illithidnapped | INBOX II

[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?

Tsk. [Theres another (mild) tug at the end of his own handiwork for daring to ask that question— but it's the tone that keeps everything kittenishly gentle; manners would dictate Fenris never ask at all, but manners don't give answers. Plus, he finds he likes that bluntness. That its momentum also occasional swings back around to smack him in the face is just the cost of doing business.

He's smiling when he gets up and crosses the room, taking his brush with him.]

No one's cared enough to ask outside Riftwatch.

[A pause over his travel bag, thick leather buckles held still but for a moment.] ....yet.

But is it really so unthinkable? I mean, granted I know this world isn't all sunshine and rainbows for hardships, but really, I can't be the oldest elf you've come across.

[Oh, gods.

He turns around, peering with renewed focus.]

....am I....?

[Maker, had Fenris really not told him? But of course he hadn't. Two centuries, Astarion had told him that first night, and there were a thousand things more pressing to discuss— and after that, oh, he'd simply forgotten. Astarion looks and acts and feels as though he is about Fenris' own age, and it's only in moments like these that he remembers it isn't so.

Still. There's no way to say this that won't bruise Astarion's ego a little. Ah, well.]

You are the oldest person I have ever met in my life.

[But then, before he can puff up in rage:]

Elves only live to be eighty or so, if they're lucky and live in a place where they can die naturally. [Fifty or so is the morality rate in Tevinter, but for once, Fenris won't go down that dour road.] They— we— share the same lifespan with humans. So do dwarves and Qunari, if it comes to that.

[He cocks his head as a little realization occurs.]

Is that— I thought your age was due to the vampirism. How long do they live in your world?

[I thought your age was due to your vampirism.]

I thought your shock was because of my curse.

[And....maybe it was. Two things can always be true simultaneously, never mind what a tumultuous first night it had been, both of them reeling from respective revelations. New chapters started with a Riftbound bang.

And here, the aftershock.

His shoulders slump alongside the outline of his spine, hands draped inside the borders of his pack, baffled.]

I don't [understand]—

But that can't be right. We're elves, for gods' sake! [We.] You ought to have seven hundred years left, at least. More than a thousand if you're lucky.

[But eighty. A paltry eighty? That's nothing at all. Barely a breath in the grand scheme of things. And just by looking at him, Fenris is already....]

What about your connection to magic? The elven gods?

[A thousand? He can't even comprehend a thousand— Maker, he can barely contemplate two centuries, never mind ten of them. It's so baffling as to defy understanding, for how can anyone stand it? How can anyone not lose their minds over the course of a thousand years? How does that even work with other species (and do they, too, have an expanded lifespan?). It's—

Maker, he's gawking at Astarion, he realizes.]

What about them?

[It's blunter than he means it to be, and he waves a hand, dismissing his tone.]

The gods are dead, Astarion, if ever they existed at all. Personally, I doubt it. I have no connection to them, and as for magic . . . why would that afford me a longer lifespan? It does not for humans.

[But it must for elves in his world. Fenris stands, not thinking of his loose braid— not thinking of anything, really, save that the shock mirrored in them both drives him to action, no matter how pointless.]

Besides: I do not have a connection to magic. My sister did, once, and I am mage-blooded, but . . . I have no magic beyond the lyrium embedded within me, and that doesn't expand my lifespan.

[Mm, debatable, but it's not as if Fenris knows that just yet.]

Does it . . . do the mage elves in your world have a longer lifespan? Or all they all mages?

[Maker, he doesn't understand. It seems impossible that they, each and every one of them, should be blessed by magic, but what other explanation is there? Your connection to magic, the elven gods, Astarion says, as if it was a given thing. As if, though he has never seen Fenris perform a spell, he has assumed he must be able to.]

[....Dead? Never mind Astarion's calcified contempt for all things deified— Maker and Chantry included— his mind reels towards rejection. Bristles in denial that scarcely feels his own, because buried down deep in the hollow of his blackened ribs lies the urge to point across the Veil and spit out that they're right there—

Wretches and despots, all, inclined to ignore the despairing wails of the damned, but dead? No. Not that.]

We're not all— [Mage-blooded. A sister. What terms don't do to dizzy him, those revelations do.] no. Well, I mean, technically there are some wizards that've been rumored to lengthen their own lifespans through the arcane, but it isn't like that for the rest of us.

[His eyes are following Fenris as he rises; little widened flashes of caught light faceted like garnets.]

Elves are creatures of the fey, darling. [And if that doesn't resonate:] Wild magic. Wild places? Forests filled with ancient aspects of creation, inherently infused with the magic of our pointy-eared, entirely untamed progenitors? Oh come on— something in here has to sound familiar to you.

[Please, let it sound familiar. He doesn't want to think about you wilting before his eyes.]

The fey . . .?

[Does the word remind him of anything? Some half-memory forgotten long ago of a story his mother whispered to him: tales of elves long ago who were immortal, whose magic was woven into the very air they breathed, whose lives were so very different than the wretched, miserable ones they themselves led . . .?

Maybe. Maybe. A ghost of a memory, the echo of words long since forgotten . . . and there's no time to recall, not right now. Not when Astarion demands his attention. Wild magic, wild places, and Fenris shakes his head.]

No. I am not trying to be difficult, Astarion, but no. If anything, there is Arlathan . . . it resides now in the Tevinter Empire, but it is a vast forest, and was said to be the capital city of the ancient elven empire. But that was . . . I cannot even tell you how long ago. Thousands of years, maybe. Before humans arrived on the continent, I think I read once.

I have been there. And it is beautiful, I will not deny it. And . . . ancient, too. You can feel the history around you, the age of the trees and the land . . . and there are relics there, too. Remnants and buildings long since abandoned. But there was no . . . there is nothing like you described.

[He feels as though he's failing somehow, and doesn't know why.]

The gods . . . I know their names. I even know their aspects. But if they were ever truly real, they do not have an effect any longer. Mythal, Elgar'nan, Andruil, Ghilan'nain . . . the Dalish still worship them. Pray to them. Beg them for help, for all the good it has done any of our people. The vallaslin— the tattoos they sear upon their faces— are a tribute to them.

But they have never once helped us, not in the thousands of years since the fall of the elven empire. Not when elf is synonymous with slave in Tevinter. Not when we are all but second-class citizens even now, and the humans look at us as little more than fodder for their whims. And there is no magic they offer us that helps us, whether it comes to lifespan or otherwise.

[That feeling only intensifies: a bitter disappointment and a strange sense of grief and guilt, as though he has somehow let Astarion down. And maybe there is a trace of that child still left in him— the one who once long ago listened sleepily to his mother as she murmured about the glory of the elves, for he adds:]

Tell me . . . what is it in your world?

[Mythal, Elgar'nan, Andruil, Ghilan'nain....

They might as well be gurgling noise for all Astarion can recognize in them: no Corellon, no Angharradh, not even a Tethrin or an Oberon to speak of. But the gods did die— ages upon ages ago, before Ao supposedly took reign. Perhaps—

Perhaps nothing, is the snap of a door shut within his mind, pulling presence back into his unfixed pupils. It's not the distant past he should be looking at: it's here. Here, where what is and isn't true is made simple, regardless of what he wants it to be or wishes that it was. There'll be time later to think about ramifications, possibilities, and promise. It's the present where Fenris dwells beside him, and he could lose him to an assassin in a soirée gown just as readily as he could to time.

With a puff of air let out through his nose, he rises. Shoos Fenris back towards the bed and moves to weave a bit of jewelry back in with all those braids— metal cool against his fingers. Cheap glass and painted resin, but no nobles will ever notice in the glow of lantern light.]

In Faerûn, elves only came to live with humans and the other mortals after departing the realm of our gods and being largely cut off from it. Even so, we never found our lifespans shortened.

[There is no coddling; he cannot sense Fenris' guilt or disappointment, and so doesn't think to quell it as he works.]

Has it really always been like that for you?

[There's something so striking about what Astarion tells him, and for the life of him, Fenris cannot say why. He is not like the Dalish, constantly mourning an empire long since gone and praying to gods who have never once bothered to answer; he lives his life as best he can, for there is nothing useful to find in the past. And yet . . . there is something familiar there. Something that strikes a mournful note deep within him, some ancient genetic memory that sits up and whispers: we were cut off, too.

He cannot pinpoint it, and they move on too quickly for him to ruminate. But the thought lingers even as chilly fingers begin to weave in jewelry.]

Yes.

It has for everyone . . . truly, Astarion, I do not think there has been an elf in centuries who has had a lifespan that reached so far. The concept of someone being able to reach even two hundred is as strange to me as our lifespans are to you.

[But oh, that makes him think, and he adds:]

How does that affect your childhood and adolescent years? We consider an elf a child from when he is born to, I don't know . . . ten, perhaps? And then an adolescent until he is sixteen or eighteen, somewhere around there, depending on the elf in question.

Is it the same for you?

[His touch has fallen into stillness faster than it takes for clarity to keep pace; tethering the last piece of jewelry more distractedly than he'd like— necessitating a doubling back for security's sake.

Light jingling. Little tugs.

They really are like humans, aren't they?]

No. [Comes thinly, sticking to his tongue.] We're considered adolescents till we're in our eighties, more often than not.

[You're upset, he does not say, for he doesn't make a habit of stating the obvious. Anyone with ears can hear the sudden terseness in Astarion's tone, and it doesn't take a genius to understand why. I thought I had centuries more to live in freedom, Fenris thinks, and he's not entirely wrong.

I must seem a child to you, he thinks of saying. It's not an untrue thought, but it feels false right now, cloying in a way he has never indulged.

So he's quiet as Astarion finishes weaving those ornaments into his hair, tipping his head this way and that as directed. There's something quietly pleasing even now about feeling another touch him so intimately, little points of connection that he knows he will never tire of.

But when he finishes and he can turn, he does: twisting around to catch Astarion's eye, his brows furrowed.]

You're disappointed.

[Tell me.]

[All the things that it could be— all the possibilities that Fenris (fairly) thinks of—

Astarion's expression locks itself abruptly. He blinks too many times. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out aside from breath (true breath, not its lifeless imitation); just a narrow exhalation cut through parted teeth, no voice.

What does one call compulsion without compulsion? (Reflex.) A pale chin dipped towards his shoulder, a pair of eyes squinting through the darkest smears of kohl around them. Like he doesn't understand the question. Like it's been asked in Rivani or Tevene.]

I'm—

[Sounds as stunted as it did in hollow palace chambers. Again, a puff of air squeezes from his throat, a shallow mask to cover up his shame.]

unhappy to think that I might lose you.

[And then, after hanging for a beat too long, as if only just realizing that it was the truth let loose from its cage, Astarion stiffly rises without another word— footsteps ferrying him across the room to his belongings. There's a glimpse of sunset crawling through the border of a plaster-lined window, cutting across the buckles of his pack, and it's one more apt reminder of where he needs to be. What he should be doing.

There's little said after that.

If Fenris responds, Astarion won't hear it— cuts short any attempt at continuation with a liar's sly wit, grinning all the while. But the pinnacle of Astarion's efforts isn't the tailored silk that fit Fenris' measurements like a scandalous glove, or the bangles in braided hair, glinting against the back of his long, lean neck. It's the pair of masks that he procures before they depart: a gilded pair— one gold, one silver— fashioned with fine features, and themed after the moon and sun.

And because of their importance, unlike the jewelry he'd plucked up on arrival, they're real. True precious metals, the sort nobility would only entrust to those assets they most want to show off.

Astarion's fanged grin is lost in shadow underneath blinding bright gold filigree; one reflects light beautifully, the other veils intent, and if nothing else he's certain that the latter will keep Fenris safe tonight no matter what comes next.]

Remember, you know exactly how to play this, darling. [Arm in arm, the grand chandelier strung above the foyer flaunts thousands of strands of cut glass by bouncing scattered rays off of the pale planes of their twin masks when Astarion leans in, a rumble in his throat.

Ordinary: for a pair of precious starlings to swan about together independent of their masters. Ordinary: that in the style of Orlesian theater and song, one of those twins is sweet while the other is dour. Not ordinary: for one of the two to be branded with strange markings when the other isn't— but it wouldn't be the first time a baron or baroness made due in that regard, and Orlesians are resourceful people to the last.

Or at least, that's the story they're going with.]

Find yourself a nice, secluded spot with a good view. Better, if you can manage to snag a little gossip.

I won't be long.

[I'm unhappy to think that I might lose you.

An hour later, he still can't quite get over hearing the emotion said aloud.

He feels the same. Of course he does. There's no other explanation for the way he'd brightened upon realizing they would room together on this trip; there's no real reason he would have agreed to go to Antiva all those weeks ago if not for growing fondness. And yet it's one thing to know that passively, a spark building into a hearthfire in his chest.

It's another to acknowledge it.

You'll lose him, something sings shrilly in the back of his mind. Just like you lost Hawke and Isabela and Varric, you know how this goes, don't you? You'll give too much of your heart away. You'll grow too used to his company and let your defenses falter. You'll let yourself rely on his humor, his wit, his charm; stupid boy, you'll delude yourself into thinking it will never change, and then it will hurt all the more when he leaves.

And he will leave, because that's what people do. That's what friends are: people who mutually use one another until they get what they want, and then they go.

(And he knows that isn't true, but what his head knows and his heart weeps cannot always be differentiated).

And yet what is he to do? He can no more stop his adoration than he could the beating of his heart or the inhale of air into his lungs: it happens, whether or not he wants it to. And the thoughts keep churning around his head, over and over, a panicked response with no answer— so that he's almost grateful to be given a task to focus on.

Fenris does as he's told: tucking himself into the shadows of a pillar with a drink in hand. Dutifully he glances around the party, watching the guests as they move about. This part, at least, he knows how to do: it was not solely for appearance's sake that Danarius had him serve wine, and knowing how to listen for particularly juicy bits of gossip was yet another aspect of his training.

So: he hears that the Viscount Blacktree has embarrassed his lord father yet again by fretting over the ethics of hunting. He hears that the Lutece twins have hinted at yet another magical breakthrough, the third of the season— and that the rumors of their, ah, preferences towards one another's company have only grown worse. He hears that nobody has seen the Cousland daughter in ages, and no one can decide if she's died or run off with an elven servant.

And he knows without having to be told how little all of that adds up to, especially when it comes to their mission. So perhaps it's no surprise his eyes inevitably flit back towards the glimmering figure flitting his way cleverly through the crowd. Not tracking him, not as a jealous lover might, but merely . . . paying mind. Watching as heads turn and eyes widen, entranced by such beauty— and tensing up when he finally approaches a noble tucked away against a pillar, watching the proceedings without actively participating.

Fenris cannot hear what they say, not from this distance. But oh, he does notice when the man lays a hand on him. Gently, not groping, despite his station— for though it's a masquerade and the entire point is anonymity, there isn't a person in the Orlais who doesn't notice when a duke is in attendance.

Even when the duke in question would rather not be noticed.]

I would not call it loneliness that has me here on the sidelines . . . there are enough people dancing, and I need not participate to enjoy.

[An answer to a sweet question posed by the little starling in front of him. Vakares' voice is low and even, something gentle peering out of the eyes of his pantherine mask. There's amusement there, but no inclination to rouse just yet.]

But you are a new face here. I cannot recall you at any of the other fetes the Marquis has thrown— though, [he adds, a note of fuss entering his voice despite himself,] there have been so many lately.

[He is so introverted and it is so hard to go to these parties.]

Where did you come from?

[Astarion was never bad at this, understand. He always had a knack for it, with or without memory intact. Worked his way through gilded halls or taphouse rooms with the very same deftness of a needle pushed through gauzy silk, erasing any marred spots, any weaknesses, and instead driving them to shine. The conversations lasted. The charm was easy to inspire. So what made him seem piss poor at it in the crosshairs of his master's stare and that of all his divine lackeys, was that inevitably, he cared. That he held no desire to stop caring when left to his own devices— and worser still how that ill habit always seemed to rear its head and infect everything around it, rather than buckling to correction and obeisance. It affected his hunts. It poisoned his siblings. It was never one botched night when it set in, but rather weeks of fractious mourning, or failure or defiance, tumultuously clinging to the shores of whatever fondness had inspired, until finally uprooted. Pulled loose. Hewn clean.

A smart creature would learn from that. Astarion did eventually, after all.

But a smarter creature would've learned it sooner.

Then again, a smarter creature wouldn't be standing here smiling through gold features without blinking. (A smarter creature wouldn't be dwelling on the nagging feeling of distance growing stronger; antithetical to Orpheus, yet no less desperate at heart.) A smarter creature wouldn't be able to handle autonomy with a familiar purpose. (And a smarter creature wouldn't be smothering a prickling sensation risen along the back of his own neck, turning over the measure of his plans and wondering— )]

Does it matter?

[Is a question turned away from Fenris' observation, low-throated and etheric. The fact that it preys on all things preconceived regarding elves— let alone servants and their masters— at affairs like these does more than its fair share in masking what lies underneath.

Instinct. Inculcation.

White noise.

The man he's speaking to can't quite qualify as handsome when there's the matter of masked features here in play, but if nothing else, he has a very pleasant voice. Gods swear it's almost familiar.]

It does to me.

[It's more honest than sentimental. He isn't a simpering romantic looking to lose himself in this elf; rather, there's something almost amusingly stark about how he says it.]

Do not take it as mere nosiness. In all honesty, if you are not from here— and I suspect you are not, at least not originally— I would hear how you see these things compared to what you are used to. Else all I will have to go on is impressions.

[He nods out to the marble floor, where countless pairs glide in sweet synchronization, every step perfect, every beat kept— at least in theory. And yet the longer one looks, the easier it is to spot the disparities: little mistakes here and there. Little slips born of too much alcohol or unfamiliarity with the latest dances in Orlais, but oh, there isn't a soul alive who isn't taking notice.]

My former countrymen give themselves away with their tempo . . . they expect the music to be faster, I suspect.

[There's no hint of an Antivan accent in Vakares' voice, but it's an Antivan pair he nods to: the woman slightly yanking the man along as he attempts to temper her, her eagerness to move faster outpacing the tempo every few beats.]

They find the food too light for their tastes and overcompensate with drinking wine . . . but they, at least, know how to play the game better than some of the Southerners.

[The Free Marchers who attend, standing out as too crass, too loud, too different: the ones who don't know it's impolite to take more than one canapé or that you can't enter a dance halfway through. It isn't all of them, of course. Some of the Fereldens blend in perfectly well, trading secrets with a smirk behind their fans; it's just that it's interesting to see the ones that don't— and deduce why.]

But I will not press you for secrets you wish to keep. If you want to stay an alluring mystery, by all means. You're good at it— certainly you've caught the attention of most here.

What will you do with it?

[Most, yet not all.

Much like the servants here scurrying around in the backdrop, the obvious does work. Obviously, Astarion is an elf. Obviously, he belongs to someone here. Obviously, it stands to reason that few would take an interest in him personally rather than the nobility he obeys, and obviously the same is true in reverse— a hound seeks what its master wants most if it's any good, and Astarion habitually makes himself worth keeping. (Ah, but how like old times it is, even when it lacks for horror. No coincidence that when he turns his knuckles to let them brush along the inside of his new companion's wrist, he can almost hear the echo of Fenris' rasp somewhere in the din. You don't have to, it sounds like, but when his eyes dart peripherally he doesn't see anyone he recognizes).

It's a diversion through the obvious. A smile in his voice, obscured by gilt features. The slide of his thumb playful, not seductive— they're not equals, after all. But letting him in? Someone powerful and clearly interested? There could be more good than harm, there.]

I want to know who has the Marquis' ear.

[Anything else would never sell, anyway. Extensive studies about cultures and world states don't hold a candle to experience.]

[It's blunt, for all that it's tied up with gilt ribbon, and it earns a low chuckle even as his skin tingles in echoing reminder.]

Mm, yes, I imagine you do.

[You and everyone else, little one, and he startles himself with how naturally the endearment comes to mind. Since when is he a person who gives out pet names so freely? Never mind to a complete stranger . . . odd enough he's bothering to chatter at all beyond a few polite words, but there's something about this elf that compels him to speak. And why is that? It isn't attraction— Vakares isn't blind, and of course this elf is a pretty thing, but that has never had much bearing on how he views a person.

(And yet his skin tingles in echoing memory of that glancing touch. And yet his next few breaths are a little shallow, faint and unnoticeable to anyone but him— he is too honest with himself to ignore such a tell).

Strange. And yet not so strange he feels the need to bring things to a pause. Vakares takes a breath, slow and even, and continues:]

Most everyone here does too. I cannot claim to have any particular insight into that arena.

[The Marquis is technically his cousin, but then again, most of the nobles across Thedas are related one way if not another.]

But if I had a guess . . .

[Hm. He nods towards a woman decked out in holy whites and vivid scarlets, her costume clearly based on Andraste.]

I would say you might want to flit around that woman there. The Baroness of Seleny is fond of him, and dotes on him the way an aunt might. But you'll have to go about it carefully: I suspect your usual charms might not work. She is, ah, devoted.

Really?

[Is a surprised intake of breath.]

All I need do is ask and I get your qualified opinion just like that?

[Behind the mask, red eyes flit towards their designated mark; gameness glittering in their reflection— though it's the duke that ultimately earns their shine when they slide back. Attention traveling up from that wrist, to its elbow, to broad shoulders....

....To the shaded underchannel of the Duke's lithe throat.]

No desire for anything in return?

[What could an elf give nobility of this caliber? The obvious, of course. And there's an oddness present in the fact that for all Astsrion's thoughts had lingered on Fenris' whispered urging, little one spells the start of realization that....perhaps he wouldn't mind after all. Perhaps there's something to be said for agency. Control. Freedom. (Perhaps there's something to be said for this strange, familiar man whose charms leave him searching for identifiable marks: does he remind him of someone, is that it? Vincent? Sebastian? No, that can't be it. Each search draws closer to reminders of Fenris, but Fenris isn't like anyone he's ever met before.)

It makes no sense. It's not important.

Besides, exhilaration and affability go hand-in-hand, don't they? Maybe he just missed the splendor of soirées without the sour note of looming torture.]

Not even a glass of wine? A fetched hors d'oeuvre? A dance?

Edited (apostrophe get back in there) 2024-12-01 04:33 (UTC)

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject