[ Morning comes, consistent and merciful― the same can't be said for Lae'zel, a force of nature more powerful than the changing of the tides. Iorveth wakes to the sound of curtains being drawn and the militaristic chk of a tongue popping against teeth, to the outline of a small, sturdy frame backlit by the oppressive brightness of sunbeams.
"Still here," their de facto leader quips. "Good. Present and accounted for, for once."
There's a point to the rude awakening: as much as she understands that her two insubordinate elves have been out doing possibly meaningful things, she wants at least one of them to contribute something today. A "minor errand", she promises in a tone of voice that many would find threatening. "Frankly, one should find it insulting to be entrusted with a task as minor as this."
Iorveth, who is still in bed, tucked around Astarion like a wood-elf shaped pillow, grunts. ]
Don't insult us, then.
[ Lae'zel folds her arms imperiously across her chest. "The task only requires one of you," is her sharp retort, even as her eyes dart towards Astarion. Iorveth can see it for what it is: asserting authority over her misbehaving elves while also giving Astarion a bit of wiggle room to rest. She's always been far softer than she allows herself to admit. ]
the image is so accurate... it really always is Something
[ For all of his big talk about doing scandalous things to Iorveth in public, Astarion finds himself a little embarrassed at being caught cuddling — by Lae'zel, of all people. It's one thing to be seen sticking his tongue down Iorveth's throat and quite another to be seen curled up and holding Iorveth's arm around him. Tired though he is, he scoots up against the headboard, trying to look like he hasn't been doing an entirely unrespectable amount of, gods, snuggling.
He sticks his nose up, entirely haughty, nothing of the docile creature from last night left in his demeanor. They're just three proud, stubborn people tipping their chins at each other. Although he has no real interest in doing tasks for Lae'zel, minor or otherwise, he is a bit curious. Perhaps she intends for them to follow up on those murderous shapeshifters. Or, less exciting, perhaps she plans to have them search for those missing pigeons the postmaster was complaining about. ]
Well, go on. Don't leave us in suspense.
when will the elves know rest, i say, as i heap problems on top of them
[ Sweeping hair out of his remaining eye, Iorveth sways sideways and reaches for his discarded scarf to tie it diagonally across the gnarled side of his face. It serves the double purpose of giving Astarion space to posture and hiding his scars from Lae'zel, despite the fact that she seems not to care at all about cuddling or missing eyes.
What she does care about: "One of you will go to the Circus to report to the necromancer that most of the dismembered clown has been found. Only its hand remains missing."
Gods, the clown. Iorveth grunts again, rolling stiff shoulders. ]
And why would that be worth reporting? We could simply deliver the thing when we've found all its parts.
[ Lae'zel huffs again. "Progress has been slow. The necromancer may doubt my ability to see this through, which is an idea I greatly dislike."
Hard-pressed to be underestimated about anything. Iorveth scoffs about it, and grins when she scowls at him. ]
[ There's that awful headscarf again. Astarion will have to get Iorveth an eyepatch for every day of the tenday. Maybe, he thinks, he can sew one himself while Iorveth practices his embroidery. (Gods, they've turned into two old women.)
At the mention of the circus, Astarion wrinkles his nose. Horrible place. Too loud; he so hates to hear the sound of children's laughter. ]
We've our own things to do, you know.
[ It doesn't sound particularly convincing coming from two people who've been lying in bed up until now, but it's true, to an extent. His siblings are still out there, potentially angry, and he'd rather nip that issue in the bud before it becomes more problematic than it already is.
"You can take care of your own agenda after you've pulled your weight," replies Lae'zel, arms crossed, clearly taking it as the attempt to wriggle out of contributing that it only sort of is. ]
Edited (not me forgetting they're quirky and don't have weeks) 2024-09-07 05:56 (UTC)
[ Pulling his weight isn't actually a burden for Iorveth, who hates being idle on principle― he's reluctant mostly because his gut instinct at the moment is to prioritize Astarion's loose ends, and his indifference towards the plight of the dead clown.
Still, the errand is easy enough. Better than whatever Wyll's been doing with the hag victims (meaningful, but exhausting). ]
Fine. We'll do it. [ Dismissively, with a wave of his hand. ] If that's all, leave us. All this talk of clowns will spoil his morning appetite.
[ Reaching sideways again, this time to tangle his fingers in Astarion's hair to draw him close again. An implicit coaxing for Astarion to nestle his face against Iorveth's neck, and by proxy, his jugular.
Lae'zel rolls her eyes. "He needs discipline, not indulgence. You're straying from the practical path." ]
[ Now this is something he's not shy about; Astarion nudges against Iorveth's neck, mouth at his pulse point. He doesn't, however, bite, only grazes with his teeth. He isn't sure if it's a true invitation, after all, or just an attempt to scandalize Lae'zel. If it is, it certainly doesn't work. The gith is unflappable.
He turns his head to look at her, resting his temple against Iorveth's neck. ]
Mm, yes. I'm sure you've never indulged yourself with sweet Shadowheart.
[ "I've tasted my love more times than I can count," Lae'zel concedes, in the grossest possible way. Astarion scrunches up his nose while she tips up her tiny little bat snout. "But I've earned my warrior's feast."
As he rolls his eyes, Lae'zel absconds, drapes swishing behind her. Astarion flops back down against his pillow, lip curling. ]
Eugh. Some people have no couth.
[ Says the hypocrite who has no qualms with terrorizing the group with PDA. ]
[ Conversely, Iorveth sits upright on the edge of the bed, brow hiked and lips curled slightly in obvious amusement, watching the still-swaying curtains as if he can see Lae'zel through them. ]
I'm impressed that she used the words "my love".
[ That's growth. Their baby githyanki leader, learning how to think with her heart instead of just her blade― the thought makes Iorveth feel a little fond, the way he'd always felt himself soften when any member of his clan found solace in another Aen Seidhe's arms.
A laugh-sigh, and he shakes his head. ] Also impressed by "more times than I can count", too. Perhaps I've underestimated the two of them.
[ And Gale warned them about being family-friendly. Ridiculous. ]
[ Astarion raises an eyebrow. Where is the meanest elf in the world when you need him to bitch about your militaristic githyanki leader? Iorveth picked the worst time to turn over a new leaf. ]
Perhaps gith don't know how to count very high.
[ Considering how unreasonably randy those two are, he imagines it's more likely that they've just been canoodling that much. How far they've all come since the days when Shadowheart woke Lae'zel with a blade at her throat.
If Iorveth—his elven heater—is getting up, there's really no point in continuing to laze around. Astarion pushes himself up with a melodramatic whine, as if being forced to get up is the cruelest punishment he's ever endured. ]
You were all too happy to volunteer us to visit that necromancer.
[ Iorveth really has lost his entire mind, since all he sees when he watches Astarion whine and pull himself upright is a melodramatic white cat kneading the mattress with its claws. The word "cute" knocks against the glass door of his consciousness, and Iorveth grudgingly lets it in to acknowledge it. Sometimes he still wants to throw himself out of a window whenever he feels too smitten.
Instead of defenestrating himself, he chooses to treat Astarion like the oversized feline that he is; palm to Astarion's jaw, Iorveth caresses lightly behind his ear. ]
I know better than to bargain with a githyanki when I'm unarmed.
[ Wry, still amused. ] There were worse things she could've threatened us with. Playing messenger is a non-errand: her way of officially saying "take the day off", I suppose.
[ He thumbs against Astarion's jaw, and lets go. ] Come with me. I wish to see you in daylight.
[ And just like a cat, Astarion leans into the touch, eyes slipping closed. He pays little attention to what Iorveth actually says, because there's no chance it's more interesting than Iorveth's calloused fingers stroking the tender skin behind his ear. It's only when Iorveth pulls away that he opens his eyes again, pouting at the withdrawal of affection before he swings his legs off the mattress and onto the floor. ]
I am even more stunning in the light, aren't I?
[ Something he tries not to think too deeply about, given that if he does, he'll soon start thinking about how scarce the time he has left in the daylight really is. He leans over, reaching to rummage through their bags for the other outfit Iorveth had purchased for him yesterday. ]
Rid yourself of that awful scarf already. You look better in the eyepatch.
[ He makes a sound that's chuckle-adjacent at "awful scarf", and obliges the request with theatrical over-exaggeration. "I'm only doing this because it's you asking" is telegraphed in the wide sweep of his hands as he tugs the fabric off and tosses it aside, waiting patiently for his turn with their things before fishing out the eyepatch in question to fix it over the worst of his mangled right side. ]
My hair needs trimming, [ he notes, sweeping his bangs aside. Any inclination to keep it long and braided faded when he took up arms (impractical), and died completely when he lost his eye. No point in being vain anymore. ] I'll need a knife and a mirror soon.
[ A foolish thing to say to Astarion, who doesn't have a reflection with which to appraise his immortal beauty. Iorveth still remembers what he'd said about how he hasn't changed from the day he'd died; it makes a little part of his slowly-unwinding heart clench again as he changes into his daytime gear, leather armor and all. ]
[ The silky lounge pants come off, and he's sorry to see them go. He's rarely had something so incredibly impractical and entirely luxurious; one can't wear lounge pants to kill Ketheric Thorm, but that makes them all the better. Besides, he's made some delicious memories in (and out of) these pants. Perhaps for the best, though, that he's not thinking about that at the circus. He'd told Iorveth he'd permit almost anything, but his ego would never fully recover from getting frisky at a circus.
As he pulls on his new trousers, he gives Iorveth an appraising glance. It does sting a little to be reminded that he'll never need a mirror, nor a blade with which to cut his hair. Cazador still steals things from him from beyond the grave. Still, it's hardly Iorveth's fault that Astarion allowed himself to be bitten by a vampire instead of bleeding to death in an alley. He wipes the sour look on his face off as quickly as he can before he starts slipping his robe down his arms. ]
I think you look fetching wearing it long. [ A pause, and then a tilt of his head, as if conceding a point he's arguing to himself. ] Mm, but you'd look fetching wearing it short, too.
[ However fetching it might be, though, it's not exactly high fashion, so he adds, ] You know, if you want a more stylish coif, I'd be willing to lend my services.
[ Is he in any way trained to be a barber? No. But is he opinionated enough about hair that he thinks he might as well be? Yes. ]
[ A laugh, and Iorveth finishes buckling the last of his belts around his body, securing his bow cradle to his back with a gentle tug. ] Any excuse for you to point a sharp object at me, I'll take.
[ It's a joke, but not really. Iorveth smiles, though his mind flits towards a question that he wisely decides to keep to himself: if someone cut Astarion's hair, would it simply not grow back, or would it grow back just to the length that it used to be before it was cut? A horrific thing to consider, if the former is true. Iorveth vows to protect Astarion's curls with his life; he's too fond of them now.
With that unspoken promise made, Iorveth hesitates for a moment before concentrating on the parasite living in his skull; he feels the faint discomfort of it pushing against his consciousness, a writhing that he'll never get used to, but he channels it and pushes its power outward, sending invisible feelers out to tap Astarion's tadpole with. A silent let me show you something. ]
[ Night falls, and they hit the road again. The Trade Way has already taken them through Liam's Hold, a twee little hamlet with a rustic-but-pleasant inn, and Gillian's Hill, a hamlet so twee that it's lacking an inn entirely, much to Astarion's horror. He's no cartographer, but by his estimation, they must be nearing Daggerford: a farming community of large enough consequence to bolster their ego and little enough consequence make them too big for their britches. It's no Baldur's Gate, but at least it's civilization. All of this trudging through the wilderness and setting up tents is giving Astarion an awful sense of deja vu. He longs to put his feet up and drink a good wine, but hells, a bad wine will do. He could use it.
The defeat of the Netherbrain should have made him happy. With both Cazador and the mind flayers out of the picture, everything that's been hanging over his head has been summarily crushed. There's been a black cloud over him ever since, though, evident in his posture and the dragging way he carries himself. It isn't fair, he thinks, that he has to suffer for their victory. The only other person who could possibly understand is Karlach and, well, she's in the hells, so he imagines she might not be sympathetic to his plight.
The Trade Way is well-traveled, and they've passed caravans who might have taken them to their destination for a fee, but Astarion is twitchy about the possibility of getting stuck in the sunlight. In the best case scenario, everyone in the caravan finds out about his condition. In the worst case scenario, he burns to a crisp. No, it's better for them to travel alone, even if he's starting to rethink his dislike of horses the more his body starts to ache.
Pack thrown over his shoulder and dirt on his favorite shoes, he glances over at Iorveth. ]
[ The journey back north feels a little like trying to put on a skin that Iorveth's already shed; it adheres well enough to the general outline of him, but there are obvious places where he's outgrown it, causing it to bend and pucker awkwardly whenever he does something he hadn't known to do when he'd been wearing it before. Primarily, it's the company he's keeping that makes the Woodland Fox in him pace awkwardly in its skin― a thing he decidedly didn't have before the whole "got kidnapped by psychic squidmen" thing― but there's also the not-so-insignificant secondary reason for Iorveth's out-of-body experience, which is―
―a half-terminated yawn, grit between pressed-together molars. ]
Hardly.
[ Or, in other words: he hasn't tranced in four days. Five? He decided to stop counting after they left the last watercolor village (one of many) lining the Trade Way. It's not like Astarion has asked Iorveth to do this, the business of losing sleep to travel and spend idle time with him before the traitorous sun resumes its smug perch on the world's zenith, but the important thing is that Iorveth has been insane enough to take it upon himself to do so.
Mostly, Iorveth just hates the thought of Astarion curled up in darkness doing nothing while he trances. In the same way that Iorveth isn't wearing his foxskin as well as he'd like, he has a feeling that Astarion won't wear his nocturnal mantle again as easily as he'd used to; a terrible thing, to have to adjust to being oneself again.
Anyway. All of this to say that Iorveth looks like shit. What else is new. ]
I want us to reach the next town before daybreak. [ He isn't slurring, thank you very much. One foot in front of the other, he keeps his posture straight with the sheer force of his obstinacy. His profile looks even sharper in moonlight. ] There's not much in the way of shelter between here and our destination.
We'll need to move quickly.
[ More to himself than anything else. It hasn't been ideal, consigning Astarion to caves and heavy-tarp tents while the sun is high; not for the actual journey, which isn't on any time schedule, but for morale. ]
You do love to point out the obvious, don't you, [ Astarion snaps uncharitably. Logically, he knows that Iorveth has done nothing wrong. Emotionally, the more he's reminded of what a burden his affliction is to Iorveth, the more he feels— bad for him, which is strange and unpleasant. Guilt and shame swirl around in him until they become irritability, which gets taken out on Iorveth, which becomes yet another thing Astarion feels bad about. A vicious cycle he lacks the emotional competence to correct.
He's silent for a long moment, the only sound their feet against the road and the distant noise of nighttime creatures. Owls hooting, raccoons chittering. He supposes he's one of them again.
Finally, with renewed softness, he extends an olive branch by asking, ] When did you last eat?
[ It's difficult to keep track when he doesn't eat himself. In fact, he's hesitant to feed at all when Iorveth needs to keep his strength up for the journey. Last night, he drained a squirrel. Another contributor to his foul mood, surely. ]
[ Sleeplessness gives Iorveth thorns― or, rather, it makes him less inclined to dull the ones he already has, even despite all of his reminders that Astarion has the right to feel sorry for himself. It's expected. He should feel sorry for himself. But being felt sorry for is another story, and though Iorveth possesses more emotional competence to understand that he's the architect of Astarion's reactions, it still―
―rankles? Annoys. Some sort of mirrored guilt, maybe. They haven't held hands (too many bags to carry) or shared a bedroll (for obvious reasons) in days, and that, too, has perhaps sharpened the aforementioned thorns, like the outline of bone through thin-stretched skin.
He should take the olive branch. Instead, he keeps his eye set stubbornly forward, tracking a piece of road that he'd scouted ahead in the morning. (Or, at least, he thinks this was the piece of road; it's hard to stray, given that there's really only one.) ]
You won't like the answer, [ comes out a bit sharper than he would've liked. "I know you're trying to worry about me, stop it." His gaze darts to portions of disturbed dirt and broken branches that point to signs of recent travel, but gives up on cataloging them all: there's simply too many for any one of them to be noted as particularly surprising.
A beat later, more carefully: ] ...I'll eat at the next inn. Another reason I'm so eager.
[ The sharpness is deserved, tit-for-tat, but Astarion prickles regardless, offended. He's become so used to being the sole recipient of Iorveth's sweetness that its absence makes Iorveth's thorns sting all the worse. On some level, he realizes that he's brought this on himself. It's Astarion who keeps them up into the long hours of the night, and it's Astarion who needles at Iorveth when he's already tired and hungry. On another level, his self-doubt whispers that maybe what he's been worried about is already coming true, and Iorveth is already seeing him in a different, less flattering light. (No light at all, really. The best lighting Astarion has been seen in in days is the dim light of their campfire.)
Part of him wants to make it all worse, because then if Iorveth decides he doesn't want anything to do with Astarion anymore, it'll be because he treated him poorly and not because Astarion is, at his core, not worth the effort. A bigger part of him just wants Iorveth to look at him kindly, so he says, ] I could always catch a rabbit for you.
[ Iorveth is the hunter among them, but Astarion is probably in better shape to actually do it. It isn't so difficult to adapt to being nocturnal—physically, if not emotionally—when that's all you've been for two centuries prior. ]
You wouldn't even have to drain it of blood.
[ Draining a creature is about the most knowledge he has about how one readies wild animals for eating. His meals are usually ready-made. ]
[ This isn't the worst of things, by a long stretch; Iorveth is sure that Astarion has also weathered worse, but that's no comfort given the fact that the both of them suffered worse when they were both in bondage. The reedy voice in the back of his skull starts humming again, a familiar tune that was easier to ignore when he had bottles of wine and fresh sheets to take comfort in: you don't deserve him, and he deserves better. A chorus that swells into a crescendo when Astarion offers, of all things, to bring back a rabbit for him.
Objectively, it's kind. Not a hard ask, presumably, for someone who once came back to camp drunk on bear blood. The kind of offer anyone would make, even, if someone they were traveling with hadn't eaten in however many days (the reason Iorveth didn't answer is because he hasn't bothered to keep track).
Still. This, too, rankles. Like he's asking Astarion to go... fetch. The thought is as illogical as it is mortifying, so Iorveth viciously stamps down on it, using all of his mental ire to quash it into quivering submission. ]
...Sweet cat, [ he finally says, after that moment of violent consideration. Using the stupid pet name, since he feels the mood needs some lightening. ] I'll eat whatever you hunt, if that would soothe your nerves any.
[ He stops mid-step, and turns towards Astarion. Tries for a half-smile; doesn't quite stick the landing. ]
[ Iorveth's pause is short enough that it shouldn't matter, long enough that it still does. Astarion stares back at his attempted smile for a moment, frowning. It isn't for his nerves that he wants to feed Iorveth. It's because of the way he scarfs down pastries like he's starving, because a table full of food is part of his dream future. Because Astarion knows what it's like to feel hungry. ]
I was more hoping it would soothe your hunger pangs.
[ An assertion: I'm not offering for me. He tosses his bags on the grass beside the road, a (literal) heavy weight lifted off of his shoulders. Astarion has never been strong, and being his own pack mule is unpleasant at the best.
He gestures toward one of the packs, suitable enough for a makeshift pillow. ]
You could stand to get some beauty rest. I won't stray far.
[ There are a million ways to say no. Iorveth can list them all, categorically: the distance from here to Daggerford, the hours they have left, the potential treachery of nearby forests, the state of Astarion's poor favorite shoes. He lines them up, neat and tidy in the safety of his mind, and decides not to vocalize any of them; he is, in fact, tired, and one more no to add to Astarion's pile feels unreasonably cruel.
His bags drop on the grass next to Astarion's. Thunk, clank. It feels like relief when he rests his head against the softest of the packs, bursting at its seams to hold the thick tarp tent that occasionally serves as their shelter. ]
Don't stay out for longer than you have to. If you find nothing, come back.
[ A warning, as his consciousness starts to slipslide. Iorveth grapples, grasps, misses; his head lolls, and the world grows dim, distant. His trance covers him like the tarp under his jaw, thick and absolute.
(To the east, camping in the Misty Forest: humans. Five of them, clad in leathers characteristic of the north, hefting weapons stolen from the elves in the woods. They'd taken a swing and missed: they'd thought the wood elves here might have been hiding their sought-after fox, but the elves claimed ignorance.
Didn't stop the men from slaughtering them. Their boots and tunics are spattered with old, drying blood.) ]
First it's his quarry, slipping away like it's his first day with a bow and arrow. Maybe it's his own hunger getting to him, or the exhaustion of days on the road, or perhaps he's just distracted thinking about Iorveth. Then, once he's finally got the furry creature, it's himself that's the issue. Crouched on the forest floor at night, hunched over a freshly-killed rabbit, sucking what small amount of blood it has like an indiscriminate animal, or a starving monster—
Well, it feels like he's backslid. He leans against the trunk of a tree with only his prey for company, debating whether to return at all. He finally works up the courage to start the trek back to where he left Iorveth, so consumed with his own brooding that he doesn't even notice the small group of humans in the brush following his footsteps on his way back. ]
Special delivery, [ he says as he steps out of the woods, dropping the rabbit at Iorveth's feet. ]
[ In the depths of exhaustion, Astarion's voice sounds miles away. A testament to Iorveth's self-control and preternatural paranoia, really, that he stirs at all; a twitch where he's laid himself out on the grass, long limbs trance-limp. He tries to say Astarion's name, but it winds up sounding like slurred nonsense. "'st'rion".
Something smells like death, like blood. The rabbit, presumably. His head feels heavy when he tries to lift it from its perch on Astarion's pack, weighed down by past-future meditations customary to trancing―
―and then, something shifts in the air. The copper stench of blood gets stronger, the still silence of the night disturbed by the swell of male voices made bolder by alcohol. By the time Iorveth sits up, hand flying to his side to find his bow, it's too late: two human soldiers have already crept behind Astarion and closed their dirty hands around him, meaty palms and fingers closed around each of his wrists, trying to wrench them behind his back.
"Special delivery sounds about right," one of them sneers. His voice is layered and thick, the same northern accent as Henselt's. "Brought us right to the prize." ]
[ Astarion's mouth curls slightly upward at Iorveth's exhaustion, the sight of him with relaxed limbs and a soft expression enough to melt the ice around his heart, if only a little. He opens his mouth to reply, but—
In an instant everything shifts, world a sudden whirlwind of movement, the stench of fresh blood replaced with something more stale and unappetizing. He notices their touch before he notices them. Their hands are warm, but unpleasantly so, not like the comforting clasp of Iorveth's hand around his. They're damp, he notes with disgust, perhaps sweaty with the exertion of doing something just like this to somebody else. The feeling of being in any way restrained makes bile rise in his throat so violently that it even surprises him; his reaction is visceral, like an animal caught in a snare that's willing to gnaw off its own leg to escape.
Perhaps if he'd kept his cool, he might have been able to talk his way out of it. Wave his hand, convince them that these aren't the elves they're looking for. Unfortunately, his mind is a million miles away, his heart replaying feelings from a century ago, and all he can do is panic. ]
Shoot them already, [ he snarls, even though one of their accosters has a bow already trained at Iorveth's head. 'Noticing things' and 'being rational' aren't exactly his strong suits at the moment. He displays that by stomping, hard, on one of the men's steel-toed boots, and hissing, ] Fuck.
[ A fucking nightmare. Decades removed from the last time he'd been held in chains and forced to yield, and the threat of "don't struggle or your friend dies" still feels like the ground is crumbling under his feet.
Not this. Never this, not again. The wild animal in him bares its teeth again; hatred seizes him like a sickness, and he can barely breathe around how it sticks to the back of his throat. ]
Don't, [ he hisses. Debatable as to who it's aimed towards: a "don't provoke them" for Astarion, a "don't touch him" to the two men who are busy telling a third to get some rope. Something blunt and hard hits him in the side of the head, and he doesn't recognize what it is until he sees what it's attached to: the curled fist of a fourth human, his jagged, uneven teeth glinting yellow in pale starlight.
"Found you, rat." Another blow, a different pair of steel toes to the curve of Iorveth's empty stomach. Iorveth doubles over, breath knocked out of his tight lungs; distantly, he hears the shuffling of what sounds like the other two humans manhandling Astarion for a better look at his face.
"Huh. This one doesn't look like the others. Iorveth's kidnappin' high elves to do his dirty work now, is he?" ]
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no subject
"Still here," their de facto leader quips. "Good. Present and accounted for, for once."
There's a point to the rude awakening: as much as she understands that her two insubordinate elves have been out doing possibly meaningful things, she wants at least one of them to contribute something today. A "minor errand", she promises in a tone of voice that many would find threatening. "Frankly, one should find it insulting to be entrusted with a task as minor as this."
Iorveth, who is still in bed, tucked around Astarion like a wood-elf shaped pillow, grunts. ]
Don't insult us, then.
[ Lae'zel folds her arms imperiously across her chest. "The task only requires one of you," is her sharp retort, even as her eyes dart towards Astarion. Iorveth can see it for what it is: asserting authority over her misbehaving elves while also giving Astarion a bit of wiggle room to rest. She's always been far softer than she allows herself to admit. ]
the image is so accurate... it really always is Something
He sticks his nose up, entirely haughty, nothing of the docile creature from last night left in his demeanor. They're just three proud, stubborn people tipping their chins at each other. Although he has no real interest in doing tasks for Lae'zel, minor or otherwise, he is a bit curious. Perhaps she intends for them to follow up on those murderous shapeshifters. Or, less exciting, perhaps she plans to have them search for those missing pigeons the postmaster was complaining about. ]
Well, go on. Don't leave us in suspense.
when will the elves know rest, i say, as i heap problems on top of them
What she does care about: "One of you will go to the Circus to report to the necromancer that most of the dismembered clown has been found. Only its hand remains missing."
Gods, the clown. Iorveth grunts again, rolling stiff shoulders. ]
And why would that be worth reporting? We could simply deliver the thing when we've found all its parts.
[ Lae'zel huffs again. "Progress has been slow. The necromancer may doubt my ability to see this through, which is an idea I greatly dislike."
Hard-pressed to be underestimated about anything. Iorveth scoffs about it, and grins when she scowls at him. ]
no subject
At the mention of the circus, Astarion wrinkles his nose. Horrible place. Too loud; he so hates to hear the sound of children's laughter. ]
We've our own things to do, you know.
[ It doesn't sound particularly convincing coming from two people who've been lying in bed up until now, but it's true, to an extent. His siblings are still out there, potentially angry, and he'd rather nip that issue in the bud before it becomes more problematic than it already is.
"You can take care of your own agenda after you've pulled your weight," replies Lae'zel, arms crossed, clearly taking it as the attempt to wriggle out of contributing that it only sort of is. ]
no subject
Still, the errand is easy enough. Better than whatever Wyll's been doing with the hag victims (meaningful, but exhausting). ]
Fine. We'll do it. [ Dismissively, with a wave of his hand. ] If that's all, leave us. All this talk of clowns will spoil his morning appetite.
[ Reaching sideways again, this time to tangle his fingers in Astarion's hair to draw him close again. An implicit coaxing for Astarion to nestle his face against Iorveth's neck, and by proxy, his jugular.
Lae'zel rolls her eyes. "He needs discipline, not indulgence. You're straying from the practical path." ]
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He turns his head to look at her, resting his temple against Iorveth's neck. ]
Mm, yes. I'm sure you've never indulged yourself with sweet Shadowheart.
[ "I've tasted my love more times than I can count," Lae'zel concedes, in the grossest possible way. Astarion scrunches up his nose while she tips up her tiny little bat snout. "But I've earned my warrior's feast."
As he rolls his eyes, Lae'zel absconds, drapes swishing behind her. Astarion flops back down against his pillow, lip curling. ]
Eugh. Some people have no couth.
[ Says the hypocrite who has no qualms with terrorizing the group with PDA. ]
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I'm impressed that she used the words "my love".
[ That's growth. Their baby githyanki leader, learning how to think with her heart instead of just her blade― the thought makes Iorveth feel a little fond, the way he'd always felt himself soften when any member of his clan found solace in another Aen Seidhe's arms.
A laugh-sigh, and he shakes his head. ] Also impressed by "more times than I can count", too. Perhaps I've underestimated the two of them.
[ And Gale warned them about being family-friendly. Ridiculous. ]
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Perhaps gith don't know how to count very high.
[ Considering how unreasonably randy those two are, he imagines it's more likely that they've just been canoodling that much. How far they've all come since the days when Shadowheart woke Lae'zel with a blade at her throat.
If Iorveth—his elven heater—is getting up, there's really no point in continuing to laze around. Astarion pushes himself up with a melodramatic whine, as if being forced to get up is the cruelest punishment he's ever endured. ]
You were all too happy to volunteer us to visit that necromancer.
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Instead of defenestrating himself, he chooses to treat Astarion like the oversized feline that he is; palm to Astarion's jaw, Iorveth caresses lightly behind his ear. ]
I know better than to bargain with a githyanki when I'm unarmed.
[ Wry, still amused. ] There were worse things she could've threatened us with. Playing messenger is a non-errand: her way of officially saying "take the day off", I suppose.
[ He thumbs against Astarion's jaw, and lets go. ] Come with me. I wish to see you in daylight.
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I am even more stunning in the light, aren't I?
[ Something he tries not to think too deeply about, given that if he does, he'll soon start thinking about how scarce the time he has left in the daylight really is. He leans over, reaching to rummage through their bags for the other outfit Iorveth had purchased for him yesterday. ]
Rid yourself of that awful scarf already. You look better in the eyepatch.
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My hair needs trimming, [ he notes, sweeping his bangs aside. Any inclination to keep it long and braided faded when he took up arms (impractical), and died completely when he lost his eye. No point in being vain anymore. ] I'll need a knife and a mirror soon.
[ A foolish thing to say to Astarion, who doesn't have a reflection with which to appraise his immortal beauty. Iorveth still remembers what he'd said about how he hasn't changed from the day he'd died; it makes a little part of his slowly-unwinding heart clench again as he changes into his daytime gear, leather armor and all. ]
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As he pulls on his new trousers, he gives Iorveth an appraising glance. It does sting a little to be reminded that he'll never need a mirror, nor a blade with which to cut his hair. Cazador still steals things from him from beyond the grave. Still, it's hardly Iorveth's fault that Astarion allowed himself to be bitten by a vampire instead of bleeding to death in an alley. He wipes the sour look on his face off as quickly as he can before he starts slipping his robe down his arms. ]
I think you look fetching wearing it long. [ A pause, and then a tilt of his head, as if conceding a point he's arguing to himself. ] Mm, but you'd look fetching wearing it short, too.
[ However fetching it might be, though, it's not exactly high fashion, so he adds, ] You know, if you want a more stylish coif, I'd be willing to lend my services.
[ Is he in any way trained to be a barber? No. But is he opinionated enough about hair that he thinks he might as well be? Yes. ]
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[ A laugh, and Iorveth finishes buckling the last of his belts around his body, securing his bow cradle to his back with a gentle tug. ] Any excuse for you to point a sharp object at me, I'll take.
[ It's a joke, but not really. Iorveth smiles, though his mind flits towards a question that he wisely decides to keep to himself: if someone cut Astarion's hair, would it simply not grow back, or would it grow back just to the length that it used to be before it was cut? A horrific thing to consider, if the former is true. Iorveth vows to protect Astarion's curls with his life; he's too fond of them now.
With that unspoken promise made, Iorveth hesitates for a moment before concentrating on the parasite living in his skull; he feels the faint discomfort of it pushing against his consciousness, a writhing that he'll never get used to, but he channels it and pushes its power outward, sending invisible feelers out to tap Astarion's tadpole with. A silent let me show you something. ]
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The defeat of the Netherbrain should have made him happy. With both Cazador and the mind flayers out of the picture, everything that's been hanging over his head has been summarily crushed. There's been a black cloud over him ever since, though, evident in his posture and the dragging way he carries himself. It isn't fair, he thinks, that he has to suffer for their victory. The only other person who could possibly understand is Karlach and, well, she's in the hells, so he imagines she might not be sympathetic to his plight.
The Trade Way is well-traveled, and they've passed caravans who might have taken them to their destination for a fee, but Astarion is twitchy about the possibility of getting stuck in the sunlight. In the best case scenario, everyone in the caravan finds out about his condition. In the worst case scenario, he burns to a crisp. No, it's better for them to travel alone, even if he's starting to rethink his dislike of horses the more his body starts to ache.
Pack thrown over his shoulder and dirt on his favorite shoes, he glances over at Iorveth. ]
You're nodding off again.
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―a half-terminated yawn, grit between pressed-together molars. ]
Hardly.
[ Or, in other words: he hasn't tranced in four days. Five? He decided to stop counting after they left the last watercolor village (one of many) lining the Trade Way. It's not like Astarion has asked Iorveth to do this, the business of losing sleep to travel and spend idle time with him before the traitorous sun resumes its smug perch on the world's zenith, but the important thing is that Iorveth has been insane enough to take it upon himself to do so.
Mostly, Iorveth just hates the thought of Astarion curled up in darkness doing nothing while he trances. In the same way that Iorveth isn't wearing his foxskin as well as he'd like, he has a feeling that Astarion won't wear his nocturnal mantle again as easily as he'd used to; a terrible thing, to have to adjust to being oneself again.
Anyway. All of this to say that Iorveth looks like shit. What else is new. ]
I want us to reach the next town before daybreak. [ He isn't slurring, thank you very much. One foot in front of the other, he keeps his posture straight with the sheer force of his obstinacy. His profile looks even sharper in moonlight. ] There's not much in the way of shelter between here and our destination.
We'll need to move quickly.
[ More to himself than anything else. It hasn't been ideal, consigning Astarion to caves and heavy-tarp tents while the sun is high; not for the actual journey, which isn't on any time schedule, but for morale. ]
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He's silent for a long moment, the only sound their feet against the road and the distant noise of nighttime creatures. Owls hooting, raccoons chittering. He supposes he's one of them again.
Finally, with renewed softness, he extends an olive branch by asking, ] When did you last eat?
[ It's difficult to keep track when he doesn't eat himself. In fact, he's hesitant to feed at all when Iorveth needs to keep his strength up for the journey. Last night, he drained a squirrel. Another contributor to his foul mood, surely. ]
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―rankles? Annoys. Some sort of mirrored guilt, maybe. They haven't held hands (too many bags to carry) or shared a bedroll (for obvious reasons) in days, and that, too, has perhaps sharpened the aforementioned thorns, like the outline of bone through thin-stretched skin.
He should take the olive branch. Instead, he keeps his eye set stubbornly forward, tracking a piece of road that he'd scouted ahead in the morning. (Or, at least, he thinks this was the piece of road; it's hard to stray, given that there's really only one.) ]
You won't like the answer, [ comes out a bit sharper than he would've liked. "I know you're trying to worry about me, stop it." His gaze darts to portions of disturbed dirt and broken branches that point to signs of recent travel, but gives up on cataloging them all: there's simply too many for any one of them to be noted as particularly surprising.
A beat later, more carefully: ] ...I'll eat at the next inn. Another reason I'm so eager.
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Part of him wants to make it all worse, because then if Iorveth decides he doesn't want anything to do with Astarion anymore, it'll be because he treated him poorly and not because Astarion is, at his core, not worth the effort. A bigger part of him just wants Iorveth to look at him kindly, so he says, ] I could always catch a rabbit for you.
[ Iorveth is the hunter among them, but Astarion is probably in better shape to actually do it. It isn't so difficult to adapt to being nocturnal—physically, if not emotionally—when that's all you've been for two centuries prior. ]
You wouldn't even have to drain it of blood.
[ Draining a creature is about the most knowledge he has about how one readies wild animals for eating. His meals are usually ready-made. ]
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Objectively, it's kind. Not a hard ask, presumably, for someone who once came back to camp drunk on bear blood. The kind of offer anyone would make, even, if someone they were traveling with hadn't eaten in however many days (the reason Iorveth didn't answer is because he hasn't bothered to keep track).
Still. This, too, rankles. Like he's asking Astarion to go... fetch. The thought is as illogical as it is mortifying, so Iorveth viciously stamps down on it, using all of his mental ire to quash it into quivering submission. ]
...Sweet cat, [ he finally says, after that moment of violent consideration. Using the stupid pet name, since he feels the mood needs some lightening. ] I'll eat whatever you hunt, if that would soothe your nerves any.
[ He stops mid-step, and turns towards Astarion. Tries for a half-smile; doesn't quite stick the landing. ]
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I was more hoping it would soothe your hunger pangs.
[ An assertion: I'm not offering for me. He tosses his bags on the grass beside the road, a (literal) heavy weight lifted off of his shoulders. Astarion has never been strong, and being his own pack mule is unpleasant at the best.
He gestures toward one of the packs, suitable enough for a makeshift pillow. ]
You could stand to get some beauty rest. I won't stray far.
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His bags drop on the grass next to Astarion's. Thunk, clank. It feels like relief when he rests his head against the softest of the packs, bursting at its seams to hold the thick tarp tent that occasionally serves as their shelter. ]
Don't stay out for longer than you have to. If you find nothing, come back.
[ A warning, as his consciousness starts to slipslide. Iorveth grapples, grasps, misses; his head lolls, and the world grows dim, distant. His trance covers him like the tarp under his jaw, thick and absolute.
(To the east, camping in the Misty Forest: humans. Five of them, clad in leathers characteristic of the north, hefting weapons stolen from the elves in the woods. They'd taken a swing and missed: they'd thought the wood elves here might have been hiding their sought-after fox, but the elves claimed ignorance.
Didn't stop the men from slaughtering them. Their boots and tunics are spattered with old, drying blood.) ]
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First it's his quarry, slipping away like it's his first day with a bow and arrow. Maybe it's his own hunger getting to him, or the exhaustion of days on the road, or perhaps he's just distracted thinking about Iorveth. Then, once he's finally got the furry creature, it's himself that's the issue. Crouched on the forest floor at night, hunched over a freshly-killed rabbit, sucking what small amount of blood it has like an indiscriminate animal, or a starving monster—
Well, it feels like he's backslid. He leans against the trunk of a tree with only his prey for company, debating whether to return at all. He finally works up the courage to start the trek back to where he left Iorveth, so consumed with his own brooding that he doesn't even notice the small group of humans in the brush following his footsteps on his way back. ]
Special delivery, [ he says as he steps out of the woods, dropping the rabbit at Iorveth's feet. ]
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Something smells like death, like blood. The rabbit, presumably. His head feels heavy when he tries to lift it from its perch on Astarion's pack, weighed down by past-future meditations customary to trancing―
―and then, something shifts in the air. The copper stench of blood gets stronger, the still silence of the night disturbed by the swell of male voices made bolder by alcohol. By the time Iorveth sits up, hand flying to his side to find his bow, it's too late: two human soldiers have already crept behind Astarion and closed their dirty hands around him, meaty palms and fingers closed around each of his wrists, trying to wrench them behind his back.
"Special delivery sounds about right," one of them sneers. His voice is layered and thick, the same northern accent as Henselt's. "Brought us right to the prize." ]
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In an instant everything shifts, world a sudden whirlwind of movement, the stench of fresh blood replaced with something more stale and unappetizing. He notices their touch before he notices them. Their hands are warm, but unpleasantly so, not like the comforting clasp of Iorveth's hand around his. They're damp, he notes with disgust, perhaps sweaty with the exertion of doing something just like this to somebody else. The feeling of being in any way restrained makes bile rise in his throat so violently that it even surprises him; his reaction is visceral, like an animal caught in a snare that's willing to gnaw off its own leg to escape.
Perhaps if he'd kept his cool, he might have been able to talk his way out of it. Wave his hand, convince them that these aren't the elves they're looking for. Unfortunately, his mind is a million miles away, his heart replaying feelings from a century ago, and all he can do is panic. ]
Shoot them already, [ he snarls, even though one of their accosters has a bow already trained at Iorveth's head. 'Noticing things' and 'being rational' aren't exactly his strong suits at the moment. He displays that by stomping, hard, on one of the men's steel-toed boots, and hissing, ] Fuck.
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Not this. Never this, not again. The wild animal in him bares its teeth again; hatred seizes him like a sickness, and he can barely breathe around how it sticks to the back of his throat. ]
Don't, [ he hisses. Debatable as to who it's aimed towards: a "don't provoke them" for Astarion, a "don't touch him" to the two men who are busy telling a third to get some rope. Something blunt and hard hits him in the side of the head, and he doesn't recognize what it is until he sees what it's attached to: the curled fist of a fourth human, his jagged, uneven teeth glinting yellow in pale starlight.
"Found you, rat." Another blow, a different pair of steel toes to the curve of Iorveth's empty stomach. Iorveth doubles over, breath knocked out of his tight lungs; distantly, he hears the shuffling of what sounds like the other two humans manhandling Astarion for a better look at his face.
"Huh. This one doesn't look like the others. Iorveth's kidnappin' high elves to do his dirty work now, is he?" ]
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