rowancrowned | fade rift ✧ inbox

A ban? She actually— [No of course that's how it must've played out 'good bye, we're done, piss off and never come back' etc, etc, etc. And while the sight of a catastrophic break-up is nothing new by Astarion's standards, he does imagine hers are more potent than most.]

She didn't ban me, shockingly. Probably should've considered the possibility before I went and got dressed up for the occasion, but...

[Mm. Lucky.]

So. If not swanning your way through the streets, looking like Kirkwall's golden ghost, what are you up to?

Yes.

[ leaving it at that. ]

Work for the Division. Sparring. What one normally does.

Sounds miserable.

[Does it count as fishing for a hint if it's also true?]

I miss my wife. What more is there to say?

Ugh.

[What is this feeling? It's awful.

To the Hells with it. He cuts the connection in revulsion the second it wells, as if it'll stem the tide.]

[ caller id: thranduil! ring ring ring ]

...what.

[If he could sound any less enthused, it'd be a miracle.]

Why did you ask?

[ a lilt of curiosity, but. he’s serious, not playful. ]

Because I felt like it. [No darling, no honeyed words— by now he's done his damndest to reach out to Gwenaëlle, only to have the figurative door shut in his face.

The night air in Wycome is warm, balmy. The view of the ocean from an empty casino balcony is startlingly dazzling. It's still not doing much to soothe his mood.]

Is there anything else you'd like to know? Something more useless, perhaps?

Yes. What did you want?

Persistent. Troublesome—

You’re not letting this drop, are you

[He sighs, no doubt hanging his head in defeat. Graceless and irritated and tired.

Ellie and Fenris are far, his ally here is suspicious of him, he tried (and failed) to drag Gwenaëlle back to her senses to his own detriment, he’s currently playing at being a glorified slave, he’s just so— ]

I just wanted to be sure you were all right. And you aren’t. So hooray for us, we’ve all learned something horrible tonight.

No, ( he agrees, easy. ) It is one of my less flattering traits.

( after a moment: )

What other horrible thing did you learn?

That she's no longer responding personally to my attempts to— [Another sigh. He's full of them tonight.] I have a feeling I'm just as banned, now.

[Anyway, if you're sticking around like a splinter under his nail:]

Amongst other things. [The veranda is quiet. He's so far withdrawn (and the noise from inside so loud) he doubts even the most capable of spies would have no way of overhearing him here.] The situation in Wycome is a touch more messy than I'd anticipated. And I'll be honest, pretending to be of Tevene origin isn't as fun as one might expect.

By which I mean not at all.

[But who's he going to huff about this to. Fenris? The man would be furious if he knew.]

( halting: ) You tried to- to-

( meddle seems the best word, and generously benevolent in its assumptions of astarion's motivations.

and then he remembers how this whole thing started. )

Leave her be. ( not a command. ) She- ( an exhale. ) let her decide her approach. Always. Tell me you have not been needling her.

( but back to what's got astarion down. )

No. Do they have you playing at enslavement?

I wasn't needling her! [He protests, scoffing sharp through even sharper teeth.]

I only asked her to reconsider. Once or twice. Or...

[What follows is a thin mutter. So very quiet.]

...slightly more than that, maybe.

Ah, ( suspicions confirmed. ) She loathes that.

( curious, despite himself: ) Who did she delegate to answer?

Oh, that nuisance whose name I can't even bother to remember. The one that ghosts after her like her bloody shadow.

[He's never once made an attempt at pronouncing it, and he's not about to start now.]

Guilfoyle, ( like astarion doesn't absolutely know it. ) Her protector.

Tell me more of what is happening in Wycome. What you are doing.

[There are some people— even in Riftwatch— that Astarion wouldn't dare talk to about this. Missions are delicate things, after all. Glass little houses all their own, and the potential for someone to find themselves perfectly aligned to let told details slip is always high when you're an organization held together by nothing but Anchor Shards and glue and a little soft-spoken twine.

But Thranduil is one of a rarer few. And Astarion's voice drops as he settles against the balcony, witheringly resigned, now that he's out of conversational shields.]

I was sent here to get in close with the Duke and his social circle. The creme de la creme of this sprawling scene. More importantly, I needed to sniff out whether or not any Tevinter agents are here doing the exact same— ergo, no letting it slip that I'm not from around here. Being assigned our dear Loki d'Asgard as my partner, the cover story practically wrote itself.

I'm good at this sort of thing, you know. I've always been good at it. In fact, I enjoy it for the most part. [It's a powerful thing, to lie and be so sure of yourself in it. To know you're the one pulling the strings for a change.]

I just didn't expect it to be so....taxing, I suppose.

The differences between your home and Thedas being too deep a chasm to span easily, or something specific about the event itself?

( it's easy for him to pull details, to coax, to untangle. add to that the fact that he cares, genuinely, and his tone is curious, soft. )

It's what I used to do, actually. For Cazador, my old master. It was the only time I was ever allowed to leave his side, in fact. I’d get dressed up in finery as though I were still nobility, go trotting out into the city and swan my way into the nicest of parties.

And then into someone else’s heart.

Cazador was particular, though. Nothing less than the best would do. Bringing someone back anything other than the height of beauty and I’d be—

Well. I’m sure I don’t need to explain the details.

[He exhales, clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth. His tone is casual. Conversational, rather than overtly pained.]

Anyway long story short, I thought doing this for myself would feel better. Getting to use my skills for my own reasons, that sort of thing.

Admittedly it does. But...

The days are beginning to drag, now. The shine’s wearing, I suppose.

[Like so much else in regards to his newfound freedom, it always feels better at first and then—

Then it stops.]

You have my sympathies for the loss of your ( what's the word. ) pastime. Or the possibility of the enjoyment thereof.

( astarion has given him at great deal to pull at, later. lots of little threads begging to be tugged upon. a name. but for now- )

How soon until you return? Surely no more than a fortnight.

[Astarion snorts hotly at that offer of sympathy; no doubt an expected response, given how poorly mercy attunes itself to him. Pity even less.]

No, I imagine we'll be here just a few days more. It's not as if we're here to actually sway the man, only to sniff out the stage, in essence.

[And then, mildly:]

Please don't tell me you want to spar the moment I get back.

Hardly any time at all.

After you showed such an aversion to the idea? ( amused. ) No.

What is your weapon of choice? Besides your charm.

As if I need anything else.

[He might— despite everything— sound suddenly bolstered by the acknowledgment of said charm, however.

Shallow praise. Ever a balm.]

But go on. Take a guess. What do you think I fight with?

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