illithidnapped | INBOX II

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.

[Oh, and it's the sweetest kind of surprise to realize Astarion knows what his name means. Not due to the meaning itself (a moniker that Fenris embraces and resents all at once, just like his lyrium), but the thoughtfulness therein. He thinks about me when I'm not near, and it's one thing to know it vaguely. Quite another to have it confirmed.]

Is it even long enough for that?

[Internally, he scowls at himself. There were so many sweeter ways to engage with that, and instead he bluntly offered the first thought that came to mind. It isn't unsalvageable, but Maker's breath. . . and he doesn't know what to say, now. Thank you sounds silly, but I'm actually enjoying this, I just don't always know how to simmer for it is embarrassing.

Hmm. A beat, and then, internally cringing just a little, adds:]

I have no doubt you will succeed, with or without my squirming.

[Ugh. Anyway: he settles. Commits himself to sitting up straight and still, staring with curiosity in the mirror as pale fingers cleverly work.]

I did not know you had an interest in etymology. Or is the name Fenris another thing that spans worlds?

Never the size that matters, only how one uses it. [Finishes recentering his hold with a sly tweaking of his fingers, so much life trapped there that he can feel it pooling as he works— the docile blowback of what he'd salivated for in days not at all long past. Little things he doubts he'll ever manage to take for granted again.

The next few grazes of that brush are soft, capped by the distinctive feel of being braided.]

Anyway like most creatures blessed by common sense, I've a vested interest in anything that keeps me alive. Language, I find, alongside history, culture, politesse and politics, happens to be one of those things. [....and yet before Fenris assumes it wasn't at all personal....]

But yes, as it so happens. Your name bears a very similar ring to one of the languages of Faerûn.

That of magic itself.

[Oh, and his ears perk up with interest at the mention of languages. He wants to know the rest (what cultural things are there in your world? What politics have you witness?), for he wants to know everything about Astarion— but languages hold a special place in his heart.

But then Astarion continues on, and oh— those ears lower once more.]

Is that so?

[Maker, of course it does. Of course it does, and he wishes he could be surprised. He is surprised, sort of, in that he hadn't suspected such a thing would transcend worlds, but . . . god, the irony is palpable.

And yet it isn't Astarion's fault. And yet it is interesting, no matter that it's also a little embittering. Fenris takes a breath, trying to return to focusing on the sensation of patient fingers in his hair.]

The language that mages use to cast their spells? Or something else?

[It isn't just irony that's palpable. Not with those ears drooping.]

You're not happy about it. [Thumb over forefinger, over middle, over ring— and back again, threading.]

No, but the fault is not yours.

[How to put this? The explanation itself isn't so awful, but nor does Fenris have any desire to break the tranquil mood that's fallen between them— and explaining Tevinter and her magic-based hierarchy will surely do it.

So start smaller. Talk about something that doesn't send them both back reeling, even if it brushes against old traumas. (And if Astarion hates it, if even this talk is too much, Fenris will make it up to him later, he thinks, and surprises himself with how earnestly true that is.)]

. . . there must be things that remind you of your master. I do not mean the obvious ones, but smaller things: a wine he favored, perhaps, or a phrase he was fond of. Yes?

Edited 2024-11-05 01:43 (UTC)

[His fingers stop.

Razor blades.]

Terrible music. Worse company. [Again, he sets to weaving, now that he's found a trail to follow. Thumb scraping along the inline of his index before rhythm settles in once more. Like that, it's a simple thing to remember all the rest. Two palatable half-lies, and a truth:]

The stave he used to drag around night and day— you could always hear him coming.

[So many days spent stilling his lungs and willing himself to vanish into stone— all for a little percussion. And the tailing dread thereafter.]

....was magic yours?

[Tap, tap, tap, every echoing touch of stone and wood a steady counterpart to the growing rhythm of footsteps. Did Astarion learn to distinguish his master's mood that way? Knowing that if it was too quick it meant that Cazador was in a filthy temper and looking for someone to take it out upon; that every third tap missed meant that he was too preoccupied to hunt for entertainment— oh, Fenris is almost certain Astarion did. How could he not?

He won't ask. There's no room for details, not here and now— or, no, that isn't right. In this intimate warmth when they're together and yet a little apart, Fenris can feel his tongue loosening, his defenses lowering, and he does not doubt that Astarion feels the same. And yet to dive into those details now would make it a very different conversation, and one that neither of them wants just yet.]

Yes.

[Astarion's fingers are pleasantly cool as they brush against the back of his neck: little touches, idle and absent, and he focuses on them for a few moments.]

Danarius was a mage. And in the Tevinter Imperium, magic is everything. Magic dictates success or failure, whether you are high-born or a slave. Magic is infused in everything, from the ways people travel to the enchanted Candlehops that deliver messages all over Minrathous. The only people allowed in government are mages, and unlike in the rest of Thedas, mage children are desired and prayed for, for a mage in the family can elevate you to new heights—

Or lower you, if a mage family produces an heir who cannot even conjure a wisp.

[Just beside (not beneath) Astarion's fingers, lyrium pulses: flaring into deliberate brightness as a ghostly song thrums just out of earshot.]

And magic is what Danarius imbued in me.

Within that . . . the tapping of his staff. The scent of the herbs he used to combine to enhance this spell or that.

[With that said:]

But Astarion . . . I enjoy hearing of your world and its languages. And it is a fascinating thing to learn that such a name transcends worlds.

[A beat, and then, a little wryly:]

Do not take my grumbling as condemnation. I am old and bitter, and there will be no shortage of times where I will tell you the evils of magic.

[Old, he's, like, forty-five at best.

Fenris hesitates visibly, and then, his eyes flicking away even in the mirror, adds:]

It does not please me to learn of magic— but it pleases me to learn of you.

[He's done the braid wrong.

It's a supervenient discovery, already two notches down with a third knot on the way, necessitating a sliding of his little finger tip-first through the worst of his offenses— carefully undoing his own mess. Every minute will start to matter soon: they've a mission to succeed in, and Astarion can't afford to go without Riftwatch's protection when Kirkwall continuously calls him back. Or— perhaps that's what he tells himself to make the obvious less like the tangle he's currently revising.

But it's not unpleasant.]

Tell me that again when you're two hundred years old.

[Soft as warmed sugar in the mouth. Soft across the channel of his tongue and in his throat, and softer in the upturned corners of his shadowed smile, aimed down towards his efforts. Fingers in the right place, silver strands pulled through and woven taut before they're banded. Smoothed back into a proper tail, the likes of which stand synonymous with status, or at the very least, care.

He'll be the bell of the ball....provided he doesn't crack open a highborne nose or two in rage along the way.

(This battleworn thing. Suited for dockworkers, not debutants. What in the nine hells is he thinking, letting some lost, lifeless monster drag him into trouble like this?)]

[He exhales slowly, invisible tension easing as Astarion makes no fuss over that comment. He likes it better this way, he finds. Fenris isn't always adverse to talking about things, but sometimes it's nice to simply say something and let it be.]

Are you truly two hundred?

[The question more soft than curious and more curious than impudent. He believes Astarion wholeheartedly, of course, but Maker, it's a strange thing to think. And then, a little more impudently:]

What age have you offered to those outside of Riftwatch?

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