[He jots some reply down, and yet for the life of him he can't remember what it was. Something idle, no doubt. Some response that isn't a response at all, written while he sits in his lonely mansion and tries not to read far too much into what was clearly a teasing retort. That way lies ruin, and Fenris has no ability to navigate those murky waters yet again. He is too old, too broken, too wrecked and ruined to risk his heart on even the faintest hint of a possibility; better to shut it down even within his own mind, refusing the first stirrings of the faintest embers.
A few days pass. They're given provisions and supplies, including a small budget for clothes and masks, which is something, Fenris supposes. It's not a very big budget, but then again, they're hardly the only two going: it's a small party of six setting out, all aiming towards the same goal of infiltration and information gathering. Theoretically a low-risk mission, though Orlais is risk enough by sheer virtue of the grand Game they so love.
Traveling there is . . . well. It is what it is. Fenris watches helplessly each time Astarion grimaces in pain, knowing that his mark must be aching— and knowing, too, there's nothing he can say or do that will help. Even the salves that usually bring some form of relief for his markings only work so long, though he shares the pot with him each night regardless. It's no relief to finally reach the city, but at least it means that the Rifters can wince in comfort.
They're two to a room, which suits Fenris well enough. To his great relief, Astarion takes his customary grumbling and growling the way it's intended: a sort of background grumpiness that oughtn't be paid much mind. He huffs about the culture and the snobbery, the wealth disparity and the poverty carefully hidden behind glitz and glamor. It's a shame, for Val Royeaux is a beautiful city, Fenris can admit. Music constantly drifts through the air as merchants sell pretty fabrics and fine crafts; to the south, the Waking Sea glitters so brightly as the sun shines each day. The architecture is clever and deliberately placed— so different from Kirkwall's habit of building things atop another, so that most of Lowtown is little more than a series of winding alleys and endless loops.
They shop for a time— or rather, Fenris lets Astarion shop, and is quietly relieved when his companion takes it upon himself to dress them both. If Fenris had his way, he'd show up in armor and with a scowl, so it's best to leave the aesthetics to his endlessly more refined friend.
And now it's a few hours before they're due to appear, which is, apparently, not very much time at all to prepare. Fenris, a man more inclined to roll out of bed and get going, wouldn't agree, but once again: that's why he isn't in charge of this mission. He sits on his bed and leans his weight back against one hand, watching Astarion as he flits about.]
What are you doing?
[Curiously said. Makeup and perfumes and jewelry— all of that is so foreign to him, and it's interesting to watch.]
no subject
A few days pass. They're given provisions and supplies, including a small budget for clothes and masks, which is something, Fenris supposes. It's not a very big budget, but then again, they're hardly the only two going: it's a small party of six setting out, all aiming towards the same goal of infiltration and information gathering. Theoretically a low-risk mission, though Orlais is risk enough by sheer virtue of the grand Game they so love.
Traveling there is . . . well. It is what it is. Fenris watches helplessly each time Astarion grimaces in pain, knowing that his mark must be aching— and knowing, too, there's nothing he can say or do that will help. Even the salves that usually bring some form of relief for his markings only work so long, though he shares the pot with him each night regardless. It's no relief to finally reach the city, but at least it means that the Rifters can wince in comfort.
They're two to a room, which suits Fenris well enough. To his great relief, Astarion takes his customary grumbling and growling the way it's intended: a sort of background grumpiness that oughtn't be paid much mind. He huffs about the culture and the snobbery, the wealth disparity and the poverty carefully hidden behind glitz and glamor. It's a shame, for Val Royeaux is a beautiful city, Fenris can admit. Music constantly drifts through the air as merchants sell pretty fabrics and fine crafts; to the south, the Waking Sea glitters so brightly as the sun shines each day. The architecture is clever and deliberately placed— so different from Kirkwall's habit of building things atop another, so that most of Lowtown is little more than a series of winding alleys and endless loops.
They shop for a time— or rather, Fenris lets Astarion shop, and is quietly relieved when his companion takes it upon himself to dress them both. If Fenris had his way, he'd show up in armor and with a scowl, so it's best to leave the aesthetics to his endlessly more refined friend.
And now it's a few hours before they're due to appear, which is, apparently, not very much time at all to prepare. Fenris, a man more inclined to roll out of bed and get going, wouldn't agree, but once again: that's why he isn't in charge of this mission. He sits on his bed and leans his weight back against one hand, watching Astarion as he flits about.]
What are you doing?
[Curiously said. Makeup and perfumes and jewelry— all of that is so foreign to him, and it's interesting to watch.]