[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

[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?

[illithidnapped]

[And— oh, that’s not what Astarion had expected, suddenly twisting like a cat in response to his companion’s perfectly reasonable grip for a few utterly futile beats before surrendering to it (in a sense): tight through his shoulders, held arm drawn taut, but the rest of him almost listless in trade— chin tipped slightly away to somewhat mask a pair of mending marks.

The distinctive swoop of them a near perfect match to someone else’s in fact, and if Emet-Selch knows Fenris’ distinctive patterning, he’ll recognize them as a twin to Astarion’s current scratches.]

...I got into a sparring match. [He puffs out all too quickly, petulant and sour. Taken to tugging again like a child, which, given the substantial difference in height between them, only makes it more ridiculous.]

Honestly, it’s nothing, let go—

[tug tug tug tug t u g]

[arkitect]

A sparring match with what, some sort of-- two-pronged serving utensil?

[There's an incredulous touch to his tone; a plain spar certainly does not leave this form of mark, so he very much doubts it happened in the course of any sort of fight.

He hasn't met Fenris in person, only spoken with him over the crystal, so... no, there is no recognition here, not this time. There may be later, should they meet face to face. For the moment, however, Emet-Selch takes note of the way Astarion tenses in response to his touch (moreso than would usually be warranted, he thinks) and after a few moments... opts to release his wrist with a sigh.]

You are a better liar than that, Astarion.

[Which is to say that it doesn't seem entirely like nothing, but the idle wave of a hand indicates he isn't inclined to press this particular subject.]

Now, come, if you are truly so insistent upon taking your leisure.