[Interesting, that of all things, that's Astarion's objection. Not the corruption nor the cruelty, nor even in the insanity of his plans, but his looks. It's not that deep, he won't read too far into it, but it strikes at him, as they sit there and he notes those sharp, sharp teeth.]
I suppose people cling to whatever scraps of hope they can find. And if they believe his tales of the Maker's throne being empty . . . people will worship anything that promises salvation. Or, perhaps, relief.
[He shrugs. He can understand it. Not condone it, but understand it. In his experience, what people want more than anything is stability. For tomorrow to be the same as today, so long as it is not wholly intolerable, and they'll cheer for anyone who promises it.]
I wonder how many converts of his are only mouthing along, more worried about their lives than their eternal salvation.
[Another shrug, but he rises to his feet. Turns, glancing out at the city before focusing down on the other elf.]
In the end, it matters little. They will worship him or not, but it does not change the fact he is no god. Just a mutilated magister, as power-grubbing and pathetic as the rest.
[And now Fenris really want to go hunt down some gangs. He tips his head, indicating the streets, and wonders at how his heart feels a little lighter. Not joyful, exactly, but . . . it was pleasing to speak of Hawke to someone who was inclined to listen. Who would hear her for what she was: a person, not a hero nor a villain.]
Come. Let us earn some coin.
[It's remarkable how quickly trouble finds them. It's a group of harbor rats from the docks, stupid and thuggish, eager for a quick way to let off steam. Swaggering and leering, surrounding them neatly, making the sort of stupid jokes thugs make when they believe they're the cat and not the mouse. So clearly thinking that two elves will make such easy prey. It's that which offends him most, he remarks to Astarion later, the two of them just covered in blood and all the identifiers they need to in order to get their reward safely stuffed in their pockets. The inherent assumption that just because they're elves, they'll be meek. Quiet. Pathetic, he says, and he does not mean for so much derision to color his tone, but he cannot help it.
He hates being lumped in with other elves.
They stagger back home— no. They stagger back to Astarion's home, for a bet is a bet, and really, Fenris is exhausted enough not to offer any resistance. He strips off his armor and shirt, curling beneath a spare comforter clad in breeches and little else. Not ideal, perhaps, but more comfortable than the ground, and he's tired enough to take what he can get. He falls asleep almost instantly, sprawled on his stomach and his dreams blissfully blank.
Not so for his companion, it seems.
He's always been a light sleeper; likely always will be, for those who don't wake up in time to meet trouble seldom survive it. The first whimper sounds and his hand is shooting out for his sword; Fenris jerks up, rising to his feet, head snapping as he tries to identify the trouble. A break-in? A robbery? Revenge from earlier tonight? What—
And then there's another cry, limbs fitfully tossing beneath the sheets. A face contorted with pain and fear, and Fenris exhales sharply, realizing what's happening. A nightmare.]
Astarion.
[No. He hesitates, then leans over him, one hand roughly shaking his shoulder. How deep in the Fade is he? He cannot guess what he is dreaming of, but perhaps he knows the shape. Danarius has been dead for years and yet still he haunts Fenris, his dreams forcing him back into enslavement, iron collars and the dead certainty that his freedom had only ever been a dream . . .]
no subject
I suppose people cling to whatever scraps of hope they can find. And if they believe his tales of the Maker's throne being empty . . . people will worship anything that promises salvation. Or, perhaps, relief.
[He shrugs. He can understand it. Not condone it, but understand it. In his experience, what people want more than anything is stability. For tomorrow to be the same as today, so long as it is not wholly intolerable, and they'll cheer for anyone who promises it.]
I wonder how many converts of his are only mouthing along, more worried about their lives than their eternal salvation.
[Another shrug, but he rises to his feet. Turns, glancing out at the city before focusing down on the other elf.]
In the end, it matters little. They will worship him or not, but it does not change the fact he is no god. Just a mutilated magister, as power-grubbing and pathetic as the rest.
[And now Fenris really want to go hunt down some gangs. He tips his head, indicating the streets, and wonders at how his heart feels a little lighter. Not joyful, exactly, but . . . it was pleasing to speak of Hawke to someone who was inclined to listen. Who would hear her for what she was: a person, not a hero nor a villain.]
Come. Let us earn some coin.
[It's remarkable how quickly trouble finds them. It's a group of harbor rats from the docks, stupid and thuggish, eager for a quick way to let off steam. Swaggering and leering, surrounding them neatly, making the sort of stupid jokes thugs make when they believe they're the cat and not the mouse. So clearly thinking that two elves will make such easy prey. It's that which offends him most, he remarks to Astarion later, the two of them just covered in blood and all the identifiers they need to in order to get their reward safely stuffed in their pockets. The inherent assumption that just because they're elves, they'll be meek. Quiet. Pathetic, he says, and he does not mean for so much derision to color his tone, but he cannot help it.
He hates being lumped in with other elves.
They stagger back home— no. They stagger back to Astarion's home, for a bet is a bet, and really, Fenris is exhausted enough not to offer any resistance. He strips off his armor and shirt, curling beneath a spare comforter clad in breeches and little else. Not ideal, perhaps, but more comfortable than the ground, and he's tired enough to take what he can get. He falls asleep almost instantly, sprawled on his stomach and his dreams blissfully blank.
Not so for his companion, it seems.
He's always been a light sleeper; likely always will be, for those who don't wake up in time to meet trouble seldom survive it. The first whimper sounds and his hand is shooting out for his sword; Fenris jerks up, rising to his feet, head snapping as he tries to identify the trouble. A break-in? A robbery? Revenge from earlier tonight? What—
And then there's another cry, limbs fitfully tossing beneath the sheets. A face contorted with pain and fear, and Fenris exhales sharply, realizing what's happening. A nightmare.]
Astarion.
[No. He hesitates, then leans over him, one hand roughly shaking his shoulder. How deep in the Fade is he? He cannot guess what he is dreaming of, but perhaps he knows the shape. Danarius has been dead for years and yet still he haunts Fenris, his dreams forcing him back into enslavement, iron collars and the dead certainty that his freedom had only ever been a dream . . .]
Astarion!