sake of another.

[A breath to let that sink in.]

. . . but I know more intimately than most what it is to be marked and mutilated by one's master. I know what it is to be held on a leash and kept at his side, mute and deaf and blind, resigning yourself to your existence until a seemingly miraculous escape presents itself. And I know what it is to flee into a place where you know nothing and understand even less, left only to try and make your way as best you can.

[It's more of a speech than Fenris really meant to give, but he doesn't regret it. Still: some quiet awkwardness is present in the way his fingers idly tap at the ground, self-consciousness displaced.]

So: it is less that I do not care and am blind to what you are, and more that I am too familiar with being the pawn and unwilling victim of a magister gone mad with power.

[A beat, and then, a little glibly, he adds:]

Besides: you may find you attract less stares than me when we go into Kirkwall. An elf with white hair and fangs is unusual, but not more than a warrior walking around with a fortune's worth of ore burned into his skin.

[He listens. For so long, and so attentively, that he's sure no one who knew him would recognize him in those fleeting moments whilst his newfound fascination sits there speaking. Where even the fractured gaps between conscious and subconscious seem to echo as they hang on every word, repeating them again and again.

And then, at the end—

He laughs.]

Be still my—

[ah] beating heart. [Hm. Such a novel thing to say, now that it's true (tugging on his tattered blouse comes with less fascination). Those gold-green eyes don't look away; neither do Astarion's. Couldn't help it if he tried.]

I suppose we'll need to take tally if we make it to that city of yours in one piece. With the winner spared paying for drinks for an entire night.

[It's Fenris' turn to laugh: soft and yet genuine, a pleased scoff as he feels some of the tension ease between them.]

A bold offer for a man who has, last I counted, not a single gold piece to his name. Are you so confident in your ability to attract stares, or merely willing to test if I'll cover you, win or lose?

[Maker, it's been years since he's teased like this. He'd thought he'd forgotten how. And you know, even now, some part of his heart rings an alarm bell in warning, whispering of the foolishness of growing close to someone— but ah, this isn't that. This isn't Kirkwall; this isn't even Shirallas. It's one night, and more likely than not, Fenris thinks, this man will soon disappear anyway. Content to forget anything that even nebulously connects him to his past. It's no bad thing.

So enjoy it while it lasts, Blue Wraith.]

[Astarion's scoff is such a feathered thing; he doesn't grasp the depth of what presently churns behind an otherwise easy stare (how could he? So far as he knows, they're both rife with keen contentment. The first true thing in two lightless, all-encompassing lifetimes). Like something starved for sustenance, he leans in without looking back.]

Pshh. Details, details. Perhaps I'm simply confident in my ability to manifest coin from thin air?

Oh, an ex-slave and a thief? If nothing else, Astarion, trust that you'll fit right in where we're heading.

[God. What a cesspit, Fenris thinks fondly. It's a semi-fondness, admittedly, tainted not just by memories but a fairly realistic expectation of what the city entails, but still. It was his home, and in some ways will always be his home.]

Kirkwall is many things, most of them unpleasant, but it's a good city to start over in. For better or worse, you can climb your way out of the slums if you try— especially if you have light fingers.

Can you fight at all?

You know, I don't think I ever understood the idea of expatriation outside simply dreaming of a world beyond my Master's reach. Apparently all I needed was the right potential home.

And the right company.

[Oh, how those garnet eyes glint above the green cast of his upturned palm, each syllable tigerine in ways that rise too easily behind now-fragile ribs.]

But what slave doesn't know how to silence their steps beyond shadow or the dead of night? Or feign sleep so as to go unnoticed? Sleight of hand— misdirection— flattery itself: the skills that once bore me through the depths of misery now afford a higher—

[Long ears twitch once, delayed.]

Erm.

[Wait.]

What?

[Did you say fight?] ....As in fight fight?

[Cute, he thinks without really thinking at all, his eyes trained on those ears twitching adorably in surprise.]

What other kind of fight would I mean— one with pillows?

[His mouth twitches in amusement, though he makes a halfhearted effort to bite it back.]

Edited 2024-07-22 03:13 (UTC)

[Astarion's dismissive noise is something both offended and— much more visibly— amused.]

Don't. Tempt. Me.

[Or else.]

But yes, I can defend myself if need be. I'm a fearsome predator, after all— [says the thing with a beating heart and trouble remembering to breathe, donned in silk and looking well and truly ragged in all neophytic rebirth:]

Why?

[His eyes flick over Astarion, taking in the hollow glint of his eyes and the glistening of his fangs— not to mention those wickedly sharp talons that might rival his own gauntlets.

And then he gives Astarion a teasing look which says, in a word: sure.]

Fearsome indeed, to threaten me with a pillow.

[Is all he'll say about that, though he isn't bothering to hide the smile anymore.]

But I ask only because Kirkwall has a well-deserved reputation for violence, too. If it is anything like when I left it, gangs stroll the streets as they please and pick the pockets of whatever fools are unlucky enough to cross their paths. Knowing your way around a blade is a useful skill— frankly, it's a necessary one.

[The claws won't last long; what few remain will find themselves trimmed before they pass the Gallows. Something to at least curb his own stark contrast to the rest of the city— the first of many changes.]

And yet I'll have you by my side. I'm certain that'll be more than enough to deter the worst inside those walls. Or outside them. Or both? [You've done enough of that already, seems to be the implication in his cadence as he finally snakes down underneath his sleeping cover.]

Up to the point where I'm busy on some evening and you're tasked with running to the apothecary on your own. Or you require groceries, or simply want a night to yourself.

[He's just saying! And it's not as if every person in Kirkwall is skilled with a blade, nor even has the physique to withstand an assault— but he feels a little protective over Astarion now.]

Simply be ready, that is all I ask.

[A few moments pass as he shifts with Astarion, curling up beneath his own sleeping cover, his head propped up on one folded arm. They lie in parallel to one another, twin elves with silver hair and too many scars to name.]

And you may find you prefer to stay. Life on the road is no easy one . . . and I will not blame you no matter your choice.

[But nor would I mind, I think, if you were to stay by my side. And he doesn't know why he thinks it, though the thought dies on his tongue. It's far too soon for such sentiments, and he is too old to think that he can discern a person's real character from a chance meeting.

But he is drawn to him. That, too, is a fact. And he can feel his heart hoping, even faintly, that Astarion might join him.]

Either way: I will see you before dawn tomorrow. And perhaps I can train you a little on the road to Kirkwall.

[You'll make it past dawn.]

Anything is better than life in a kennel, my dear.

[Arranged like this, they look like children overgrown. A pair of cohorts plotting out more than just any immediate, reasonable timeline dictated by accidental meetings: I won't always be there not because he doesn't wish to be— but because he'll have his own necessities, his own duties— and truthfully the same could be said in reverse. That overcast as the sky above may be when unaffected by either green or silver glow, Astarion suddenly feels bolstered in his desire for new experience. The fresh, utterly vibrant bloom of freedom that doesn't seem inclined to choke him the second he breaks into a tentative run.

The sort of conversation he's snarled at his siblings over nearly a thousand times before.]

Train me? [Has a distinctive curl; a cat tail swishing back and forth.

(Kinky)]

My my. You will go easy on me, won't you? I'd hate to have to stitch you back together with care for having to unleash my full abilities without restraint.

[He chuckles, the sound low and self-assured.]

Clever thing. I will go easy on you, if you truly need such a thing— but do not assume you'd win so easily. I have spent the majority of my life wielding a blade, and it is exceedingly rare that I lose.

[Gods, he's missed this. That flirtatious little curl reminds him of Isabela, the association just faint enough to be sweet rather than sting.]

Still. If you're so confident in your full abilities, perhaps I need not teach you all. What weapon are you best with?

[There's an audible —click— as Astarion's tongue pops against the roof of his mouth.]

—an excellent question. [Wears the same cadence as such hit phrases as: 'goodness, look at the time', and 'first thing tomorrow morning, was it?']

But um. Well it's just so hard to choose with hands so deft as mine.

And really, wouldn't you prefer the spontaneity of organic discovery? Sweat dripping from our brows and exhilaration running fierce and hot within our veins— neither one of us knowing what the other has in store?

I would not, no.

[He says it mercilessly, though his eyes are still glinting with amusement. He rises up, propping his head on one palm as he regards his suddenly avoidant companion.]

I fight with a sword primarily, though I can handle a bow or a knife if I wish, albeit not as skillfully.

[A beat, and he adds with a little smirk:]

Is it that you were bluffing when you said you could fight, or you truly don't know?

Rude.

[Grouses the cattish elfpire in the dark, ears pinned (briefly) back.]

Tsk. Why in the Realms would I bluff about a simple thing like that?

[Adorable.]

In the name of the Maker will garner you less looks. We do not have Realms here.

[And oh, trust they'll touch on that more tomorrow, but tonight is for camraderie, not endless explanations.]

And you tell me, Astarion. But if I were to venture a guess, I would say that if you're used to fighting with your teeth and your nails, and suddenly were brought to a world in which such a thing is clearly unheard of . . . perhaps it would feel easier to lie and say you knew how to defend yourself no matter the venue.

[Though amusement is still clear in his gaze, there's no judgement in his tone. He understands. He really, really does.]

Or you're a liar for no other reason than pleasure. One of the two, perhaps.

—in the name of the.... [How quickly irritation bends to curiosity (white shock of hair tilting alongside an attentive shift that surely seems to be making note of that suggestion)— and then returns again faster than a rising tide.]

What is a 'Maker?'

[To note: he's not answering that other bit of commentary.]

A deity. The deity for the majority of the world. Worshiped by the Chantry, alongside his bride, Andraste, a martyred prophetess.

[It's hard to determine his tone. Certainly there's no reverence there, but nor is there open derision. They're just facts, each cited as though it comes word-for-word from some lesson half-forgotten from childhood.]

You must have some version of Him in your world.

We have gods, yes....but unless pervading descriptors include something other than 'creates things' and 'consorts with murdered mortals', you could be talking about any one of them.

[Wait. Gears are turning.]

—or if the other requirement is 'has a cock'. That might at least narrow things down a bit.

[Does the Maker have a cock? Much to ponder about.

Also: Fenris has a slightly disdainful little look on his face now, because he's a pissy little bitch about elves.]

The elves are polytheistic, but their gods have either died or long since stopped answering their prayers. But even their gods . . . I believe there are only nine. Mythal, Fen'Harel . . . do those names sound familiar?

[But he assumes not— and so, curiously:]

How many are in your pantheon?

[Their earns a funny sidelong cock of Astarion's head, fully committed to the motion. Is that not also....?

Anyway, ask the local chantry sisters about that divine rod and get back to him, Fenris.]

Pardon-theon?

—kidding.

There are divides, but it depends on the Realms and worshippers themselves. Elves like us? We have— [Oh, send help. It's like being quizzed on the shape of Toril's territories, unlabeled; he might've been a quick study, but it's been ages since he last made any attempts to petition the sacred or the sacrilegious. Starting by counting them off on his fingers seems fair enough.

~~Seriously. You try naming Colorado or Wyoming at a glance.~~]

Correllon, Angharrad, Sashelas, Mythrien, Fenmarel....erm....

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