[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.
[It's a laughably small noise, but Fenris is paying more attention than ever. He knows he doesn't understand, not really, but he can guess at the shape of what Astarion is saying. There's few good ways for that sentence to end, and he cannot fault him for wanting to distance himself from a monster, never mind his master.]
They were wretches, and now they are a world away.
[And it isn't soothing. It isn't trite comfort or false assurance that Fenris has no business giving. It's just a fact, but sometimes those are the most comforting things of all.
He's silent for a few moments. Then, just a little abruptly:]
My lyrium enables me to go transparent.
[He rolls his fingers and feels the lyrium tug at his knuckles.]
Exceedingly useful in battle— not to mention if I need to flee or reposition myself with a group of attackers. I will never say I'm grateful for it, but it gives me an edge in battle that no one else has. I can even isolate it to parts of my body if I so wish.
Most often, I use it to tear the heart out of my enemies.
[His voice as steady and even as his gaze.]
Blue Wraith, they call me, and it is not a compliment. I am a terror to those I call my foes, and before that, I was a terror to whomever my master pointed me at. There is nothing and no one in the world like me, and there never will be.
I will not call myself a wretch. But I am no hero, either.
And you should know what you travel with.
proof yesterday was a disaster bc I forgot it was actually my turn??? ??????????
On that, they agree. Astarion has lived for so long with panic lining his limbs that he craves certainty. Security. No surprises, please gods, he's had enough of dead drop twists— aside from the knot in his stomach that curdles to think of returning the favor, already rushing to try and phrase it correctly. Cage horror in a way that flatters 'oh it wasn't me— I had no choice, I took no throats', but there's no cause for it when the topic of the hour is rending hearts. No cause, and yet his palms are clammy still.
He combats it with a smile run too glassy to the brim, filled with cruel contempt.]
My master's appetite was endless. While he fed me dead rats and bugs to stave the edge of uselessness in starvation, he longed nightly for the purest beauty Baldur's Gate might have to offer— the sanguine sort, if that isn't clear: the young, the well-bred, the enviably handsome or tenderest of hearts— those were the sort of unsuspecting meals meant to grace his table and that of his most precious guests.
Luring them was my role.
[The echo he adopts is laced with punctuation. A steady hand.]
[He listens. It's a nauseating tale, to be sure, though perhaps not for the reasons Astarion thinks. He feasted upon blood and flesh and used me as a lure, and there is no part that does not turn Fenris' stomach. But nor does it shock him.]
And now I know.
[His voice is as even as his gaze, steady and sure. And it isn't apathy or blitheness that has him reacting so calmly— but he would not blame Astarion for assuming that.]
The streets of Tevinter and Kirkwall are paved with the blood of innumerable slaves. Spilled for no other reason than indulgence, or experiment, or feign for power. And though it was on a master's orders, I have no doubt it was a slave more often than not who drew the knife over their fellows' throat.
I do not hold myself responsible for those victims whose lives I ended upon my master's orders.
[But this isn't about him. And while it's nice to think that a near-stranger's pronouncement of guilt or innocence could change things, it won't. Not really. So, a little more quietly:]
[Steady and sure, and yet Astarion's own image falters in the face of it; inadvertently admitting that he's just too long persisted inside those margins writ by lightless manipulation. Has to squint to try and measure its antithesis, atrophied pupils failing hard to scratch the surface.
Let alone weather it without flinching, despite feigning a mirrored show.]
Of course not. [(A twitch of the eye. A lightness in his tone that doesn't find its footing, camaradie falling wretchedly short).
Astarion nearly frowns to hear himself.]
No one ever blames the knife for rending flesh. The venomous fang for its poison, rather than the snake itself. [Of course not.
And whether or not Fenris believes Astarion as he asserts that almost doesn't matter. He has his guesses, quiet and informed by his own past, but what Fenris does or doesn't believe is ultimately irrelevant. It's what Astarion internalizes that matters.
Perhaps someday they'll revisit this conversation, and he'll ask again. Perhaps they'll even grow close enough he'll get an honest answer.]
They should not, anyway, [he finally settles upon, his tone light.] Though never is a very large word, and the world is full of people who have little idea of what it is to be a slave.
[But he will not push.]
But you were right before: this is a poor subject for a late night. And I would not have you spend your first evening in freedom ruminating on what came before.
Tell me instead more of this city of yours. You say it was a grand thing? But you may be surprised . . . Kirkwall is far from a jewel, but she is a port city-state, and larger and more sprawling than most suspect. I wonder if your Baldur's Gate will compare.
Oh I very much doubt i'll be able to escape rumination with a view like this. [It is so hazy, the sudden measure of his hooded stare as it washes over everything— present company included. Aimless as the slow blink that he finally manages through those grit-lined eyes, now dark around their corners.]
But it— hm. [wistful, nearly.] It had its charms and vistas, its beauty and its rot. More former; a great deal of the latter.
I can't pretend I was eternally awash in awe each time I found myself cut loose within her walls with purpose, but....gods above, it was a thrill.
Still.
[Theres a tug of upwards movement just along the corner of his mouth.]
[He curses his own foolishness in asking such a question the moment it leaves his lips, but it's too late to take it back now. I've never been allowed to leave, Astarion had said— but as he talks, he confirms what Fenris had vaguely suspected: little trips. Little visits with explicit instruction, nothing close to real freedom or exploration. It mirrors Fenris' own experience, and perhaps that's why he made the error in the first place.
For he remembers that thrill, too. The impossible delight of walking around Minrathous on those rare occasions when Danarius would send him on an errand alone: listening voyeuristically to conversations without context, baffled at bursts of laughter and awed at the freedom people so casually exercised without a second thought. So different from all he knew, so strange, so shocking— and like a gulp of ice water, the reminder that there were other ways of life hurt as much as it refreshed.]
We shall see.
[He's looking forward to it, Fenris realizes.]
Though I'll have to trust in your honesty. It cannot be a fair competition unless I see your city in return.
[And that's certainly not happening, ha ha ha. But levity feels, if not false, at least a little strange— and so he adds more quietly:]
It was a rare day when Danarius let me off my leash, but it happened now and again. Minrathous is the supposed jewel of the Empire, and she is dazzling, so long as you don't mind all the slaves and blood magic.
I can still remember the taste of the first beer I snuck, using change from a purchase my master had sent me to retrieve. It was vile— but it was my own to consume as I pleased. And even that inspired awe, in its own way.
Oh so you do have taste. Thank goodness for that— I was beginning to wonder if you weren't one of those swaggering brawlers that swears the only cure for anything in life is a mug of piss-scented swill. [Don't be fooled by the shape of playfulness taking root in his expression:
This isn't keen deflection.
On the contrary, underneath the surface level gleam of hollow eyes in well-cast darkness, Astarion does the very same thing he's done all evening thus far— he hangs on every word. Devours it, insomuch as his own racing awareness will let him at any point in time. Casting odd glances down towards sleek green or up towards a canopy of unfamiliar stars. Casting more discreet glances towards the elf he tries to picture in something that— at least in daydream theory— walks a stretch of miles in his shoes.]
I take it you've developed your palette in freedom for more than just said freedom.
[It's so strange to talk like this: dipping in and out of the past, alluding to old horrors in one moment and speaking lightly of drinks and gambling in the next. He would have thought it would feel disingenuous, a smirk on his lips akin to the worst kind of flippancy, but instead . . . it just feels good. Ordinary in the sweetest way, and all the more addicting for it.
There's no pity. There's no need to couch his words or go on the defensive, not when it comes to his past— and Astarion seems to be of the same caliber. Despite being mere hours out of enslavement, the pale elf is of a different caliber than Orana— and perhaps, Fenris thinks, he too has learned how to talk about this. How to walk that razor's edge between grief and bitter amusement.
And there's something oddly addicting, too, about getting to do this. He doesn't miss those darting eyes, nor the hunger in Astarion's expression, and it's such a quiet satisfaction to sate that appetite.]
Agreggio Pavali is an especially good strain of wine if you enjoy reds— and I do suspect it does. I, ah, inherited several bottles of it when I killed my master, and several more of other vintages I only found much later. They still rest in my home, presuming no one has looted it or repossessed it.
Whiskey is a specialty of Kirkwall; there's a Master of it who lurks in Darktown, selling only to those who take the time to find him. Cheaper spirits can be found in most bars, but quality varies.
[He scoffs a laugh and adds:]
Though if cocktails are more to your taste, there is one called Dragon's Piss that they once served in a bar I knew. I imagine they still do. Or they have sweeter ones, if your tongue cannot handle a bit of spice.
Or, [he says, more warmth creeping into his voice than he means for there to be,] if you do not know your own tastes, I will buy you a glass. And we will learn.
[No. No pity whatsoever. No miring, no squirming as the screws wind tight over old vulnerabilities and fears— like a well done dance, there's an unseen balance woven deep throughout the seams, and it isn't a mirror to the Szarr's puppeting strings. Each time he feels it tug tight (coaxing either of their banter back and forth), he swears he can very nearly pin the difference down between his balled-up fingertips. Mark the places where it sinks into his fingerprints. His mood. His awareness: the thinnest razor edge between intuition and compulsion.
It isn't a lie, what Fenris tells him.
It can't be.
Not when choice comes as easily as this, nesting in a fluttering heartbeat that aches hard and hot along the inside of his throat. Intoxicating. Perfect. Too right.]
....don't make promises you don't intend to keep, darling boy. [Weaves its way out of his throat with a bruising quality to it. Warm as a fever. Distinct in its hue when exposed.
Hopeful. That's what it is. And yet still too afraid to give in blind.]
[Darling boy, and in any other time, in any other circumstance, he would ask after that. Probe at it cautiously, carefully, intent not on shutting it down (how odd that he knows he wouldn't, but never mind that), but simply understanding what Astarion means by it.
But not now. Not when there's that terribly fragile note in Astarion's voice, so terrified and vulnerable that Fenris could shatter it with a word. A breath.
He catches the elf's eye with unwavering confidence, and says with heavy deliberation:]
I never do.
[Sturdy and steady, so that Astarion might build his confidence from that alone.]
Tomorrow night. Or the next day, if it suits you better. Next week, or next year . . . you have my word, Astarion. And I will not break it, not by choice.
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[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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[It's a laughably small noise, but Fenris is paying more attention than ever. He knows he doesn't understand, not really, but he can guess at the shape of what Astarion is saying. There's few good ways for that sentence to end, and he cannot fault him for wanting to distance himself from a monster, never mind his master.]
They were wretches, and now they are a world away.
[And it isn't soothing. It isn't trite comfort or false assurance that Fenris has no business giving. It's just a fact, but sometimes those are the most comforting things of all.
He's silent for a few moments. Then, just a little abruptly:]
My lyrium enables me to go transparent.
[He rolls his fingers and feels the lyrium tug at his knuckles.]
Exceedingly useful in battle— not to mention if I need to flee or reposition myself with a group of attackers. I will never say I'm grateful for it, but it gives me an edge in battle that no one else has. I can even isolate it to parts of my body if I so wish.
Most often, I use it to tear the heart out of my enemies.
[His voice as steady and even as his gaze.]
Blue Wraith, they call me, and it is not a compliment. I am a terror to those I call my foes, and before that, I was a terror to whomever my master pointed me at. There is nothing and no one in the world like me, and there never will be.
I will not call myself a wretch. But I am no hero, either.
And you should know what you travel with.
proof yesterday was a disaster bc I forgot it was actually my turn??? ??????????
On that, they agree. Astarion has lived for so long with panic lining his limbs that he craves certainty. Security. No surprises, please gods, he's had enough of dead drop twists— aside from the knot in his stomach that curdles to think of returning the favor, already rushing to try and phrase it correctly. Cage horror in a way that flatters 'oh it wasn't me— I had no choice, I took no throats', but there's no cause for it when the topic of the hour is rending hearts. No cause, and yet his palms are clammy still.
He combats it with a smile run too glassy to the brim, filled with cruel contempt.]
My master's appetite was endless. While he fed me dead rats and bugs to stave the edge of uselessness in starvation, he longed nightly for the purest beauty Baldur's Gate might have to offer— the sanguine sort, if that isn't clear: the young, the well-bred, the enviably handsome or tenderest of hearts— those were the sort of unsuspecting meals meant to grace his table and that of his most precious guests.
Luring them was my role.
[The echo he adopts is laced with punctuation. A steady hand.]
You should know what you travel with.
IT WAS HARD OKAY
And now I know.
[His voice is as even as his gaze, steady and sure. And it isn't apathy or blitheness that has him reacting so calmly— but he would not blame Astarion for assuming that.]
The streets of Tevinter and Kirkwall are paved with the blood of innumerable slaves. Spilled for no other reason than indulgence, or experiment, or feign for power. And though it was on a master's orders, I have no doubt it was a slave more often than not who drew the knife over their fellows' throat.
I do not hold myself responsible for those victims whose lives I ended upon my master's orders.
[But this isn't about him. And while it's nice to think that a near-stranger's pronouncement of guilt or innocence could change things, it won't. Not really. So, a little more quietly:]
Do you?
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Let alone weather it without flinching, despite feigning a mirrored show.]
Of course not. [(A twitch of the eye. A lightness in his tone that doesn't find its footing, camaradie falling wretchedly short).
Astarion nearly frowns to hear himself.]
No one ever blames the knife for rending flesh. The venomous fang for its poison, rather than the snake itself. [Of course not.
Of course not....]
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And whether or not Fenris believes Astarion as he asserts that almost doesn't matter. He has his guesses, quiet and informed by his own past, but what Fenris does or doesn't believe is ultimately irrelevant. It's what Astarion internalizes that matters.
Perhaps someday they'll revisit this conversation, and he'll ask again. Perhaps they'll even grow close enough he'll get an honest answer.]
They should not, anyway, [he finally settles upon, his tone light.] Though never is a very large word, and the world is full of people who have little idea of what it is to be a slave.
[But he will not push.]
But you were right before: this is a poor subject for a late night. And I would not have you spend your first evening in freedom ruminating on what came before.
Tell me instead more of this city of yours. You say it was a grand thing? But you may be surprised . . . Kirkwall is far from a jewel, but she is a port city-state, and larger and more sprawling than most suspect. I wonder if your Baldur's Gate will compare.
[Gentle, toothless comparisons.]
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But it— hm. [wistful, nearly.] It had its charms and vistas, its beauty and its rot. More former; a great deal of the latter.
I can't pretend I was eternally awash in awe each time I found myself cut loose within her walls with purpose, but....gods above, it was a thrill.
Still.
[Theres a tug of upwards movement just along the corner of his mouth.]
You might actually be right.
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For he remembers that thrill, too. The impossible delight of walking around Minrathous on those rare occasions when Danarius would send him on an errand alone: listening voyeuristically to conversations without context, baffled at bursts of laughter and awed at the freedom people so casually exercised without a second thought. So different from all he knew, so strange, so shocking— and like a gulp of ice water, the reminder that there were other ways of life hurt as much as it refreshed.]
We shall see.
[He's looking forward to it, Fenris realizes.]
Though I'll have to trust in your honesty. It cannot be a fair competition unless I see your city in return.
[And that's certainly not happening, ha ha ha. But levity feels, if not false, at least a little strange— and so he adds more quietly:]
It was a rare day when Danarius let me off my leash, but it happened now and again. Minrathous is the supposed jewel of the Empire, and she is dazzling, so long as you don't mind all the slaves and blood magic.
I can still remember the taste of the first beer I snuck, using change from a purchase my master had sent me to retrieve. It was vile— but it was my own to consume as I pleased. And even that inspired awe, in its own way.
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This isn't keen deflection.
On the contrary, underneath the surface level gleam of hollow eyes in well-cast darkness, Astarion does the very same thing he's done all evening thus far— he hangs on every word. Devours it, insomuch as his own racing awareness will let him at any point in time. Casting odd glances down towards sleek green or up towards a canopy of unfamiliar stars. Casting more discreet glances towards the elf he tries to picture in something that— at least in daydream theory— walks a stretch of miles in his shoes.]
I take it you've developed your palette in freedom for more than just said freedom.
[Astarion imagines that he would.]
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[It's so strange to talk like this: dipping in and out of the past, alluding to old horrors in one moment and speaking lightly of drinks and gambling in the next. He would have thought it would feel disingenuous, a smirk on his lips akin to the worst kind of flippancy, but instead . . . it just feels good. Ordinary in the sweetest way, and all the more addicting for it.
There's no pity. There's no need to couch his words or go on the defensive, not when it comes to his past— and Astarion seems to be of the same caliber. Despite being mere hours out of enslavement, the pale elf is of a different caliber than Orana— and perhaps, Fenris thinks, he too has learned how to talk about this. How to walk that razor's edge between grief and bitter amusement.
And there's something oddly addicting, too, about getting to do this. He doesn't miss those darting eyes, nor the hunger in Astarion's expression, and it's such a quiet satisfaction to sate that appetite.]
Agreggio Pavali is an especially good strain of wine if you enjoy reds— and I do suspect it does. I, ah, inherited several bottles of it when I killed my master, and several more of other vintages I only found much later. They still rest in my home, presuming no one has looted it or repossessed it.
Whiskey is a specialty of Kirkwall; there's a Master of it who lurks in Darktown, selling only to those who take the time to find him. Cheaper spirits can be found in most bars, but quality varies.
[He scoffs a laugh and adds:]
Though if cocktails are more to your taste, there is one called Dragon's Piss that they once served in a bar I knew. I imagine they still do. Or they have sweeter ones, if your tongue cannot handle a bit of spice.
Or, [he says, more warmth creeping into his voice than he means for there to be,] if you do not know your own tastes, I will buy you a glass. And we will learn.
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It isn't a lie, what Fenris tells him.
It can't be.
Not when choice comes as easily as this, nesting in a fluttering heartbeat that aches hard and hot along the inside of his throat. Intoxicating. Perfect. Too right.]
....don't make promises you don't intend to keep, darling boy. [Weaves its way out of his throat with a bruising quality to it. Warm as a fever. Distinct in its hue when exposed.
Hopeful. That's what it is. And yet still too afraid to give in blind.]
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But not now. Not when there's that terribly fragile note in Astarion's voice, so terrified and vulnerable that Fenris could shatter it with a word. A breath.
He catches the elf's eye with unwavering confidence, and says with heavy deliberation:]
I never do.
[Sturdy and steady, so that Astarion might build his confidence from that alone.]
Tomorrow night. Or the next day, if it suits you better. Next week, or next year . . . you have my word, Astarion. And I will not break it, not by choice.
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