[CLOSED] You hate my bad behavior

[illithidnapped]

WHO: Astarion, Loki, Emet-Selch, Dante, possibly others etc
WHAT: catch all for doing some Good for the Cause
WHEN: somewhere around the week following Satinalia party 2.0
WHERE: various
NOTES: violence, brief gore (noted in the specific subject line)

Comments

for Loki;

[illithidnapped]

Time is of the essence. The ride out (though shorter than most missions, given Cumberland's proximity to Kirkwall) will have taken long enough through the underside of the Vinmark that they might not make it in time to begin with, and here at the very last leg of their journey— heavy hoofbeats carrying them over increasingly rock-laden terrain— the odds don’t seem any more in their favor.

A man’s life hangs in the balance.

Astarion huffs from the back of his horse.

“I’m starting to think we won’t make it at all.”

[icasm]

"Well we aren't going to die in these mountains, so I suspect we'll make it one way or another."

Loki's hands are tight on the reigns and he remembers to relax them a bit in order to allow the mount to carefully pick its way across the terrain.

"Whether or not we'll make it in time is a slightly different matter."

[illithidnapped]

A shallow noise, akin to a feigned laugh at that correction.

“It’d be a tragedy, of course, but— ”

He pauses as those heavy hooves carefully plunk across the last scattering of stone before the path gives way into a steep, winding slope. Less cluttered with rockslide debris from the sharp shift in seasons.

At the end of the path lies a clear view of the valley below, encircling the fringe edges of Cumberland proper.

They only need to make it to the outskirts to pinpoint their agent.

“With a little luck there might be a clue or two left behind as to the identity of the assailants that lured him into the trap in the first place.” The way he says it, it’s as though it’s a done deal. As though the man they’re after is already dead.

Even as the path clears, Astarion doesn’t spur his horse to speed just yet.

[icasm]

Loki frowns at Astarion and then at the path ahead. He doesn't like how this is sounding— as if it's already too late for them to do the work of even trying. What does Astarion know that Loki doesn't?

With this question in mind, he turns his horse until he's at Astarion's immediate side, within reach.

"I don't know what has you in this hollow mood," he starts and then... takes a breath. Whatever it is, he doubts he's going to get very far accusing Astarion of sabotage right out the gate. Something is up. Astarion is acting strange, he's certain of it; too many days in close quarters with the other man means he feels he has a baseline of behavior with which to compare the current situation to.

"But I have every intention of ensuring this task is as successful as possible, so unless you've got a very good reason for me to stay behind with you daydreaming about finding clues and a dead body, I'm going to the rendezvous."

Picking up the reigns, Loki tilts his head in Astarion's direction. "I know this war feels neverending." He isn't sure if that's why, but. "And if you want to tell me why you're feeling as if our failure at this is inevitable, I'll listen. But I'm doing this first." He pulls at the reigns and prepares to set the horse to galloping. "You don't have to come with me if you don't want to."

[illithidnapped]

Damn the man for being so perceptive. Or maybe damn Wycome for ensuring they’d spent so much time together that it made Astarion all the more transparent in his own resentful reluctance.

Or maybe, slightly above the rest, it’s just impossible to wholly deceive the former God of Lies.

Regardless, Astarion scowls when he’s called out for it, nearly choking his horse on its own bit as he pulls away from Loki’s attempt to draw near. Petulant. Defiant. All it ends with is the sight of Loki driving his horse away as Astarion stays stock still. All it culminates in is the hurried scatter of catching metal in combat as that lone agent— injured but upright— fends off figurative wolves by way of attacking assasins, too many for himself to handle.

With Loki at his side, his odds are better.

Still, one slips nearer through a gap in the fray. A matter of timing where the air goes thin, assailant drawn close—

—and jerks sideways as an arrow cuts deep into his throat. Dark shaft and fletching, black as night itself.

Astarion’s preferred set.


After the agent's been seen to and safely sent off, Astarion reappears at last, slinking from the treeline to retrieve his fired arrows. A grim task, given the remants of any battle, but Astarion's never been the sort to shy away from matters of death or violence. Given what he is, he's always imagined it suits him, whether he truly likes it or not.

[icasm]

For a while there Loki was worried. Not about the fight so much as about Astarion; worried he'd leave before the situation was handled, cutting off Loki's ability to ask him questions about the whole thing afterward.

Because he has questions. He and Astarion are very similar in a lot of ways, but something must have happened or changed for him to trigger the sort of response he'd seen in the other man earlier. Loki wants to know what that is because he's nosy. Because Astarion is something like a friend.

Once Astarion comes down to collect his arrows Loki begins doing the same, starting with the man who'd almost gotten through the fray and struck him from behind. A few others, and then it's just the two of them surrounded by a variety of dead bodies. He holds out the arrows as an offering to Astarion, hand loose around the shafts.

"What's going on?"

[illithidnapped]

An offering taken, albeit with a look of lowering reluctance, gloved fingers closing around the offered arrows before tucking them away.

It’s admittedly hard to meet his stare. Someone he enjoys being near. Someone he appreciates, and not just for their pretty face or penchant for trouble. Someone who was, when he didn’t have to be, kind.

He thought this would be easier. That stalling them by way of a winding path would do all the necessary work for them. That Loki— of all people, so fond of mischief— would understand.

Maybe he understands too well.

“You needed help, and I gave it. Must you continue digging?”

[icasm]

Loki makes a humming noise as if considering Astarion's question.

"Yes, actually, I'm afraid I must. See, I enjoy your company my dear Astarion and I am tempted to call us friends; friends don't allow friends to get themselves in the kind of trouble you're courting. At least not without asking why first." He gives a little shrug and averts his gaze. "Granted, I am new to this friendship business so perhaps I've got it all wrong. Maybe I should have let you get that man killed and waited to see what happened."

The problem is Loki imagines it'd be nothing good; selfishly, he'd rather not risk his slowly building reputation on what feels like a temper tantrum, and he's not sure how Astarion would have spun their 'entirely too late arrival' as a story, but here they are.

"I imagine you're angry. Or tired. Or both. I imagine that's why you took this on even if you didn't care." He raises an eyebrow and attempts to look Astarion in the eye again. "But I'm tempted to call us friends and I've had very few of those, especially here, so I'd like to know what is going on with you."

[illithidnapped]

He steps over yet another fallen Venatori to reach where he’d left his borrowed horse only half-tethered to a nearby tree, pulling the bow from his back and fitting it against the animal’s pack to tie it off. She in return, snorts. Suffice it to say, she doesn’t much care for Astarion.

He feels the same way in turn.

But distance makes a conversation like this easier. Or at least somewhat easier in theory if not in practice, letting Astarion feel less like something cornered and more—

Well, he doesn’t know. Friendship is all new territory, after all. All terrible, besides, and for fear of wounding the more he maintains something like guarded perspective, the safer he imagines he is.

“Friends,” he starts, his tone practically laced with bile. A hallmark of disbelief in the most general sense, and most likely unrelated to Loki. The straps are soft beneath his fingertips, he works at them with care. “If you really think that’s true, then let me offer you a little advice: in this world there’s no such thing. You’re a rifter, just like me. You fit the role Thedas gifts you, the one people want for you, and then when you’ve served that purpose, well.”

They leave.

“Even if someone here cares for you, she only sees what she lost. Someone else’s face.” There’s no need to specify who. They both know what Astarion means.

“If he came back tomorrow, you’d be done. Dropped like a scalding rock. Forgotten just as quickly.”

For Emet;

[illithidnapped]

He turns up in the hours just before morning, kicking with his toe at the door to Emet-Selch’s private quarters. Loud and reverberating, he trusts it to do the work of waking the Ascian without the trouble of either relying on a crystalline wake up call—

Or breaking and entering.

But if push comes to shove, he’ll do both.

[arkitect]

It does the work, all right-- he's awake (at what cost), glancing to the window and making a face when he notes the lack of light coming through. There are only so many people who might want his attention at this hour of the night, or morning.

He takes a few moments to consider.

...and rolls back over.

[illithidnapped]

“Oh you wretched old bastard, get up.”

One more boot knocked hard against the door frame and— exasperated— Astarion resigns himself to digging out his tools: within a few seconds of twisting delicate metal, the lock clicks softly beneath his fingertips.

If Emet-Selch isn’t awake by then, he’ll be gifted the sight of one irritated, impatient vampire looming over him in the dark.

[arkitect]

Ah. Astarion then, judging by the sound of his voice; Emet-Selch still waits, though, and after the vampire lets himself in, he exhales a sigh as he shifts to face him.

"Well, what is it, then? If it were truly urgent, I doubt you would have bothered knocking."

[illithidnapped]

“A mission for Riftwatch. Already approved with yours truly as your chaperone.”

There’s no sweetness when he heaps the Ascian’s coat upon his bed, laying it atop him like some sort of forgotten burial shroud. Only in this case instead of forcing him to rest, he’s forcing him to rise.

What a gentleman.

[arkitect]

"And you must wake me at this hour for it."

He exhales a slow breath as he pushes himself up to sit, the coat sliding back off him and into his lap as he does.

"What is it?"

[illithidnapped]

“Something fit for a studious soul like yourself.”

He slips back by a single step to give Emet-Selch room to rise and dress properly, though it’s still a touch too close for general comfort.

“I’ll tell you on the way. Or...don’t you trust me?”

[arkitect]

He's accustomed, by now, to Astarion being exactly where he likes to be, regardless of his own feelings on the matter; the closeness is ignored as he drags himself out of bed.

"Trust has naught to do with wishing to know where in the world you're intent on dragging me," he says, as he sheds the lighter gown he wears at night. They've seen enough of each other, he's comfortable enough dressing in front of him.

For Dante;

[illithidnapped]

A place called the Fallow Mire doesn’t quite conjure the image of frolicking kittens and puppies. Nor sunshine and rainbows for that matter. It is exactly what it says on the tin: a rainy, frigid bog, where mud sticks to just about each and every step, and the stench of rot is so thick in the air—

“Well.” Astarion huffs, scowling at the earth beneath their feet as he twists the heel of his boots against one particularly tacky patch of road (if a muddy path could even be called a road, really). “This feels homely.”

[rebellionyell]

Dante had no idea what to expect, but Fallow Mire did not disappoint in living up to its name. I was definitely a neglected ant farm of sink holes and treacherous muddy ground. He was careful to stick to the high ground and test his footing every now and then, walking ahead of Astarion a few steps given that he had more mass on him. If there a was soft, deceptive puddle to plummet right into at least he'd find it first. He'd probably have an easier time getting out of it as well.

As long as their cargo wasn't stuck in the mud somewhere this shouldn't be too horrible, of course it would be Dante's luck so he didn't dare to speak it into existence and simply allowed Astarion to keep his eyes peeled for their target. His companion's hewed senses were matched with Dante's hewed ability to slap ass, this should be the easiest mission he's ever done in his life.

But he doesn't speak it into existence.

"It's very...mmm...panoramic," Dante decided, holding up his hands to capture the horizon in the makeshift frame of his fingers. He's well aware that Astarion isn't enjoying himself, not anywhere close to having a good time and he probably shouldn't poke him too much, but he can't help himself. Stopping in his tracks Dante threw a look over his shoulder and crouched down just enough, "you wanna climb on my back? I'll tote you around like a sack of potatoes and you can enjoy the view."

[illithidnapped]

Such chivalry is unexpected. Not the teasing— just. The instinctiveness of it, really. The last person that had ever innately put themselves in front of Astarion in thoughtless roaming when it came to potentially dangerous territory was Fenris. He forces himself to ignore the sting of that thought. Potent in the first few beats, forgotten entirely by the time Dante (patronizingly) hunkers down against the muck-soaked earth.

His lips purse slightly, head tilting to one side in consideration.

“All right.”

Why not?

If the man’s offering, then what Astarion wins is the opportunity to relax for however long it takes them to pinpoint that missing cargo (if they can pinpoint it at all which might never happen, given the wretchedness of this place and its dead-infested waters. Take a nap, rest his heels—

He’s not against the idea, bluff or not.

Stepping in and stopping at Dante’s side, gloved palms settle across his own hips. Last chance to back out of your own offer.

[rebellionyell]

Dante simply gave Astarion a bemused look before standing upright and adjusting a few things. He removed a rather hefty rucksack from his shoulders and dropped the Devil Sword on top of it. He then removed his coat, the outside of it was dripping with rain, but the inside of it was warm and dry. He shifted the sword to his hip, adjusted the rucksack in front of him, and then draped his coat around Astarion before crouching down again and holding his arms behind him.

"Hop on," he offered, signaling with his fingers as well, he could carry his weight for a while and if it seemed as though they'd be walking throughout the night there were plenty of dilapidated structures to set up camp in or around. He wasn't a boy scout, but he had survival skills, "if we can't find this cargo before it gets too dark, we'll kip down. I doubt it's going anywhere anytime soon."

[illithidnapped]

It's the coat that does it, prompting a bewildered snort of amusement as heavy leather settles just across his shoulders, attention flicking low as though attempting to process precisely what part of the joke this is meant to be— before conceding his own loss.

Because really, it's wet, it's cold, it's damp barring the barrier of one substantial leather coat: the sooner they move on, the better.

So there's no ceremony to the way Astarion fits his arms around Dante's shoulders, looped just beneath his throat. To how he sets his chin to one side, squinting against the flow of heavy rain, undone curls stuck to his skin where they're slung low in front of his eyes.

"Or..." He starts, eventually deciding to tip his face down against the occasional gust of wind. "We could just do that now, call it come morning, and tell Riftwatch we did our very best to no avail."

[rebellionyell]

Once Astarion has hopped on his back Dante curled both arms underneath him to make sure his seating is secured and continued his hike. The rain was a bit debilitating forcing him to higher ground, they probably would do better to find shelter before they were both soaked through. If the rain calmed down, they could probably get fresh start in the morning with more light to work with.

Although Astarion had different ideas.

"If we quit, we'll be the B-team. I guess we could get by as the team with incredible good looks...but the B-team Astarion," Dante's such a competitive asshole Astarion, he almost bristles at someone else finding this cargo before they do, "just keep that reward in your head and be my big, brave boy for a little while longer."

He'd give him a pat on the cheek if his hands weren't otherwise occupied.

"Besides, you're with me, you have nothing to worry about."

[illithidnapped]

“A brave little— I ought to bite you for that.” Indignant and sharp, his chasing huff of a breath. A warning only in the way a cat pins its ears back or flicks its tail: not a prelude to harm unless pressed.

And Astarion is a petulant creature at heart, inclined to sulk as much as strike. Indolent and idle as often as irate.

His fingertips cinch a few degrees tighter.

“You can’t possibly imagine I’m afraid of a few listless undead. For Gods’ sake, I’m a vampire. The very pinnacle of what an undead aspires to be— they ought to be fearing me.”

[rebellionyell]

"Ah-ah, victory bites are for after the victory. You can make a meal of me then," and how does one respond to a cat with its ears pinned back? By rolling it onto its belly and aggressively petting it until said cat sinks his claws in.

Astarion's ranting earns some soft snickering on Dante's end, because he can't possibly help himself.

"Alright, lord of the undead, so what I'm hearing is that Team-B is kicking rocks and Team-A, the big, the burly, the most handsome team is back in the saddle," Dante leaned forward a bit as the incline he was walking on became a little steeper, but hopefully the higher ground would give them a better vantage point.