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.
“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.
Astarion can’t help but savor that note of apprehension, eyes dilating somewhere behind the fan of his cards— sating it instead with a slower sip of wine, as though it’ll quench his own bestial instincts.
“If you want to know,” he exhales smoothly, the words all but slithering from between sharp teeth in the sort of temptation fit for a cambion’s bargain.
“Oh don’t be so sour. It’s just a harmless little game.”
He’s perfectly in control of all his nastier inclinations, thank you very much— though he still spares no time in dealing a hand to Fenris all the same, cards hissing as they slide across old wood.
“I’ll even give you an out, just because we’re such good friends: if you lose, I’ll still tell you— but you’ll have to pay up instead.”
He drinks too much, albeit slowly. He talks too much, albeit not slowly. And he enjoys himself throughout that back and forth of passed hands and gained ground—
And lost ground, it seems, when Fenris comes out the victor rather than the victim of Astarion’s efforts.
“I don’t believe it— I can’t even begin to— ” he’s scoffing in graceless defeat, combing over the cards before him as though searching for a sign that he hasn’t truly lost. “How? How is this possible— I even cheated, and you— ”
He stops, sucking in a half breath, backtracking quickly.
Mph, is the undignified noise he makes as one brow twitches under the sting of loss, compounded by the smugness that’s risen from across the table to meet it.
He pulls that gifted bottle— so much lighter now— towards himself instead.
“As you wish, my darling.” He’s putting on an act of congeniality: even a blind beggar could sense it, the way that he’s taken to sulking. “Far be it from me to deny you your spoils.”
Spoken, of course, while he pours himself a fresh glass of wine. And pours. And pours. And—
It is a battle of patience— and for the second time tonight, Fenris is slated to win: Astarion’s always been lacking in matters of self-restraint and discipline, and his own thin skin does him no favors in the grand scheme of things.
He sips his wine, the glass nearly spilling for its fullness, and then:
“It depends on who I’m talking to. I don’t go blathering on about you to a stranger that might very well make themselves our enemy at some future, unforeseeable point.” It might not always seem like it, considering the former vampire's love of chaos, but there's caution living somewhere in his veins, at least under the press of certain key catalysts. “But I’ve been known to occasionally use words along the lines of fierce and impressive and noteworthy. Someone worth sticking around for.”
There's a mild little pause before he tacks on, pointedly, “Still a picky recluse, though. Be less of one if you want that to change.”
But he’s mellowed out again under the lulling sound of his own voice, long lashes fitted over his eyes as something new comes to mind behind the lip of his wine glass, stopping him from drinking more.
“...do you care what I think of you? Or...is it about what they think of you?”
Fenris had, after all, bristled just so beforehand.
Fenris considers this, and finds none of it disagreeable. He reaches over to Astarion's overfilled wineglass, intending to drink from it; there's enough for them both in that glass.
"I care if I am insulted," he says, "you have not."
It’s a credit to their kinship that Fenris is allowed to take it; Astarion, dressed perpetually in greed, would gladly glut himself to the point of misery if it meant denying someone else what’s rightfully his.
Instead he only watches that glass inch away from him, blinking steadily.
“Picky.”
He insists, though it’s far friendlier this time, his mouth twitching upwards almost imperceptibly at its corner.
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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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“If you want to know,” he exhales smoothly, the words all but slithering from between sharp teeth in the sort of temptation fit for a cambion’s bargain.
“win...and I’ll tell you everything.”
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He’s perfectly in control of all his nastier inclinations, thank you very much— though he still spares no time in dealing a hand to Fenris all the same, cards hissing as they slide across old wood.
“I’ll even give you an out, just because we’re such good friends: if you lose, I’ll still tell you— but you’ll have to pay up instead.”
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His hand is good, not grand. He lays down the cards for an opening move, hoping Astarion doesn't have the cards to meet it.
dice betrayal the musical the movie the life
And lost ground, it seems, when Fenris comes out the victor rather than the victim of Astarion’s efforts.
“I don’t believe it— I can’t even begin to— ” he’s scoffing in graceless defeat, combing over the cards before him as though searching for a sign that he hasn’t truly lost. “How? How is this possible— I even cheated, and you— ”
He stops, sucking in a half breath, backtracking quickly.
“I mean, I— ”
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No, he doesn't know how he did it either.
"Tell me."
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He pulls that gifted bottle— so much lighter now— towards himself instead.
“As you wish, my darling.” He’s putting on an act of congeniality: even a blind beggar could sense it, the way that he’s taken to sulking. “Far be it from me to deny you your spoils.”
Spoken, of course, while he pours himself a fresh glass of wine. And pours. And pours. And—
—no, still going.
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He sips his wine, the glass nearly spilling for its fullness, and then:
“It depends on who I’m talking to. I don’t go blathering on about you to a stranger that might very well make themselves our enemy at some future, unforeseeable point.” It might not always seem like it, considering the former vampire's love of chaos, but there's caution living somewhere in his veins, at least under the press of certain key catalysts. “But I’ve been known to occasionally use words along the lines of fierce and impressive and noteworthy. Someone worth sticking around for.”
There's a mild little pause before he tacks on, pointedly, “Still a picky recluse, though. Be less of one if you want that to change.”
But he’s mellowed out again under the lulling sound of his own voice, long lashes fitted over his eyes as something new comes to mind behind the lip of his wine glass, stopping him from drinking more.
“...do you care what I think of you? Or...is it about what they think of you?”
Fenris had, after all, bristled just so beforehand.
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"I care if I am insulted," he says, "you have not."
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Instead he only watches that glass inch away from him, blinking steadily.
“Picky.”
He insists, though it’s far friendlier this time, his mouth twitching upwards almost imperceptibly at its corner.
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