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

“I hear it’s beautiful in Wycome. Or at the very least entertaining.” Astarion remarks, casting a sidelong glance from horseback towards his raven-haired companion.

Loki, the man had called himself— first across the network, and then once they'd met for their assignment, effectively putting a face to the voice. To all of it, in fact. A noticeably striking one, at that, though Astarion's appreciation for finer features plays second fiddle to his need to prep for what's ahead.

Because he trusts himself. He's done this for the better part of two centuries, stealing love and loyalty from strangers, no matter how wary. Granted it'll be the first time managing it without vampiric magic on his side, but he never relied heavily on it to begin with, given that sending someone into a doting trance always had a habit of being utterly transparent, even to the least observant of fools.

His partner, however, is nothing but a mystery in comparison. And help or hindrance, Astarion wants to be sure he's ready for anything.

The state of things being what they are, there's not much room for making a mess of things. Again.

"I hear there are casinos on the Minanter there. I hope you're good at Wicked Grace." Loki taps a finger against his bottom lip, thinking. "Val Royeaux is the only city that imports more wine from Antiva, which implies a great deal, actually." Mostly that people are souced on the regular, which Loki can appreciate.

It also implies most of their people have a higher tolerance for alcohol. Something to consider at any given point. "I'd be curious to know what their import numbers of, say, Elfroot looks like." Plus whatever other stand-ins for pharmaceuticals would be in this world, he doesn't know enough to answer that question for himself.

"So. Asterion." The man he knows a relative few things about; namely that he has lived a longer life than most humans and that he gets a great deal of pleasure out of riling up people like Allumin — since Loki himself enjoys riling up Allumin greatly, he has very little negative feelings about that in particular. Beyond those details, he has heard the man lives in Lowtown, and he appears to be an elf, but his eyes are red and his teeth are rather sharp, so he supposes they are similar in that they were both something else, once upon a time. Before Thedas, anyway.

"What is your plan, exactly? I'm presuming you have one." Loki was instructed to come, but he was also told that this was, more or less, Asterion's show.

“I could always ask around for you, though I imagine by the time we get there you’ll have plenty of opportunity to conduct a few studies of your own.”

The implication— sly a thing as Astarion himself— is self explanatory: get there, do your job, and then get as utterly wasted as you like.

He leans back in the saddle, stretching out the arch of his back while one hand braces loosely behind him. They’ve been out here just long enough that the road’s beginning to feel bruising, but it’s not the worst trip he’s ever had, and it’s certainly better than going on griffonback.

“But of course I have a plan, my dear. Luckily for you, I’m no amateur.” Spoken as his attention drifts back towards the road, a little more lax under the assumption that he’s not vying for attention. That this is the moment where they get down to business, so to speak.

“First things first, though: did she tell you what the point of this little adventure is?”

Quite the concept, but Loki thinks he'd rather take the drugs with him than get too out of his mind and body in a foreign city, with only Asterion around. Something something they're not friends like that yet, something something wanting to be somewhere familiar when he does new drugs, something something there's such a thing as being chaotic and then there's tiptoeing the line of courting disaster.

"I should hope not, based on our earlier conversation." An amateur, at their big ages? Disastrous, surely.

Loki hasn't bothered with the griffons yet. He's waiting to see if flying horses exist, because those he knows; large lion-birds, not so much. Still. The temptation to complain about how long it takes, getting around like this, is in the back of his mind.

He'll wait, perhaps, until the riding is done for the day.

"To find if the Duke will put his support with the southerners in the war effort, and to see if there are any Venatori within his immediate retinue."

"And there will be, I'm sure." Astarion quickly tacks on in addendum, once more taking up the reigns of his borrowed horse. The beast tossing its heavy head as though irritated at some perceived lack of trust between them.

"Which is why we'll both need to fit ourselves in first as a fortunate pair without any ties to Riftwatch whatsoever."

He stresses the word fortunate for good reason: it's high society, something Loki's no doubt also aware of— and acting as anything less is a surefire way to see them either ignored, shunned, or just banned in short order.

For the road he's dressed simply. For this mission, however....

Well, there's a case on the back of his horse that'll take care of that little detail.

"How comfortable are you with that sort of arrangement? Or should I bank on letting you play distraction while I charm my way into all those collective good graces."

"I possess multitudes." He gestures with one hand holding the reigns while resting on the pommel in front of him, the other moving through the air, "and better clothes than these, thankfully, not to mention quite a bit of coin." Thanks to the recent tourney event. "That said, I am my mother's son, and I would not so tarnish her memory as to not know how to behave as expected amongst the aristocracy of any place, much less one in a locale so focused on debauchery and excess.

So." To put a pin in it: "I am very comfortable with that arrangement, actually, but can also craft wonderful distractions while you turn heads and convince hearts to fall for you. What will be your own story?" Asterion is an elf, here, which complicates matters; in most places, they aren't allowed to join any noblesse or even own property, by Loki's understanding.

He wishes his Tevene was better than it is, but he supposes occasional conversational studies with Alexandrie over the last few months do not a native speaker make. Fortunately, Wycome is close enough to Tevinter that his accent will not be extraordinarily out of place.

'Quite a bit of coin', Loki says, and Astarion's eyes practically glimmer in the same breath with a flash of unmasked greed. Opportunity, beautiful as a song. How it calls to him.

"I'll be yours: companion, confidant, servitor, fashionable accessory, alluring plus one— I'll defer to whatever suits the story you intend to weave for yourself. No need to complicate things." The simpler their shared cover, the harder it'll be to mangle the details, in essence. And given the airy tone in which he proposes it all, he certainly isn't balking at the idea of operating within a lower caste, so to speak.

"An albino elf with the fangs of a tiger, surely that'll turn more than a few heads when it comes to getting our foot in the figurative door."

And as for the person that could afford such a curiosity, well...Astarion imagines this should work perfectly for them both in regards to desirable advantages.

Edited 2021-09-17 04:55 (UTC)

He sees that greed and understands it immediately, curious as to whether or not Riftwatch provided him with gold for this little venture. Probably.

If it all ends up in Asterion's pockets, that's fine by Loki.

"The easiest story to weave will depend on the presumptions of those in our company. Should they think me the Altus with whom I share a name and several other features, that will be simple enough to follow along with." All he'll have to do is keep his rift shard hidden, which is true of both of them actually. He knows enough about the politics and features of Loki d'Asgard's life and family to rock with the presumption that they are one and the same, plus, well. He's a good liar.

He decides he'll leave the exact nature of his relationship with Asterion vague enough for whomever to fill in the blanks however they opt to, but he'll have to be mindful of how the Tevene tend to look at elves as lower caste. Not too difficult, really, but he's just trying to arrange a list in his head of considerations.

“Mm.” It’s a thoughtful sound. An impressed sound.

The kind of sound that means Astarion’s made a sudden realization about the man at his side: he’s an experienced liar, probably. The best always know better than to be inflexible, or wholly composed. Better to pick a navigational direction rather than snagging a figurative map, so to speak.

“....you’ve a counterpart here?” He asks, head cocking almost entirely sidelong.

They hadn’t spoken much before this, and all Astarion had truly come away from it with is that the man was supposedly erased.

Or maybe misplaced is the more accurate term, given that he’s wound up here instead.

"He's been away from Riftwatch for some time." And missing for the latter half of that, but he's not going to spread what is essentially Alexandrie's business far and wide. "Perhaps enough to the point that his association with them, as unexpected as it was, would be forgotten in Wycome. We'll have to see."

He glances over at Asterion and shrugs, a little. "I have counterparts in many worlds, by my understanding. Thedas is merely one in a long series."

"Part of that time thing again, right?" Astarion tacks on, only somewhat distracted by the thoughts rattling around in his skull. He'll have time to ask about that later, the details of Loki's mirror here. What he'll need to understand to avoid making a fool of himself throughout the mission itself.

A sigh. It bothers Asterion, the situation of the TVA and Loki being erased from time, and it'd be amusing if the entire topic didn't exhaust him on a near-spiritual level.

"That is how I became aware of that reality, yes."

"Is it...that way for everyone?"

His brow is pinched a little more, his stare narrowed. The thing about Rifters— like himself— is that they could, theoretically, say anything at all they want, and no one would be any wiser. The fact that Loki's clearly a proficient wordsmith and/or liar only makes that stance all the more likely.

But then there's the idea that he's got someone here like him, in a sense. The veil, the rifts— even the planes back home all had the potential for the strangest of anomalies, as Astarion (a nobleman with exactly none studies under his belt) understands it. It's not so far-fetched, even if it is unsettling.

"Do you think there's a handsome elf in this world with...strikingly beautiful eyes and hair as brilliant as moonlight itself?"

He ponders that question, reminded of Sylvie telling him that the Hunters in the TVA were also all variants. "Probably," he admits haltingly. "I have no reason to believe it wouldn't be, and I've been to a place that is entirely comprised of variants from one world or another."

Loki fixes Asterion with a thoughtful look. "Would you feel better about it if there were? It's not like elves, here, have good lives across the board."

For that, Astarion's expression sharpens drastically. Not a sneer or a wince, only a potent sort of hardening. The kind of look that says exactly what Astarion won't.

But then again, it's Astarion, and so the rest comes tumbling out anyway not even a beat later:

"Whatever his theoretical life might've been, I can assure you, I was the one who had it worse."

His look withers, there. His gaze slithering away back towards the road, sinking slightly in his seat. This isn't what they're supposed to be talking about, and he knows it.

"Forget all that, though. Tell me about your Altus. The more you can divulge, the better: I don't want to have any missteps while we're in there flitting about making frenemies."

Up go the eyebrows as Astarion refocuses on the road before them; he wonders if Asterion is right, or merely lacking in the shift in imagination crossed with compassion it takes to imagine someone in a worse situation when one's own situation was clearly bad enough. He knows he didn't, before, but meeting Sylvie and learning her story changed that for him. For better or worse, that.

Despite all the horrid things he's been dealt, he does think that her situation was the worse of the lot.

But, the topic shifts and Loki sees no reason not to allow it, especially as Asterion has a good point. "Younger son of Frigga and Odin d'Asgard. Older brother's name is Thor, both are mages, his mother is dead by an assassin's hand several, and his father is distant. He's married to an Orlesian, which caused some ripples within Tevene society, including the aforementioned assassination. He's kept slaves his entire life, so your presence shouldn't be much of a surprise if they know anything about him."

"And now, if anyone asks, I'm sure he's feeling more than a touch homesick." Astarion tacks on helpfully, back to studying the man's sharp-set features more carefully— measuring them as if he himself might somehow be able to tell the difference between a d'Asgard and a Laufeyson.

He can't, of course, and gives up a moment later, smile easing slowly back onto his face.

The road ahead is long. He passes the time in decent spirits: quick to make up games of all sorts, to fill in with easing banter about the peculiarities of Thedas, the map of the sky overhead and how he knows a scant few constellations. There are worse companions to have on the road, in truth. Of course, by the time they reach Wycome he's long since tired. By the time they reach their given room in a startlingly scenic inn by the water he's utterly exhausted.

By the time he throws his pack atop a full mattress, he—

"Gods be damned, they couldn't have rented a carriage for such a long trip? If I have to ride that mule home I'm not going home." He all but collapses, sprawled face-first over silken sheets, fingers knitting in it as he exhales a breath for the ages.

"I don't know how people do this all day."

Loki is mid-boot removal, sitting on the edge of the bed at the opposite end from Asterion's theatrics when the blond collapses face-first onto the bedding. He gives a little chuckle and finishes untying the laces halfway so he can toe his feet out from the leather with a sigh and a stretch of his long limbs.

"It's called suffering," Loki says matter-of-factly, before reaching his arms above his head and stretching that way too. "Alternatively, 'we're too busy worrying about demon possession to learn how to use magic for anything other than blowing holes in shit'." His whole spine feels compressed, and for a moment he vaguely considers shifting into a snake just to feel something other than bone-tired, but he can't be sure of how Asterion might respond, so.

Into the back pocket, that idea goes. "It could be worse. We could be walking." He knows, realistically, that fetching a carriage would incur too high a cost and too easily a paper trail back to Riftwatch but he is considering it for the rest of their travel. He'll have to ask, in the morning, and see if any of the prices are anything other than straight-up highway robbery, as he expects they will be.

As of right now, Astarion— face buried deeply in bedding— can't see shit all regardless, so his opinion of just about everything ranks the same.

He exhales low, scrubbing his cheek across silk. The aches lingering in his muscles are beginning to throb for their trouble. Even so, Loki's somewhat disparaging commentary in regards to Riftwatch earns a muffled laugh all the same.

That said, he's not making space. He's not budging at all, in fact.

"If we win enough gold from this, I'm confessing right now I'll be tempted to defect if it means keeping every last wretched coin and not having to cart my way back to the dust-laden ash pit known as Kirkwall."

Loki's response to Asterion's threat to defect is merely a hum of consideration; now that his boots are off he's standing again, placing socked feet on the carpet in the middle of the floor before going to splash some water from the basin across the room on his face and divest himself of his sweat-sticky shirt with a grimace. Eugh.

He wants a bath. He wants to sleep more than that, but Asterion is quite spread out and Loki doubts he'll rearrange himself without some fuss. Loki wouldn't, and there's no reason to expect better behavior from the other man.

So he puts his water in the basin and flicks his damp fingers in the vague direction of Asterion's face and shoulder. "Move over, we have to share this bed, remember?"

"Ahh— hhss—" He hisses without meaning to, head jerking away from that sprinkling of water on instinct, long fangs bared bright in the darkness as he waits for the inevitable burn to settle into his skin—

As he—

...Ah. Right. No more weakness to that. Relief gives way to irritation, chin lifting in mock-dignity as he lifts a hand to wipe softly at his own skin.

"Oh very funny." Somewhere in his mind, he's making a note to pay this forward. Just you wait, Loki.

"Besides, I was operating under the assumption you'd simply take the lounger, like a true gentleman."

Well that's a fascinating response, isn't it? Loki peers at Asterion with stark curiosity. What was that about? He'd love to know.

"I thought so." Raised eyebrows as he comes back towards the bed. The lounger? Loki is over six feet tall, he's not going to sleep in a chair, not after being on a horse forever. "I've been clearly rather misrepresented if you think for a moment I am going to sleep in that. Shove over."

"Fine."

It's huffed, albeit toothlessly: Loki's a striking creature, all things considered. There are worse partners to have to share a bed with— and now that he's done being doused in residual droplets of cast-off water, he's certainly not so blind that he doesn't notice the man's only half-dressed: changed, it seems, while he wasn't looking.

Sometimes, very infrequently, the universe is merciful.

Still, Loki demands, Astarion concedes. Scooting to the edge of one side, he drags his pack with him, apparently granted enough of a second wind that he's capable of pulling at buckles and straps, untethering the leather of that bundle and beginning the process of sorting finery from sleepwear. It's not a shy process, they're not giggling adolescents aside from their own childish senses of humor: the only time Astarion decisively angles his back away from Loki is when he tugs on a thin, loose blouse over his otherwise shirtless form. Something to mask the scarring at his back.

They're not there yet. Maybe another night.

The rest's set aside for later. And hair brushed, jagged teeth cleaned, he slips into bed properly at last, exhaling again for the trouble with no small amount of exaggeration.

And then, in what should be silence:

"You said he was married, by the way."

Loki, for his part, is reminded that he probably doesn't want to sleep in the pants he rode all day in and thus has to rummage through his own pack for a pair of softer pants to change in to, which he does before sitting down on the bed without shame or hesitation. He's also not wearing underwear, so enjoy that, Asterion.

He notes the shirt, the change in position, and determines that another story lies there but not one he's going to press tonight. He's too tired to be properly nosy.

Asterion gets between the sheets and Loki follows to do the same, extinguishing any lamps left lit in the room before doing so. He rolls his eyes at Asterion's sighing but it's more of an amused annoyance than anything; Loki's more than glad to not be vertical any longer.

He's laying on his back, one hand behind his head, when Asterion speaks up. In the dark, he frowns. "Is this a question of spouses or tenses?" Is the important thing that Loki said 'was' as opposed to 'is'? Or is Asterion asking who d'Asgard is married to?

"I imagine if you're going to pretend to be him, tense isn't something I need to worry about." Or to be curious about, for that matter. If the man's vanished, bled to death, eloped or gone missing— well, the only way it'll matter to Astarion is if Loki d'Asgard comes waltzing into the casino when they're there.

"I'm just curious if you've met his spouse. Former spouse? Whichever."

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

prelude | on the road

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