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

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?"

“Well it....”

He turns to his meal, thumb digging against it slightly. Pinching. In truth, he can’t remember; that life was lost to him the second he transformed— and exists now only as rough shapes and half-truths. Lost dreams. Like a wet drawing, the ink’s run too much.

“I wasn’t part of it, of course. Kept my nose clean.”

"Whatever for?"

It comes out before he can help himself, really. All that power, and how Asterion is now doesn't quite equate a good man who kept his nose clean, of all the things.

"Nevermind," is his concession, because he feels that Asterion might cut off the storytime if implied he's lying, so. A wave of a slice of melon. "Do go on, I'm sorry to have interrupted."

Whatever for he says, and Astarion can’t help almost failing to stifle the thinnest of laughs. It comes out as a wan scoff instead. Tired and welcome all the same.

So many heroes and noble, bleeding hearts abound in Riftwatch’s care; it’s nice to be in worser company for a change.

“I think that’s enough for now, anyway. At least when there’s work to be done.”

He’s forgotten about his own poor mood in regards to being seen through. For now, at least, taking the last bite of his meal and standing up.

“You'll have plenty of time to hear the rest later, if you're lucky.”

Edited (dw don't cut off my tags) 2021-09-26 18:00 (UTC)

"Only if I'm lucky?"

Loki tsks, shaking his head a little before he finishes the fruit in front of him and stands once more in order to cross the space between himself and Asterion.

He's a good several inches taller than the other man, something he takes no little amount of pride in actually, and reaches out to tilt Asterion's chin up toward Loki's face.

"Then I'll have to conspire to be very lucky indeed."

Children bristle at the thought of romance. Adolescents blush. Meanwhile Astarion is old, and fractured, and neither youth nor innocent bashfulness recognize him anymore, the same way he can’t recognize himself each time he glances balefully at his own reflection. So no, he doesn't do anything but sink nearer by languid, seemingly pleased degrees: silver curls hanging heavy across one half of his face from sleep. His shoulders drawn forward, his meal forgotten.

He assumes, as some well-learned part of him always does, that he’s being toyed with.

“Didn’t your wife warn you I was dangerous?”

Asked with his chin tipped easily into that hold, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. As though he’s drawn to that weighted press— or the man behind it.

Perhaps Asterion expected Loki to bristle at the mention of Alexandrie, or pull away; he does neither. Loki smiles, mostly sharp but not altogether unkind, his hand at Asterion's chin spreading it's fingers out across the other man's chin and jawline.

He is toying with Asterion. Kind of. It's a game of 'where are the boundaries and how many can I cross before it becomes dangerous to my well-being and/or kills this working relationship?', a game that Loki plays often with nearly everyone who attracts his attention. That doesn't mean his interest, or his attentions for that matter, are a falsehood.

Just. He likes to push buttons. Even when he actually likes someone.

"She knows what I am." A creature that thrives on chaos. Someone who is too nosy for his own good, surely. "We have an understanding; what is hers is hers."

He hasn't let go of Asterion's face. "Besides which, I find myself fond of dangerous things all the time."

"In that case..." he exhales, tipping his head so that one of his long, jagged fangs comes to rest against the pad of Loki's thumb, sinking into the soft resistance of tissue until— with the gentlest of punctures— he draws blood. Nothing more than a drop or two, welling just beneath his tooth.

It matches the color of his stare. Bright red, even in low light. Unblinking when he draws back, opting not to drink the damage he's done, though the smirk he wears is painted crimson just near the corner. A casualty of contact.

"Consider this affair marked for later."

In more ways than one.

He smooths his fingertips through his hair as he snakes around Loki with ease, beginning the lengthy process of dressing and preening and perfuming to court standards. Meticulous, down to the last detail.

And it's the same attention shown for all his efforts when it comes to intel gathering later that day: the servants were all too easily (perhaps even relatably) swayed by his persuasive attentions— it's no passkey for the affair itself, of course, but it comes with names and rumors, gossip and understanding. He returns to the room by nightfall, quick to wash and change fully into something suitable for what will— with luck— prove to be their initial foray into the figurative fray. They need to be striking. Impactful. The best of chefs will promise that food needs to draw the eye first— and forging connections isn't anything different, as Astarion has always understood it: the prettiest will always make more friends, the fashionable ever in demand, the stunning sought out.

To that extent, he paints sparing flecks of gold across his skin. Dresses in immodest robes, dark as night and high collared— the gleaming metallic spatters stitched into its heavy fabric mirroring the paint he'd marked himself with, possibly emulating the stars. A fair talking point, if anyone opts to ask later on, he reasons. More importantly, it's suitable for the story they've stitched up for themselves. A little more Tevene. A little more jarring.

It'll do the trick.

"Moon's rising, darling." He puffs impatiently as he moves to the doorway, as though the very moment his own efforts to prepare ended, an unseen timer had been set off. "We need to leave now, or we're going to be so fashionably late they won't let us in the damn door."

When Asterion's sharp teeth draw blood, Loki's eyebrows go up — he doesn't hiss, or pull back, or make any moves towards stopping him from moving away, but the sight of his blood, red against the paleness of Asterion's mouth, is something that is certain to linger on his mind for the rest of the day.

"I shall," Loki tells him, smiling to himself as he turns away.

If nothing else, he won't be bored.

For the rest of the daylight hours while Asterion asks after servants, Loki makes himself a somewhat conspicuous man about town, giving the impression of wealth even when he doesn't flash the coin to spend directly. The clothes help; the accent even more so, here so close to the Imperium. He also asks after the gambling houses, to see if he can learn any names of those he should keep an eye out, and is rewarded with a few names and some descriptions.

When he returns he watches Asterion's process for several long minutes before he goes about changing his own clothes from something fancy but appropriate for someone who has just arrived in Wycome to something that is a bit more ostentatious but also...

It kind of goes with what Asterion is wearing. Fancy that.

There's a green and gold undercurrent throughout the outfit, highlighted by several accessories. Loki is running a comb through his hair when Asterion makes his pronouncement, and looks the other man up and down before setting the comb aside. "Alright. I'm ready if you are."

He wonders if Asterion will be cold in that getup and some petty part of him definitely hopes so. Hardened nipples could only make that outfit even better, by his regard.

Oh, the bite Loki would surely earn himself for that.

Instead, Astarion— nominally soothed by both the fact that Loki's finished readying himself and that the man is, amongst other things, impressively regal in that garb— seizes the opportunity to wend closer to his partner in crime, looping an arm around the former-god's own, letting his head pre-emptively drift towards the taller rise of Loki's shoulder.

Finishing, doting details. Like spraying perfume, or pinning a brooch in place, it's the smallest things— Astarion had tried to tell Gwenaëlle, just before the dam of their tentative truce broke— that have the greatest impact to wandering eyes. And nobility is often the very definition of that. With luck tonight, it'll play to Riftwatch's advantage.

But they'll have to make that wager in person.

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

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thanks, dice roll

the dice love us apparently

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