albinomilksnake | the one with fade rift threads;

[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....

A devout worshiper, I see.

[Teasing, but there's an intrigued glint in his eye. He doesn't know what he expected; certainly it makes no more sense for them to share gods. But it adds another layer to the curiosity that's Astarion's world. And then there's that word again, Realm— and Maker, what was it? Planes? He thinks he has a decent idea of what Astarion's day to day life might look like, but perhaps not.]

And beyond the elves? Do the humans and dwarves have their own assortment? And what do you mean by Realms?

[He shouldn't pepper him with questions this close to bedtime, but he can't help it: this is fascinating. It tugs at his curiosity the same way learning a new language does: thrilling in its possibilities and fascinating in its facets, no matter that he'll never actually need to know any of this.]

Mmn. [Passes through his teeth in the form of an endeared chuckle; something in him knows they ought to curl up and sleep whilst they still can (oh, there's no understating how exhausted Astarion feels under the thunking shudder of a heart determinedly beating with overblown exuberance), but— ]

They do. If you include all deities of every stripe— including what number lie supposedly deceased, the grand total would linger somewhere around at least a hundred or more. Not all grand as the stars themselves, mind, but gods all the same.

Give or take.

As for the Realms, that's a much more complex subject. Are you certain you wouldn't rather rest?

[A hundred? Fenris' eyebrows shoot up, surprise clear on his expression. How does anyone keep track? For that matter, how does anyone pick one to worship? What if you dedicated your life to one and only later discovered that another suited you better? It's none of his business either way, but it seems . . . impractical.]

Are you?

We can, if you find yourself nodding off. But I will not pretend not to be interested in your world, Astarion. In truth, until I met you, I had no idea there were other worlds.

[Maker, what a dizzying thought that could be if he let himself linger on it. He will later, when he has time to properly go over it, but not while they're talking. A little frown crosses his expression, and he adds:]

You may wish to keep that fact to yourself. Simply say you're from Free Marches if anyone asks.

[Free Marches. Free. Funny.]

Doubtful I could sleep even if I tried. [Astarion exhales skyward for a change, vacant sound like the whoosh of a laden vase overturned or a the empty pop of an opened bottle: carrying with it the audible echo of everything that'd been trapped inside, apparent at a glance or not.]

Travel up into the stars [proves an unsuspecting continuation, pulled from the very back of Astarion's throat in a voice that runs much deeper— and much softer— than his prior singsong indifference,] far into the sea of night itself, and this world would look a marble to the naked eye. Small from so great a distance that you'd think you could pluck it up and tuck it in your pocket, same as glancing down on city lights or crowded streets: it's the distance that defines perception.

And there would be others poised within the black, too. Sun, moon, meteors, more worlds— you get the idea. Scattered in clusters, sometimes isolated or far, far away from all the rest. Still, you could, in theory, sprout wings and hop to any of them. Set foot on any of them. Tangible and real as dirt.

Layered underneath— or above— or....somewhere, I don't know, is the immaterial. The astral or magical, whatever you wish to call it, it's rarely perceptible with the naked eye, and if it is, there's something very, very wrong.

[Astarion's scoff is a gently-footed thing.]

But you know of those already, by the sound of it. The realm of demons. Of magic. Those of the gods, and those of the elves.

[It's so vast.

Strange and unfathomable in the most comforting way, and despite his usual attitudes, Fenris allows himself to be taken along for the ride. He rolls onto his back, staring up at the stars as he tries to imagine it: other worlds, each one represented by a single point of light splayed across the black sky. Each real, each tangible, each populated— and he wonders how many Astarion's people know of. If they know of any of them, or if it's mere speculation. Fenris, himself, has never given much speculation to the stars beyond acknowledging that they exist and come out a night; it isn't a lack of curiosity so much as differing priorities. But Astarion manages to make it sound intriguing. Fascinating.

The rest of it, oddly enough, is easier to parse. Whether the Fade— the astral realm, the world of magic— is layered atop the world or just sideways of it is a familiar thing. Unplottable on a map, perhaps, but understood all the same to be here and yet not.]

Mm. Not quite.

[His voice comes from a great distance, his tone soft and slow and thoughtful and his mind still whirling around the stars above.]

I have never given thought to other worlds, nor what might lie within the stars in the sky, if that is indeed where they are located. But the concept of the realm of magic lying somewhere here and yet not . . . yes, that is familiar. The Fade, we call it. And it contains echoes, from what I understand. Echoes and amalgams of desires and memories and dreams, shattered hopes and fantastic visions . . . and in theory, the Maker himself, perched upon His golden throne.

And it is, indeed, rarely perceptible to the naked eye. The Rift you came through, just as the ones scattered across the lands, are strange and dangerous. That, too, is familiar.

But it is not a place for the elves. I doubt it ever was. Nor humans, nor Qunari, nor dwarves. It is inhabited solely by demons and their ilk, and accessed nigh-exclusively by mages. That is what makes them so dangerous: they dream and wander through the Fade, and make themselves vulnerable nightly to possession.

[But that brings up another question, and he adds curiously:]

Why do you single out the elves? Is that where they live in your world?

Hm. [Comes with a curiously furrowed brow that's tilted once more in Fenris' direction, pondering.

None of the pieces fall short, nothing said untrue, and yet it serves as no perfect alignment, either. Like two identical puzzles with differing cuts, the devilspawn lies in the details: Astarion doubts his rescuer's misguided in belief— the man's too clever-sounding for it. Devoid of the fanaticism of a gnoll or goblin village dunce; he listens. And any creature that listens, isn't damned by his stupidity.

And if the theories about mages or makers are wrong, whatever Corypheus did to tear open the sky and bring him here, wouldn't have worked.]

Once, yes. Still....sort of, but not exactly.

[Easy to follow, right?]

Long ago our kind was contained within one of the astral planes. A place bursting with wild magic and— according to old legend— our own gods as well.

No demons, no unholy abominations or blighting plagues. Granted there were wild spirits that would gladly serve as tricksters when encountered, but nothing more. And while crossing into the material plane wasn't particularly easy, over time, it did begin to happen more and more once contact between worlds was established.

Now understand I'm not a scholar. Hells, I've never been capable of escaping the walls of my master's sprawling city let alone traverse the planes—

So you'll have to make do with the broadest beats and save more intensive study for when the shoe is on the other foot and you cross into my world instead. [Is ever so matter of factly said.] But what I can tell you is that there was a human w— a mage, to coin your term— who was beyond blessed with talent for all things arcane. Even the elves thought him more skilled than any mortal creature prior.

Long story clipped down to a thread: raise your hand if you think that hubris might've gone straight to his head and caused a disastrous calamity the likes of which no realm has ever managed to recover from.

[He scoffs out a laugh, sharp and stark between them, and rolls over to face Astarion once more. He's squirming a lot, he thinks distantly. Wriggling about in his bedroll like an overexcited pup, too delighted by this conversation to contain himself. It's no bad thing, not really, but it does tug at him.]

Shocking that the foolishness of mages carries across wo— realms.

[Of course it does. Of course it does, and there's a thought that could infuriate him if he dwells on it— so he won't.]

But I can predict the end of that story, I think. He, in theory, ousted the elves from their magical realm, destroying their kingdoms and bringing down a calamity unlike any other. And now they've suffered and scraped for an eternity because of it, always repressed and always enslaved. Correct?

[He doesn't wait for an answer (what would be the point, when surely he's right) before continuing:]

Perhaps we simply use different terms, and our realms are far more similar than we first surmised.

I'm certainly inclined to think so. [Not the least bit because it thrills, more than the odd wonder of falling headlong into an entirely new world— the idea they're aligned in some way. Strung across some broad, unknowable distance outside Wheel or World Tree. Ancient bonds, severed ties.

Cut off by the Spellplague and forgotten, whatever god meant to care for this world dead or long, long lost.

It's hopelessly, foolishly romantic.]

—what did you mean by nightly possession?

[He hums his agreement. It is exciting, frankly, and Fenris likes the thought just as much. There's something less mind-breakingly strange about it, if nothing else— but there's also something deeply pleasing about the fact they two have met despite it all. Masters keeping them on a leash all their lives and born worlds apart, and still, somehow, here they both are.]

Mm?

[A less pleasant topic, but there's almost nothing he won't answer right now.]

When one sleeps, unless one is a dwarf, one dreams. And in your dreams— at least, here— you enter the Fade. I suspect you'll do it yourself tonight. No real harm comes of it, for we rarely remember our dreams— not unless you are a mage.

The Fade is magic, and like draws to like. Mages traverse the Fade in their dreams, and demons, sensing an opening, influence them. They do it cleverly, preying on fears or hopes, and worm their way in until they have influenced a mage so thoroughly that they'll agree to possession in exchange for . . . anything.

—hah! [Comes on so brightly that Astarion's eyes glitter like shined rubies in the dark, flaring with enthralled amusement abruptly bordering on giddiness. Too much of him thinks of the trances of elves or half-elves— that transcend awareness to dream not of subconscious dross the way vampires and other humanoid creatures do, but roam outside their own bodies, unbound.

Lone rafts upon an astral sea.

In a theoretically isolated portion of the world tree such as this one, it makes far too much sense that demons would adapt and seek out their prey through other means. His ensuing scoff punctuates that point, albeit sans translation.]

Perhaps we truly are celestially bound. Your....Fade, your demons and their mercenary opportunistic tendencies may not look like anything I've ever seen, but it sounds all too familiar.

Do your demons only make their bartered contracts in that Fade? [The Fade, he then corrects, having already heard the specifics dwelling inside Fenris' usage of the word.]

[Perhaps they really are a world divided. The more they speak, the more it seems likely— though, Fenris scolds himself, it isn't as if he has any idea what he's talking about. Not a few hours ago he hadn't even thought other worlds were possible, and now he's suddenly an expert? But really: it does seem more likely than not, and anyway, the thought is comforting.]

Yes.

[He shrugs one shoulder.]

More or less. I will not say there is never an exception, but it is far, far easier for them to do it in the Fade than here. Frankly, it was a monumentous occasion to see them in the flesh until a few years ago— not unless they were deliberately summoned, anyway. My former master was fond of calling demons of Pride to do his bidding, but he was too canny to ever offer them a deal. Instead, he gave them the blood of others.

Do yours?

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