faderift | [CLOSED] You hate my bad behavior

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.”

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.

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.”

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.

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."

“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.

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.

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."

“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.

Edited 2021-11-30 03:29 (UTC)

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."

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."

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."

“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.”

"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.

There's so much he could say in response. So much he's considering saying, in fact, let alone doing— they're far enough out that Astarion knows full well he could easily get away with biting the man beneath him (one capable of mending himself, as already proven by the first injury he'd inflicted a few weeks ago, now), and no one would witness the cruelty of it until it's done and healed without so much as a trace.

Consequence free, in essence.

Instead he jolts forward only slightly, attempting to lean with Dante rather than against him. The weather and muck is miserable enough without the both of them toppling over in the next overbearing gust that buffets the side of the hill they're presently traversing, stone sculptures high and leaning like shadowing forest around them, yet doing nothing to stay either rain or wind.

"Careful," he hisses, shrinking down into his shoulders. "The last thing I need is for Team A to break his damned neck and leave me stranded alone in this wretched mire."

Whether Dante's aware of the effect his words have or not is entirely clear, he knows that he's teasing in response. It's really his default response to any sort of bantering or back and forth, unless the threat or conversation is severe enough for him to consider otherwise. He's cavalier with his words at times, but often makes up for it with his actions.

He can sense Astarion's discomfort though and he knows this weather has him miserable enough. Now that he's being piggy backed by Dante the control he has over his own footing is gone and it's down to Dante's own surefootedness to keep them upright. There were pros and cons to being carried around.

"Don't worry I wouldn't do that to you," Dante said glancing over his shoulder to see Astarion huddling down before focusing on the steep incline. If he had any particular feelings about the weather he didn't say, he was soaked through and he was aware of the cold and the wind, but he left his companion in charge of speaking on it while his attention was focused elsewhere.

And fortunately for the both of them he made it to the top without incident, they did have a better view of the mire from here, rain notwithstanding. A quick glance around and found that the Fallow Mire was ensconced by plateaus, large stone structures, and abandoned homes even up here.

"You need a break?" says the man doing the lifting, "we can dry off and get some rest if you want."

"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."

“Gods above, I’d slay a man in cold blood for a reprieve from this mess.”

Much as he’d joked, it is homely to his own mind: the cold, the dark, the damp, the stench of rot— everything he’d known oh so intimately for two hundred years. What a miserable choice for a job to have plucked up.

And he has only himself to blame.

“Get me out of all this rain and I’ll make sure it isn’t you.”

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.

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."

"Okay, okay...breaktime it is," said with a modicum of humor in his voice, but he was already scouting for a decent place to settle until the rain eased off and they had more daylight to work with.

The best he could find was a shanty that was abandoned and in disrepair, the bright side? The construction, however crude, was built against the lee of the surrounding plateaus and the remains of a fireplace.

Toeing the door open he poked his head inside just to make sure it was abandoned, though the Door being left ajar and swinging in the breeze had already given him that impression there could be other visitors. Much like everywhere else in the Fallow Mire it was abandoned and whoever had been the resident had long since disappeared.

He carefully eased Astarion off of his back and on to his feet, gauging what he had to work with. Leaks in the roof and broken bits of furniture. Not much, but more than they had before so he'd make due.

"Home sweet home," Dante said stretching his arms in front of him instead of over his head, there wasn't enough room for that and had he been taller he'd probably have to crouch to prevent his head from hitting the ceiling.

Leaning his sword against the wall Dante shrugged off his rucksack he began digging through it emptying the bag of all of its contents. There were two oilskin tarps for tents, he roped on across the cieling to take care of the few leaks and spread the other across the floor of the shanty. He strung the remaining rope across the hearth in a makeshift clothes line where their things could dry.

Next, he broke up the few bits of furniture they had and with flint and a flat piece of steel he managed to strike up a small fire. For now, it was the best he could do, but it did take care of some of Astarion's complaints: the cold, the wet, and the dark. Nothing much he could do about the smells and the damp was dependent on Astarion himself.

"Well? Do I get to live another day?" Dante joked as he began peeling off his outer layers to hang on the line, they'd be wet again soon enough, but in the meantime, they could dry out in front of the fire and so could he.

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.

"Mmhm."

The man’s surprisingly competent, all things considered. Astarion, lacking survival skills of his own that don’t hinge entirely on predatorial instinct (hunting will always come easily, stalking or catching a trail just as much), finds his expectations more than raised once those tarps are fitted in place against the storm outside.

It helps that the place is small. Easily bolstered, easily warmed: Dante finds his way to shrugging off waterlogged clothing and Astarion— taking his time in winding closer to the fire— watches for a tentative, possibly measuring beat before beginning to do the same. Borrowed coat hung, gloves pulled away to finally reveal his own anchor-shard, shirt last, pulled over his head and wrung out, the myriad scars at his back shown only when he turns to hang the lot.

It isn’t something he’s shy about per se, but there’s enough weight to the gesture of letting them be seen that he isn’t all humor when he takes to settling down.

In the end, the expression he wears is relaxed once he’s warming himself. Slow to blink, like an animal sunning itself across stone.

“I have to admit, I thought you’d be worse at this.”

Dante glanced up as Astarion decides to follow suite, just curious, not rude. While he notices the circumference of scars, he doesn't gawk at them for long, just long enough to notice that they could be words, he didn't know what kind of words, but he'd seen runes or seals that had patterns like that. He shifted his gaze back to the fire holding his hands out, his own shard green and glowing as he warmed his palms.

He'd eventually remove the rest of his clothing to climb into a bedroll, not wanting to sleep in soggy pants, but for now he'd keep himself politely covered. Settling back on his arms once his hands are sufficiently warm, he opens up the space making it as welcoming as possible to companionship.

"I've had to survive on my own since I was eleven...it taught me some rudimentary skills like how to hide this," Dante said ruffling his own hair, "how to change my identity, how to steal, light a fire, find shelter, and disappear. You learn or you become breakfast."

Dante's tone was conversational and pleasant, as if he were just explaining simple fact, and he was. It didn't really hurt to talk about his life or his past, he wasn't bitter about it, he wasn't there anymore and it was his reality. All those things made him who he was.

Once they were both settle Dante dragged the rucksack to his side and rifled through it not that there was much left. He removed the bedrolls and what was left was dried food goods, waterskins, and a flask of some kind of alcohol he took for whiskey. It had the same burn and that's what he pulled out of the bag next, removing the stopper long enough to take a sip, make a face, and then tip it at Astarion in offering.

"It's not the best I've ever had, but it does the job," he was a Jack Daniels kind of guy himself, but suspected that wasn't a brand he'd find here.

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?"

[CLOSED] You hate my bad behavior

for Loki;

For Emet;

For Dante;

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