[ The great and terrible thing about sending crystals, with their lack of any visual indicator save a you have messages glow, is that it's very easy to pretend not to be home. Or, in this specific case, to receive a furious and very vague message while he's working, and then let it sit there unanswered for three minutes while he continues what he was doing and thinks things through.
When he does respond, he sounds as taken off-guard as if he'd just heard it the moment before. ]
Astarion? [ Is your voice ok there bro. ] What happened?
[The benefit of three minutes is that Astarion's— not settled. Settled isn't the word for it. But he's lost momentum, there, in that short a span of time. What's left is an hollower voice. Rough-edged, but equally faded.]
Alexandrie is your friend, is she not? You two are close. You've worked together, you've entertained together—
[It isn't spiralling, necessarily. He does worse when he tailspins, but clearly he's had time enough to piece together his own assumptions:]
What did you say. Did you warn her about me? Is that it?
'Look out for Astarion, wolf in sheep's clothing. A monster.'
[ He's relieved. Not relieved that he doesn't have to lie. Lying is easy. But relieved that the two people he has told to mind him didn't give it away so quickly and easily. ]
I have not said anything to her about it, my friend. We are—
[ not that close, he might say, but it's more complicated than that. They have one enormous vulnerability and a style of combat in common; otherwise, Bastien knows about Alexandrie only what could be gleamed from the Game and from the conversations he's witnessed her have with Byerly, and about him he assumes Alexandrie knows next to nothing. ]
Of course we've talked about you a little. But nothing like that. Little things. Trying to guess your age, you know? That kind of thing, and not at all recently.
[The silence is telling. Astarion's clearly using it to measure, without sight, the sincerity of Bastien's claim. In the end, he has nothing. Nothing left to use against the man. Nothing to prove his unease. Nothing he wants to use, either.]
...so she hasn't said anything to you, either, then.
[How frustrating.
But...]
Ask her, then.
For me. No, not— for me, obviously. Don't let her know I sent you, but I need to know why she's supposedly so damn wary of me now.
I am happy to try to find out for you, of course, but I—all of this find out but don't let her know why business. She's very clever. If something has happened and then I show up asking about you right on its heels, she will be able to guess. [ And lightly musing, in a cheer up sort of way: ] I suppose she might be less wary if she thinks both of us are idiots.
Nothing has happened. I haven't so much as seen the woman since I first turned up, and now suddenly she's warning her false-husband about me—
[He stops. Clicks his tongue.]
You know her better, maybe she's always been this duplicitous. Maybe she's held a grudge against me right from the start, fine. I can admit that. But to tell my assigned partner to be wary— it stinks of something else. Something far more knowing, shall we say.
And if she thinks I sent you to her, who knows if she'll tell the truth.
There is no guarantee she will tell me the truth if she thinks you haven't.
[ Bastien would call her less duplicitous than she used to be. But he thinks there are things Alexandrie would guard from him. If Loki II is involved somehow, the odds that this is one of them are that much higher. ]
Could it be that you said in front of all of us that you'd leave Madame Baudin's mangled corpse in the dirt?
Edited (attacking typos with a steak knife) 2021-09-20 02:41 (UTC)
Mmhm. [ That’s a whatever you say, chéri sort of mmhm. ] Very wise.
—but you know, to be safe, I think you should feed my curiosity something else. To tide it over, ouais? If it is still ravenous next time I see her—I will try to contain it, for you, of course, but—
[ This is not a real threat. Curiosity might be his middle name, but only if he can have two middle names and the other one is Self-Control. ]
[And then the amusement fades, leaving something akin to—
Something much gentler, in fact.]
Mm.
Well you don’t have gith here. Or dragonborn. Or drow. But going in for races just seems too easy, all things considered.
I will say magic here is much different. And so are demons for that matter.
And if I’m honest, I’m not entirely convinced our worlds aren’t still one and the same: that if I look up into the night sky, I won’t see a glimmering star that’s actually Toril, in all its distant glory.
[He’d told Fenris the same thing, once. When they were stargazing beneath an open sky. Eased back into the grass, and forgetting the worst of everything that surrounded.
It feels like an eternity ago now. And yesterday.]
You don’t have ships that soar through the air as if it were water. And you don’t have illithid either— which actually isn’t a bad thing.
You don’t have gods that meddle. You don’t have the misery of knowing when they shut you out.
[A pause, tepid.]
...although I suppose your Maker isn’t much kinder, if the stories are true.
I like to imagine Him with His arms crossed and His chin jutting out, while He refuses to look at us.
[ Like a spoiled toddler, you know.
And sooner or later, over drinks or cards or a walk, Bastien will come for all of those unfamiliar words–gith and dragonborn and drow and illithid. And what about the magic, and what about the demons, and how do the ships soar, and why is it called Toril, and why would it be in the sky?
I spent two hundred years chained to the cruelest bastard imaginable, adoring him as if he were the sun itself, hating him as if he were every bit the monster he was.
[His inhale is sharp. Pointed.]
I did my begging. My weeping. Said my prayers in the dark, and for what.
[There's no such thing as heroism. No divine mercy. No white knights on horseback charging in to slay dragons.]
No one ever came.
[And then, with a milder scoff. The weariest start of a more humorous tone:]
Some people believe a lot of things, darling. Doesn't make them any less stupid.
[His mood is better and worse now; amused and spiteful all at once, like he cant decide where to settle. Instead, he simply claws.]
In Toril, it was hard not to know the gods were...around, so to speak. Granted some of them were for the simpler things, so the bar was a bit low when you delve into the idea that some overpowered immortal was in charge of something as simple as making babies or— oh I don't know, painlessly pissing. But unlike your Maker and his Black City—
Mm. Gold? No— black now.
[He's transparent in his feigned confusion. Teasing.]
They did leave their marks. Have their wars. Granted I never saw either them or their own aspects for myself, so I can't tell you I shook a wolf-god's hand or watched a divine aspect personally char the flesh from a thousand bodies, but...
It was different.
[A beat, before:]
And because of it, you know, personally, each time they decide to fuck you over.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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When he does respond, he sounds as taken off-guard as if he'd just heard it the moment before. ]
Astarion? [ Is your voice ok there bro. ] What happened?
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Alexandrie is your friend, is she not? You two are close. You've worked together, you've entertained together—
[It isn't spiralling, necessarily. He does worse when he tailspins, but clearly he's had time enough to piece together his own assumptions:]
What did you say. Did you warn her about me? Is that it?
'Look out for Astarion, wolf in sheep's clothing. A monster.'
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I have not said anything to her about it, my friend. We are—
[ not that close, he might say, but it's more complicated than that. They have one enormous vulnerability and a style of combat in common; otherwise, Bastien knows about Alexandrie only what could be gleamed from the Game and from the conversations he's witnessed her have with Byerly, and about him he assumes Alexandrie knows next to nothing. ]
Of course we've talked about you a little. But nothing like that. Little things. Trying to guess your age, you know? That kind of thing, and not at all recently.
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...so she hasn't said anything to you, either, then.
[How frustrating.
But...]
Ask her, then.
For me. No, not— for me, obviously. Don't let her know I sent you, but I need to know why she's supposedly so damn wary of me now.
Please, darling.
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Why can't she know you asked?
I am happy to try to find out for you, of course, but I—all of this find out but don't let her know why business. She's very clever. If something has happened and then I show up asking about you right on its heels, she will be able to guess. [ And lightly musing, in a cheer up sort of way: ] I suppose she might be less wary if she thinks both of us are idiots.
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[He stops. Clicks his tongue.]
You know her better, maybe she's always been this duplicitous. Maybe she's held a grudge against me right from the start, fine. I can admit that. But to tell my assigned partner to be wary— it stinks of something else. Something far more knowing, shall we say.
And if she thinks I sent you to her, who knows if she'll tell the truth.
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[ Bastien would call her less duplicitous than she used to be. But he thinks there are things Alexandrie would guard from him. If Loki II is involved somehow, the odds that this is one of them are that much higher. ]
Could it be that you said in front of all of us that you'd leave Madame Baudin's mangled corpse in the dirt?
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[Wait.]
She's friends with Gwenaëlle?
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But yes, I believe they are friends.
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Shit. All this fuss— all this apprehension— and the answer was hovering right in front of his nose.]
Ahah. Mm. Yes, of course.
[He clears his throat, that drop in tone a sure sign he's thoroughly done the verbal equivalent of tucking his tail between his legs.]
My apologies, my dear. I...admittedly got a little carried away, snapping at you like that.
[He's not apologizing for Gwen tho. Not that.]
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Did that solve your riddle for you, or do still want me to ask?
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Mm? Oh. No. No need. [As a matter of fact, Bastien, please don't!!1] Best not to rouse moderately sleeping ire, and all that.
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—but you know, to be safe, I think you should feed my curiosity something else. To tide it over, ouais? If it is still ravenous next time I see her—I will try to contain it, for you, of course, but—
[ This is not a real threat. Curiosity might be his middle name, but only if he can have two middle names and the other one is Self-Control. ]
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And you cannot say vampires, because we have one now.
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How he’d hoped you’d say yes, Bastien.]
Very good.
[And then the amusement fades, leaving something akin to—
Something much gentler, in fact.]
Mm.
Well you don’t have gith here. Or dragonborn. Or drow. But going in for races just seems too easy, all things considered.
I will say magic here is much different. And so are demons for that matter.
And if I’m honest, I’m not entirely convinced our worlds aren’t still one and the same: that if I look up into the night sky, I won’t see a glimmering star that’s actually Toril, in all its distant glory.
[He’d told Fenris the same thing, once. When they were stargazing beneath an open sky. Eased back into the grass, and forgetting the worst of everything that surrounded.
It feels like an eternity ago now. And yesterday.]
You don’t have ships that soar through the air as if it were water. And you don’t have illithid either— which actually isn’t a bad thing.
You don’t have gods that meddle. You don’t have the misery of knowing when they shut you out.
[A pause, tepid.]
...although I suppose your Maker isn’t much kinder, if the stories are true.
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[ Like a spoiled toddler, you know.
And sooner or later, over drinks or cards or a walk, Bastien will come for all of those unfamiliar words–gith and dragonborn and drow and illithid. And what about the magic, and what about the demons, and how do the ships soar, and why is it called Toril, and why would it be in the sky?
For now: ]
Did a god shut you out?
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[His inhale is sharp. Pointed.]
I did my begging. My weeping. Said my prayers in the dark, and for what.
[There's no such thing as heroism. No divine mercy. No white knights on horseback charging in to slay dragons.]
No one ever came.
[And then, with a milder scoff. The weariest start of a more humorous tone:]
Not until this mess of a world, anyway.
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[ And unsatiated. What he wants to know is if there was a meddling god before all of that—but now it seems cruel to ask.
For a few seconds he's silent, and then he says, ]
I have heard that some people believe the Maker is sending you to us, to help.
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Some people believe a lot of things, darling. Doesn't make them any less stupid.
[His mood is better and worse now; amused and spiteful all at once, like he cant decide where to settle. Instead, he simply claws.]
In Toril, it was hard not to know the gods were...around, so to speak. Granted some of them were for the simpler things, so the bar was a bit low when you delve into the idea that some overpowered immortal was in charge of something as simple as making babies or— oh I don't know, painlessly pissing. But unlike your Maker and his Black City—
Mm. Gold? No— black now.
[He's transparent in his feigned confusion. Teasing.]
They did leave their marks. Have their wars. Granted I never saw either them or their own aspects for myself, so I can't tell you I shook a wolf-god's hand or watched a divine aspect personally char the flesh from a thousand bodies, but...
It was different.
[A beat, before:]
And because of it, you know, personally, each time they decide to fuck you over.