faderift | [CLOSED] You hate my bad behavior

The fact that Astarion insisted on flattering the beauty of her acquired pendant prior to it being appraised as thoroughly, entirely possessed likely didn’t help.

But really, who’s keeping tally of the blame?

“And you’ll have it, I swear.” Soft, coaxing, insistent.

“If you’re really that bothered we can always stick around for a few days more. Wait until she starts beckoning servants to their deaths or conjuring up spirits at her next dinner party.”

Who, indeed.

(Emet is, but refrains from assigning it aloud, for now.)

"I do mean your full assistance," he reiterates, before turning his attention back to the path onward. "But I do believe I would prefer to stay another day or two, regardless of the situation."

“The cost of cooperation is steep, apparently.”

Astarion murmurs, his lips pursing just so as he realizes— by way of that reiteration— that some part of his little game’s been seen through.

The fact that Emet-Selch isn’t outright demanding more than the bribe of more time away from the Gallows is a decidedly fortunate thing, he thinks.

"It often is. Really, I didn't think you would complain."

It's more time away for Astarion as well, after all, and he's seen how the man feels about Kirkwall as a whole.

Another few steps in silence, before he asks, "Do you mean to explain, or must I insist first?"

"Technically I'm not." Astarion counters initially, scuffing the edges of gloved knuckles somewhere just beneath his own collarbone. "Complaining, that is."

The opportunity to roam— free of anchor shard pain— is a luxury even Astarion won't look directly in the mouth, even if it comes with the caveat of being actively perceived by his own partner in unwitting crime. Which, to that extent:

Explain, Emet-Selch says, and it has the immediate effect of sinking the set of Astarion's stare, effectively making him look more akin to a scolded dog for a few, tepid beats.

"I..." He blinks. Opens his mouth before shutting it again. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, I'm sure you don't," he says with a sigh. Honestly, that reaction just clears any lingering doubt there may be, and he doesn't say more for a moment, choosing what he wants to actually say.

"I have no intention of it going anywhere save between the two of us. This is hardly an interrogation, you realize, but if I am to work with you-- especially if I am to make excuses for this as well-- then I should think you could at least tell me what in the world is going on."

It's almost a little familiar, makes him think for a moment of sighing and agreeing to help a friend who tended to liberally skirt guidelines from what would be well deserved (in his opinion) censure. Emet-Selch is certain Astarion has very different reasons, compared to what theirs often were, but... well, at least he has experience here.

The assurance helps, at least.

Granted it could be a lie, and there was— some time well before now, possibly even a month or two ago— a point where Astarion would've taken this as a bid at simply coaxing him into dropping his guard. A lie. A trap. The back and forth of clever creatures destined to always need to stay one step ahead of each other.

Right now, though, for better or worse, he believes the Ascian.

But then again, how does Astarion even begin to explain it?

"They don't deserve it, you know."

Like that, apparently. That's how he opts to start.

It's a start, at least. He'd half expected Astarion to simply deflect, or to put it off if he did mean to answer. As far as places to begin go, it isn't a terrible one.

"Deserve what, precisely-- the effort expended, or are you speaking of something separate?"

Clarification, first, before carrying on.

"The people here. This world. Everything they set about demanding— expecting from us."

It'd come with the bliss of freedom, and for that, to some extent, Astarion knows he should be grateful. But bitterness burns like bile in his throat, boiling deep within his skin. A resentment he doesn't know how to let go of, prompting the whole of his posture to close off for one tepid beat, arms folding.

"All while viewing us the way that some of them do. Particularly you, given what you are."

Not even necessarily thanks to his vampirism, but just because of the ears. It's an understandable sentiment to have, he believes, in the face of everything that this world is.

"I do expect that less would be expected, had you not joined up, but then again... there are truly not an abundance of options for our kind."

“Well. That, and if Corypheus wins, my kind— ” Elves “And our kind— ” Rifters “Won’t have anywhere left to run. Won’t have any sort of choice.”

Enslavement or enslavement. Neither appeals.

“So no, I can’t exactly see myself abandoning the only group fighting to make a dent in this without resorting to petty squabbling amongst themselves. No matter what they might aim for, or how disjointed their effort. Their leadership.” It’d be beyond selfish or short-sighted.

It’d just be stupid.

“And in light of that— knowing full well precisely how the people of this world will look at us with affection in their hearts until they tire of it, or decide we’re not needed anymore— I don’t think it’s so much wretchedness to have a little of what they deserve.”

Not enough to hurt. Not enough to damage Riftwatch. Just enough so they feel it for once, just how unpleasant it is to be so pitiably unlucky.

"And you have chosen to do so like this, at least for the time being."

It isn't condescending, just... idle musing, as he takes all of that in, considering Astarion's answer. He isn't wrong, necessarily, about what the future could potentially look like.

But there are other considerations, such as:

"You draw dangerously close to severing your nose to spite your face, you realize," he says, equally mildly. "Turning a situation you potentially stood to gain from in favor of serving that purpose instead-- I hadn't thought I would see you pass up such an opportunity."

"Oh please. I have Riftwatch wrapped around my finger." he counters, lifting one dark-gloved hand, littlefinger extended as punctuation.

"Missions fall apart all the time. I'm due for a little failure, if I'm honest."

And it had, admittedly, been why he'd asked beforehand how Emet-Selch might take to that exact outcome.

"Do you?"

A brow arches, at that. Not to doubt his capability, but-- well, yes, he doubts that claim.

"Rather than aim for failure, surely you might get what you desire in some other fashion."

There, at least, Emet-Selch seems to have won some small measure of Astarion's interest, prompting a pale brow to lift just so.

"...and what other fashion might that be, exactly?"

He thought that just might do it.

"Tell me, if you would," he begins, arms folded behind his back. "What sort of person, in your estimation, best deserves this ire of yours?"

"I—" He starts. Stops. Air catching against the backs of his fangs when he scoffs:

"What."

This time, his expression seems to drop. A prelude to all his entirely feral bristling, hunching through his own shoulders as he leans forward. Teeth glinting. "What do you mean 'what sort of person'— everyone. Anyone. If they draw breath in this wretched, Blighted world, believe me. They deserve it."

"A bit more aggressive than expected, but it is a start."

He's not visibly put off by the answer, but he is observing more closely than he appears to be, quiet for a moment as he evaluates.

Eventually, he decides to abandon talking through it less directly.

"What is truly the problem, Astarion. You would lash out thoughtlessly-- what is it that spurs you to turn upon the world in its entirety rather than address the root? Something that you either cannot or will not strike at more directly, I should think, but you may correct me."

[CLOSED] You hate my bad behavior

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