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.
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.
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.
[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.
Just....blood? [Earns another owlish set of blinks, run thick in their pacing from having to play second fiddle to every racing thought currently coursing through his skull.] Hm. Fascinating.
It must've been a great deal of it, I expect, otherwise the effort could hardly have been worthwhile in those devils' eyes when they could simply reach out and take it for themselves.
And no. Not to say it doesn't happen, or couldn't, but demons of all shades oft arrive in mortal guise to ply their trade to the desperate or greedy. They lust for souls— mortal servitude forever theirs to toy with— and yet, like the bargain your master made, have been known to agree to lesser deals provided it plays out in their favor.
[Huh. It's no less odd a currency to desire, Fenris supposes, but it's also so strange to hear the existence of souls confirmed so matter-of-factly. It's like having Bigfoot suddenly proved real without any fanfare or fuss; it's no bad thing, but it does take a moment to adjust to.]
The Chantry teaches that we have souls, each species in their own fashion, and I suppose I do not disagree— but I do not think demons wish for them here, for what are they if not spirits themselves? It's the physical body they lack, and the means to access the living world.
[Mortal servitude, and it's strange to imagine that, too. He mulls on it for a few moments, and then:]
Demons here are usually spirits of an emotion. Pride, say, or envy, lust, greed . . . vengeance. They use mages to amplify their own nature, and corrupt them into enacting their will. In that sense, I suppose you could call it servitude, but . . . you make it sound as thought the demons in your world act as mortals do, enslaving and collecting. Do they manage to retain an identity when they return to the Astral Plane?
Mmm. [Reads something like mmhmm, and comes with a slow nod.] Well, if your world's been cut off from the other planes for a near eternity, it would make sense: demons have been locked in warring struggle for longer than all recorded history itself. They envy without end— desire dominon even amongst each other. Some mindless as a husk, others so cunning you'd find yourself caught within a blink.
With only one plane to contain them, and no master— perhaps even no will— well.
[It does make sense, though Fenris isn't so certain that Thedas is the one cut off from everything else. Why should it be? Besides: that doesn't necessarily align with the teachings of the Chantry— and while he's far from devout, still. They can't all be wrong.]
I suppose . . . it does make sense, and Maker knows the demons I have encountered were eternally starved things, desperate for any handhold they could grasp. I do not doubt the sentient ones fight among themselves in the Fade.
Still: it might be the opposite.
[It's just the barest shade of defensive. He doesn't care, not really, but he has to defend Thedas.]
You have hundreds of gods . . . perhaps they themselves evolved from being cut off from the Maker himself.
[Maybe? Fenris shrugs after a moment, letting the subject fall to the wayside.]
Have you ever heard of other worlds? You spoke of them among the stars . . . are they known to you, or was that a mere guess?
[The headcock Astarion adopts is enough of an answer towards that first snippet of supposition; gods swear they could be at this for an eternity and come up with a thousand more ideas, each as viable as the last.
All that is, is hypothetical. The latter question, he can answer with an absolute:]
Indeed I have. The proof is undeniable, considering it invades from time to time in the form of hideous monstrosities— or the slightly less hideous parties of marauders that carve their path across the stars upon ships laden with machinery and magic both.
Now, have I seen it personally—
[There's a pause. A flash of something hot white and sharp cutting through the center of his mind, ice pick sensation ebbing when he shuts his eyes. Cants his head the other way. Letting the ghost of the peripheral subside.]
No.
[A smile.]
But I have seen the races that did traverse worlds to merger with our own. I've seen the children of gods, and the destruction they've caused, too.
[Again, there's that sense of dissonance. It's not disbelief, for what reason would Astarion have to lie? And yet it's so wild as to be almost unbelievable. Children of gods and strange creatures that came from space to merge with one's world . . . he has a thousand question and doesn't know where to start. They leap about in his mind, and the only thing that sticks is a faint, wry thought that of course some opportunistic person jumped at the chance to mate with something new. People are people regardless of realm.
But it's late. And though he desperately wants to know more, he isn't totally irresponsible. So he glances away for a moment, gathering himself, and then continues:]
You will have to tell me about them someday. The children of gods and those races that traversed the stars . . . I can scarcely imagine such a thing.
[. . . but then curiosity gets the better of him, at least a little, and he adds:]
I can scarcely imagine lyrium. Or bound slaves without a master. Or— [He turns his palm over to show that emerald blaze of anchored magic, still seething.] —this.
I'd say we're somewhat even, darling.
[But hmm. How to explain it. Don't mind him, Fenris, the way his ears tuck back behind his curls and the rise of a digit to his chin is just a sign of deeper contemplation, before:]
The nobility here. You've met their children?
—or been near them at one moment or another, surely.
[Fair enough, and he tips his head, acknowledging and agreeing with Astarion's point all at once. His lyrium really must seem strange, he realizes. He's all but forgotten it, too wrapped up in this conversation, but of course it's as foreign to Astarion as all of this is to him.
He takes in those tucking ears (cute, and he doesn't think it now, but he will in a few years, viewing these memories all over again), though his nose wrinkles petulantly at that question.]
More often than I ever would have cared to, yes.
[Not all nobility are awful, admittedly. He'll never love his love for Hawke, and Sebastian had been fine enough, but still. Ugh.]
Demigods are so much worse. [Coy as a kittenish purr from the hollow of his throat; sharing secrets like a duchess having taken in too much brandy and good company, now prone to making dangerous little jokes in secret.
And all of them true.]
They embody the spirit of their pampered parentage and wear it like a bloody shirt for good or ill will, and both are damned intolerable. The last to visit razed nearly all the city for its father— the god of murder— just by showing up. And though I had been locked away for the entirety of the disaster, believe me, the whole damned thing was all anyone could talk about for years.
That makes an unfortunate amount of sense. Though it does seem the natural conclusion of tolerating worship to a god of murder.
[Like, he's just saying! The critique not aimed at Astarion but Toril, and perhaps religion in general. With a little grin, he adds:]
I suppose I cannot judge. Kirkwall is no better. For six years she played host to a group of unflinchingly rigid warriors who despised everything the city stood for, and had the audacity to act shocked when it all inevitably boiled over and they ransacked the city.
You'll hear word of it, I have no doubt. Though I do wonder which was worse. Qunari are frighteningly competent, but then again, they have no divine parentage . . . though both, I imagine, feel as though they owed something to a higher calling.
Was it just the one demigod that caused all the destruction, or did he have an army, too?
Some say the wretch had a fleet at its disposal, while others claim it tore the city asunder in broad daylight, alone, and drenched in blood.
[His chuckle comes and goes faster than a blink.]
I imagine the truth lies somewhere in the middle.
[But when he rolls forward to tuck his chin into his unagonized palm, it's with an air of palpable thrill.] Were they tall, these unflinching rigid warriors? Broad in stature and singleminded determination and rippling with muscle, perhaps?
[Oh, and for just a moment something bittersweet crosses Fenris' face, there and gone. Astarion might not even have noticed it unless he's paying attention; it's replaced swiftly enough with a scoffing laugh.
(I heard Tevinter slaves are kept oiled so they glisten, and funny, isn't it, what makes him think of her . . .)]
I commend you for focusing on the real priorities here.
But yes: they are all that and more. They stand around six to eight feet tall, grey-skinned and white haired as a rule, with horns and a somewhat bovine inclination around their facial features.
[He gestures at his own face, trying (somewhat badly) to illustrate what that means.]
With that said: they are, without exception, extremely disciplined. Their religion is their way of life and has no tolerance for disobedience— and they do not lie with bas— outsiders.
You would have better luck with the outcasts of their world, perhaps. They still lurk about Lowtown from time to time. Though you may want to be sure of your own talents before you approach them; they do not suffer braggarts, no matter the arena.
And at your height, I suspect you'd have something to prove to them.
[They are literally the same height, and Fenris knows goddamn well what he's talking about.]
At my everything I suspect it wouldn't take half as much as you think. [Wrinkles his fine nose with the most dagger-sharp of grins: all teeth. All jagged, pointed edges.
All confidence.]
Religion is such a flimsy defense against desire behind closed doors, after all. [That smile twitches upwards for a beat.] But I'm all full up on warriors I'm currently proving my worth to at the moment. Alas.
[He cocks his head, quietly disagreeing with that first comment; Astarion might have decent enough skills in flirtation, but Fenris knows Qunari. But oh, that grin . . . Maker's breath, and his eyes linger there for a few seconds too long.]
You have nothing to prove to me— beyond, perhaps, your so-called skills with a weapon, if that's a fiction you wish to maintain.
[I haven't forgotten about that, his look says, with a quiet addition of, and I'll be following up on it if you stay with me. It's as much for his own peace of mind as anything.]
Though your teeth could serve in a pinch. Is that another aspect of your curse, or another difference between elves in your world and mine?
Tch. All creatures should be so lucky. [Makes for two lies passably sold: the first already cited by Fenris' blunter teeth— the faint glimpse of which draws Astarion's attention where he rests.
At this rate, dawn will come before either of them finish teasing one another.
And that's hardly a complaint.]
But it was one more facet of my 'gift', as the vampiric saying goes. We are—
Some of us are built to be as deadly as our diet theoretically demands: ones such as my master and his kin, who can, no doubt basking in the glory of their free will and unfettered power, coax even the most stunning and skittish of mortals to their side, and—
[His pause is suddenly loose. A dry noise in his empty throat, working against more than gravity.]
—I.
[A clipped exhale.]
On second thought, this may not be the best of late night subjects. [That isn't it; he just doesn't long to be associated with the grim potential of his kind.
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no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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?
no subject
It must've been a great deal of it, I expect, otherwise the effort could hardly have been worthwhile in those devils' eyes when they could simply reach out and take it for themselves.
And no. Not to say it doesn't happen, or couldn't, but demons of all shades oft arrive in mortal guise to ply their trade to the desperate or greedy. They lust for souls— mortal servitude forever theirs to toy with— and yet, like the bargain your master made, have been known to agree to lesser deals provided it plays out in their favor.
no subject
[Huh. It's no less odd a currency to desire, Fenris supposes, but it's also so strange to hear the existence of souls confirmed so matter-of-factly. It's like having Bigfoot suddenly proved real without any fanfare or fuss; it's no bad thing, but it does take a moment to adjust to.]
The Chantry teaches that we have souls, each species in their own fashion, and I suppose I do not disagree— but I do not think demons wish for them here, for what are they if not spirits themselves? It's the physical body they lack, and the means to access the living world.
[Mortal servitude, and it's strange to imagine that, too. He mulls on it for a few moments, and then:]
Demons here are usually spirits of an emotion. Pride, say, or envy, lust, greed . . . vengeance. They use mages to amplify their own nature, and corrupt them into enacting their will. In that sense, I suppose you could call it servitude, but . . . you make it sound as thought the demons in your world act as mortals do, enslaving and collecting. Do they manage to retain an identity when they return to the Astral Plane?
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With only one plane to contain them, and no master— perhaps even no will— well.
Focuses do narrow. And evolution is a wonder.
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I suppose . . . it does make sense, and Maker knows the demons I have encountered were eternally starved things, desperate for any handhold they could grasp. I do not doubt the sentient ones fight among themselves in the Fade.
Still: it might be the opposite.
[It's just the barest shade of defensive. He doesn't care, not really, but he has to defend Thedas.]
You have hundreds of gods . . . perhaps they themselves evolved from being cut off from the Maker himself.
[Maybe? Fenris shrugs after a moment, letting the subject fall to the wayside.]
Have you ever heard of other worlds? You spoke of them among the stars . . . are they known to you, or was that a mere guess?
[God, this is getting very Kingdom Hearts.]
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All that is, is hypothetical. The latter question, he can answer with an absolute:]
Indeed I have. The proof is undeniable, considering it invades from time to time in the form of hideous monstrosities— or the slightly less hideous parties of marauders that carve their path across the stars upon ships laden with machinery and magic both.
Now, have I seen it personally—
[There's a pause. A flash of something hot white and sharp cutting through the center of his mind, ice pick sensation ebbing when he shuts his eyes. Cants his head the other way. Letting the ghost of the peripheral subside.]
No.
[A smile.]
But I have seen the races that did traverse worlds to merger with our own. I've seen the children of gods, and the destruction they've caused, too.
And now I've seen your world. So.
[Are you Riku or Sora, Fenris?]
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[Again, there's that sense of dissonance. It's not disbelief, for what reason would Astarion have to lie? And yet it's so wild as to be almost unbelievable. Children of gods and strange creatures that came from space to merge with one's world . . . he has a thousand question and doesn't know where to start. They leap about in his mind, and the only thing that sticks is a faint, wry thought that of course some opportunistic person jumped at the chance to mate with something new. People are people regardless of realm.
But it's late. And though he desperately wants to know more, he isn't totally irresponsible. So he glances away for a moment, gathering himself, and then continues:]
You will have to tell me about them someday. The children of gods and those races that traversed the stars . . . I can scarcely imagine such a thing.
[. . . but then curiosity gets the better of him, at least a little, and he adds:]
How did you know they were children of gods?
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I'd say we're somewhat even, darling.
[But hmm. How to explain it. Don't mind him, Fenris, the way his ears tuck back behind his curls and the rise of a digit to his chin is just a sign of deeper contemplation, before:]
The nobility here. You've met their children?
—or been near them at one moment or another, surely.
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He takes in those tucking ears (cute, and he doesn't think it now, but he will in a few years, viewing these memories all over again), though his nose wrinkles petulantly at that question.]
More often than I ever would have cared to, yes.
[Not all nobility are awful, admittedly. He'll never love his love for Hawke, and Sebastian had been fine enough, but still. Ugh.]
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And all of them true.]
They embody the spirit of their pampered parentage and wear it like a bloody shirt for good or ill will, and both are damned intolerable. The last to visit razed nearly all the city for its father— the god of murder— just by showing up. And though I had been locked away for the entirety of the disaster, believe me, the whole damned thing was all anyone could talk about for years.
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That makes an unfortunate amount of sense. Though it does seem the natural conclusion of tolerating worship to a god of murder.
[Like, he's just saying! The critique not aimed at Astarion but Toril, and perhaps religion in general. With a little grin, he adds:]
I suppose I cannot judge. Kirkwall is no better. For six years she played host to a group of unflinchingly rigid warriors who despised everything the city stood for, and had the audacity to act shocked when it all inevitably boiled over and they ransacked the city.
You'll hear word of it, I have no doubt. Though I do wonder which was worse. Qunari are frighteningly competent, but then again, they have no divine parentage . . . though both, I imagine, feel as though they owed something to a higher calling.
Was it just the one demigod that caused all the destruction, or did he have an army, too?
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Some say the wretch had a fleet at its disposal, while others claim it tore the city asunder in broad daylight, alone, and drenched in blood.
[His chuckle comes and goes faster than a blink.]
I imagine the truth lies somewhere in the middle.
[But when he rolls forward to tuck his chin into his unagonized palm, it's with an air of palpable thrill.] Were they tall, these unflinching rigid warriors? Broad in stature and singleminded determination and rippling with muscle, perhaps?
Asking for a friend.
[He has no friends.]
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(I heard Tevinter slaves are kept oiled so they glisten, and funny, isn't it, what makes him think of her . . .)]
I commend you for focusing on the real priorities here.
But yes: they are all that and more. They stand around six to eight feet tall, grey-skinned and white haired as a rule, with horns and a somewhat bovine inclination around their facial features.
[He gestures at his own face, trying (somewhat badly) to illustrate what that means.]
With that said: they are, without exception, extremely disciplined. Their religion is their way of life and has no tolerance for disobedience— and they do not lie with bas— outsiders.
You would have better luck with the outcasts of their world, perhaps. They still lurk about Lowtown from time to time. Though you may want to be sure of your own talents before you approach them; they do not suffer braggarts, no matter the arena.
And at your height, I suspect you'd have something to prove to them.
[They are literally the same height, and Fenris knows goddamn well what he's talking about.]
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All confidence.]
Religion is such a flimsy defense against desire behind closed doors, after all. [That smile twitches upwards for a beat.] But I'm all full up on warriors I'm currently proving my worth to at the moment. Alas.
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You have nothing to prove to me— beyond, perhaps, your so-called skills with a weapon, if that's a fiction you wish to maintain.
[I haven't forgotten about that, his look says, with a quiet addition of, and I'll be following up on it if you stay with me. It's as much for his own peace of mind as anything.]
Though your teeth could serve in a pinch. Is that another aspect of your curse, or another difference between elves in your world and mine?
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At this rate, dawn will come before either of them finish teasing one another.
And that's hardly a complaint.]
But it was one more facet of my 'gift', as the vampiric saying goes. We are—
Some of us are built to be as deadly as our diet theoretically demands: ones such as my master and his kin, who can, no doubt basking in the glory of their free will and unfettered power, coax even the most stunning and skittish of mortals to their side, and—
[His pause is suddenly loose. A dry noise in his empty throat, working against more than gravity.]
—I.
[A clipped exhale.]
On second thought, this may not be the best of late night subjects. [That isn't it; he just doesn't long to be associated with the grim potential of his kind.
Not yet.]
They were wretches. I promise you, I'm not.
[Three lies.]
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proof yesterday was a disaster bc I forgot it was actually my turn??? ??????????
IT WAS HARD OKAY
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