illithidnapped

The mage tower is not quite as dilapidated as former hovels, but its upkeep, on the lowest levels, has certainly been neglected. The dining hall is largely forgotten, but long windows hewn in that style of Kirkwall stone shed long fingers of light through its cobwebbed dimness.

Fenris likes it.

He sits by a window with twelve year old Batteseria and a deck of cards he manages to shuffle expertly in gauntleted fingers. He looks content.

He doesn't linger in the open doorway once he's spotted exactly where he'd been directed earlier, easily picking up the slim silhouette of a familiar creature backlit by midday light. There was a time when he'd avoid the numerous rays cutting pale lines through the air between them, but— well, that's not his problem to fuss over anymore.

The relief he feels with every step spent passing through them doesn't remove the faint, petulant quality to an otherwise tamer tone.

"It had better be good wine."

"It's red Batteseria. It isn't made anymore, since the war started." Apparently, grousing about wine quality is a first priority. "Sit down, the chairs are clean."

The one near Fenris' spot by the window, anyway.

And— oh. A rare wine, a clean space made, it's almost as if Fenris knows exactly how to soothe a restless heart.

Not that he's wholly restless per se, just...

"You've gotten too good at sparking a little frustration, you know." Murmured as he settles easily into the seat at Fenris' side, folding one ankle across his knee and letting his spine meet the chair in a lenient half-slouch. "It can't just be all damning pitfalls. You need to balance it out, or your victim will never stick around long enough to see it through."

Edited 2021-05-25 06:02 (UTC)

"I see no sense in the course you are setting," Fenris says, flat as iron, while pouring the wine for both of them. "And I do not think it will advantage to at all. But that is your choice."

A shrug, accentuated by feathered metal at Fenris' shoulders. Who is he to stop Astarion?

"Oh come on, it's just a bit of fun." He couldn't scoff it out harder if he tried, spare hand waving idly in midair between them as he reaches for his own cup, shamelessly eager for the relief of a good drink. Or what he hopes will be a good drink— his first real taste in nearly two hundred years.

"No one's getting hurt. They'll be fine."

"I care not for their precious feelings," Fenris says, staring out the window. "It is your reputation as useful that is being harmed."

“My— ” The cup’s to his lips when he sputters, blinking rapidly in disbelief. “You’re serious.”

The scent of that wine carries. He doesn’t want to leave it, and instead has to satisfy himself with catching a few spare droplets from the rim before pulling back— vivid beyond belief, compared to his own lingering memories. Gods.

But— no, he’ll return to that later.

“Why? It's nothing.”

He's a stranger here. A nobody, in essence. There's no reputation to sully, aside from the empty void he's now filling with contempt which— yes, fair, isn't the most productive thing imaginable, but what does it all matter? They wouldn't call on him anyway. They wouldn't care. He's just another pair of hands to Riftwatch, he imagines.

No point in pretending otherwise.

"This city has always been a mousetrap," Fenris says, "or- a trapped mouse. They will take all and anyone, I suspect, or I would not be here."

He is native to this place, true, but sometimes it feels... only barely.

"You are marking yourself as an amusement, or a trouble; nothing that can help anyone in a war against a very potent force."

Fenris talks, and it’s in that opportunity that he finally takes one deep, bold sip— the overwhelmingly robust, acrid heat sweet as succor as it washes across his tongue. The back of his throat. Prompting a distant, contented little sigh right in the middle of Fenris’ very important discussion.

Right. They were having a conversation.

He lowers his glass, smiles faintly.

“So that’s why you were needling me about wanting to do nothing.” It makes more sense in hindsight, with a little perspective on the table.

“But I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with you. It’s my own reputation to ruin, after all. Not yours.”

"If you can't conceive of the possibility that I consider you an ally," Fenris says, in that particularly nasal tone that conveys a politely slotted insult, "perhaps consider that we are at war, and not helping is very stupid."

For himself, Fenris drinks the wine quickly, gauntleted hands holding his goblet with metallic ease.

"You're ruining it." He says pointedly, watching Fenris down what ought to be savored. Even so, whether he's referring just to the wine, or something else entirely, isn't particularly clear.

Still, the scowl scrawled across his lip fades a moment later into something a little more pleasant, dwelling on another sip of his own before he moves to refill Fenris' own cup.

"Take it slowly, or not at all. No point in wasting a lost vintage."

Fenris drinks wine to waste it. A slave would never have drunk the vintages he had, back in the Kirkwall of before, and-

And he is past that time.

Slowly, carefully, Fenris drinks it as Astarion just did, slowly letting a sip settle over his tongue. Reticent to admit a loss, he grumbles, "did that pass muster?"

"Better."

And charming.

Satisfied enough, he lets a little ease fall back into his posture, folding his fingers around the cup in his lap. "You know, you needn't worry so much. I realize I like to tease, but I genuinely do intend to stick around and make myself useful."

A mild pause before he adds:

"...I need you lot as much as you need me."

"That is the nature of war," Fenris says, choosing not to push too hard. Astarion strikes him as someone who does not enjoy admitting weakness. "How do you intend to make yourself useful, then? I once knew a woman who liked to tease, as you say, and she was for ten years the most useful woman alive in this blighted city."

Correct enough observation, Fenris, and a good tack to take.

Another sip of wine warms him. Warms him, in ways he hasn't felt in an absolute eternity, and he finds he's more content in this moment than he has been up until now— or, maybe that's just because he's drinking an excellent vintage on an empty stomach. Right. Alcohol does that.

"Ten years is quite a long time. Whatever happened to her, then? Not dead I hope."

"None have heard of her since war broke out in Kirkwall. I assume her dead, as most do."

He doesn't sound overly choked up about it, but neither, for once, is he spiteful.

"There's an utterly inaccurate statue of her down by the docks, if you're ever passing through."

"You'll have to take me there sometime. So I don't get lost, of course."

Inaccurate could mean a lot of things— Astarion hopes in this case, it means in all the absolute best ways. A little exaggeration after (alleged) death never hurt anyone, after all.

Also, thank you for absolutely letting him sidestep your initial question, Fenris. Very helpful.

Astarion will make his own mistakes. In the end, Fenris can only push him so far, and he recognizes that.

"Do you want a tour of Kirkwall? I lived here a very long time." A bitter smile crosses his features. "I should see how my mansion in Hightown has weathered the years."

He's halfway through yet another finishing sip from his own cup when that question registers, widening red eyes with eager interest. Oh, normally a tour might be a chore in and of itself, but he finds he enjoys his current companionship— and anything's bound to be an improvement over spending an afternoon picking at his own fingernails or topping off chores.

And really. A mansion. Gods. He could use the sight of one of those. Comfortable bedding, high ceilings, a roaring fire—

He leans forward, stealing yet another pour from the bottle to top himself off before any and all departures, already rising to stand in the process.

"I thought you'd never ask."

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