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

[illithidnapped]

WHO: Astarion and Loki
WHAT: Wycome? more like Wygo amirite? Anyway they're looking for a foothold with the Duke, and sniffing out any potential Tevinter agents/connections that might be hovering around within the upper echelons of society
WHEN: literally now
WHERE: Wycome
NOTES: mission info | warnings will follow if applicable

Comments

[icasm]

"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."

[illithidnapped]

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.

[icasm]

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."

thanks, dice roll

[illithidnapped]

"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."

the dice love us apparently

[icasm]

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.

[illithidnapped]

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.