faderift | [CLOSED] I lie so you won't have to

"A long life with a healthy dose of paranoia and plenty of regrets does not equate to a heavy sleeper," is said easily enough, Loki raising his coffee to his lips. "Besides, I'm only recently used to sharing a bed through the night."

The falling arm of the loose shirt is noted, but Loki doesn't want to ask why he bothered to wear one in the first place. Seems a little rude, when put that way.

“Hm.” Astarion hums in thoughtful assent, head tilted almost entirely sideways as his arms drop.

Kindred spirits indeed.

He clambers to the edge of the mattress, stealing his own meal with all the grace of a magpie plucking up trash.

“So. I was thinking we’d spend today doing a little prowling. Get to know the lay of the land, take in a little gossip, maybe even make a few friends in lower places— if the opportunity arises.” Granted, that final addition is a longer shot than the rest, but if they can get even the most minor of advantages, it’ll be worth looking into.

Servants know so much, after all. Especially the ones right near the top.

There's a slight chuckle at Asterion's grab for the food.

"Not a bad idea; you'll probably have better luck with the servants than I will, especially if they are also elves." Not a dig, just an expression of facts as he understands them to be. Another sip of coffee. "Considering where we are, whichever of the casinos or gaming institutions the Duke tends to frequent might be a good start; the servants of the Duke proper likely won't speak to strangers."

If they're any good they won't, anyway.

“My thoughts exactly,” he snaps back brightly, clearly having shaken off the height of his own initial exhaustion now that discussion of opportunity’s in play. “Sharp as daggers, aren’t you?”

Another bite, another momentary pause, before— impatiently, considering he’s still chewing on one side of his own mouth—

“Mm, and— " the back of his hand lifts, held in front of where he’s eating, “your funding. I’m certain it’ll cover us both throughout the days to come, but if you start to lose at any point, we should work out a signal of sorts. Some way that I can discreetly come to your rescue.”

It’s not cheating, after all, if you’re not the one responsible for rigging the game.

"One does try." Smirk, smirk. Sharp as daggers indeed. The last of his coffee is consumed, the cup set aside, and Loki picks up a piece of fruit, considering it and Asterion in the same gaze.

"A gesture, then, or a word for our signal?" He hums. "A word or phrase is probably better, so you don't have to be looking at me to know I'm in need of assistance."

Even if it was cheating, Loki would not be against it. Chaos, after all, requires some finessing of reality.

“Indeed— although we should pick it nightly, I think: it’ll be far too obvious if every time you lose you start chatting about Ferelden stratagem or rain in Tevinter.”

His legs cross where he’s settled, a contrast to the absurd sense of refinement he sometimes nurses— now wholly lost to wicked enthusiasm.

“Have you any abilities?” The wording is careful, the question just as much. Here in Thedas, it’s the sort of thing that might inspire either suspicion or tension in equal measure, after all.

“Magic, unusual proficiencies— that sort of thing.”

A nod. "Sensible." The last thing he wants is for this to all go awry, or even for them to be caught cheating at cards. It doesn't seem like the sort of thing that would move them very far towards their goals, or Riftwatch's for that matter.

"I do, as does Loki d'Asgard, though the overlap there is not complete." He gives a little shrug. "I can summon a blade and copy the appearance of another person, though I cannot maintain that for long and I must study them a while first. I can change into a snake. I can remove myself from the field of vision of most people but I still take up space, so there's always the chance of knocking into someone. I can cast illusions, but they don't last as long as I'd like, here."

“Illusions?”

The rest is interesting, of course, but the potential there— given locale and logistics— certainly overwhelms almost everything else.

“What sort of illusions?”

Loki pulls his mouth to one side of his face in thought and then gestures widely.

The room's floor fills with flowers and grass, as if they were in a field instead of an inn. It's all very realistic appearing, except for where it interacts with his legs, or Asterion's; in those places, there is a shimmer of green and gold light, where the illusion is interrupted.

"If I can imagine it, I can craft an illusion of it. Maintaining them takes attention, and they won't last for very long."

Astarion's quiet for a lengthy beat, running his fingertips through the feathering illusion where it runs closest to him, seemingly fascinated by the way it shifts and recomposes of its own accord. Red-eyed stare relaxed beneath long lashes. Slender fingertips held loose and lax, brushing at nothing.

He thinks, briefly, about what it'd been like to see an array of stars looming overhead within the confines of his own home. A note for later, to introduce the two illusionists if they haven't already met.

And then, just as absently:

"...Show me your home."

Loki blinks. It's not the sort of request he would have expected from Asterion, but.

There's no reason not to do it.

He starts with the planet itself, suspended in the center of the room where Asterion can look at it from any side. After a moment it becomes larger, until the buildings, mountains, and spires can be seen.

"It's gone now."

It's beautiful. Glittering like crystal, golden as the damned sun. And Astarion thinks in absolute silence that much as he lived for the bustling nights and brighter lights in Baldur's Gate, if he'd been imprisoned there instead, the scope of two hundred years might not have looked as bleak.

Granted, they would've been just as miserable, but the scenery at least—

Well.

"What happened to it?"

Nostrils flare and Loki swallows. The temptation to shut his eyes, or to lie and say I don't know is strong.

Instead, he blinks and sweeps his hand out across the illusion, disrupting it in a sea of green and gold sparks.

The scene changes after this to one of two figures fighting and then, finally...

An explosion.

When it's done, Loki inclines his head in a bow.

It's Loki's face that Astarion watches in the aftermath, once that jarring burst of light disspiates— dragging the rest of the illusion along with it. His breakfast tucked away in hand, his posture still slouched where he sits across the edge of the rumpled mattress, bedding tangled around his heel.

"Who were they?" He asks with a slight tilt of his head, voice softly set, not satisfied to simply let that wordless explanation wane with a whimpering flicker.

His expression is very closed off, more shuttered than it has been at any point in this trip thus far. For a moment it seems as if he might not answer at all, but then:

"My sister, Hela, the Goddess of Death, and Surtur, a Fire Demon, lord of Muspelheim.

Thus it was predicted and thus it did occur." He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand. "All hail the fucking sacred timeline."

Shaking his head, Loki takes a bite of fruit.

"The goddess of— "

His sister.

Astarion's eyes narrow along with the set of his expression, that fluid— feral— hunch that carries through his shoulders, his neck, suddenly present once more. It isn't mistrust, it isn't anger, only—

Wariness. Learned defensiveness. Or something like it. Subtle, subtle clues. Easily missed by those without the eyes to see it. The knowledge to recognize it.

"You're a god?"

"I was the God of Mischief. Point of detail, there, considering I appear to be very human, now."

Loki sees it, the wariness, the defensiveness. Part of him feels... proud, perhaps, with the idea that he could invoke that feeling in someone else.

The rest of him, which greatly outweighs that pride, just feels tired. Tired of other people's fear and the abuse of power that leads to it. It isn't fun, really, and maybe that's his whole problem with it.

"I'm not..." A breath. "Whatever you're afraid of, or not afraid of, I don't know, I'm not that anymore."

Edited (ugh html) 2021-09-23 05:56 (UTC)

"I'm not afraid," Astarion snaps back sharply, his shoulders quick to rise as though protecting himself from the very idea— futile as it is.

"Besides, you could be lying. Any Rifter could do it. I could easily claim I was a god of winemaking, or lovemaking, for that matter— and you'd have no way to dispute it."

But the thinness even in his bristling is transparent enough: he clearly doesn't think he's being deceived right now. Not with the almost mournful look running dark and hollow through green eyes. The one Astarion recognizes because he's worn it. Knows it intimately.

How tiring it is to be a monster.

The exhale through his nose is thin. Like loose stone underfoot, it gives way not long after. His moods always do.

"But let's say you're not anything anymore. Not a god, not a man— not anything in between: what do you want now?"

Preening a little, Loki admits, "I am a very good liar." But. He's not lying about this, about being a god or at the very least considered one, and Asterion seems to recognize that.

Good. He doesn't want to have to inform Asterion where he can get confirmation of... well, any of it. He's tired of sending people Tony's way.

It's not like he would necessarily confirm the godhood.

A few blinks. Loki's still standing and now, he decides, it's time to sit. Possibly a bit heavily, but, well.

It's a weighty topic, what he wants now.

"I want this war to be over." He wants Alexandrie to have the knowledge of whether or not her husband is alive. "I want to spend the rest of my life... with her, and occasionally getting into trouble and then getting myself out of it, and die eventually but no time soon." He breathes out through his nose, loudly. "Your turn; I've done enough sharing for the moment. You've also led a long and clearly a somewhat distressing life, so what do you want from your unasked for mortality."

Astarion's mouth twists wryly there, an opportunity too good to pass up when he counters, "You're a decent liar, at least. I'll give you that."

But then the rest follows, and whatever mischief crawled its way into Astarion's expression quickly slithers its way back out again. He doesn't like that, the addition of distressing— as though somehow he's been as readable as an open book. Maybe that's unfair, given the similarities between them. Maybe he should feel flattered, knowing a god— former or otherwise— is the one peering right into the heart of who he is.

He's not, however. And some part of him, small and fearful, hopes the rest of what he is now hasn't been glimpsed, either.

"...I don't know what you're talking about." He murmurs, taking a bite of his own meal, now halfway through it out of a mixture of spite and distraction alone.

The noise that Loki makes can only be described as a snort. "Well, fine. Be that way." A shrug as he picks up his food, now. "But I am not sharing anymore until you do, so take that how you will."

They don't have to discuss anything else personal. Loki won't even be upset if that's the pathway they take; his body language radiates a mild annoyance but nothing more. Besides, being honest is terrifying when you're a person who has built themselves on telling lies, and he's had enough of being terrified without adequate recompense for now.

He's willing to bet, however, that Asterion likes knowing things. The same way he likes knowing things, likes peering into the heart of a person or a matter and seeing what lies there, ignored, forgotten, or otherwise. At some point they'll revisit matters, he'd be willing to bet on it.

“Fine.”

Fine, he says, because it does nag at him there, the thought of sitting in withered silence eating breakfast and talking about the banality of the world— or their mission— or nothing at all. Because pettiness suits him, and he wears it like jewelry. Like finery.

Because his mind is stuck on the word distressing still, and all he wants is to swim against that assumptive current.

“I was a magistrate, back in my own world. Well respected, utterly adored— the height of luxury and regality.” Spoken with the faintest, straight-backed flourish, as if to prove his point.

“In fact I’m sure that’s why I was selected for this mission. Few could possibly be better suited.”

There's nodding along, as Asterion speaks. He remembers what Byerly said about those coming from power being terrible diplomats, and wonders if members of the judiciary make terrible spies.

Probably not. They're here, after all.

"A magistrate," Loki repeats, curious. A magistrate with very sharp teeth and red eyes must have been quite the fascinating feature, unless everyone looks like that where Asterion comes from.

He doubts it, honestly. "What was your jurisdiction?"

“Why, everything, my dear boy.” Astarion all but scoffs, preening like a bird.

“The benefit of being one was almost all-encompassing: we were the law, in essence, and we didn’t always need a court or a desk to pass laws or judgment at our leisure.” And if that sounds grim, the sort of power that encompasses—

It’d be right, most likely.

“Baldur’s Gate was an expansive city. So broad and so bursting with life that its hierarchy needed to be equally as adaptive as the place itself. Anything less, and you’d have criminals running amok leaping through every loophole in the book— preying on everything in sight.”

Edited 2021-09-25 01:55 (UTC)

He could bristle at being called 'dear boy' but instead, all he does is let his eyebrows raise a little bit at the causal endearment. There's no guarantee that Asterion isn't older than he is, actually, and it seems like a fine hair to begin splitting at this stage in the first place.

So. Aside it goes.

"That sounds incredibly chaotic." Neither detractor nor compliment, in this case; merely observation. "What of corruption amongst the magisters?"

[CLOSED] I lie so you won't have to

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there's a delay of almost an HOUR on notifs on my end

hssssss

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thanks, dice roll

the dice love us apparently

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