faderift | [CLOSED] You hate my bad behavior

He preens.

Or rather he's as near to it as it comes without making a blatant show of it: sitting high in his seat, straight-backed and proud against a slowly lightening sky as dawn begins to kiss the horizon.

"Naturally," he confesses, letting the word roll off his tongue like a song. "But the difference between us is that I'm more than happy to admit it."

Thank you, Emet-Selch. This has been a delightful start to the journey ahead.

Doubly so given that all Astarion then does is spur his horse forward without offering up so much as an answer.

Oh, of course he does. It's not unexpected, but Emet-Selch still rolls his eyes as he urges his own mount onward to catch up.

"You clearly do not know shame," he says as he pulls up alongside-- again, something he knows. "But you know I hardly need ask the details to know the shape of it."

"You know I love it when you roughhouse." Astarion snaps back from over the slope of his shoulder, languid and content even as a few drifts of feather light snow flutter down in the air between them. The makings of a potentially uncomfortable trip to the northeast, if Emet-Selch hasn't fully prepared for winter's chill.

"But all right. Fine. Just to sate you."

Just this once.

"You're fire-blooded, if I had to pin it down to something vaguely definable. Sharp with either age or magic, and overwhelming to the senses for it: I didn't expect so much potency at first, nor the lingering richness that chased it." Admittedly it'd be easier for him to recall the finer details if he were sipping on a reprise right now— but that idea will have to wait.

"As for how you differ from her, I don't intend to say."

Nor who she is, for that matter.

"You love it a bit too much," he mutters half to himself at that first comment, but-- he does listen, after that, cloak drawn closer around himself to remain warm, and wonders idly if Astarion feels it any more when it snows.

As for the response itself, he simply takes it in, at first. Contemplates it-- it could certainly be either age or magic, with him, and there's no denying the hint of amusement that tugs one corner of his mouth up when Astarion admits to the unexpected potency. Little wonder, then, about the reaction that followed.

If Astarion doesn't intend to explain, then he doesn't intend to push, not this moment, but he can at least extrapolate enough from a statement like that to ask, one brow arched: "Only two of us thus far? Really?"

“What, you think I’m a glutton?” he asks, devoid of all obvious judgment as hoof beats carry them onward.

Away from Riftwatch’s eyes and ears, he’s much less hesitant to talk openly.

“I have to be cautious, darling. And much as I tease, the last thing I want is a host of local souls sporting bite marks in their throat.” His pause there is sharp. Palpable.

“—not that it’s the only thing stopping me from sipping freely, of course.”

"Hardly gluttonous, no. 'Tis only that the number seemed terribly... restricted, for your tastes."

He'd have expected Astarion to do at least a bit more than that, given his usual proclivities.

"But if it is not the only thing, then what else?"

"I don't always bite when it comes to sex. Or— well, I restrain myself from breaking skin when I do." For the record, at least, before Emet-Selch starts imagining Astarion's haunts in Kirkwall proving to be woefully dull.

And, since it's already been the talk of Hightown...

"Take Thranduil for example. His companionship was blissful to be sure, but he doesn't even know what I am." Something they'll speak of eventually, maybe, if the Elven King doesn't waste away into ash and mourning first.

"Anyway what stops me is that I'm no longer fully cursed by my former master. I don't need blood, it's simply a...luxury."

Like chocolate. Or murder.

"A luxury you keep rare, evidently. I wasn't only implicating sex."

Surely he's taken out some of the enemy-- an opportune time if there ever were one.

"But I suppose while you are keeping your nature quieter, you cannot quite do so with reckless abandon."

"Precisely."

Ever the quick study, Emet-Selch.

"How do you think it'd go over if an ally or a spy saw me chomping away in the middle of a fight?" How much leverage would someone gain through it, being able to point a finger at who Riftwatch chooses to employ. Who acts on their behalf.

No. Better to keep it close. Locked tight.

"I've had more than enough of being called an abomination already."

"I would hardly expect you to do it in the middle of the field," he says, mildly, but-- files that away. It is, at the least, an implication that he is not off murdering people in dark alleyways where this would not be a problem.

"Fair enough, however. I know as well as you do precisely how tiring it can become."

"Oh my dear compatriot in suffering unjust discrimination," Astarion crows, leaning sidelong in his seat for lilting emphasis. The punchline of his own joke. "What ever would I do without you at my side?"

"Allow me to rest, for one," he answers immediately, as dry as he can possibly make it. "Though I suppose you would have one less outlet for those same proclivities of yours as well, wouldn't you?"

"You've had more than enough rest for the entirety of Thedas since the dawn of its inception, my very tired resident Emperor." Scoffed out dismissively with a roll of his eyes for good measure. Honestly, the Ascian and his strange, adopted cat might very well manage to keep the same hours of consciousness if Astarion had to hazard a guess.

"And as for the latter detail, don't let it go to your pretty little head...darling."

Not actually biting, that scolding. Not unfond, either.

"I'm sure I'd find someone else willing to do their damndest to satisfy my appetite."

"And yet somehow, being around you makes me feel as if I need another century's nap."

More sarcastic, not entirely biting, and he keeps his horse relatively close to facilitate conversation. If he truly wanted to, he could easily fall back or skirt to the side for some distance, force Astarion to raise his voice.

"As I have said before and will doubtless say again, mine is hardly the ego you need worry over, my dear vampire." His tone matches Astarion's easily enough. "Besides which, you are mistaken if you believe I have already done my damnedest."

He will make no promises about going too far in the future, though.

Edited 2021-12-15 06:52 (UTC)

Just when Astarion thinks the Ascian will opt for haughty dullness, he continues to bite back.

Good. It'd be awful to see this run any other way.

"Is that so? Still clutching a card or two up your sleeve?" For effect, Astarion leans back in his saddle to tug at his own sleeve with one gloved finger, eyebrows lifting. "I can hardly wait."

But that, of course, will have to wait. Spurring into a diligent pace at last, it'll be the last thing said to one another for quite some time while on the road, aiming to meet their deadline before something potentially disastrous takes place. By the time they reach Antiva, the shine has worn from them both: hair slick with melted snow, the smell of the outdoors clinging.

When Astarion pulls himself from the saddle, it's with the faintest puff of a sniffling inhale, like a dog catching wind of a scent.

"Hm."

"-what is it."

Ever attentive in situations such as this, of course he catches that, glancing over to Astarion as he carefully slides from his own horse and takes the reins in hand. It's not a method of travel he favors, not like this-- he feels a little tired from the travel, a little cold, a little worn already (a little appreciative of the quiet on the way), but he'd quickly become more alert on reaching their destination. Much as he would like to bathe before they do anything here... well. There may or may not even be time for that.

"You're certain you want to know?" He asks, with all the gravity of a deadly secret laid bare, his eyeline shifting to meet Emet-Selch's own— one hand still on the reins.

Well. That could either be something actually serious, or he's being led on. Either way, he awaits it with the same level gaze, not yet releasing his own reins; not until the horse is safely left wherever they're being kept, while here.

"If it is of any import, then yes, I expect you will tell me... and if you are entertaining yourself, get on with it so we may then get to work."

Astarion's subsequent grin is fanged, spreading slow with a sort of unexpected amusement (and an even more unexpected amount of pride, given that the Ascian'd somehow managed to predict the future in its most basic sense.

"A bit of both, possibly. Depends on what you define as import." Astarion confesses, clicking his tongue before tethering the reins he'd been clutching fast.

"We reek, darling. There's no chance of success if we meet with our dear Lady like this."

"Then let us remedy it," he says, leading his horse onward. "Time will, naturally, be of the essence-- we ought to find ourselves lodging regardless, as we've little idea how long this will take. I don't know about you, but I do not care to make the journey back without rest, even should our dealings prove swift."

“If you want to spend more time with me, you only need to ask.” Honey-sweet, those words. More breathlessness than enunciation. Possibly made all the more grating for it, too.

Or charming.

Depends on who’s listening.

“Riftwatch will always come second to you, after all.”

"And second to other things as well, I should think. If you truly wish to be in my good graces at this moment, then stop flattering me and find a bath."

He does want to stay here if they can manage it, yes, but he's far more in the mood to deal with the sweat from the road (and then their mission) before he entertains charm. They're here for work foremost, after all.

"Your wish is my command."

A flourishing bow, and he's drawn away from Emet-Selch and the horses both, disappearing into busy evening streets. The city is alive (especially) at this hour, lanterns peppering the waterside view like thousands of golden stars, the air thick with sea salt and the richer scent of ale. There's no small amount of conversation to keep the Ascian busy in the time it takes Astarion to return, beckoning him to a cozy little place that's...well, not really up to either of their standards, but warm and clean(ish), and with the promise of a hot meal for sale whenever they like, provided they notify the barstaff downstairs.

Astarion drops onto the secondary bed, sprawling.

"Bath's across the hall. Apparently they keep the water hot using dwarven runes." Said before he lifts a hand to scratch at his own chin.

"...I think it's just a lie, and they're using the kitchen fires to heat stone through the upstairs flooring, but who's really to say."

He does keep himself busy, with careful idle chatter-- never saying too much about himself or his business here, or where he's come from, while not asking questions pointed enough for these things to stand out. Not the most useful of talks, but enough to just begin to form a picture of the people here in what time he has.

Regardless, it's something he sets easily aside when Astarion returns, though where Astarion sprawls-- he's busy putting things away, organizing them in a practiced manner, finding what he will need.

"They may heat it however they like," he says, "so long as it is warm enough." Whatever they might advertise, he's currently more concerned about the results of their methods, retrieving the spare clothing he'd brought along in preparation.

"Only here to solve one mystery, then. Understood."

He rolls onto his side, then, studying Emet-Selch more fully in the dim light.

"How many missions have you done so far? Do you even remember?"

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