WHO: Fenris, Jone, & YOU. WHAT: Fenris & Jone are back in Kirkwall. WHEN: When... people... are back in Kirkwall... waves hand. WHERE: KIRKWALL NOTES: None yet.
Eventually, you're invited to cards. Diamondback, specifically, in the empty mess hall of the mage tower. The room isn't particularly inviting-- it looks forgotten, cobwebbed, dusty.
Fenris, an elf in black armor and white twisting tattoos, sits at one of the few unstacked tables, laying out cards. The game reveals two things about him: He isn't particularly good at cards, and he is somehow able to handle the cards without damaging them. A feat, considering the sharp gauntleted talons he refuses to take off.
(a.) If you come early, or particularly late, Fenris will greet you with a deep, clear voice, and wave you over. "I don't think it's wise to bet," he murmurs.
He opens a bottle of wine with his gauntleted fingers; the aroma is dark and fruity, and the drink he pours is hardly a conservative amount.
(b.) After the game, the money is counted up. Fenris carefully pays what he's lost, with only light frustration. "You are not... unskilled."
Late— so much more than fashionably, in fact— is precisely when Astarion deigns to make his entrance, having brought his own offering of wine to pay for the unspeakable burden of his earlier absence. A heavy, almost comically oversized bottle: the label faded, its pasted paper smelling of stale air and salt under close inspection— stolen from the storeroom of a local tavern, if anyone's particularly Sherlockian in their ability to recognize the scent.
His shirt is dark and loose, no frippery for once. No finery in the wake of warfare. Nothing over the top. Just a nice affair between friends.
And future friends? Well, who can say.
“Finished training the fledglings yet?”
The real reason why he’s late, potentially revealed with a single question as he sets the bottle down atop dusty wood with a weighty thunk.
“Don’t sell yourself short, darling.” While forged talons fluidly set about their deft work— his own less jagged fingertips turn instead towards snatching up a nearby (only faintly dusty) glass, setting it just beside Fenris' own in an unspoken expectation.
“I’m certain you’re perfectly— “
He takes in a feathering breath, pausing for the benefit of an ensuing punchline.
“adequate.”
Haha. Oh no, wait, he actually is laughing at his own joke.
“Anyway, I won’t weep for winning. As far as I’m concerned your work is just their initiation. A little overture before I break their spirits.”
“You think I’ll have mercy on her just because she’s mine?”
His, he says, as though friendship is a matter of ownership— or allegiances— where acceptance of someone’s presence is an all-consuming thing.
Then again, it is Astarion. He might actually believe that’s true.
“Please.” Dismissal given by way of a few slender fingertips dusting through empty air before drawing that now full glass nearer, easing down into a stale chair at the end of the table. “Nothing makes one ready for the great wide world like getting mangled. By the time tonight’s over, she’ll have learned every wicked trick in the book— well, if the wine doesn’t get to either of them, first.”
Knowing Fenris, the trio are already at least a bottle deep.
“In which case I can just rob them both of the money I would’ve earned anyway and call it a day.”
Fenris' answer to Astarion's winding monologues is often squinting contemplation. Mentally, he sorts through what was said, and discards the pointlessness, the frippery. He seizes on what he thinks matters.
He stops there, all coyness visibly lost for a flicker of a beat. A potent strike, catching him off guard like that.
And then in the very same breath he recovers, expression twisting wickedly, a gleam living in those red eyes— vivid when he leans forward by degrees across the rough edges of the table.
“Do you want to be?”
A petty parry, perhaps, but Astarion has always been a fan of cheap shots.
His chin hits the table with a mild little thump— a completion of all prior forward momentum, and the immediate end of feigned maliciousness— where he’s once more settled back into only the dopiest of smiles, expression relaxed.
The good-natured acceptance of Fenris’ very apt repudiation.
“Fine. I’ll be nice.” Head still heavy across the table’s edge, it lolls to one side, cheek finding its surface as he stares up into the ruby colored liquid at his side.
“But only for you. And not once we start playing.”
In other words, yes, Fenris. Ownership off the table, you are— in whatever strange sense of friendship Astarion entertains— just as much his as Ellie herself.
Fenris sets down his drink, after taking the final sips slowly, almost delicately. What an odd man this is, in front of him. Bizarrely, Fenris hopes Astarion appreciates how slowly he drinks his wine, now. Astarion taught him that; no one else.
"You're never nice when we play." It isn't a complaint.
“You’d be bored to tears if I was.” He snorts there, amused, before he slides back up properly into his seat to return to form for the matter of drinking like a man rather than a poorly behaved rodent.
“And I’d be the first to argue that I’m being possessed.”
It is nice, actually. Knowing he won’t be outpaced simply for taking a moment to breathe. That whatever happens, he’s imparted some small sliver of change somewhere in this world.
And there’s a moment where he watches Fenris savor the last of that wine where he thinks— if he were inclined— to thank the man for what he did back in the desert wastes. Something Astarion had never managed in the moment. Hasn’t considered doing since, busy as he’s been getting settled into Kirkwall proper.
Now the intermission feels like an invitation for sincerity.
He passes.
“So,” it’s a hard start to a new topic. Not something less narcissistic, but a little less, at least. “She’s charming, isn’t she? Murderous, clever, utterly determined— why, I almost feel as if I’ve known her all my life already.”
Fenris considers the question with the same pace as he takes in his second bottle. It's a big bottle; they'll be fine. It isn't even the strongest thing he's had today.
"She isn't stupid," he says. "I haven't seen evidence of murderous intent." Another sip. "Yet."
That admission sighed heavily, offhandedly reaching across the table to snatch up the currently untouched deck without bothering to officially initiate a fresh game.
If Fenris is inclined to play, they’ll play; if the others return, they can join in, simple as that— otherwise, he's just shuffling cards.
Cobwebbed and dusty is better than a quarter-century of active rot and fungal decay. Ellie doesn't mind it, and in fact looks mostly at home. Her boots make small marks in the dust, joining the others there, the lines tracked like ghosts to make pathways.
She takes a seat at the table, folds her arms over it, and lets her eyes follow his armored fingers.
"My rep beat me here?" she asks, lifting her eyebrows at him, then tilting her head to one side, considering before she asks;
Ellie snorts aloud, her eyes following the way he works the cards, openly admiring despite herself. If this guy has any of sleight-of-hand it's going to be intense. She can't help but be impressed.
"If he ever did he told it to fuck off a long time ago."
"He'd better not," Ellie answers, putting an elbow on the table and peering at the card, then turning hers face-up, taking the ante (even if they're not betting).
"Doesn't matter. He'll pickpocket the whole damn table anyway."
Ellie shrugs back at him, but his laughter inspires a little of her own. More like a huff of breath, but it's there even if she's being completely serious.
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CLOSED TO ELLIE, ASTARION, SAM (respectively).
Fenris, an elf in black armor and white twisting tattoos, sits at one of the few unstacked tables, laying out cards. The game reveals two things about him: He isn't particularly good at cards, and he is somehow able to handle the cards without damaging them. A feat, considering the sharp gauntleted talons he refuses to take off.
(a.) If you come early, or particularly late, Fenris will greet you with a deep, clear voice, and wave you over. "I don't think it's wise to bet," he murmurs.
He opens a bottle of wine with his gauntleted fingers; the aroma is dark and fruity, and the drink he pours is hardly a conservative amount.
(b.) After the game, the money is counted up. Fenris carefully pays what he's lost, with only light frustration. "You are not... unskilled."
at some mid-point when the game's in intermission
His shirt is dark and loose, no frippery for once. No finery in the wake of warfare. Nothing over the top. Just a nice affair between friends.
And future friends? Well, who can say.
“Finished training the fledglings yet?”
The real reason why he’s late, potentially revealed with a single question as he sets the bottle down atop dusty wood with a weighty thunk.
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"I am a poor teacher," he admits while pouring himself a glass. Somehow, his gauntlets never manage to scratch the glass. "But, yes, I am finished."
He looks up to stare Astarion directly in the eye. If they need more training, it's Astarion's problem.
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“I’m certain you’re perfectly— “
He takes in a feathering breath, pausing for the benefit of an ensuing punchline.
“adequate.”
Haha. Oh no, wait, he actually is laughing at his own joke.
“Anyway, I won’t weep for winning. As far as I’m concerned your work is just their initiation. A little overture before I break their spirits.”
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"It's a friendly game," he says, and finds his words are unconvincing even to him. "What about the girl?"
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His, he says, as though friendship is a matter of ownership— or allegiances— where acceptance of someone’s presence is an all-consuming thing.
Then again, it is Astarion. He might actually believe that’s true.
“Please.” Dismissal given by way of a few slender fingertips dusting through empty air before drawing that now full glass nearer, easing down into a stale chair at the end of the table. “Nothing makes one ready for the great wide world like getting mangled. By the time tonight’s over, she’ll have learned every wicked trick in the book— well, if the wine doesn’t get to either of them, first.”
Knowing Fenris, the trio are already at least a bottle deep.
“In which case I can just rob them both of the money I would’ve earned anyway and call it a day.”
A very lovely day.
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Voice tilted with sarcasm, he asks, "am I yours?"
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And then in the very same breath he recovers, expression twisting wickedly, a gleam living in those red eyes— vivid when he leans forward by degrees across the rough edges of the table.
“Do you want to be?”
A petty parry, perhaps, but Astarion has always been a fan of cheap shots.
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"I am only my own," he says. "Don't ask me questions you'd be offended by."
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The good-natured acceptance of Fenris’ very apt repudiation.
“Fine. I’ll be nice.” Head still heavy across the table’s edge, it lolls to one side, cheek finding its surface as he stares up into the ruby colored liquid at his side.
“But only for you. And not once we start playing.”
In other words, yes, Fenris. Ownership off the table, you are— in whatever strange sense of friendship Astarion entertains— just as much his as Ellie herself.
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"You're never nice when we play." It isn't a complaint.
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“And I’d be the first to argue that I’m being possessed.”
It is nice, actually. Knowing he won’t be outpaced simply for taking a moment to breathe. That whatever happens, he’s imparted some small sliver of change somewhere in this world.
And there’s a moment where he watches Fenris savor the last of that wine where he thinks— if he were inclined— to thank the man for what he did back in the desert wastes. Something Astarion had never managed in the moment. Hasn’t considered doing since, busy as he’s been getting settled into Kirkwall proper.
Now the intermission feels like an invitation for sincerity.
He passes.
“So,” it’s a hard start to a new topic. Not something less narcissistic, but a little less, at least. “She’s charming, isn’t she? Murderous, clever, utterly determined— why, I almost feel as if I’ve known her all my life already.”
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"She isn't stupid," he says. "I haven't seen evidence of murderous intent." Another sip. "Yet."
You never know with this crowd.
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That admission sighed heavily, offhandedly reaching across the table to snatch up the currently untouched deck without bothering to officially initiate a fresh game.
If Fenris is inclined to play, they’ll play; if the others return, they can join in, simple as that— otherwise, he's just shuffling cards.
“But I suppose we can’t all be perfect.”
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And utterly amused.
He taps the deck against the table, folding it with his knuckles, and dealing out a basic hand.
“If it helps, I describe you differently to other people.”
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dice betrayal the musical the movie the life
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1/2
2/2
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A
She takes a seat at the table, folds her arms over it, and lets her eyes follow his armored fingers.
"My rep beat me here?" she asks, lifting her eyebrows at him, then tilting her head to one side, considering before she asks;
"Do you take those off, ever?"
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"Astarion has..." How does he say this gently? He doesn't. "No self control."
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"If he ever did he told it to fuck off a long time ago."
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"No," he says, "he would have sold it. Are you familiar with Diamondback?"
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"It's been a long fucking time, but yeah. You wanna refresh me on the rules?"
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"Be careful with Astarion," he says, "he will not go easy on you."
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"I don't take pity-wins."
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Ellie shrugs back at him, but his laughter inspires a little of her own. More like a huff of breath, but it's there even if she's being completely serious.