illithidnapped | INBOX II

[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)

[He laughs softly, but it isn't directed at Astarion. His offers are sweet, but his disbelief is, well, appropriate, and all the more so when directed towards a duke of his power. Vakares should be asking for something, shouldn't he? He sticks out all the more if he doesn't, but then again, that's always been his way.]

Mm, well, not a dance. I have two left feet.

[He doesn't, honestly, do all that poorly in dancing, but being able to perform the moves is far different than enjoying it.]

Call it a gift, with no expected strings attached. I doubt you'll find a rarer prize in these halls, but I have no desire to barter for such information. You would find it out sooner or later regardless; it's hardly a secret.

[But . . . hmm, and he cocks his head, regarding Astarion warmly. There's no small amount of interest there, flattered and quietly thrilled by the slow drag of scarlet eyes— but nor does he reach for the elf just yet. He is confident in himself, Duke Vakares, but self-confidence does not always mean having the courage to flirt.]

But with that said, you have your prize. I would not say no to continuing our conversation, but not as an extension of that. Stay if you wish, or don't.

I certainly wouldn't mind the company.

Edited 2024-12-01 22:35 (UTC)

You know, a smarter man would think you were leading me astray. [Grand Games and closed-off spaces don't play well with honest guesswork; an accent can be feigned, an investment guarded by way of trussed up little half-truths too small to tip the scales.

But amusement overtakes Astarion anyway regardless of scar tissue and suspicion. Against the grain of his sharp mind he feels a scoff inside his throat (soft, all of it) before it leaves him, spurred on by that admission. Either the Duke is an exceptional liar, or he's the second most honest man in Thedas.

Either way, Astarion hasn't moved just yet.]

If I am, it must be a subtle plot indeed— and my ego enormous, to assume you'll be drawn in by allure alone after I've given you what you desire.

[He sips at his wine. There's a small smile gracing his lips, some part of him amused by his companion's refusal to simply flit away and take what he can.]

I have played this Game for a long, long time. You have too, haven't you? You seem to know it well enough. [A guess, but not a far reach, not when the elf is probing so curiously at him.] Then you know that too often, all the whispers and feints and ploys all amount to absolutely nothing save petty gossip. Nothing changes. Nothing shifts, except perhaps who is invited to what party or who wears an out-of-date dress.

I do not seek to lead you astray, I promise you— but perhaps I seek to change the nature of the game itself, for it's a rare thing that information is shared freely. Besides: the Marquis is a dullard and an oaf, and I would not be sorry to see him inconvenienced.

[He wouldn't be sorry for a lot of things should they happen to befall the Marquis, his tone suggests. But there's a difference between voluntarily retreating from the Game and smashing the board entirely, and Vakares has no desire to be called in for treason.]

Now, then: you have the puzzle pieces. [His tone is a bit more instructional now, a tongue-in-cheek lecturer.] The Baroness of Seleny is devout, or at least makes a grand show of being devout, and I suspect it is genuine enough. She dotes upon him, as I said, and advises him. The Marquis himself is rather more interested in hunting than he is in politics, and when that isn't enough to occupy him, he lingers in the arms of his mistress.

[Vakares nods to a woman who stands nearby. She's beautiful in the same way a knife is beautiful: all sharp edges and gleaming countenance, but there's something in the glint of her eyes that warns she isn't to be trifled with. She stands out among the crowd, her black hair a vivid contrast to the scarlet silk she's clad herself in, every inch glimmering with small rubies.]

She hails from Nevarra, though that may or may not be true. There's very little anyone can find out about her past.

[He raises an eyebrow.]

Which way do you think they sway, with the Venatori calling out freely for allies? And to what end?

[It's an honorable endeavor. An admirable one too for that matter, and it's because of that notion's inherent lure that for a moment Astarion almost tricks himself into believing its potential. The Duke is charming if not quietly withdrawn; his corner of the fete feels calmer for it, more comfortable in its overarching airs.

But the world will push back first before it ever emulates his stride.

Astarion simply settles in beside him in lieu of taking up a banner. Propped against the wall at listless angles, nursing his own drink between splayed fingers— he watches the horizon, and marks the players on the board, as prompted.]

What I think is that dressed in that, she very much could wake the dead even if she isn't from Nevarra. [But the unspoken is louder in the silence that then follows with a grin, not for a servant to ever utter. Not even here.]

....where is it that rubies are mined from again?

[He smiles at that joke, for it's amusing enough (and he does not like the Marquis' mistress, snobbish thing that she is). But it's what comes after that intrigues him: that slanted grin, charming in its roguishness and cleverness both— and emphasized by the question that Astarion offers him.]

Neromenian, I believe.

[One of the cities along the coast within the Tevinter Imperium, and it's— it is what it is. No one expects all trade to cease just because two countries are at war; ideologies are all well and good, but money is money, and those with enough gold can turn blind eyes easily enough. It's not so shocking that she's adorned in jewels from those they're at war with . . .

. . . but it's not going unnoticed, either. There are whispers here and there, speculation and rumor, and Vakares wonders if that isn't the point. Say what you will about the woman, but she isn't stupid: she'd worn this outfit on purpose. And now every motion, every movement, every soft throated laugh or sharp smile is a deliberate message— though what that message is might be up for interpretation.

He glances at Astarion, one eyebrow raising (invisible behind his mask, actually, but he forgets that, too eager to discuss tactics).]

And what of it?

[Tell me, for he wants to measure just how clever this elf really is.]

Mm? [It's feigned surprise, and wholly so.

It also doesn't care to mask that fact.]

Oh nothing. What could I possibly say about such a delicate affair?

But I do think it's quite fun, isn't it? Sex and piety— a devil on one shoulder and the maker's bride atop the other. [Astarion's shoulders shrug against the wall where he's slung, dramatically punctuating his point with a playful bit of showmanship. One shoulder, then the other, and then—

A nudge against Vakare's own with his own.]

Behind closed doors, I'd bet on the Neromenian rubies.

[Maker, but it's been too long since he's been touched. Not even romantically, but platonically too, for the gentle bump of the elf's shoulder is a thrill all unto itself. It lingers, his skin tingling through two layers of fabric, his eyes softening just a little in a swell of longing he wishes he didn't feel.]

You would win that bet, I suspect. Though I can't say I know for certain . . . the Baroness is craftier than she looks.

[And he shouldn't do what he's about to do next. Or, no, that isn't right: he never does what he's about to do next, for such things aren't his style. But he's a little lonely, and the wine is good, and this elf's eyes glitter as they peer up at him— and Vakares is only mortal.]

Now I have an exchange for you. What would you ask of me, if I wanted to know just why you want to know which way the Marquis is going to fall?

[Were he home, it would be the constellatory endpoint of one brilliant trap. Here, the moment he would've spent a whole night chasing after like a bloodhound, that same breed of openness and honesty that would've netted him nothing more than the humiliating tang of fetid rat blood rather than so much worse. It was the rotting carrot rather than the inevitably risen stick, and yet still he feels the ingrained thrill of its success on instinct.

The Duke's eyes on him, the Duke's latent sense of yearning, tanginle where it oughtn't be. Made even better by the fact that elves merit hardly anything in this world outside derision, and yet—

(What would a meretrix ask of a Duke in the labyrinthine heart of Orlais?

Everything, answers something back.

Dangerous. Dark as the pleasant thought only a vampire— former or otherwise— could nurse along inside its frigid chest. He doesn't even want to. Not really. But despite his neophytic first flight on the heels of someone better, the graveyard still has him. It's there in pallid skin and knifing fangs. Beneath the mild, inexplicable bond (and the pity for palpable loneliness lapping at his heels by proxy), pacing like a tiger in its cage, his first thought is a flash of vibrant cruelty.

Put away.)]

Surely you understand that my altus would be greatly displeased if I were out here spreading all their secrets for fondness' sake.

[Yet the question was what would he ask— not what could he ask.]

But if I were in the business of dealing my own downfall, [As Astarion Ancunín always was.] I'd start by asking for your name, so that I could remember it. Something to take home with me.

A souvenir.

[It's a nothing-bargain, as his old tutor would have called. Giving away something for nothing at all, the most foolish— and most often committed— mistake in any negotiation. Every word, every smile, every look and glance and name and date and title all have value; to offer them up for nothing at all is like hanging out free money.

But he's rich, when all is said and done, and in more ways than one. And though he knows better than most the foolishness of believing in things like sincerity or connection . . . he likes this elf too much to deny him.]

You realize the point of a masquerade is anonymity, don't you?

[Of course he does. Placing his hand on his breast, he offers Astarion a deep bow from the waist, graceful and fluid as only years of training can produce.]

Duke Ilrostan Presidius Vios Marus Vakares . . .

[He sneaks a small, conspiratorial smile at Astarion as he rises.]

But Vakares is far less of a mouthful.

[How regal Duke Vakares is. Even tucked away amongst his peers he stands out for that, lionish and striking. In a way that's beautiful. In a way that invokes a teething sort of jealousy— this is what you were, once. This is what you were born to be— no longer.

But that's nothing new. Two centuries spent wearing a different sort of mask always made him feel this way; at least here he can't feel a collar round his throat, choking out the thought of self-sufficiency or pride.

At least here, he has a choice.

And with the luxury of freedom in his corner, Astarion returns that bow. Graceful and fluid as only years of training can produce. Not a mockery or mimicry of it, nor something made to entertain the fickle whims of nobility that couldn't care less about him past his service. A truth revealed— if only through sleight of hand.]

Duke Ilrostan Presidius Vios Marus Vakares, [smooth as butter on the tongue, that recitation, his red eyes lifted just before the rest of his body follows suit. As it is with all things: the repetition helps it stick.]

Having my mouth less full of sweetness isn't my idea of a good time.

[Ah, but then there's the question of a name, isn't there? Telling the truth would jeopardize the assignment. Moreover it would jeopardize him, something he can neither ignore nor abide. Yet if anonymity is the point, he can make the trade more fair, at least, by offering a name he's used before— even if it wasn't right.

Viniquessë, is what I remember being called.

With that, he takes his prize in turn: an evening spent soaking in the tidbits of proxied information, more than enough to bring back to Riftwatch for the mission in totality despite this having been the first night of scouting on its own. So well done, in fact, that he stays beside the Duke a little longer to bid farewell to the second kindest man he's ever known, returning to the first holding a bottle of stolen wine plucked up from the Marquis' cellar. After all, in Orlais elves go where they're needed. And isn't it funny how that translates to everywhere?

Speaking of which—

Hm.

A gentle turning of his head this way and that through the milling of the party reveals nothing. He'd thought his companion would be easy to spot, but....

Where is he?]

[It takes them some time to reunite.

Not forever. But Fenris, no matter what Astarion had assured him, really isn't built for this kind of subterfuge. He can flirt with the best of them, coy remarks and drawling statements, but only when he means it— and what few vague attempts he'd made tonight were middling at best and utterly awkward at worst. Better to quit while he was ahead, in his mind; at least he wouldn't spoil the duel act Astarion had spent so much effort making for them.

Besides: slipping out of the party means he doesn't have to watch Astarion ply his trade. And maybe he's aware of his own aversion and maybe he isn't; all he knows is that there's a thickness in his throat and nausea in his gut each time that Duke laughs or reaches out to steal a touch— and that the feeling only lessens, never abates, no matter if Astarion is in his sightline or not.

He roams, for their thoughts align: no one notices an elf, even a prettily dressed one, for every human assumes elves know not to risk the wrath of their betters. And as he roams, he makes himself useful, collecting information and finding things out in his own way. His disheveled appearance speaks to that: his hair sticking up a little here and there, his sleeves pushed up his forearms and his mask just a little askew from being taken off and put back on blindly. As for what he does and who he talks to— ah, well, that's something he'll tell Astarion soon enough.

For now, he lurks in the shadow of a convenient pillar, a little ghostly as he deliberately draws attention away from himself. A rogue's art of seduction isn't in his repertoire, but hiding in plain sight? That he can do. Nobles' eyes slide right over him; most of the servants don't even realize there's a person lurking but a few feet away. And when Astarion comes looking—

It's petulant, but he watches him go by just once, tracking him as he weaves through the crowd. His thoughts are sulky, lingering on just who else Astarion might be looking for, and he doesn't know why he does it. He isn't upset with Astarion; he isn't even sure who he's upset with, except perhaps himself.

But it's a momentary impulse when all is said and done, and he corrects it the next time Astarion drifts near him, stepping out of the shadows and catching his eye.]

The Marquis is a generous host, I see.

[Amusement threads itself through his dry-as-bone tone.]

Does he know you're availing yourself to it? Or is this a gift for our altus?

Oh- gods. [Is a faintly startled exhale that breaks into a laugh once Fenris catches him proper, easing back into his shoulders and the long line of his spine now that he knows he's not been cornered unawares.

Yet it's genuine, the melt off into warmer shoals. The roundedness that seeps into the places where his mask doesn't reach, uncovered soon enough. Gilded decoration pulled up and pulled off, exposing the razor shine in crimson eyes.

Come here. Come away. A little further right of center stage into the margins where even the staff runs scarce— shadowed by moonlight cutting through a latticed terrace. It catches on all the places where Fenris' primped presentation has come unstrung.

Which is charming, as it so happens. Unlike the way he and his siblings always persisted.]

Me? Availing myself? Perish the thought, I'd never take such liberties unwarranted. [A flash of teeth; an outstretch of covered fingers that slips a few stray hairs into place once more around the shell of one downturned ear.]

But our blessed altus did relay he's feeling unwell and wants us to partake in his stead.

[Without thinking, Leto tips his head, pushing against Astarion's fingers in one subtle gesture. The press of them are cool against Leto's flushed skin, his skin soft in all the ways Leto's own fingers aren't. It's an impulse, there and gone, and in the next moment he covers for it: tugging his mask free with more fumbling than is strictly required, giving Astarion time to pull back.

(He doesn't regret it, though. Not for a moment).]

Did he now?

[Oh, his expression is growing warmer, losing some of that sulkiness in favor of amusement. There are few things that perk up his mood more than undercutting some Tevinter noble— even when said noble is, well, fictional. And now that Astarion is here—

But perhaps he's being too hasty. His eyes go from green to white and back again as a breeze picks up the leaves in the terrace, moonlight rippling over both their expressions.]

Are you done for the night?

[It's soft, for his ire truly isn't with Astarion, not at all. And in case some of that tension threads its way through, he distracts again: reaching to pluck that bottle deftly out of Astarion's fingers so he can pry it open.]

[He can feel it, too. The unraveling. Little traces of their comfort coming home to roost— first of them that touch above Fenris' ear, retreated from, and yet....

Well, it surrenders to something that doesn't feel like a rejection, only equilibrium.]

Done? [Short flex, fingers letting Fenris have the run of the bottle; all yours, darling. No matter what he says, he brought this for his companion. His patient, fête loathing companion who's earned his every drop.] Well now that depends on what you mean by it.

Done circling the golden glories of Orlais' uppermost echelons? Oh yes, darling, tonight has run its course.

Done enjoying myself on the other hand.....

[Ah, now that's a dracolisk of a very different shade. ]

[Good, and he feels no guilt about how pleased that makes him. Fenris knows the importance of missions like this, he truly does, and every single one counts if they're to oppose Corypheus— but he can't help the seething resentment that pulses its way through him each and every time. Resentment for Riftwatch and the assignments they so easily give Astarion; resentment for all the nobles in the room who have the nerve to laugh and dance and act as though they haven't a care in the world.

But here and now, his only focus is in front of him. His fingers make quick work of the foil and cork, casually pocketing both, before offering the bottle back to Astarion.]

You earned it. It's only fair you get the first sip.

[He shifts as he says it, leaning up against the wall and making himself a little more comfortable. Angled like this, he can keep one eye on the party just inside, golden light spilling out as music wafts through the air, and yet still keep Astarion in his sightline.]

If you weren't working tonight . . . would you want to be here?

Tell me the appeal.

It is work, darling. [He sips because he's told to; celebration all the sweeter on his tongue, burning scarlet on his lips. What he says before it? Oh, no more than an emphasis, not an explanation. Not to someone else that knows. The little intricacies that transmute recitation into resonance itself: I know what you've been through, because gods swear in all their elaborate misery, I've been there, too.]

And yet it's beautiful. It's warm and rich with life, unlike the darkness where I felt I'd slip away beneath those swells of welling anguish, unseen. Soon forgotten.

But like any job, it's not what I'd fancy for myself, had I the opportunity to choose.

[He indulges in another sip, head canting playfully towards his own shoulder. Deliberate in prolonging the act before holding that heavy wine bottle out, neck first.]

Too many memories. None of them belong.

What about you, though? Find anyone interesting in your hunts?

[His eyes linger on Astarion for a few moments before he takes the bottle. There's something so unique about the way he threads in those dark memories, weaving them through conversation so deftly that you could almost miss if it you weren't paying attention. Unseen, soon forgotten, and it's so unlike the blunt, angry way Fenris offers his own traumas. Cleverer. Easier, too, to move on from them instead of making the conversation come to a screeching halt.

It's a talent he doesn't have, Fenris knows, but it's one he admires. And maybe someday he'll find the words to say it.]

A child, of all things.

[He offers a little smile, softer and easier around the edges, as he takes a swig of that wine. It's sweet and rich, lingering on his tongue and easing some of the tension in his system.]

There are always slave children lurking about in the back halls of these places. [It's an oddly fond tone he uses, for though his past is murky, there are hints sometimes. Smears of colors and snatches of sound; he must have run around at a party not unlike this one long ago, keeping out of the way and sneaking what food he could. It's not a wholly unpleasant thought.] I asked her what she knew and paid her for her troubles either way, and she was happy to tell me all the things she'd seen: strange visitors coming to the estate lately, smelling of iron and earth. Templars with scarlet eyes and an urgent look in their gazes . . .

[He tips his head, glancing over at Astarion as he passes the bottle back.]

I suspect our Marquis is dealing in red lyrium.

[Someday, he will. And if nothing else, for now it's Fenris that catches Astarion wholly off his guard, surprise brimming in an expression that's only partway obscured for the scantest of seconds— segue brief before his own mask comes off, shadow flitting over the bemused curl of his lips.

A child of all things. A single, unimportant, no doubt truthful-to-his-own child. While Astarion was off hunting coattails and causerie, Fenris went right to the genuine source. What a beautiful beast you are, the white flash of his jagged fangs seems to say. What a clever, -clever- thing.

This is why he wanted him here, that stark difference in perspective.]

That....[Astarion starts, red eyes glittering to watch Fenris slake his thirst whilst his mind crawls back towards remembering those rubies. Even the Andrastisn guise standing opposite to it, begging a question he can't yet answer.] ....or someone close to him.

Someone with their finger to the pulse of his sovereignty, perhaps.

[Oh, and it's startlingly sweet, the sudden appearance of Astarion's face. A little unexpected and all the more pleasurable for it, and for a brief moment Fenris feels something like preening pride fill his chest. Perhaps there's something to be said for a masquerade, for though he's seen Astarion's face a hundred times before, still, here, now, it feels like an earned prize.]

That does seem more likely . . .

[Heat washes through him, the wine already making him pleasantly tipsy.]

And I would bet almost anything you have an idea just who that might be, hm?

Will you tell me? Or must I earn it?

[Time and tide already prove— punctuated by an electric sparkle in those eyes— that there is nothing Astarion would not lay willingly at Fenris' feet if prompted to, dropping everything from gossip to agonizing truth on the ground like a guttering, half-dead bird sporting puncture wounds in its neck.

His love language is service. It's the only one he ever learned with any sincerity. It's the language he most wants to speak now.

Still it's Fenris that's been pushing him to think before he reacts on thready instinct, and it manifests first in a vibrant twist of amusement channeled high throughout his face— tipped back along with him as he tucks both arms behind him, chin canting low across his throat, head tilted.]

If I demand the latter, I wonder....would you let curiosity lead you....?

[Or would you turn away, and let it lie.]

[Oh, and something in the pit of his stomach flutters pleasantly. Suddenly he isn't so certain of where the world is taking him, but it isn't a worrying feeling. He trusts Astarion, after all, and whatever he asks of him, Fenris is certain, it won't be anything egregious.

Besides: he's never been a coward.]

If it were you at the helm? Yes . . . I think I would agree to most anything.

[He doesn't know what he's saying (he does know what he's saying, the wine making his tongue loose and his face flushed hot). He angles a little closer to Astarion, drawn in by the coy way he positions himself, all rapid movement and eager swoops.]

But only if you'll indulge me in return, once all this is said and done.

[He's never heard that from a friend. Never heard it from anything beyond his many marks, and it smelled so pungently of longing when it came that he can't help pausing just to hunt for that old, familiar whiff of expectation buried deep—

(Foolish. Foolish and overwhelming all in a single moment, when he finds it isn't there.)

He knows what he's saying, and it's far from wine or heady tannins making his tongue loose and his face warm when he cranes closer in tight quarters: grinning whilst his fingertips ghost near to Fenris' chin— playfully passing by.

Wanting nothing than to touch.]

Indulge you how?

I don't doubt the party would be improved by a pair of scantily dressed escorts tussling for victory if you're so restless, but I'll warn you, it's hardly discreet....

[He doesn't recoil from that touch, though he would have with anyone else. Astarion's fingers glide over him so carefully, though, weaving between his marks and leaving only a pleasant tingling warmth in their aftermath. It quietly thrills him, just as the way they're talking does, and he does not linger on just why that is; only grins a little recklessly, his head tipping toward the party.]

Nothing so brutish, [his voice briefly affected, morphing in Astarion's own.] But we have been on our best behavior tonight, when all is said and done. Played the part of consorts perfectly— or at least, [he adds more honestly,] you have, and I have done well enough not marring it.

But consorts are meant to be noticed, are they not? Be daringly memorable?

[Another grin.]

Come dance with me, and let us scandalize every human in there.

[Because he's tired of how small this organization makes him feel, and this will piss off their superiors. Because he hates this country, and this party, and these humans; because he's so tired of ducking his head down and keeping himself safe and nonthreatening for no other reason than he has pointed ears. Because he's drunk and happy for the first time tonight, and he sees no reason not to keep that going.]

But only after you tell me your desire.

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