illithidnapped | INBOX II

[Again, the emotion washes over him, drowning him; again he stares at the paper, every word overwhelming and baffling and perfect. You deserved better, and when has anyone ever said that to him? When has he ever even said it to himself? It's not that no one cared. It's not that Hawke and Varric and Isabela didn't think he deserved better than the life he'd had before— but there's such a difference, isn't it, between someone sighing over your life in enslavement, and someone lamenting the fact you'd been abandoned . . .

And he doesn't know what to say to that. Truly he doesn't. The quill hovers in the air for so long that by the time he goes to write, the ink's already dried and he has to get more. But what finally emerges, slow and careful, is:]

Perhaps I have found it.

[He doesn't know if he could say that aloud, but the written word offers a little more ability to be vulnerable.]

I do not begrudge Isabela her leaving— at least, not enough to have it linger in my heart. But I will not say there is no bitterness nor grief when I think of what we had. For any of my friends who once lived here. The city is full of ghosts for me, and there are days when I loathe it.

But you make it worthwhile to stay.

[Oh.

Holding a quill between long fingers disguises too much of the truth. That his claws, now trimmed off and blunted, were designed to hook into the animals around him; his eyes for scanning every detail; his voice for honeyed words. It isn't hard to say the right thing— it's easier still to jot it down, circling the sum of Fenris' bleeding past with an instinctive nose for blood. And if he did, it would be as it always was: ultimately nothing. Ash and soot across his tongue, just like all the others made a fine means to an end. (Because it's true, that Fenris stays here now. True, that he's possessed of no desire to leave as Isabela had. But a city full of ghosts hardly sleeps. How long until it grows unbearable, then? How long until Fenris realizes that just like his old friend, he's tired of the leash and longs to run?) The last time Astarion let himself feel anything, it ruined him.

Gods swear he's all but primed himself for an encore.

But he can't stop staring at that last line. Feels it tugging again and again on the shallows of his chest with every glancing read, unable to discern whether he feels sick from wine or—

—or his own heartbeat, atrophied and delirious all at once.]

That's a relief, considering I can't leave. [Is an attempt at giving levity a place to live so much overbearing acritude.] Though on the upside of things, you'll always know right where to find me, won't you? No vanishing acts. No open seas.

~~and~~

~~just for the record~~ [I'm no good at these things. Endless centuries spent spinning stories of fondness and affection solely Cazador's amusement subsequently make any attempt at talking all this over feel as if I'm barely capable of anything but lying.]

But I'd stay even if that wasn't true.

Edited 2024-10-26 01:20 (UTC)

I believe you.

[And how quickly that comes after all the pauses of before, but it's true. It's one part blind adoration and one part common sense, but to dilute it to either of those reasons makes it sound cheaper than it is. I believe you, for there is something special about the bond they share. He has no words for it, not really, nor any kind of understanding just yet, but . . . there's something between them. Something that tethers them together.

It reminds him of Hawke, though he won't say it on the heels of all they've just spoken of. But it's that same gravitational pull, gentle but endlessly inexorable.]

And I am not going anywhere. Not without you, at any rate— though I would not say no to leaving Kirkwall if ever we can manage to make it painless. But Antiva will keep.

[It's not too much. It might never be too much, starved for affection as they both are— but it's hard to come down from the emotion of that, and they neither of them are used to it. So he jots down:]

Are you packed for the mission in a few days?

[Speaking of leaving Kirkwall . . .]

At least you will get a taste of what Orlais is like, though you may regret it.

[Oh it hurts. Like a flood after starvation, he can't quite take it in; too much is the flutter of his heart and the stutter in his breathless lungs— and yet he circles back to read those lines again and again and again. Relieved to have the freedom of another segue (and if it was for sympathy that they move on, he doesn't care); it gives him space to pace the borders of their conversation.

To frame that message with an outstretched thumb and keep it in his eyeline.]

I've only you to take, so in that sense: I'd like to think I am.

Will I?

Oh go on, then. Don't be shy— tell me everything.

The population is obsessed first and foremost with their grand Game— their term for all the endless lust and backstabbing and intrigue and petty wars that make up any wealthy class. Orlesians, however, make it into an art: even the commoners are caught up in it, and almost anything is allowable so long as you manage to be discreet. It is not dissimilar to Tevinter in that respect, I suppose, though they somehow manage to put an even greater emphasis on how one looks and acts and is perceived.

They all wear masks, and you and I shall have to as well, lest we stick out. Their fashion is impractical at best and needlessly complicated at worst, offering endless layers and frills and patterns to dizzy any eye. Their wine is decent, but their food, much like their people, tends towards the extravagant, and it is hard to find anything of substance.

And they are even worse to elves than Free Marchers are— though most will end up simply ignoring us, I suspect, or assuming we're the consorts to some wealthy Duke.

[The more he writes, the easier it gets: the heavy emotion of before not so much dissipating as easing, ebbing through him with a familiar warmth. His heart is still pleasantly heavy, thundering with emotion and adoration— but complaining about something meaningless helps. Allowing them both to inch away from that ledge helps, though Fenris is assuredly still thinking of it.]

Edited 2024-10-26 04:41 (UTC)

[There's such an art to survival at times, making the sensation of mastery over it only ever fleeting.

More and more frequently since falling into this world, the sting that imagined mastery leaves behind when it falls through proves just as fleeting too— giving way to gentler shoals. Warmer tides.

Astarion's thumb stays pinned against the words I believe you, even as he smiles to himself.]

Consorts? Both of us? [Try not to pen that so excitedly, Astarion.]

Do they wear masks all the time?

They do, unless some pressing need demands they take them off. Often they are used in a variety of ways— to suggest house allegiance, status, fashionable trends, etc. Ours, I suspect, will be "simple", made only of silver or gold (or iron painted to look like silver or gold, knowing Riftwatch's budget).

Is the prospect of being mistaken a consort so disagreeable? We can easily come up with a better story, should you not want to rely on assumptions.

You may have to lead the way when it comes to fashion, however.

On the contrary, my dear. I was just thinking how exciting it would be to be mistaken for your equal, given our divergent trades.

[It feels akin to transparency, after all this time. That secondhand feeling of a red light somehow burning in red eyes— and doubly so in a world with no elven nobility to speak of.

None that haven't been dead for thousands of years, anyway. Can't exactly pull the wool over anyone's eyes in that regard.]

Tell me something: I assume in Tevinter a slave (or servant) owned by a magister held more sway than one kept by lesser castes— is the same true in Orlais?

[There's a small blot of ink as Fenris thinks better of what he was going to write. You are my equal. That the rest of the world thinks otherwise is their fault, not yours. It's true, but it also feels cloying: sticky-sweet in a way that has no real ties with the real world. He'd scoff at anyone else saying such a thing, so why did it occur to him?

Because it's true. And it's cloying and stupid and saccharine, and somehow it's still true nonetheless.]

I suspect you will be mistaken for my better. I do not do well with these kinds of missions.

But yes and yes: there are elves, I hear, who wield more power than some minor nobles, whether because they are the lover of some human or simply high ranking enough to get away with insolence. Servants contracted to the Empress or one of the higher ranking Dukes are given deference and better treatment; it is not dissimilar in Tevinter.

You wish to pass as one of them?

I wish for us both to pass.

After all, if the only thing required are a few masks, it makes it that much easier for us to feign at being

well, anyone, yes?

[Part and parcel of a Grand Game devised atop anonymous notoriety is that just about anyone might play....if they're crafty enough.]

In theory . . . I do not doubt your acting skills, but those who play the Game tend to know the players.

[Then again: how many humans really notice elves? They'll stand out a little, no doubt, but who would assume the truth? Far more likely they exotic newcomers, just recently hired by some Duchess who wants a few pretty accessories within grasp.

Hm.]

Perhaps if we pass for new hires, prized and adored . . . I will teach you some Orelesian. I do not know the language, not the way I do Teven or Qunlat, but a few phrases are not so hard. And I will not say I have no skill in subterfuge— but it will have to be you who leads the way.

Are you up to it?

Oh there he is. Fearless and clever as ever and ready for a challenge.

But as for myself: I'm a whole new man these days. Why not double down and take up becoming an Orlesian while I'm at it? And with you at my side, I'd argue Ive never been more up to it, darling.

Know any filthy Orlesian?

Tu peux me baiser quand tu veux.

Isabela taught that to me.

"You can fuck me anytime you wish."

Tu peux me baiser quand tu veux.

[That's it. That's the whole tweet.]

[ —just kidding.]

Meet me in the Gallows before we're due to depart. I want to brush up on my Northern etiquette before diving in headlong.

And I can think of no better sounding board than one particular local, tattooed elf.

Edited (oh god i cant write even texts coherently) 2024-10-27 09:58 (UTC)

[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.]

What does it look like? [Carries no bite, only a playfulness at odds with the speed at which Astarion both primps and tugs things free of his provisions— (I've only you, he said, although admittedly he'd only acquired the bulk of his assets in their Faderift-given shopping trip, either with coin or agile fingers:) perfumed oil daubbed across his throat and along the backs of his ears, dipped down into decolletage beneath layered silks; gilded jewelry gleaming in waning afternoon light, though all he'd managed to pilfer were a few delicate bangles and elven-(ish? -looking) necklaces, and a couple of pretty cuffs; kohl, black as night, streaked on across his eyes so that the mask's gaps don't come across as unseemly— and a hairbrush, oddly enough, though his hair's already woven into braids. Courtesy of asking one of the only Orlesians on their team for help, which begs the question as to why he's dug it up in the first place, shifting in his seat just so. Prelude to a fuller turn—

—which subsequently answers said question almost immediately, given the way he's eyeing his companion. (Made additionally ominous by the pitch-dark smears of makeup lining crimson eyes.)

Hello, Fenris.]

Getting ready for our debut.

[Our debut. As if they're not from two completely separate divisions, likely selected for two completely separate sets of skills.]

Our debut . . .

[Oh, he knows what that means. Little matter his skills are far more suited towards battle than ballrooms, he was told he was meant to gather information— and while his plan had been to vaguely lurk around the edge of the party and see what he might pick up from the other servants, even he can admit it wasn't much of one.

But the alternative— to dress up as Astarion has, to make himself look desirable, to flirt and talk and charm his way into information— seems impossible. Little matter he'd signed off on whatever outfit and mask Astarion had picked out for him; little matter that he'd agreed to this consort plan a few weeks ago. He is not suited for such tasks; he's barely suited for these kinds of parties at all. That balking hesitation is written clear over his face, his eyes darting from the brush to Astarion's face and back again.

(And oh, what a face: for all that Fenris balks at the thought of himself in such a role, oh, Astarion wears it beautifully. What might otherwise appear ridiculous looks stunning on him, from the dangerous glint of scarlet eyes in a sea of black to the delicate braids that are woven within his curls. Silver jewelry glints as it acts as pretty contrast, making him look ethereal, as the low cut of his silks offers up tantalizing glimpses of pale skin.

Enthralling. Beautiful, Fenris thinks again, and doesn't know how to begin to say).]

I will tell you again: you will have far more success if you go at it alone. Even Hawke knew that— she set me to merely lurking in the shadows when last I came to Orlais.

[Still, he agreed, and he won't be a child about this. Fenris holds out a hand for that hairbrush, though in truth he just intends to run it through his hair once or twice. What is styling one's hair, we just don't know.]

[Astarion still hasn't gotten used to it, on the other hand.

The sight of Fenris. His presence, in particular: high contrast setting him apart from any slave or spawn or thrall— a sharpness that isn't anything but bound to him in its every shifting facet, making the pale elf wonder how it is that even passing strangers scarcely see it. That ferocity. That beautiful, straightforward sense of pride. (It was only out of sympathy or snide snarling that Cazador's children ever looked at one another, and even then, only rarely. Never like this.) He wants that. To be that. To be near it.

He'd wept like a child (thankfully alone) the first time he saw his own reflection in the mirror.

Only Fenris could tear him away from it so easily tonight.

Captivating things.]

'Merely lurking?' [Astarion scoffs through the segue that lifts him from his seat and bypasses that outstretched hand— planting himself on the mattress behind Fenris, and— ]

Where's the fun in that?

[ —tugging off his gloves in the wake of an attempt at taming hair with them on. One short yank of leather between his fangs on either side, and blunted nails begin combing back silver somewhere around the fighter's temple: brushstrokes quickly following.]

Edited 2024-10-29 01:28 (UTC)

[Fenris melts.

The tension slips out of his body like an exhale, taut muscles uncoiling for what feels like the very first time since they crossed the border. A gust of air leaves his lungs in the form of one slow, satisfied exhale as a flush touches the very tips of his ears. That feels—

Maker, it feels so good.

Astarion's fingers are cool as they work through his hair, and every subsequent brushstroke is soft and sweet, working through stubborn knots and brittle ends with endless patience. The motion is hypnotic in its rhythm, and the soft press of warmth from the body behind him only adds to the sudden duel feelings of intimacy and safety that wash over him like the sweetest tide. It's been . . . Maker, he doesn't know how long it's been since someone touched him like this, much less brushed his hair. Years. Decades, maybe.

(Unguarded as he is, he forgets he sits near a mirror; he doesn't think about how he must look, his eyes fluttering shut and his expression so utterly content. Such a far cry from the fierce warrior who stalked these halls, he looks more akin to a pup who's finally found a spot by the hearth).

But— oh, he was asked a question, he realizes belatedly. His eyes snap open as his mind scrambles to catch up— where's the fun in that— in where, in what, in lurking, because they're spying, because they're in Orlais—

Maker's breath.]

As opposed to the fun of chatting up nobles?

[His voice is almost entirely as it should be, his tone dry and familiar— but there's a warm contentment there that wasn't before.]

Mm, anyway, it is not down to whether it is fun, but a matter of talent. I am not good at lying on the spot, not like that. Nor being . . . [Well, be honest:] nice to people, not if I already have a grudge.

[Maker, if he were a cat (if this were Toril), he'd be purring up a storm by now. And he's so distracted, which means that each sentence sort of exists both on its own and as a vague continuation of the last, his attention decidedly split.]

My point is merely that I suspect I will slow you down rather than aid you.

[A singular intrusive thought slides around that familiar feeling of someone's body going listless underneath the surface— calmer than a lake, yet nearly thrumming on a deeper, undetected frequency— is that he's yet to purr in front of Fenris. And after: the thought that maybe he can't anymore, either, now that he's lost the true foundations of his vampirism.

Because they're so relaxed near one another now. If it was ever going to happen, it surely would have. On the border of every sweep of slender fingers through pale hair even perception disarms itself, following Astarion's example in letting go. Letting everything go, if only for a little while. There's never enough time before soirées.

The next stroke of the brush avoids dipping too low. She always—

Oh.]

Oh pish posh, sweetheart.

[You never do.]

Honestly you don't even need to talk— and given the way things work here, it might be best if you don't. People long to fill in the blanks. Their minds do, that is. Stay silent, and you'll become whatever they wish you to be. [Smiling to himself, his thumb rolls across his forefinger, playfully winding a few white strands together, tucking them behind an ear. Aside from their voices, it's quiet enough to hear a pin drop; they can afford to be a little conspiratorial. Talk shop.]

But maybe you've experience with that already.

[It's not bad advice. It's very familiar advice, in fact, and one that brings a knowing smile to his lips as he basks under Astarion's fingers. His head tips this way and that, his eyes opening lazily just to watch himself in the mirror, fascinated despite himself on what Astarion's plan might be. He has never really bothered to style his hair; it grows how it grows, and when it becomes a nuisance he takes to it with a pair of scissors, but nothing beyond that.

Nothing like Astarion's curls, he thinks, his eyes flicking to stare at them admiringly. He has no idea what the other elf does, but he clearly must put effort into it to get it to stay so charmingly windswept.]

I do, but I suspect the intended effect was far different than what you aim for.

[And of course Astarion knows that, but there's something so charmingly sedate about this moment that encourages such chatter. Talk shop indeed, for there's pleasure to be found in trading mundane secrets.]

I am used to being a menacing figure. Intimidating. A beast only barely restrained.

[His tone is drawling, his words dry. There are times when talking of the past hurts so badly as to nearly overwhelm him, but it's different here and now, and Fenris can't decide if that's because of the intimacy of this moment— or that's it merely Astarion himself that makes the difference.]

Ask me to be your bodyguard, Astarion, and that role I can fill happily, glaring at others until they know to keep their distance. But you may find me a brutishly intimidating consort.

And you'll set their hearts racing in no time, for good or ill— [Thumb slid in a horizontal line along the back of Leto's scalp at eye level, sectioning it out. A momentary pause to bring the brush up with his opposite hand, gathering loose fringe towards waiting fingers— catching them with practiced ease.

He doesn't notice he's being watched. After all, his focus is already set: everything else pours into conversation, and the thought that tonight, Fenris won't hardly recognize himself, diamond that he'll be.] —either way, I'll be able to put an ear to the ground in all the right places and find out what our dear Marquis thinks of the Venatori's recent attempts at courtship.

[He snorts, and it's anyone's guess as to whether that's for the former statement or the latter, for both have an equal chance at earning his amused disbelief.]

You may have luck. [No, correction:] I have no doubt you will have luck in sussing out his intentions; whether or not they are favorable to us, on the other hand . . . I will not say there are no nobles with morals and decency, and I have not yet heard anything overtly damning when it comes to the Marquis. But I have little faith in their ability as a whole to do anything that isn't line their own pockets and stick their heads in the sand.

[But tell us how you really feel, Fenris.]

What are you doing back there . . .?

[He squirms just a little, neck craning as if he might somehow get a better angle in the mirror.]

Little changes there, even between worlds.

[Fenris isn't wrong on that respect, no matter how Astarion in those first few days had hoped differently. Now, he's seen enough even in preliminary trawls through written records or on the streets themselves to assume no surprises lurk within the wings.

Orlais, Baldur's Gate, Kirkwall, is it really any—

There's a (gentle) correction from deft fingers, exhale twisted into fond chastisement at the same time that he pulls against Fenris' wide-eyed leaning (those doeish eyes....)

Hells.]

Trying my damndest to give you a proper tail, darling.

[He looked it up, that name. It sounded too familiar to someone that's read an incantation or two on cast-off tomes in perfumed captivity— Fenris. Fenrir.

Wolf.]

But it'll be a lopsided one if you don't sit still.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

2/2

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject