illithidnapped | INBOX II

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.

[His desire is a bitten tongue and an even broader grin— not Fenris', his own— because he'd been more than ready to beg, petition or steal his way into having such a handsome creature in his arms where everyone might pay witness, dancing as though they belong and aren't somehow sullying the landscape with their very pointy ears. He'd wanted to ask for the same thing, in other words, and instead walked facefirst into his own aspirations.

The borders of his ears are burning, though he shows nothing of his hand elsewise when Fenris stands so close. Like a practiced poker player, he knows better than to let true feelings enter into this, lest he lean too hard, want too much— turn their playful banter into the forthright transcipt of his desires and send the only elf that matters slinking back towards their room in want of distance. So there's an art to the way he lays his focus: sets his profile to the side whilst lifting the level of his gaze, smeared kohl glittering in faint slivers of caught light.]

Nothing that isn't iniquitous by design.

[A fair way to save grace when one's only other real response would be to answer 'same', with the height of all those wasted charms. Grant him some credit, he has more decorum than that.]

So I'll settle for your suggestion, and think it fair pay for my conjecture. [His hand moves like a snake's coils just to fit between them where there's little room, extended in genteel offering.]

....shall we?

Edited 2025-01-10 00:10 (UTC)

We shall.

[Astarion's hand is so soft compared to his own. Not in actuality any smaller or more delicate than Fenris' own, and yet the mind plays tricks on perception, for as he runs a calloused thumb idly over the back of his hand, Fenris marvels at it. Soft and cold, for his fingers are like ice as they thread through Fenris' own.

He draws their joined hands up, his other settling on the jut of one sharp hip. He takes the leading position by default; there's a certain mechanical way he settles himself, stiff and yet not unyielding. He knows how to dance. He even knows how to formally dance, albeit in a somewhat old-fashioned style. But knowing and practicing are two different things; right now, Fenris moves like a man mentally checking off boxes, making sure all his bits are in place, so unlike the way he fluidly slides into battle positions.

One hand here. Weight evenly distributed and leaned forward into the balls of his feet (pinching in the hated shoes). He steps a little closer to his partner, bridging the gap between them until there's only the barest sliver of space. And then—]

Follow my lead.

[It's such a simple little waltz. Most of the Orlesians around them are addicted to complexity: drawing apart and walking forward with only their fingers linked, or thread through one another, trading partners in a complicated weave. But there are others, much like the two of them, who make do with nothing more than a steady set of motions, steady and pleasingly simple.

That isn't what sets everyone's tongue wagging.

'Are they actually—'

'Do you think their Altus knows?'

'Are they even allowed to do that?'

Whispers whip through the room in a swift susurrus, soft giggles and uncertain grins echoing each one. Is it a joke? A game whose purpose they haven't yet deduced? More than once couriers glance up at the Marquis, trying to gauge his reaction, only to find him utterly preoccupied with speaking animatedly to his mistress. And no one is saying anything . . . perhaps it is a joke. Perhaps this is some sort of backwards ball, or a play on nobility.

And Fenris doesn't care. The whispers drift to his ears, and he's more than aware of how many people are staring at them, but somehow, it all comes at a distance. He'll chalk it up later to focusing on not stepping on Astarion's feet, and indeed, that's a concern— but truly, it's that he can't take his eyes away from Astarion. He can't stop noticing the softness of his hand or the span of his hip beneath Fenris' palm. He searches for scarlet eyes behind a golden mask and smiles when he sees them glittering in amusement; he dares to add an extra turn and grins when Astarion effortlessly keeps up.]

Stay close, lest they swoop in and attempt to steal you from me in a spirited effort to get you to join in some inane group dance.

[An answering hum as the tail of that spin brings them closer than they were before. The soft lay of his fingers where they rejoin the smooth dimples along Fenris' lower spine, stronger once they've found their marks. Everything where it belongs— save them, if the swirl of restless whispers flocking them holds any meaning. Any merit whatsoever.

To Astarion, it doesn't.

The noise might wax and wane, and the words themselves might register well enough, but the buzzing in his skull rings louder; the mantra circling its tail that swears in awe as often as it can that this is real.]

Then I'll hold you that much tighter, and dare them all to try. [Is a murmur inlaid near the borders of a lunar mask, blowing back with his own exhale— warmer on its second pass. He can still smell that bottled wine, still taste it in recounted memory. Where there hands fit together— smooth faultlines over rough (and the pulse of his anchor, aching like his own raised pulse)— he palms that grip like he did the bottle: stealing everything he can without crossing into crassness. A subtle, conscious effort for a hungry thing like him.]

....You know, I didn't take you for much of a dancer.

[I was wrong, insists his tone.]

Dexterity, adaptability, flexibility . . . fighting and dancing require many of the same skills.

[The scent of lilac fills his senses as his nose bumps against the edge of Astarion's mask. It's sweet and light, and a welcome contrast to the heavy perfumes the Orelesians tend to favor. He likes it, Fenris thinks, and wishes there was a way to say that without coming across as creepy. I like your scent; I like the way you feel as I hold you like this, small and warm and close; I like how fluidly we move together— there's so many sensations right now he can't tell Astarion about, for fear of it all being ruined.

I like how this feels, he thinks as they move together, right to right, left to left. I like having you near me, and he can't— won't— think about what that means. He won't connect his own relief that Astarion isn't squirreled away with some oafish count with the simple pleasure that pulses through him now. He won't even linger on the way his body is so aware of every place they touch: Astarion's fingers leaving ghostly echoes against the small of his back, and gods, he wouldn't mind if those hands drifted even further—

No.

Too dangerous, that line of thought. Too terrifying for a man still steeling for the inevitable loss.

Focus on the here and now. On the intimacy of whispering things to one another, and all the jealousies they spark by not sharing. On the joy of having Astarion (selfishly, possessively in a way he has no right to be), even in some small way, even if it's only for now.]

Indeed: there have been times when I have contemplated taking up ballet as a hobby. Then again: considering the demographic that usually populates those classes, perhaps not. There are few things less merciless to one's ego than children.

[Is he joking? There's no giveaway in the rumble of his voice, but this close, Astarion might be able to see the amusement glittering in his gaze.]

I could say the same to you, though. Are dances so similar where you're from, or are you simply good at adapting?

[Light, airy: better to say that than in your world.]

Mhmm, so do fucking and dancing, for that matter.

[When all was knife-sharp palatability in the dark, crass humor remains a heady thrill he's still not truly normalized quite yet— and to that extent, it's exactly why there's nothing wicked loitering beneath the surface of that remark.

Well, not overtly, anyway.

Any dedication to packbound levity initially leaned on suddenly recedes the second that his mask is nudged by a pretty nose. One that every last facet of himself is magnetized towards for just an instant, very nearly giving chase; all that saves him from the humiliation of taking things too far is a single, shifting step towards the left timed to the rhythm of the music (and a memory he can't quite place— deja vu— have they done this once before....?) wherein centimeters of empty air do the hard job that he can't: redraw the line between winebound fantasy and reality.

And it's effortless.]

I don't know which is worse: children or Orlesians, for criticism.

[Ah, but 'where you're from.' He likes that, he realizes. The way it makes him seem like he belongs here, rather than the great pretender that he is.

And it's far, far from effortless.]

Dances vary by the region, and much like....[well] pursuits of an undeniably different shade, one hardly needs to know every step to follow a keen rhythm. But shockingly I'm finding this particular dance almost exceedingly familiar.

Then again, there are only so many ways the mortal body can move.

Much like languages, I suppose. [Fenrir and Fenris, he hasn't forgotten, though a few hours has sweetened the comparison.] Though so few possess a fraction of the flexibility we do: it makes for a limited pool indeed.

[It's not meant to be as judgemental as it comes out, but Fenris can't find it within himself to care. One song drifts into another, the tempo shifting from slow to lively and back again, and some part of Fenris hopes that it will never end. That they'll linger here, talking and dancing with the world kept so far at bay, until at last dawn comes and they'll squirrel away to their shared room.

And it won't happen like that, of course. He knows that. Nothing good ever lasts— so best to make this count.]

So show me.

[His head cocks, a challenging little smirk on his lips.]

Sex and fighting both also require an ability to read the other person's body, anticipating their moves and mood, and then improvise as needed . . . show me the differences in your dances and mine. I want to learn more of you.

[And it's true. He's eternally fascinated by languages and culture: how one affects the other affects the one, an endless ouroboros of society; how the differences between each arise, and what marks them. Orlais and Tevinter and the Free Marches, yes, but . . . what of another world? They're so similar in so many ways, but there's still so much that Fenris doesn't know about.]

And we'll see just how well I can keep up.

[Does he trust Fenris not to make a fool of himself in front of a court that'd spurn them both for the sake of a fine challenge?

Yes. Yes he does— and that goes beyond the fawning trust fostered from the awe long set in on arrival's heels: Cazador's court would be in ruins for the lightness in each step or every deliberate twist his body makes, as if he's come to know even his own musculature (let alone his veins, his blood— his weightless sense of balance) the way an artist hones his tools. Neither the work nor canvas, but the means, masterfully wielded.

He'll be fine.

So: cut his foot along the inside line, knee to inner knee. So: a tightening of his right thumb when it sinks into the channel of Fenris' palm, taking lead. So: square up with his left against the small of one muscular back (and try, try to remember how to breathe) as he smiles past his canines in warning. This is the moment before they play. Before they test just how well Fenris can keep up. Best be ready.]

I think I should warn you....

[The next song doesn't leap in so much as it flows. Smoother than a river, yet give credit to the acoustics that he can hear himself speak over the pleasant din. (Rivaini? Antivan? Closer to a tango than a waltz.) Its tempo drives him forwards; quickens his steps; straightens his spine and rounds his neck so that when he stops to spin them both into a dip, he can whisper to the patterns in silver metal:]

....I am much better at dancing than I am fighting.

[Amongst other things, unimportant to this sparring.]

INBOX II

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