[CLOSED] AND YOU'LL KNOW THE NEXT TIME I WAKE UP SCREAMING

[illithidnapped]

WHO: Astarion, Fenris, Bastien, Emet-Selch, Mobius, Ellie, Dante, Loki
WHAT: fear spirits are no joke when you're a bag of broken glass
WHEN: backdated to Crossroads plot hours
WHERE: the Crossroads
NOTES: so many content warnings: mind control, slavery, torture, blood, mutilation and abuse of every conceivable/literal shade, possibly more warnings to be added later, not joking this is a very horrible space. There's a reason why I'm divorcing this from the main log; Astarion's canon is, in short, unkind.

source

Comments

Fenris;

[illithidnapped]

[Wandering in a place like this (laced as it is with only the thinnest of barriers between magic and reality— between spirits and the living), isn’t a particularly pleasant time. Nothing feels real enough beneath the steady ryhthm of Astarion's strides (a little like lucid dreaming, if Astarion had to pin it down: his body operating more on the assumption of solidity, rather than the undeniable promise of it over stone), and yet everything is also far too real. Too loud, too bright, too sharp, too present.

Thankfully they haven’t been assaulted by childish spirits or beckoning cries from the cliffs, but there’s something distinctly Not Right about this particular stretch of road they now tread, the sky (is it a sky at all, Astarion wonders absently) that surrounds them, growing dimmer by the minute.

And the rocky stone beneath their feet, it’s...

More like polished flooring in places. Flattened and glossy, but still that same shade of lightless brown.]

I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to this.

[Vital, yes. Important, as far as missions go: ensuring Corypheus hasn’t sunken his claws into the byways here, given that his forces have already been proven to travel by eluvian.

But still.

Someone else could’ve done it.

The pathways descend into fractured cliffs: boring into tunnel work that’s difficult to parse even with their elven cat’s eyes. A few feet ahead at best, if that, and it seems as good a place to look as any for a nest chock full of slippery Venatori.

Hands to the glassy pommels of his daggers, he adds, fitting Fenris with a sidelong glance— only to realize that the elf's become more glowing tattoos than recognizable features in the sprawling dark:]

I don't know what you were thinking when you agreed to this.

[doggish]

[What he was thinking, more or less, was that it would be good to contribute. That here was work he could get his hands on; a purpose, a task, a duty, that he could fulfill and go to bed feeling satisfied for once.

All well and good in theory. In reality . . . oh, he hates the Fade. And he hates it all the more because he knows this isn't quite the Fade, but it's close enough, you know? This odd little pocket dimension where nothing is quite as it seems, where magic drifts through the air as tangibly as the wind and everything has an eerie sense of unreality . . . it sets his teeth on edge. It plays hell on his lyrium, he knows that much; he hasn't stopped glowing from the moment they stepped in here.

A boon, he thinks sardonically as the world grows darker around them. How lucky they are, that he is a walking torch.]

That you would get into trouble if I was not there to look after you.

[It's theoretically a teasing joke, but it lands flatly. He's too busy glancing around, as if he might see a threat before it comes. But that's never the way with demons, is it? They appear only when they wish, insidious creatures that they are. Offering deals (and it's been years, but still some small part of Fenris writhes in humiliated self-loathing; how quickly he had fallen prey to a demon, how weak he had been to leap on that promise of power) or simply haunting their steps . . . no, they will not see it coming.

Is he afraid? No, not yet. But he is tense. Absently, he starts to keep track of their path into this tunnel before realizing it's pointless. Nothing is real here, and a map will not serve them.

They edge forward, turn left— and as the light fades from behind them, Fenris realizes that what was once ground has now decidedly become floor: the crunch of gravel and grit gone, replaced by faint footsteps (one booted, one not) tapping against . . . marble? Stone? He reaches out to steady himself against a wall and finds it smooth to the touch; he can't decide if it's natural erosion or something more deliberate.

It's cold. Not the winter chill that Fenris so often complains about, but a frigidity that seems to sink into his bones. Not just the absence of warmth, but the absence of memory of it, too: like he'll never be warm again. Like there is no warmth to be found in this lightless place, and to seek it out is a fool's errand. And there are noises. He can't say what. Faint whispers, perhaps, faint chitterings or taps . . . insects? Voices? They're so indistinct, fading in and out with no definable source, just frequent enough to set him on edge.

The tunnel opens into a larger cavern. And within it . . .]

Sarcophagi?

[He has seen broken gravestones here and there, but nothing so heavily deliberate as this. There's at least four lined up in neat rows, heavy carvings presumably denoting who each entombed corpse used to be. Curiosity flares despite himself, and he strides ahead, fingers tracing the lettering, trying to read it. H . . . a . . .]

Can you make these out?

[illithidnapped]

[Something’s wrong.

Astarion can feel it well before he recognizes the familiar scent winding its way through the air: stale decay, clinging lichen seeping deep into old stone, brittle marrow mingling with mildew and frigid, dusty rot. He's caught them before here and there. Passing through roadsides bordering Nevarra; Sundermount in the evening, particularly during those first few breaths of winter's chill when the air has such an abysmal cold snap to it that it stagnates like fog over old grave markers. But so few places in Thedas smell just the way the old catacombs running beneath Cazador’s estate did— and fewer still match it so perfectly.

His heart jolts into skipping a single beat.

He doesn’t notice.

Instead, from a handful of steps away, his voice is a shivering whisper. Hollow as the gleam in his reflective eyes.]

Step away from it.

[Get away from it. Does it matter that this can’t possibly be Baldur’s Gate? No. No, not at all. Not when every fiber in his body is prickling with tension like a sixth sense for danger. One that's never steered him wrong in all his lightless, miserable years.]

We need to go back. [A coward's move, yes. But cowards live longer. Astarion's lived longer.

The tunnel behind them is gone when he twists, hunched low through his own shoulders like a half-starved dog on instinct. Instead, more rows of half-closed coffins extend onwards into pitch-dark shadow, the stone and dirt-lined walls that surround them too distinctly un-Thedosian to be mistaken for anything else than the worst of his own nightmarish apprehension, warped in its woven reflection.

Desperation paints him terribly. Expression gaunt in the light cast by Fenris’ brands and hollow cracks in the ceiling overhead. A testing squeeze of his fingertips against his own gloved palms chases it, just to be certain his body still responds to his own commands.

Old habits.

(This isn’t some haunted castle in the middle of nowhere, plagued by demons and lost in time. He’d come from the Fade, hadn’t he? All Rifters did. If the Crossroads somehow connect to it— if something’s gone awry— who’s to say they didn’t end up slipping between spacial divides, strolling as easily through half-dreams into Toril as Astarion had when he fell headlong into Thedas?

No.

No, he’s still himself. And as long as that’s true, then Cazador—)

There isn’t any warning urged when he sets out, footsteps quick to rush ahead into cavernous corridors (hosts of red, glassy eyes slipping away at the sound of his heels, scattering like rats, like insects, and he knows those hoarse, mindless susurrations too well to settle), unwilling to slow, or stop. Muttering beneath his breath like a madman. All of him aching with fear.]

None of this is real.

[None of this is real.

Every few steps flexing his fingers downwards again, checking. Checking. Those indistinct whispers at their back almost decipherable.]

[doggish]

[Terror is an emotion Fenris knows so well.

He doesn't mean fear, although yes, he knows that too. But fear is a very ordinary thing. Fear is a response reaction, a shivering shock and repulsion designed to keep you on your toes. Fear is what Fenris had felt when Bartrand had sealed him and the others underground; fear is what he feels when he's walking alone and hears a Tevene accent drifting on the wind. Fear is awful, but fear is easily dealt with.

Terror, though . . . that's bone-deep. Terror is what seeps into your skin and slips through your system without a warning, flooding your lungs, gripping your heart and squeezing mercilessly. Terror is the absence of hope, of light, of warmth; terror is inevitable, a dreaded, awful feeling that isn't expressed through screaming horror or trembling tenor, but in the hunch of one's shoulders. The shambling, shuffling gait of a creature that knows what its future holds. A flinch, a wince, choked voice and hollow eyes— and funny, isn't it, how it becomes a part of oneself? You feel afraid for so long that it simply becomes ordinary, and you forget that normal people don't walk through their lives with that heavy iron weight hanging around their necks like—

(a collar, and his hand lifts to his throat, fingers pressing against bare skin, no, no, there's nothing there)

— a chain. Binding and damning, and no slave ever gets rid of it, not really. Not even when they've escaped. Not even when their master is long dead and rotting.

Not even when he's in another world.

For of course it's terror that's woven in Astarion's voice right now. A trembling whisper, hoarse and harsh, a guttural sort of sound that he has never once heard before. His head snaps up, and he takes a few steps forward before—]

Astarion!

[Coffins forgotten, he races after his companion, glancing around sharply— glints of glassy eyes stare back at him, and he mistakes them for animals. Rats, perhaps, or some kind of vermin; he dismisses them the moment they don't attack. He reaches for him, grabbing his elbow and yanking him back sharply.]

Would you stop?

[There's an echo there, a voice a half-second out of sync with Fenris' own. A cold voice, arrogant and distant, malicious in the most sadistically sensuous way. Not voice used to being obeyed, for that would suggest that dissent was at all possible. Simply a voice that knows what will happen next, sure as the sun rises in the east. Fenris spins, releasing Astarion's arm, glancing around left and right, but it's impossible to say where it comes from.

Did you think you could escape me forever? Threads of amusement are woven into that scolding tone. Did you think I would not find you and bring you back to me?

Were those nine months worth it?]

None of this is real.

[He says it urgently, glancing back towards Astarion. Taking a step towards him, gripping his arm tightly, trying to tether him to reality.]

Astarion, look at me— he is not here, this is not his home—

[Laughter, soft and amused. Are you so sure, little wolf? Look at where you are. Look at where he has led you, as he leads all his prey.]

Bastien;

[illithidnapped]

He can't sleep. This place haunts in ways he'd never expected on infrequent occasion, discomfort creeping in beyond whatever baseline disorientation swims through his peripheral awareness at all times. Little whispers. A hint of a familiar scent he thought he'd forgotten somewhere over the last nine months.

It leaves him irritable, drawn thin and narrow, only a handful of steps away from whirling on his heel and biting (mostly figuratively) at the person nearest to him.

Unfortunately at present, settled along the edge of one of the Crossroad's lower plateaus (a pitiful sort of play at making camp in shadow away from the starkness of unsettling light) beneath a towering cliffside overhang, the person closest to him is Bastien— who also happens to be one of the least enjoyable people to snap his fangs at on a whim.

"That's it, I can't take anymore of this miserable stone digging into my spine," it's hissed out as he all but leaps to his feet without any visible catalyst, hackles raised as high as the set of his shoulders when he adds, coldly:

"You're welcome to come along, but I refuse to just sit here twiddling my thumbs whilst sick to my own damned stomach."

Amongst other things.

[cozen]

Bastien brought a book, because of course he did. But Astarion's quiet little outburst doesn't interrupt him in the middle of a cliffside sword fight or astounding revelation of noble parentage. He's spent the last several minutes, maybe the last half hour, staring at a single woodcut illustration of a ship at sea, whose lines are more solid and soothing than the sky overhead, and trying to stop feeling his pulse in his head.

He raises his eyes over the top of the book. Weighs you're welcome to come along against the tone in which it was said and both against the possibility that Astarion will wander into trouble alone, die, and leave Bastien to feel a bit guilty for the rest of his life, or at least whenever he's reminded of it.

"D'accord," comes in a patiently mild-mannered drawl. If Astarion hasn't spent enough time around Orlesians to know the meaning, the fact that Bastien rolls up onto his feet should do the trick. He tucks the book under his arm; it's coming along. A few seconds of adjusting this and that in preparation, and he adds, "Aimless walks should be called twiddling your feet, don't you think?"

[illithidnapped]

“More like sticking your foot up your ass— if we’re combining sayings and their intended meanings.”

A terrible joke, dry and acrid in its delivery, but— look, he’s tired. He’s cranky. His head hurts. Freedom was supposed to be bliss, but right now he’s as miserable as a mabari in an ocean of fleas.

Already moving towards one of the shaded undersides of the cliff-like ruins they’ve sheltered underneath, Astarion somehow finds it in him to keep his footsteps slow enough that Bastien has ample time to catch up.

“The sooner we get out of all this light, the better.” Muttered without a second thought, of course, only to add (once he hears the droning sound of his own voice):

“Ugh. Never thought I’d be saying that.”

[cozen]

The joke is terrible, but it still earns a stuttering-exhale of a laugh while Bastien lopes to catch up and fall in alongside him. (Aside from the inherent challenge of moving anywhere in the Crossroads, as a human or—whatever Astarion is—it's not a problem. They're the same height, and his 5'9" is built from the legs of someone 5'11" and the torso of someone 5'7".)

"Really?"

He gives Astarion an evaluative look, at the expense of half-tripping over a jagged piece of rock. After that he keeps his eyes on the path.

"But you are so pale."

Emet-Selch;

[illithidnapped]

We’ve been wandering for hours, now. [What a whiner he is when the mood strikes. All-powerful creature of the night turned slouching, snarling pest. Snitty if only because he isn’t getting his way.]

All I’m asking for is five minutes in the shade. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable for it, either.

[They aren’t far from a darkened overhang, in fact. Some place where the blinding light seems a little less oppressive. Where the whispers might die down just a little if only because they won’t be utterly exposed to what passes for elements, here.

His footsteps press forward— then stop, turning.

It has the added effect of making him look more like a dog trying to coax its owner into walking. This way, come on, stop dallying.

Red eyes so utterly expectant in their unblinking demands.]

[arkitect]

Surely you can stand it a bit longer than this-- honestly, one would think you were older than I, with such a lack of stamina. You've maintained it well enough before.

[Whatever happened to teasing Emet-Selch about his old bones, hm? He trudges along, still, then-- pauses, roughly where Astarion has stopped.]

[illithidnapped]

[Well enough before, he says, and oh, if that already present bristling doesn't rise by a noticeable measure, a few crinkling ripples working their way across the bridge of Astarion's nose.

Honestly, Hades.]

That's different, you know. There's a reward to the expulsion of bottled fervor. Not to mention adrenaline, pleasure— [Astarion pauses only briefly, lips curling despite his impressively soured mood.]

Release.

[With a softer noise pulled just from under his breath, he turns once more, satisfied at the unspoken agreement of that towering Ascian trudging along at his side, taking his first few steps into dimming light.]

Here the only thing I'm liable to find is a headache for my trouble. A pack of wild Venatori— or worse, corrupted templars. Abominations.

[He lifts a few arched fingertips, gently scratching at the reddened lines across his chin, running from the near middle downwards. Granted he isn't supposed to, but look, it's hard, okay.

Don't judge him]

[arkitect]

And yet there is, theoretically speaking, a reward to finishing our time here-- which is to say, quitting the place.

[The longer he complains and drags his feet, the longer they'll be here, after all... but fine, fine. If a rest will get him to keep his pace up after they're done, Hades will allow it.

For now. As long as it is short.

He observes the way Astarion scratches at those marks, though, and now that he's closer, he just reaches up with a sigh to take his wrist and pull it away.]

Stop worrying at that while you are at it, would you-- just what on earth is it?

Mobius;

[illithidnapped]

Can you sense anything? Do Seekers have that sort of trick up their sleeves?

[Astarion asks mildly from where he paces in darker shadows: this section of building blocked off from piercing light by what looks to be crumbling ruins— elven mirror frames, all emptied, though it might prove a struggle for Mobius to pick out what lies where the further they trudge on into darkness.

Astarion, with glinting eyes that are significant kinder in places like this, hardly seems to notice.]

I don’t see why this wasn’t a purely Warden expedition anyway, if you ask me. They’re, what, attuned to all this? The corruption Corypheus houses.

[favoriteanalyst]

[He has to bite his tongue to keep himself from correcting Astarion. He'd nearly forgotten the man had convinced himself that Mobius is a Seeker, and in some ways that's funnier and easier to deal with. He can still answer the questions with a vast degree of honesty without actually correcting the mistake. No, he can't sense anything. Seekers probably do not have that sort of trick up their sleeve.

Wishes that he could, because this darkness is giving him a bit of a spook. Not for it being dark, of course. But like everything else here, his human senses perceive it all differently. Unsettling and off-kilter. Head-spinning at first, but at least after a time it settles into a nagging feeling that creeps along his skin. The light at least is a blessing, if an odd and somewhat sickening one. In the shafts of it in the hallways before, he could see the bits and bobs of destruction and decay, strange frames with some cracked and broken and dust, and some merely dusty.

But now as they move out of the light, the wrongness intensifies. Heightened senses, but somehow heightened in all the wrong ways, sideways. He doesn't stumble, but it almost feels like he no longer knows which way is up.

He sticks close to Astarion. Close as he wants to dare without gripping hold of him like a frightened child. It isn't pitch here, yet, but his eyes don't seem to be adjusting well to the dark as they normally would. He hopes his ally will give him a heads up if he's about to stumble into a hole.]

They are, in a sense. As I understand it, the corruption in the blood courses through them and gives them a sort of connection. [He frowns. Better that Wardens tend to Warden business, sure. Or elves to elf business.] There may not be enough Wardens about to do a proper expedition. Makes it easier if the rest of us can find them a clear path first, and have the ones we've got focus on whatever is happening.

Complicated history. [If Astarion wants to keep up the pretense of being a native, Mobius will...not necessarily directly call him out about it. But he still might not be aware of the story.] More in recent years. Used to be everyone saw them as venerated heroes. War's messed everything up, turned it all upside down.

[illithidnapped]

[It’s not like Astarion to be attuned to— no, it is, in fact. He reads too well the shift in moods and emotions, and he clings to that knowledge like a tool at all times: something in his pocket to pry, to nag, to utilize, if and when he needs an edge.

So yes, he feels it. Yes, he’s acutely aware of Mobius’ own limitations in the growing dark— as one discomfort (nauseating light and too-harsh sound) gives way to another in the form of shadow that almost has a clinging sort of weight to it. The echoes of their footsteps hissing like the start of someone speaking. Soft. Uncomfortable.

Astarion’s long ears strain to make sense of them, even as his mind presses back.]

Mm. Corypheus didn’t do much to help. [He knows about it only because of Ellis, in truth. The full measure of what’s happened— just how muddied things have actually become.

Just how terrible the twist in the Wardens' shared tale had been.

Astarion reaches out, gently steering Mobius back towards him with a hand across his forearm, rather than letting him stumble headlong into a break in their path.]

Does it frighten you?

[Corypheus. The Blight. Wardens and their ties.

Everything.]

[favoriteanalyst]

Something might've happened down the line eventually. [Slow tectonic shifts, rather than collapsing all at once.] But no, didn't help.

[And like Templars, there are those who survived the shifting and collapsing and still remain, still remain in the light of the Maker and are still willing to do their jobs and fight for what's right and just in the world. He wonders if Adrasteia is going to be here. Would make sense.

He breathes out, a subtle surprise and subtle relaxation, at the guiding hand. He doesn't want to be the child clinging to someone's skirts and jumping at shadows--or whatever's in the shadows. But this place was not meant for someone like him. It makes the lyrium in him feel like it's humming at a strange frequency. His steps are careful, but steady. He will not lose his way or trip over himself, or he'll do his damned best about it.]

I think only those who are truly well and lost wouldn't be at least a little bit scared. One uncertainty to another. From war to unease to war to uncertainty to war and strangeness everywhere you look? [If Astarion means to encompass everything, then yes. It frightens him.] If you mean Wardens, no, they don't frighten me. But the Blight, Maker. Of course it does.

Can't let a little fear get in the way of the job, though. You?

Ellie;

[illithidnapped]

[He isn’t a doting thing by nature, it’s important to note. Even at his fondest, he tends to bite and snap and snarl and pick at figurative (and sometimes not so figurative) open wounds whenever it suits—

And all right, yes, he’s doing exactly that right now. A sulking kind of heel-dragging performance that makes every step forward longer. Slower. More stubborn.

It’s too damned bright. And loud. And...] By the Hells, if this headache gets any worse I’m going to rip the next person I see apart with my fangs.

[So yes, they’re mutually suffering right now as non-Thedosian creatures in their stricter origins, but let’s just say that as much as he adores her, he isn’t only thinking of her well-being when he casts a glance towards darker cliffs not far away.

Ominous to look at, yes, but at least not piercingly bright.]

Look, just five minutes. Maybe a little longer in the shade and we’ll both feel right as rain.

[notathreat]

[Neither of them are at their best. The ringing in her ears is far more than tinnitus or the awful feeling of damage after being too close to an explosion, uncomfortable rather than painful, and Ellie almost wishes it was pain. Pain is sharp, hot, easier to tune out after a while when the euphoria takes over. This is exhausting.]

That a warning?

[She tries to sound playful but it comes out more sarcastic. She shades her eyes to follow Astarion's gaze, measuring her breathing. She hesitates at the suggestion, knowing from experience that stopping to rest just makes it harder to get up. But Astarion's senses are more sensitive than hers, and maybe he's reaching his limit.]

... fine. Five minutes.

[Ellie reaches out to nudge at his arm, angling them both into a corner, near a shelf of rock. This place sets her teeth on edge, so she's still going to keep watch, but she feels better with something at their back.]

Shut your eyes, see if that helps any.

[illithidnapped]

I've bitten you twice already and somehow you just keep surviving.

[If it isn’t obvious, that’s his way of joking, too— but much like her own attempt at floating levity into a situation that’s all digging discomfort, it only exists as a tease because they know each other so well: his tone never comes close to matching what he means.

But she beckons, and he follows (of course he does), denning down in a huddle at her side. There’s nothing comforting about the shadows that cling (it reminds him in a way of— not Val Chevin, no, before that— those hours spent shivering in the ravine together, trying desperately to ignore how the world itself seemed to close in around them. Uncomfortable. Unkind.

It occurs to him then that there could actually be Venatori here too, and he laughs stupidly for it. Just a thin thing, let out right before he shuts his eyes, sinking back against her shoulder with a low-set sigh.]

You ought to rest too, you know.

[It's affecting her, this place.

It has to be, even without cat's eyes or pointed ears, there's nothing gentle about the horrid compression this landscape houses.]

Dante;

[illithidnapped]

[It’s dark. Cold. Better than outside, yes, but only just: the air feels sickeningly tight within his chest now that they're huddled within a winding series of sloping tunnels, and no matter how Astarion tries to get comfortable where he’s slumped against a nearby wall, nothing seems to ease the prickling tension strung tight across the back of his neck. Nothing makes it any easier to rest.]

I almost miss your copy, shocking as it is to admit. [Huffed out between sharp fangs, brow pinched tightly. His hollow eyes glinting like a cat’s when he shifts them Dante’s way.]

Rambunctious as the little spirit was, at least it served as a distraction from...

Well.

Everything.

[He works a hand against his temple, letting out a thready sigh beneath a fresher bout of gnawing unease.]

I don't say this often: but this is the worst.

[rebellionyell]

[Whatever it was about the crossroads that made things so disorienting, it seemed to be having a greater impact on Astarion than Dante for whatever reason. Of course he was no stranger to spirit and demonic shenanigans in this world, but physical pain and discomfort was easier to move through. Though maybe there was also something to be said for his demonic constitution as well that kept him on his feet.

As long as he wasn't sleeping impressions upon him seemed mild a best, annoying at worst and the only thing they could really take advantage of was memories. Sadness. Isolation. Poignant things, but not crippling things so perhaps this also gave him some measure of protection, but taversing this hellscape was nothing short of a challenge and, for Astarion it seemed insurmountable.]

Yeah, I've had better times. [Dante agreed, seeking his companion out in the dark, making out his outline and the lamplight reflection of his eyes, pearls of light in the dark.]

Guess we could both use a little break. [Although Dante suspected this was not the best place to break, in fact this was not a good place to be, but Astarion almost appeared to be in pain. What could it hurt to stop for a moment? If they needed to get out of here immediately then he'd throw his partner over his shoulder and take off.

Simple enough]

[illithidnapped]

[Sharp senses are wonderful at times. A way to know what’s coming well before it strikes, a means to sniff out an advantage in an upcoming battle or pluck up a few whispered words without ever getting close (there’s a reason why Orlesian halls flocked with serving elves are pinprick troves of spilled secrets— maybe in Tevinter it’s the same too, though Astarion tries not to deeply consider it for too long). Now though, it’s reaching a tipping point: all too much at once, too constantly. Elven ears and eyes without any amount of worldly acceptance; the Crossroads reject him as if he’s just as much an intruder as anyone without pointed ears to spare.

His smile is as thin as damp paper when he aims it Dante's way. Difficult to spot, but not difficult to hear.:] Unless you feel like carrying me.

[Teasing, of course. Said as he moves to sit down across a patch of (equally compared to their surroundings) dark stone, exhaling slowly when he lifts his heels— such a small relief turned bloody massive. Gods.]

This is the last mission I’m ever signing myself up for. Calling it now.

[He doesn’t mean that.]

Loki;

[illithidnapped]

Ugh. My blisters are going to have blisters at this rate.

[It’s awful. Why did he ever sign up for this? What in the Hells was he thinking, really?]

You’re a god, aren’t you. Can’t you just conjure us a way back?

[He isn’t quite serious (all right, maybe there’s a sliver of him that hopes Loki somehow can pluck them up and spirit them away with some long-held secret), but what’s more than apparent is that he is tired.

Too much fighting the pounding pressure of this place and all its disorienting magic, too much time on his feet— and the ruins they’ve wandered into, shadowed and looming in their cavernous array— don’t look anywhere like the path they’re meant to be treading.

Maybe they’ve gone too far.]

[icasm]

I was a god, before I arrived here, [ which is an important distinction that Loki feels the need to make. He is also tired, sweaty, his hair is stuck to his face in places, and Loki can smell himself which, eugh, but also at least the oils and other products he uses are holding up scent-wise. ] Which is to say I can't 'conjure' us a way out of here.

[ A sigh. He'd honestly like nothing better than to see the other side of an Eluvian right about now, but something tells him they're further from the possibility of an exit than either of them is willing to admit. ]

What are we supposed to do if we're lost?

[illithidnapped]

[Poor thing.

No, really, he means it: poor them. Because presently Astarion is so over this whole debacle that even his entirely selfish heart is actually capable of feeling pity for the creature at his side if only because they’re both currently stuck in it, suffering in equal measure.

His sigh is long-winded, his shoulders falling into a hopeless slouch.]

I don’t know, pray to one of the local gods instead?

Maybe they have it in them to be useful— though I doubt it.

[The air around them is cold as he moves closer towards a sloping series of cluttered tunnels at the edge of those light-lost ruins. More and more frigid by the minute it feels like, though rime never coats the surface of the stone where they carefully tread.

Astarion turns, gazing back through thickening mist.]

You did at least keep track of the way we came, didn’t you?