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.
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.
Fenris' attention snaps back to Astarion. He can't keep the accusation out of his voice, even though he doesn't, truly, mean it. Some ugly things are just reflexive.
Astarion, more than he cares to, knows exactly what that’s like. Recognizes the figurative flash of teeth without thought.
“Because then I can’t protect you if something goes wrong.”
Scoffed lightly, as though their conversation remains casual. Cards ribbing as they clack and clatter a few more times, flattened keenly to the table— the whole of his own focus. “If you bite off too much trouble for your frequently intangible self to manage entirely on your own.”
“Your world isn’t exactly stable, you know. Much as I’ve come to appreciate it.” He fans the cards he’s drawn, letting them sink into place against his fingertips before adding, quick as a breath:
Fenris shakes his head, getting up from the table. "I need your protection as much as you need mine."
Which presumably means none. Yet the man is possessive; friendship is clearly, for him, a rare commodity, and he does not have Fenris' indelicacy with the prospect of inserting himself into another's life. Astarion waltzes in, announces himself, and lets the chips fall.
Fenris is somewhat envious of that confidence.
"You won't be alone," he says, "even if you're moving."
He attempts-- poorly-- to inject some of Astarion's witty bitterness into the word. In truth, he doesn't much care; Astarion may go as he likes.
Then again, considering everything Fenris has already lost, maybe it should. Astarion doesn’t know. And he doesn’t like not knowing. Just as he doesn’t like losing. Not at cards— well, yes at cards— but more than that: Fenris might think he doesn’t need looking out for, but Astarion knows better.
Fighting isn't the only bloody sport out there, after all.
He folds the deck in on itself one last time, placing it squarely in the center of the table. Precisely where it always sits when not in use.
Fenris considers where he stands-- metaphorically; he didn't have that much to drink. There are things he could ask. Where is it? What is it like? But those are all facts Fenris will uncover by himself, without needing to waste conversation, a thing he treats as a limited commodity at the best of times.
And it occurs to Astarion then that maybe there’s more to the picture than he’d initially assumed. Or— maybe that’s the wine talking. Hard to say.
Either way, he hadn't expected Fenris to care enough to ask.
“For one, I didn’t relish sleeping huddled in cramped quarters with a man that smells like muck and earth— not you, my dear, obviously. Don't ask. For another, I’ve existed long enough under someone else’s thumb, even if Riftwatch casts a much more mild shadow.” Infinitely more mild, in fact.
“I’m not a damned rat. I won’t live like one any longer.”
No more huddling over prickling straw, no more cramped quarters, no more thin, chafing blankets; if he has to beg, borrow, and steal the comforts he wants in life, he'll stoop low enough to scrape them up from the dirt without hesitation. “And yes, I know it’s impossible for someone like me to flourish in Hightown, but— well. I don’t care: I’ll start in Lowtown. I’ll figure it out. Make something remarkable of all this yet.”
Though he pauses there. Mind flicking back to dwell on that witty bitterness Fenris had shown, conversational momentum slowing to a halt.
“You know, a lot of the coin I used to purchase it came from fighting at your side. I realize you love your dust and your cobwebs but.” his tongue clicks against the back of his teeth as his lips purse ever so slightly, edging into a smile that shifts sidelong when his head tilts to one side.
“If you ever tire of it....consider my door perpetually open to you.”
Fenris' lip twitches. He's proud of this man. It's absurd; he has no right to. He taught the man nothing, helped him with little, and yet... an elf with aspirations, and damn the consequences... usually, it would be worrisome. Yet Astarion's feckless pride engenders only confidence in Fenris.
"In Tevinter," he says, "they call us rattus."
He lifts his glass, almost entirely empty, in the offer of a toast.
“To being procer.” Astarion agrees, lacking in linguistic comprehension, but not context.
Rattus, after all, speaks for itself: he doesn’t need to guess to know what that means, or how procer might somehow be its opposite. And the sneer he adopts in its wake only twists into a vivid smirk when his own glass is retrieved and raised in turn— whatever they haven’t yet polished off quickly undone in a single sip— before it's cast aside to shatter across the floor.
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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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Wink wink wink.
He shuffles again, taking the opportunity of an emptied pair of slender hands to begin gathering up the remnants of their last game.
“I’m surprised, though. I half expected you to rush right back off to fighting after dropping me off in Kirkwall.”
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"I have seen my fill of war, and weaving through its fires like a vagrant."
He stares into the middle distance, off away from Astarion, unseeing.
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Agitation doesn’t always mend.
“You won’t hear any complaints from me,” spoken over the snap of the cards as he folds them with a flourish, putting deft fingertips to use.
“I don’t like having you out of reach.”
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"Why?"
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“Because then I can’t protect you if something goes wrong.”
Scoffed lightly, as though their conversation remains casual. Cards ribbing as they clack and clatter a few more times, flattened keenly to the table— the whole of his own focus. “If you bite off too much trouble for your frequently intangible self to manage entirely on your own.”
“Your world isn’t exactly stable, you know. Much as I’ve come to appreciate it.” He fans the cards he’s drawn, letting them sink into place against his fingertips before adding, quick as a breath:
“And I don’t enjoy being alone.”
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Which presumably means none. Yet the man is possessive; friendship is clearly, for him, a rare commodity, and he does not have Fenris' indelicacy with the prospect of inserting himself into another's life. Astarion waltzes in, announces himself, and lets the chips fall.
Fenris is somewhat envious of that confidence.
"You won't be alone," he says, "even if you're moving."
He attempts-- poorly-- to inject some of Astarion's witty bitterness into the word. In truth, he doesn't much care; Astarion may go as he likes.
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Maybe it shouldn’t.
Then again, considering everything Fenris has already lost, maybe it should. Astarion doesn’t know. And he doesn’t like not knowing. Just as he doesn’t like losing. Not at cards— well, yes at cards— but more than that: Fenris might think he doesn’t need looking out for, but Astarion knows better.
Fighting isn't the only bloody sport out there, after all.
He folds the deck in on itself one last time, placing it squarely in the center of the table. Precisely where it always sits when not in use.
There won’t be any rematches tonight, apparently.
“No, my darling. I absolutely won’t be.”
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Instead, he asks, "why did you need to leave?"
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Either way, he hadn't expected Fenris to care enough to ask.
“For one, I didn’t relish sleeping huddled in cramped quarters with a man that smells like muck and earth— not you, my dear, obviously. Don't ask. For another, I’ve existed long enough under someone else’s thumb, even if Riftwatch casts a much more mild shadow.” Infinitely more mild, in fact.
“I’m not a damned rat. I won’t live like one any longer.”
No more huddling over prickling straw, no more cramped quarters, no more thin, chafing blankets; if he has to beg, borrow, and steal the comforts he wants in life, he'll stoop low enough to scrape them up from the dirt without hesitation. “And yes, I know it’s impossible for someone like me to flourish in Hightown, but— well. I don’t care: I’ll start in Lowtown. I’ll figure it out. Make something remarkable of all this yet.”
Though he pauses there. Mind flicking back to dwell on that witty bitterness Fenris had shown, conversational momentum slowing to a halt.
“You know, a lot of the coin I used to purchase it came from fighting at your side. I realize you love your dust and your cobwebs but.” his tongue clicks against the back of his teeth as his lips purse ever so slightly, edging into a smile that shifts sidelong when his head tilts to one side.
“If you ever tire of it....consider my door perpetually open to you.”
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"In Tevinter," he says, "they call us rattus."
He lifts his glass, almost entirely empty, in the offer of a toast.
"To being procer."
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Rattus, after all, speaks for itself: he doesn’t need to guess to know what that means, or how procer might somehow be its opposite. And the sneer he adopts in its wake only twists into a vivid smirk when his own glass is retrieved and raised in turn— whatever they haven’t yet polished off quickly undone in a single sip— before it's cast aside to shatter across the floor.
“And to the Hells with Tevinter.”