essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Astarion allows himself to be used as a humanoid ice pack, pressing both of his hands against Iorveth's forehead, his cheek. He's no cleric, but even he knows that it isn't good for Iorveth to be flushed like this after an injury, no matter how appealing it is when he's all hot and sweaty. That unpleasant helpless feeling flashes in his chest again, although he tries his best to stuff it back down. ]

Mmm, you are thoroughly tantalizing when you speak your language.

[ Is this a bad time to ask him to talk dirty in the Aen Seidhe dialect? Probably. He cups his hands around the back of Iorveth's neck, cooling it as he playfully quotes Iorveth's Aen Seidhe I like you, just as botched as the very first time. Not once has he ever said it correctly, but he says it with confidence anyway. ]

All of the debutantes would be atwitter. And seething in jealousy, of course.

[ Cute, he thinks, instead of being offended by Astarion's terrible pronunciation. Let him be wrong, if he's going to be endearing about it. ]

Jealous of who? You, for keeping a strange foreigner, or me, for being kept by you?

[ Likely the latter. Iorveth chuckles under his breath, listing sideways to rest his head against Astarion's shoulder, amused by how own choice of words. He'd already expressed his disdain for the concept of being anyone's trophy elf, but he wouldn't mind playing at it for one night if it pleases Astarion to indulge in a bit of theater.

(It's actually being confined to the prison of Cazador's palace that would've made Iorveth resent Astarion― this, he's still sure of.) ]

I expect you'd enjoy it if I answered every idiot who approached me with "don't speak to me, I'm his."

[ His, meaning Astarion's. Another half-laugh as Iorveth imagines two mean elves making a fool of everyone else in whatever soiree they show up uninvited in. ]

[ Astarion leaves one hand on the nape of Iorveth's neck, fingers tangling in his slightly damp hair. This is what people do for their loved ones who aren't feeling well, he thinks. They pamper them, pet them, treat them gently. It's novel, but not at all unpleasant.

Despite Astarion's insistence that he does, Iorveth has never really said that he belongs to Astarion, perhaps because of some ridiculous wood elf sentiment that people can't belong to other people, but even hearing it in jest makes him feel warm and fuzzy. His impish grin is so wide that his fangs show; yes, he would enjoy it. ]

Honestly, there's no one else worth talking to, anyway. You wouldn't be missing out.

[ People are boring and irritating and awful. He and Iorveth are really the only ones who truly matter, a belief that isn't unhealthy in the slightest. ]

I wouldn't mind defending your honor from any rakes and rapscallions. [ As if he isn't one himself. ] I'd tell them all that I saw you first.

[ A normal person would say something to the effect of "of course there are people who are worth talking to, the world is full of good people", but Iorveth is of the opinion that every human Baldurian who willingly subscribes to the sort of shitty institutions that put men like Enver Gortash in power suck and deserve to die if they do anything slightly bad, so. There are no good influences here. Instead of being a reasonable elf with moderate stances on things, Iorveth, still woozy, hums in assent and nuzzles closer to Astarion's neck. ]

That would be amusing. [ Airily, because all of this is purely hypothetical, and Iorveth knows that, in reality, not a single person would bother talking to a weird one-eyed elf who looks like he'd rather stab someone before engaging them in conversation. If anyone is strange enough to try, it might be fun watching Astarion dress someone down for sport.

He voices the sentiment, tucking his sly smile against Astarion's collarbone. ] I've found that I enjoy it when you tell people to piss off.

[ Like watching a proud cat refuse unwanted hands with a well-timed hiss. Astarion makes haughty aloofness look pretty. ]

Of course you do. I'm dazzling when I'm berating.

[ It probably isn't a good thing for their personal development that they both enjoy watching each other treat people awfully, but Astarion isn't interested in personal development. Why would he be, when he's already achieved contentment beyond his wildest fantasies with his current unpleasant personality? If Iorveth likes him like this, then he has no inclination to change.

He pets Iorveth's hair, soothing, and hums. ]

I suppose you aren't in any position to come watch me dress down that Fist.

[ Although he hopes to do more than dress him down. A melodramatic sigh. ]

Perhaps I'll have the worm show you.

[ Astarion can be kinder to the world after he's convinced that the world has become kinder to him. Besides, he's shown plenty of progress, which is how even someone as jaded and cynical as Iorveth sees it: Iorveth still thinks that Astarion's first forays into choice in the underground caverns of Cazador's palace were impossibly impressive, thus worth commending and upholding.

His beautiful, very problematic cat. Iorveth lists even more against Astarion's side, effectively soothed by the gentle touch to his hair (it's so stupid, how safe Astarion makes him feel sometimes)―

―until the mention of Henrik makes him tense. ]

...I want to see that human dead as much as you do, [ which is not a "hey, maybe you should just leave the guy alone"; Iorveth is not a good person, ] but you'd be putting yourself in danger.

[ Sitting up, Iorveth untangles himself from the comfortable cradle of Astarion's shoulder to make eye contact. ]

Astarion. You remember what I said about what I'd do if any harm came to you.

[ If he needs a reminder, Iorveth will be all to happy to give it to him. "I'd burn this entire city down as retribution." ]

[ Astarion frowns, more at Iorveth moving away than anything he's said. He reaches out, urging him back with an insistent tug. It had felt good to have Iorveth, weary and drained, leaning on him for support, and he doesn't give up things that feel good easily. After all, there are so very few of them. ]

I'm not going to challenge him to fisticuffs. I'm going to get a new dagger first.

[ His tone practically screams 'duh'. Once he actually has a weapon and the opportunity to get the drop on Henrik, he's confident he'll come out of that scuffle the victor. Iorveth would be correct, though, in assuming that 'get dagger' and 'stab Henrik' are the only two points in his plan for revenge; the entire middle is a big question mark.

An unimportant detail. He'll wing it. ]

And you don't have to be jealous. [ Said as if there's any chance that that's the issue Iorveth has with this. ] I won't drink a single drop of his blood.

[ Effectively tugged back, Iorveth gives up his center of gravity and settles back against Astarion's shoulder with a slump and a huff.

To the tune of "I am very fond of you, but": ] Have you given any thought to this beyond "find a sharp object and stick it in the Fist's skull"?

[ Credit where credit is due: Astarion managed not to be discovered and killed in the 200 years he spent gathering victims for Cazador, and has shown himself to be resourceful and capable over the course of their Illithid-related journey. That said, sometimes Iorveth marvels at the fact that Astarion is, for a given value of the word, alive.

(Pot, kettle, etc.)

He pinches Astarion's knee, which, in Iorveth's current state, is as effective as a wolf trying to bite someone with no teeth. ]

The Fists are like ants. They mill about, finding strength in numbers. You can't go around stabbing every red-armored human until you get to the right one.

[ That's better. With Iorveth forcibly cuddling him, he tilts his head to rest his temple against the crown of Iorveth's head, resuming his petting like a spoiled child forcing his new puppy to endure his love. This is the sort of display of affection he found entirely pathetic for two hundred years—and the sort he'd still be embarrassed to be caught doing—but now that he has someone to do it with, it has its appeal.

When he replies, his voice is airy, like discussing the mass murder of the Flaming Fists is just a sweet nothing to be mumbled into Iorveth's pointy ear. To him, it practically is. ]

Why not? That sounds like an excellent idea. Hells, I'll throw in the dwarves and tieflings, too.

[ He'd add the elves, too, if it weren't liable to upset Iorveth. They can live another day, but they're on thin ice. ]

The less people with swords who know about a one-eyed terrorist, the better.

[ Another soft breath, though he does very little to break the comfortable tangle they've re-established. If anything, he worms closer (much to the tuxedo cat's displeasure) and loops his good arm around Astarion's waist, wondering if cuddling could actually persuade Astarion to stay here and not get himself thrown into a dungeon in Wyrm's Rock Fortress.

Worth a shot. He noses at Astarion's collar and presses his mouth to an open patch of neck, idly nibbling to watch pale skin bloom pink. ]

There'll be scores of them.

[ Honestly, he's surprised that half of them didn't quit after Gortash gave himself the keys to the city; Iorveth truly cannot imagine degrading himself by serving under that greasy-looking raccoon, and thus, considers anyone under Enver Gortash's employ to be useless rabble.

Anyway. Another light bite, just under Astarion's fangmark scars. ]

I don't envy your stabbing arm. Think of how sore you'll be.

[ Hard labor! The horror. ]

Edited 2024-10-23 02:43 (UTC)

Oh, I don't mind a bit of soreness, [ comes out automatically, suggestive and mischievous, before he remembers that one of them is already more than sore. Now is not the time to try to get into Iorveth's pants, even if the sensation of Iorveth's blunt teeth scraping against his skin tickles a long-neglected part of his brain. He does crane his neck regardless; he can still have a little light nibbling as a treat. ]

It would be worth it.

[ It really would. Peace of mind is priceless, and knowing that he's stamped out one potential avenue for having Iorveth—and consequently, happiness—taken away from him would provide at least a modicum of that. He's spent all of this time ruminating on the possibility of Iorveth choosing to abandon him when there's also the chance that someone takes him away unwillingly.

A selfish reason to fear harm coming to Iorveth, really. He was right when he said that Astarion was afraid of everything, but he's afraid of getting hurt more than anything.

Sweetly: ] I'd stab a thousand Fists for you, my dear, and only partly because I like stabbing.

[ Ugh. Worth it, Astarion says, and the spark of conviction that Iorveth thinks he hears makes it difficult for him to contest. Iorveth is weak to courage in general, but doubly so when it's Astarion exhibiting signs of it.

Triply so, considering that the courage is in his name. It's mind-numbingly sweet. Plenty of Seidhe have pledged their lives to him throughout the course of their hopeless fight against extinction, but it's never felt like this.

Iorveth shivers, and runs his tongue over the harmless lovebite he's made. ]

Absurd. [ It's not worth doing all that if Astarion winds up imprisoned for it. But the retort lacks teeth (ha), and Iorveth kisses up the rise of Astarion's throat with bald-faced affection. ]

I couldn't stop you from doing anything in this state. [ He'll need another half day of rest until he's back on his feet again, maybe faster if he gets a potion or two in him. Until then, he's confined to this gnome-sized bed with a cat kneading biscuits on his leg. ] But－

[ Hm, he hums. Clearly debating whether or not he wants to finish that thought. The woozy, bloodless part of his brain tells him that he has very little to lose. ] －At least stay until I trance again.

[ Again with the horrible, terrifying request for Astarion to stay. His grip tightens around Astarion's waist like a tug to a sleeve. ]

[ You couldn't stop me from doing anything in any state, he thinks but doesn't say. Astarion would just opine about being freedom and independence and Iorveth would eventually have no choice but to fold. Honestly, he's too easy. ]

If you wanted a snuggle, you could have just said so.

[ Like he isn't the one who forced Iorveth to keep cuddling him. Sue him! After two centuries being disgusted by the feeling of another person's body against his, he finally has somebody he actually enjoys being close to. Every second with Iorveth feels like he's erasing one of those old, shameful memories and replacing it with a better one. It's only reasonable that he takes as much advantage of that as he can.

The bed is too small for an elf, much less two elves, but he crams himself into the tiny space regardless, legs bent in order to keep his feet from dangling off. He usually prefers to be the one cradled, but Iorveth is unwell, so he generously maneuvers him to lie against his chest.

Max the tuxedo cat jumps up onto the mattress to join them, and Astarion nudges him with a spindly knee. ]

Get lost, furball.

[ Torture will be the only way Iorveth could ever be persuaded to say the word "snuggle", but it is, in fact, what he's angling for, so he can't be irate about it. Folding himself to the best of his ability without leaning on his injured shoulder, he settles his head against Astarion's collarbone and drapes an arm over his stomach. ]

Let it stay, [ Iorveth murmurs. ] I'm starting to develop an affinity for cats.

[ Clearly. He crooks a finger at Max, who happily steps over Astarion and tries to wedge itself in the space between Iorveth's bent knees and his stomach.

Three's a crowd on this small bed, but Iorveth's tired body benefits from the huddle; it doesn't take long for him to fall back into his trance, this one deeper than the last despite the little part of his brain that always screams at him to be alert and aware of his surroundings.

He can only hope that Astarion doesn't get arrested during his extended nap. Gods. ]

[ It's difficult to extract himself from both Iorveth and the cat, but Astarion is nothing if not nimble. Once Iorveth is unconscious, Astarion crawls over him and onto his feet, stepping lightly on the creaky floorboards. Max couldn't care less that he's going; he only nuzzles closer to Iorveth, purring steadily.

The one benefit of having spent most of his life in taverns is that he learned where people—Flaming Fists included—tend to congregate. Even still, it's a good couple of hours before he returns, a brand new shiny dagger on his hip and blood on his shirt and palms. His cold skin is damp with the sweat of exertion, and he's sporting a nick to his chin and the beginnings of a pommel-shaped bruise to his temple, but he's mostly intact.

He's quite a bit clumsier about crawling back in to bed, made fatigued by the struggle. All he can do is try to avoid Iorveth's injured arm when he flops down into the crevice between the mattress and the wall. He's smearing blood and sweat on the sheets, but he really couldn't care less.

At least until Dolores finds them in the early morning and shrieks, dropping the plate of food she'd been carrying in shock. "Garl's golden nugget!" she squeals. ]

[ Iorveth only opens his eye once between falling unconscious and being properly roused by the sound of Dolores dropping her food (what a waste!!!)－ Astarion's absence had been unsettling, but he'd made the executive decision not to hand-wring over a grown-ass elf's decision to go do something on his own. Gods forbid Astarion want to have fun on his own every once in a while.

Now, finding the pleasant weight of a familiar body near his, Iorveth is content with the outcome of the night despite the heavy scent of blood in the air and the fuzzy discoloration on Astarion's face that's slowly starting to come into focus. The best case scenario, all things considered.

Sleepily: ] Don't cause a scene. [ To the poor gnome, who has every right to be incredibly alarmed by the sight of two strange, bloody and battered elves: ] My cat brought back a mouse, is all this is.

[ In spirit, not literally. Iorveth would not actually have appreciated Iorveth bringing Henrik's literal head back for his approval. He feels groggy, but significantly better than he did the night prior; amazing, what a long rest can do.

Sitting up, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, uprooting Max who, after a plaintive whine, scurries onto the floor and sniffs at the scrambled eggs scattered on the floorboard.

"Gods, am I keeping murderers in my home?!" Dolores hiss-yells. From directly above them, the old man's voice bellows: "SWEET PEA? DID YOU TRIP OVER THE CATS AGAIN?" ]

[ He probably should have thought this through. It's just that he had this fantasy of returning back to Iorveth victorious and getting the blood tenderly scrubbed away, so he'd be squeaky clean before anyone could see. The reality, though, is him sitting up with his bruise now fully purple and Henrik's blood dried on his shirt. He doesn't exactly look innocent.

Astarion stares at Dolores for a moment, grimacing. He'd really rather not make an enemy of someone he only just convinced to tailor Iorveth a fancy new outfit. And, he supposes, she does seem nice. It would be unfortunate to have to kill her. ]

Murder is a strong word. Honestly, I didn't even check if he was dead.

[ He'd gone invisible and followed Henrik and his friends on their way home from the tavern. The idiot had stepped into an alleyway to relieve himself, and that's when Astarion had struck. A short scuffle, entirely unlike the elegant revenge he'd imagined, and Henrik was bleeding out with his unmentionables out. A moment later, he'd heard one of them call 'Henrik! What's taking so long?' and the sound of heavy-booted footsteps approaching, and he'd absconded. For all he knows, Henrik survived the ordeal.

He hopes not, though. That would be even more unfortunate. ]

I assure you, it was self-defense. What callous murderer would come back to a stranger's house covered in blood, hmm?

[ Dolores looks unconvinced, and Iorveth can't blame her: if this happened in his own home, Iorveth would be far less charitable. That said, it hasn't even been a tenday since Astarion won his freedom, and it would be a bad look if his new life started off as a prisoner in Wyrm's Rock.

So. Before the gnome can voice her skepticism, Iorveth interjects with the same cover story he'd told back at the Water Queen's House, hoping the lie will contextualize the collectively awful manners exhibited by the both of them. Iorveth will have to hear the truth about Henrik later, and whether Astarion really might have left him alive. ]

He's telling the truth. [ Etch that one into your brain folds; Iorveth may never say this again. ] We've had much to defend ourselves against. I was a prisoner in the north, captured by racists, and he risked his life and profession as a magistrate to defend me and bring me south.

[ Sufficiently romantic enough, Iorveth hopes, despite the fact that he isn't painting a very poetic picture of their tragic life as vagabond lovers. He reaches back, putting his palm on the back of Astarion's blood-crusted hand (finally seeing that awful bruise in full, trying not to scowl at the thought of a pommel hitting Astarion's face), gauging Dolores' expression for a reaction.

It's... surprisingly positive. Sympathetic, even. "Oh", she murmurs, and lowers her hands from their defensive position. "Oh, I see. You poor dears, I can relate. My husband, he's a duergar..." ]

[ Her husband is an old coot, but Astarion bites his tongue for once, nodding empathetically instead. He crawls over to perch beside Iorveth on the side of the bed, placing a (red-streaked) palm to his chest chest and leaning against him with performative affection. ]

I'm afraid it's true. I happened upon him in chains and couldn't help falling madly in love with that face.

[ If Iorveth won't paint a romantic picture of their whirlwind romance, Astarion will. ]

I fought valiantly to free my darling from captivity, but those awful humans who'd kept him prisoner pursue us relentlessly.

[ Dolores is too easily swayed by this tale. She really is a sweet woman, gasping softly as she places a hand to her heart. "I had no idea," she says, eyes large. "I shouldn't have made assumptions."

A sigh, followed by a pointed, ] No, you really shouldn't have. But I'm sure there's some way you could make it up to us. On the run, we live hand-to-mouth, you see...

[ With his face, of all things. Iorveth tries not to sour at the mention of it, as it prompts Dolores to inspect the gnarled right side of him more closely. He can feel her eyes passing over the clearly man-made scar running from his mouth to his eyepatch; to some extent, he knows the old wound lends credence to their story, but he turns his head away regardless.

Maybe the gesture helps. The body language coupled with Astarion's embellishments successfully convince Dolores not to turn them over to the authorities (good persuasion roll), and instead of running out of the room for help, the sweet gnome crouches to start cleaning the mess she's made on the floor.

"Don't you worry about help, darlings. Brings me right back to when I was helping that silly old dwarf adjust to life on the surface, really... I can draw you a bath, bring you something new to wear."

She looks Astarion up and down, wiping her hands on her apron. Iorveth snorts softly despite himself, imagining Astarion cramming himself into a gnome-sized bathtub. ]

...Thank you. I only ask that you don't speak of this encounter to any Fist you may run into.

[ Buzzkill. All he really needs is this gnome to not go around telling everyone about the two elves she fostered like her cats. ]

[ "Of course," she replies, plucking bits of egg from Max's whiskers. "You can never be too careful these days, with the way things are." Astarion gets the sense that she isn't a fan of Baldur's Gate's recent sociopolitical situation, and he can hardly blame her. The city is an even bigger mess than it was before now that Gortash and his Steel Watchers are around, and the Fists are complicit if they're just letting it happen.

Oh, well. He's sure Gortash will end up dead sooner rather than later, if Karlach's burning hatred of him is anything to go by. ]

Aren't you the sweetest thing? [ he coos, and Dolores blushes a little, pleased. ] Ah, while you're at it, perhaps you could replace that breakfast. I fear our journey from the north has left us rather famished.

[ It's been a long time since he had to eat food himself, but he's pretty sure Iorveth should be feeling hungry again by now. It's right around this time, after all, that Gale would usually be cooking up something for the group (sans Astarion).

"You poor boys!" Dolores stands, ruined breakfast in one hand while the other brushes against her skirt. "Luckily for you, I always make big portions. My husband could eat us out of house and home. I'll be back, don't you worry." ]

You're a doll, [ Astarion says sweetly. The moment she's out of the room, though, he flops back down with an exasperated sigh. ] The woman lives in the Gate and she's still scandalized by a little light murder?

[ Still amusing, how Astarion manages to trigger his breezy charm on and off with near-automatic ease. Iorveth briefly wonders if it's second nature by now, or if it exhausts him; he combs through Astarion's barely-scorched bangs (hard to tell where the affected ends are now), and carefully runs his fingers over the ugly circular bruise on his face. ]

Clearly, she didn't move in the same circles as you.

[ Maybe her and the sweet woman at the cafe have a sewing group together, and that's the sort of sphere these genuinely good people inhabit. For all of its flaws, there has to be a reason why Baldur's Gate has persisted as long as it has.

Not Iorveth's concern, though. He tries to mutter a te curo, but his spell stutters and wanes. How annoying. ]

Still, you must have been busy as a magistrate.

[ Astarion rubs at the bruise self-consciously, only just now realizing that it's there. He frowns, vainly displeased with yet another marring of his appearance. After they find a cleric for Iorveth, he'll have to ask them to heal him as well. He can't possibly walk around looking like some vagabond.

In response, he makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. ]

I suppose I must have been.

[ He hardly remembers. It was so long ago, and whoever he was then bears little resemblance to the person he is now. He remembers being influential, important, powerful, all of the things he never was in the palace — all of the things he rarely feels now. Strangely, he's both jealous and resentful of that version of himself. A stupid fool who didn't even know what he had. ]

It's all rather... blurry.

[ Blurry. More idle wondering, if Iorveth could use the tadpole to burrow into Astarion's head and unlock any latent memories of pre-Cazador Astarion, if only to see what color his eyes were before they turned red. But that would be both invasive and pointless, a bit of information that Iorveth wouldn't do anything with: he prefers Astarion as he is now, sharp teeth and sharper tongue, full of fear and boundless potential.

Feeling more balanced, less dizzy, Iorveth remains upright and continues petting Astarion's hair. ]

If you'd rather I choose a different profession for you when explaining our false history, say so.

[ "Magistrate" just happens to be the easiest to invoke, but it might not be the most pleasant for Astarion to inhabit. Some things are too close to home to be comfortable. ]

"Traveling performer", maybe. [ Airily, keeping the tone light. Joking, albeit dryly. ] Or "failed poet".

[ Okay, now he's just taking the piss. The corner of his lips curl slightly. ]

[ It's sweet, he thinks, that Iorveth cares that it might bother Astarion to hearken back to his magistrate days. It's also irritating, because he doesn't want Iorveth to think of him as a delicate flower who needs to be treated with care lest he fall apart. ]

'Failed'? Please.

[ He wouldn't be a poet to begin with—the thought of spilling his feelings onto the page for the entire world to read makes him want to retch—but if he were, he certainly wouldn't be failed. ]

It's fine. I'm hardly going to fall to pieces over a hazy memory.

[ It isn't always pleasant to think about the past—in fact, it's almost never pleasant—but he doesn't want Iorveth to think he's in need of coddling, either. Iorveth is attracted to resilience, determination. Not damaged vampires who are resentful about the past. ]

Besides, [ he adds, leaning his head against Iorveth's fingers, ] your story is more true than false. I did heroically save you from enemies who sought to kill or enslave you.

[ Well, it didn't look heroic at the time. It mostly consisted of getting caught and ending up tied up like a sack of potatoes in Henselt's cellar, but by Astarion standards, it was downright gallant. ]

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