[Why, Fenris wonders, does this kind of thing keep happening to him?
Not the tadpole bit. That, while horrific, is brand-new, and thank the Maker for that. Being strapped down, helpless to stop the mindflayer from shoving that creature into his eye, oh, he never wants to go through that again. He's never going to stop having nightmares about the way it had writhed against his eye, the feeling of it sliding into parts of his skull he'd never once realized had sensation . . . urgh.
But no. No, what Fenris had meant was the bit about being caught up with a rag-tag group of individuals united by a single purpose. It's the second time this has happened to him. That's not a lot, admittedly, but it's weird it's happened twice? And besides, this group isn't nearly as good as the first. He misses his Kirkwall companions desperately, though he doesn't say as such, even in his own mind. And yet though he'd started in Kirkwall the same way as here— lost, alone, distrustful of the others— he has no intention of slowly letting the people here grow on him.
That said: nor is he indifferent to them. Some are more tolerable than others. Wyll is his favorite thusfar. Shadowheart is snobbishly insufferable, and the less said about Gale, the better. Lae'Zel despises him, but she despises everyone, so she doesn't count. And as for Astarion . . .
Maker's breath, what an absolute asshole.
They've traveled for at least a week together. Their fearless leader seems to be oblivious to anything save the tadpole in her head, but Fenris isn't. He's noticed the dead animals drained of blood that mysteriously keep appearing outside of their camp. The fact that Astarion had flinched and winced when they'd crossed running water. The fucking fangs peeking out each time he spoke, though those ears give him away as an elf. It's not a hard puzzle to solve.
He waits, at least, until the others are asleep. He doesn't trust them enough to do this in front of them. And if Astarion attacks . . . well, Fenris is more than confident he can take him.
That night, when the vampire (for surely that's what he is) slips out of camp, Fenris follows.]
You might try hiding your animal corpses more effectively. Sooner or later someone is going to deduce the culprit.
[He calls it out softly, but his muscles are tensed, ready to go for his sword if need be.]
It isn't that difficult a puzzle to piece together.
[Trotting around with the herd is, as Astarion has so kindly voiced at least a handful of times in the past two or three days, absolutely miserable. These people are all varying degrees of unbearable, even if on the rare occasion he might agree with, broadly, the decisions of the group. It's necessity, nothing more. He has no interest in letting the thing in his head turn him into some other monstrous creature, and so here he is.
Among the unbearables. It has been a long week; nearly all of them are impossible to even speak to, except perhaps their fearless leader, if she is feeling amenable, but most nights in camp he sulks and complains about this or that; the lack of something to drink (like wine, thank you), the amenities...
Despite his better judgment, he'd had hope for Fenris. Shadowheart— well, half elves, for starters, plus her intolerable attitude had placed her well outside his interest. But Fenris, ah— for a moment, he'd thought, just maybe...
Of course, if his first response upon meeting the man had not been to tut disapprovingly at him and blithely insist that one of them would have to go home and change, well. He's really set the bar with that one, it seems, because some people completely lack a sense of humor! Someone with crueler implications than he would have surely pointed out the two white-haired elves thing eventually; he did them a favor.
So Fenris receives the same amount of scoffing and eye rolling as everyone else after that, and Astarion moves on. It's only a week later now, and he is hungry, and has yet to find even a particularly plump rabbit when Fenris' voice sounds out behind him. Astarion's shoulders tense, irritation from being caught mixed with something much more primal coursing through him, but when he turns to sigh at Fenris it's with his usual amount of languidness and idle gesturing.]
Ugh, it's you, of all people? I should have hoped for someone with a more... tender touch.
[Because Fenris is an asshole, see, but also because he's the elf equivalent of very dry jerky, all tiny and probably hard to chew on.]
What now, then? Have you come to chase me away in the dead of night?
[It's a retort, although as he says it, he wonders. Would he go? He seems no more enamored of their companions than Fenris is, and yet still he stays. Even when he complains about the more heroic actions they undertake, even when he (correctly, although Fenris will not admit this aloud) reminds their group they have a seemingly limited amount of time before this tadpole takes over, he stays.]
I am assessing a threat. They think you nothing more than a particularly dramatic elf. They would not sleep so well if they knew the truth, I think, and for good reason.
[Still: he isn't going for his sword. He really is more in this to assess whether or not Astarion is a threat. And if he isn't, fantastic, Fenris will be genuinely pleased to go back to being irritated by him in peace. But if he is . . .
[A dismissal of the question, not so much curt as drawling, either for asking it in the first place or assuming he can be chased off in the night so easily. It isn't— they are all very annoying, yes, quite so, but if luck is in numbers for this particular wriggling endeavor, then they will all have to endure each other. So be it.
Including the two of them, he supposes, which means he has to have this conversation now, and not find anything to eat, and be even more sluggish in the morning... Truly, Fenris is the worst.]
And here I thought you would roll over and call it a night if you caught me helping myself to a little midnight treat back at camp. Shame!
[But that's just blustering, as Fenris has already noticed the trail of blood-drained animals he's carelessly left behind, and so obviously he hasn't tried to help himself. Hmph. He crosses his arms, giving Fenris a look like he is being unfair, actually.]
I don't follow any of you around while you're eating your meals cooked.
That's because the chances of one of us deciding to cook and eat the others is nonexistent.
[I mean, hopefully, although you never quite know sometimes. Fenris stares back unrepentantly, not in the least bit guilty. It's hard not to mirror Astarion's pose, but he'd never hear the end of it if he did.]
[Astarion raises his eyebrows - Fenris, darling, have you heard Lae'zel? Like, when she speaks? Ever? If any of them are going to carve and roast the rest of them, it's her. He's decided.]
Are you even going to believe me, whatever I tell you?
[It's dark, but he still looks away when he says it, because it's— embarrassing, in a way that churns in his stomach, bothered that he has to endure the interrogation and then some. Which makes the next part all the worse, but having Fenris breathing down his neck - mmph, phrasing - is less than appealing in this particular context.]
I do, if you must know. Whatever I can scrounge up in this miserable hellhole we're traipsing around in.
[. . . so, all right. Perhaps this is nothing more than a ruse. It's possible. But still, that first sentence strikes at him. Will he believe Astarion? His first inclination is to say yes, of course I will, but that isn't necessarily true, is it?
Look at the evidence. Fenris has found a full-grown pig drained of blood, not to mention a rabbit or two. That's a great deal of blood over the course of a week. More than one single person could offer. And yet, despite the fact it would be relatively easy to kill, consume, and hide the evidence, Astarion hasn't touched any of them. That doesn't let him off the hook entirely, nor does it mean all of Fenris is just going to relax, but . . .
Nor does he have to charge in here quite so suspiciously. He frowns faintly, regarding him for a few seconds, struggling between snapping out another question and something slightly less aggressive.]
And you have not told the others because you fear they will assume the worst and rid themselves of the threat before it becomes a threat.
[Astarion sighs, crossing his arms with one hand free to press his chin into, watching Fenris evenly. He can practically see the gears turning before he comes up with that very obvious thing he just said, hmm--]
Something like that. Have you met us?
[Us, he says, because wouldn't he do the same if any of them suddenly turned on the rest? Undoubtedly he would, if only to save his own hide. He taps his temple, idly, which will make sense as an indicator of the worm they're all carrying around when he says,]
What is it we're doing already if not trying to remove a threat? Nothing brings the group together like a fresh monster to fight!
[Worms, vampire spawn, please— don't try to tell him the group is suddenly going to develop a unified conscience about threat management. Perhaps if their lovely leader had found him out first, he could have winked his way into a good word with the rest, but Fenris is another story entirely.
Astarion shifts, more uncomfortable than he's willing to readily admit, much as it already shows; Fenris has found the animals, which means Fenris has surely done some rudimentary arithmetic about how much blood that is, and can Astarion really blame him for any judgments he might be making right this very second?
(Yes, obviously, he can and will, but still! Still.)
Urgh.]
By the Hells, don't tell me you would tell all, if you were me. After mere days?
I might. Better they hear it from your lips instead of like this, in the dead of night. If you offer it up yourself, it at least comes from a position of strength.
[And all right . . . he's fairly sure that if the vampire were to attack, it would have happened already. Fenris sighs and relaxes somewhat, his arms crossing over his chest. They uncross immediately as he realizes they're mirroring each other, but whatever, the point is: he's not going to attack, probably.]
But I came to assess a threat, not pass a moral judgement. If you have no intention of feeding on anyone, I . . .
[Know that, naturally, "a position of strength" makes him roll his eyes; he does not care about the group's opinions of his personal integrity as long as no one is trying to put a stake in his heart, honestly. It's completely self-serving that he's even considered telling the others just a little, obviously.
Anyway, Fenris' unintentionally mirroring him and hastily unmirroring makes his lip curl in a terrible, asshole vampire sneer, but he holds his hands up and shakes his head, conceding something or other. Maybe just that he's not going to say anything about how alike they are, again. Give him a point for that.]
Certainly not you, you skinny little thing.
[Not Yet (tm) but who's counting--]
Now, either help me find a savory woodland creature or leave me to my supper in peace, hmm?
[He's not really offended, but still, he feels he ought to say something to that affect. He's not skinny. He's a twunk, not a twink. It's a matter of working at it. That said: this is about the time he ought to just turn around and go to bed, but . . .
Instead, he falls into step next to Asterion, glancing down at the ground. Does he know how to hunt? He does not! He is not Dalish! This is not his arena! Which really makes you wonder what he's doing out here, but maybe it's that he doesn't feel like being alone just yet.]
How much blood do you need at minimum? A rabbit? A stag?
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Not the tadpole bit. That, while horrific, is brand-new, and thank the Maker for that. Being strapped down, helpless to stop the mindflayer from shoving that creature into his eye, oh, he never wants to go through that again. He's never going to stop having nightmares about the way it had writhed against his eye, the feeling of it sliding into parts of his skull he'd never once realized had sensation . . . urgh.
But no. No, what Fenris had meant was the bit about being caught up with a rag-tag group of individuals united by a single purpose. It's the second time this has happened to him. That's not a lot, admittedly, but it's weird it's happened twice? And besides, this group isn't nearly as good as the first. He misses his Kirkwall companions desperately, though he doesn't say as such, even in his own mind. And yet though he'd started in Kirkwall the same way as here— lost, alone, distrustful of the others— he has no intention of slowly letting the people here grow on him.
That said: nor is he indifferent to them. Some are more tolerable than others. Wyll is his favorite thusfar. Shadowheart is snobbishly insufferable, and the less said about Gale, the better. Lae'Zel despises him, but she despises everyone, so she doesn't count. And as for Astarion . . .
Maker's breath, what an absolute asshole.
They've traveled for at least a week together. Their fearless leader seems to be oblivious to anything save the tadpole in her head, but Fenris isn't. He's noticed the dead animals drained of blood that mysteriously keep appearing outside of their camp. The fact that Astarion had flinched and winced when they'd crossed running water. The fucking fangs peeking out each time he spoke, though those ears give him away as an elf. It's not a hard puzzle to solve.
He waits, at least, until the others are asleep. He doesn't trust them enough to do this in front of them. And if Astarion attacks . . . well, Fenris is more than confident he can take him.
That night, when the vampire (for surely that's what he is) slips out of camp, Fenris follows.]
You might try hiding your animal corpses more effectively. Sooner or later someone is going to deduce the culprit.
[He calls it out softly, but his muscles are tensed, ready to go for his sword if need be.]
It isn't that difficult a puzzle to piece together.
2 elves enter 1 elf leaves
Among the unbearables. It has been a long week; nearly all of them are impossible to even speak to, except perhaps their fearless leader, if she is feeling amenable, but most nights in camp he sulks and complains about this or that; the lack of something to drink (like wine, thank you), the amenities...
Despite his better judgment, he'd had hope for Fenris. Shadowheart— well, half elves, for starters, plus her intolerable attitude had placed her well outside his interest. But Fenris, ah— for a moment, he'd thought, just maybe...
Of course, if his first response upon meeting the man had not been to tut disapprovingly at him and blithely insist that one of them would have to go home and change, well. He's really set the bar with that one, it seems, because some people completely lack a sense of humor! Someone with crueler implications than he would have surely pointed out the two white-haired elves thing eventually; he did them a favor.
So Fenris receives the same amount of scoffing and eye rolling as everyone else after that, and Astarion moves on. It's only a week later now, and he is hungry, and has yet to find even a particularly plump rabbit when Fenris' voice sounds out behind him. Astarion's shoulders tense, irritation from being caught mixed with something much more primal coursing through him, but when he turns to sigh at Fenris it's with his usual amount of languidness and idle gesturing.]
Ugh, it's you, of all people? I should have hoped for someone with a more... tender touch.
[Because Fenris is an asshole, see, but also because he's the elf equivalent of very dry jerky, all tiny and probably hard to chew on.]
What now, then? Have you come to chase me away in the dead of night?
no subject
[It's a retort, although as he says it, he wonders. Would he go? He seems no more enamored of their companions than Fenris is, and yet still he stays. Even when he complains about the more heroic actions they undertake, even when he (correctly, although Fenris will not admit this aloud) reminds their group they have a seemingly limited amount of time before this tadpole takes over, he stays.]
I am assessing a threat. They think you nothing more than a particularly dramatic elf. They would not sleep so well if they knew the truth, I think, and for good reason.
[Still: he isn't going for his sword. He really is more in this to assess whether or not Astarion is a threat. And if he isn't, fantastic, Fenris will be genuinely pleased to go back to being irritated by him in peace. But if he is . . .
Well. Best to know here and now.]
no subject
[A dismissal of the question, not so much curt as drawling, either for asking it in the first place or assuming he can be chased off in the night so easily. It isn't— they are all very annoying, yes, quite so, but if luck is in numbers for this particular wriggling endeavor, then they will all have to endure each other. So be it.
Including the two of them, he supposes, which means he has to have this conversation now, and not find anything to eat, and be even more sluggish in the morning... Truly, Fenris is the worst.]
And here I thought you would roll over and call it a night if you caught me helping myself to a little midnight treat back at camp. Shame!
[But that's just blustering, as Fenris has already noticed the trail of blood-drained animals he's carelessly left behind, and so obviously he hasn't tried to help himself. Hmph. He crosses his arms, giving Fenris a look like he is being unfair, actually.]
I don't follow any of you around while you're eating your meals cooked.
no subject
[I mean, hopefully, although you never quite know sometimes. Fenris stares back unrepentantly, not in the least bit guilty. It's hard not to mirror Astarion's pose, but he'd never hear the end of it if he did.]
Do you always just feast upon animals?
no subject
Are you even going to believe me, whatever I tell you?
[It's dark, but he still looks away when he says it, because it's— embarrassing, in a way that churns in his stomach, bothered that he has to endure the interrogation and then some. Which makes the next part all the worse, but having Fenris breathing down his neck - mmph, phrasing - is less than appealing in this particular context.]
I do, if you must know. Whatever I can scrounge up in this miserable hellhole we're traipsing around in.
no subject
Look at the evidence. Fenris has found a full-grown pig drained of blood, not to mention a rabbit or two. That's a great deal of blood over the course of a week. More than one single person could offer. And yet, despite the fact it would be relatively easy to kill, consume, and hide the evidence, Astarion hasn't touched any of them. That doesn't let him off the hook entirely, nor does it mean all of Fenris is just going to relax, but . . .
Nor does he have to charge in here quite so suspiciously. He frowns faintly, regarding him for a few seconds, struggling between snapping out another question and something slightly less aggressive.]
And you have not told the others because you fear they will assume the worst and rid themselves of the threat before it becomes a threat.
Yes?
no subject
Something like that. Have you met us?
[Us, he says, because wouldn't he do the same if any of them suddenly turned on the rest? Undoubtedly he would, if only to save his own hide. He taps his temple, idly, which will make sense as an indicator of the worm they're all carrying around when he says,]
What is it we're doing already if not trying to remove a threat? Nothing brings the group together like a fresh monster to fight!
[Worms, vampire spawn, please— don't try to tell him the group is suddenly going to develop a unified conscience about threat management. Perhaps if their lovely leader had found him out first, he could have winked his way into a good word with the rest, but Fenris is another story entirely.
Astarion shifts, more uncomfortable than he's willing to readily admit, much as it already shows; Fenris has found the animals, which means Fenris has surely done some rudimentary arithmetic about how much blood that is, and can Astarion really blame him for any judgments he might be making right this very second?
(Yes, obviously, he can and will, but still! Still.)
Urgh.]
By the Hells, don't tell me you would tell all, if you were me. After mere days?
no subject
[And all right . . . he's fairly sure that if the vampire were to attack, it would have happened already. Fenris sighs and relaxes somewhat, his arms crossing over his chest. They uncross immediately as he realizes they're mirroring each other, but whatever, the point is: he's not going to attack, probably.]
But I came to assess a threat, not pass a moral judgement. If you have no intention of feeding on anyone, I . . .
[Hmm.]
. . . will keep it to myself for a time.
no subject
Anyway, Fenris' unintentionally mirroring him and hastily unmirroring makes his lip curl in a terrible, asshole vampire sneer, but he holds his hands up and shakes his head, conceding something or other. Maybe just that he's not going to say anything about how alike they are, again. Give him a point for that.]
Certainly not you, you skinny little thing.
[Not Yet (tm) but who's counting--]
Now, either help me find a savory woodland creature or leave me to my supper in peace, hmm?
no subject
[He's not really offended, but still, he feels he ought to say something to that affect. He's not skinny. He's a twunk, not a twink. It's a matter of working at it. That said: this is about the time he ought to just turn around and go to bed, but . . .
Instead, he falls into step next to Asterion, glancing down at the ground. Does he know how to hunt? He does not! He is not Dalish! This is not his arena! Which really makes you wonder what he's doing out here, but maybe it's that he doesn't feel like being alone just yet.]
How much blood do you need at minimum? A rabbit? A stag?