essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ Combing a bit of dried blood out of Astarion's hair, Iorveth raises a brow at claims of heroism but ultimately decides not to contest it too vehemently; it is, in fact, true enough.

Still, he can't help but comment: ] After getting hit in the head with a blunt object.

[ Trailing his touch down to the bruise on Astarion's face again, emphasizing his point with a feather-light circling of his thumb around the offending mark. ]

A recurring theme. Always injuring yourself in the process of defending my honor.

[ It's sweet, but worrying. Astarion needs to learn to plan better― if all of his ruses simply boil down to getting a sharp object and finding an excuse to use it, he really is going to get in serious trouble one day. Iorveth would know, because that's been his entire life. ]

Ugh. Don't look.

[ It's hideous! (At least, he imagines it is. He wouldn't know.) He claps a hand over the purple-red mark, wincing a little at the touch on his still tender face. Astarion must look awful, with charred hair and a bruise marring his perfect—if a bit sallow—skin. Iorveth had told him his looks were the least interesting thing about him, but he still hates the idea of him seeing Astarion in such a state. ]

Of course that awful man had to struggle.

[ His tone is condemning, as if he genuinely blames Henrik for trying to stay alive. Honestly, he should have just lied down and died! ]

—Ah. There is a small, slight, teeny-tiny possibility that he yet lives.

[ Which would be bad. He'd rather not consider it, but Iorveth would probably scold him if he kept it to himself. ]

Entirely improbable, really.

[ "Iorveth might scold me if I don't tell him," Astarion thinks; meanwhile, Iorveth hears "teeny-tiny possibility" and immediately assumes that Henrik is, in fact, still alive. He loves Astarion, but that doesn't mean that he thinks Astarion capable of executing a plan flawlessly in the absence of help. Iorveth, still the rudest wood elf in all of Faerûn. ]

So he's alive, then.

[ Flatly, another symbolic blunt-force instrument to Astarion's head. He isn't angry so much as he's critical of Astarion's methods, which is likely absurd given that the main issue here should be "hey, don't kill a man," and not "hey, why weren't you better at killing a man".

Iorveth withdraws his hand, and folds his arms across his chest. ]

A trifling matter for me, [ as he's entirely used to being hunted for sport, ] but not for you.

I doubt you want the title of "terrorist co-conspirator".

[ Astarion can't help but be annoyed at Iorveth's lack of confidence in him. Henrik had been bleeding heavily. For all Astarion knows, he's already left this mortal plane. But the Fists aren't usually unprepared, and the chances of him being whisked away to some on-call cleric are high.

Still, Iorveth doesn't have to act as if it's a foregone conclusion. It isn't like it's Astarion's fault; he did all of the stabbing the way he was supposed to. ]

I've been called worse.

[ It couldn't be more wrong, though. 'Terrorist' implies he has some sort of cause. The only things in this world that he cares about are himself and Iorveth, and he supposes he has a smidgen of fondness for the rest of their motley crew.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, brow furrowed. ]

Although I'm not particularly excited about 'wanted' signs with my face on them.

[ There's significantly less trepidation about it than there would have been before. No more Cazador and his cronies to worry about seeing his face on a poster. The Flaming Fists and any meddling citizens are a problem, but one he plans to handle the same way he handles nearly everything: with the sharp end of his dagger. ]

Don't worry your pretty little head. I'll stab however many Fists I have to.

[ "Don't worry about it," Astarion says to a man who is chronically thinking about worst-case scenarios. Once again, the look on Iorveth's face is unflinchingly flat, but it eases somewhat as he reminds himself that they've survived the past few tendays with no plan beyond "maybe we'll figure things out as we go along".

(Realtalk: he definitely wouldn't have stayed as long as he has if Lae'zel didn't have the laser-focus initiative of going to the Githyanki Creche in the beginning of their journey.) ]

I only worry about your chances of attending a soiree as a wanted man.

[ Not actually the biggest point of concern, but it's fine. No need to dress Astarion down further for a murder attempt done out of the goodness (?) of his heart. Henrik is a drop in Iorveth's vast ocean of problems, and one that may not need addressing if the guy is, in fact, actually dead.

Pressing his hand to his bandaged shoulder, he tests whether the wound still feels warm. It doesn't, which means that it'll heal up nicely with a cleric's intervention. Might not even leave a scar. ]

[ No!!! Astarion flops back down onto the mattress with a melodramatic sigh, looking every bit the child throwing a tantrum. He'd not thought of the fact that Henrik could ruin his soiree fantasy before it even started. How will he ever see Iorveth dancing in fancy clothing and sipping expensive wine now? ]

—Perhaps I can still finish the job before he has the chance to recount my appearance.

[ How quickly Astarion goes to murder again when something he wants is at stake. His gaze flicks to Iorveth, questioning. ]

He was bleeding rather extensively. [ Said with a hint of pride. Astarion stabbed him real good. ] If he's still alive, he could still be recovering.

[ Ways to incentivize a vampire. Iorveth chuckles under his breath, low and brief, and cranes over Astarion to press his lips to the outline of that new bruise. ]

One would hope that he bled out.

[ A horrible thing to say about the fate of a living being, but Iorveth doesn't care. Henrik would've killed them both even if they'd shown all signs of compliance― he doesn't deserve Iorveth's kindness or sympathy. Just another human following human initiatives. The world won't suffer for Henrik's loss.

Iorveth trails his mouth down Astarion's cheek, and, like a freak, licks a small patch of dried blood on his jaw; probably splashback. Obviously, Iorveth is not a vampire, so he draws back with a light grimace. ]

Even his blood tastes foul.

[ Although he'd rather not have his ugly bruise highlighted, Astarion very much likes that Iorveth is a freak. It's gratifying, in a way, to not have to make himself lesser or more conventional to please him. Iorveth doesn't mind that he's a vampire or that he enjoys killing with both words and knives. After two centuries of having every bit of himself criticized and denigrated, the mere act of being accepted in his entirety is thrilling. The corner of his mouth twitches, the feeling of Iorveth lapping at Henrik's dried blood making him ticklish. ]

Darling, [ he scolds, schooling his features into a chiding frown — or at least attempting to. Despite his best efforts, he's still grinning a little. ]

You're supposed to say that everything tastes sweet as long as you're licking it off my ravishing body.

[ Honestly, it's like Iorveth doesn't know anything about romance. How lucky for him that he has someone to teach him. ]

[ Iorveth's next eyeroll isn't subtle, but offset by his similarly-unsubtle smirk. Crazy, how many lines Astarion has rolling around in his underutilized (affectionate) brain, and the confidence with which he says them. ]

Frankly, I'd rather taste you.

[ Not a line, just the truth. He glances down, upright to Astarion's horizontal, pressing a palm to Astarion's thigh. ]

Perhaps when you're not covered in human blood. And in the absence of an old gnome and her score of cats.

[ And like, when his shoulder isn't fucked and a group of Fists aren't trying to hang them by their necks. Life is so hard, all the time. ]

Consider yourself fortunate that we've not had an entire day to ourselves.

[ It probably says something about him that he'd have no qualms with getting down and dirty in an elderly woman's house (and place of business) while her well-dressed cats claw at the door. He has to laugh a little, a raspy thing under his breath; for years, there was nothing he wanted to do less than touch and be touched, but Iorveth brings out in him an uncharacteristic desire to be close. Perhaps it's because he knows that if he asked never to be touched below the waist again, Iorveth would comply. Perhaps he just finds eyepatches unbearably sexy. It's probably a combination of the two. ]

Ugh, there's nothing less fortunate.

[ Again, laughable. How strange it is to want to be alone with Iorveth more than he'd like to be alone with himself. He sighs, laying his hand on top of Iorveth's. ]

Ah, but we'll be done with this whole [ —a dismissive wave of his free hand— ] brain worm business before long. There'll be plenty of time for debauchery then, my love.

[ As cocky as he sounds, there's a little uncertain waver in his voice at the end of his sentence, like he's not confident that he's allowed to call Iorveth that. It does undermine his claims of debauchery a bit. ]

[ "Plenty of time". A daunting idea. Iorveth can't remember the last time he felt divorced from the inevitability of extinction, of the idea that the Aen Seidhe have so little time left. Now, with the political power in the North shifting, Ciaran has posed the possibility of having the Woodland Fox retire for good. No one likes a monster during peacetime.

That leaves Iorveth rootless, with a similarly-rootless partner. Which isn't to say that they won't have things to do－ Iorveth, the freak whose cogs are always turning, is already considering who to consult to help with Astarion's sun problem, and has a few candidates－ but.

There it is again, that persistent feeling that Astarion probably deserves better. A feeling that should've been paid more attention to before Astarion started saying things like my love. It makes Iorveth's heart clench, and he squeezes Astarion's thigh to vent some of it out of his system. ]

It won't be debauchery, so much as me making love to every inch of you.

[ Again, not a line. It's spoken too matter-of-factly to be strictly romantic, but his expression softens as he slides their stacked hands up from Astarion's thigh to his stomach, fingers splayed. ]

[ Only Iorveth could say 'making love' with all of the romance of discussing the weather or what's for dinner. Astarion has always thought the term entirely ridiculous, the invention of some pathetic sod who couldn't just stomach saying sex. Somehow, despite the no-nonsense tone to his voice, it sounds rather more appealing when Iorveth says it.

Ugh. Embarrassing. Only a twitterpated fool would kick his feet at this, but— well. Maybe that's what he is. ]

You're awfully sweet for a terrorist.

[ Sweet to Astarion, anyway, which is the only kind of sweet that matters. He squeezes Iorveth's hand, grinning. ]

I don't think I'd mind a little debauchery, if it's with you.

[ "Sweet", in Iorveth's opinion, is a stretch. "Permissive", maybe. "Sweet" is a word better suited to bleeding hearts like Wyll or Halsin, and he thinks of correcting Astarion wholesale－ "I'm awfully permissive for a freedom fighter"― but decides not to.

Instead, he lifts their twined hands so he can lick at the dried blood there, more vestiges of Henrik that he doesn't like seeing on Astarion's pale skin. It still tastes foul, but he can put up with it for the sake of the mood. ]

Your concept of "little" invites far too much from me.

[ Case in point. Just a small, temporary tryst, he'd told himself. A sliver of indulgence. Look where they are now.

Iorveth leans over Astarion, kissing down to the soft skin of his wrist, tongue to a silent pulse-point. He lingers there, his other hand sneaking along Astarion's hip, not entirely innocent despite his lack of intent－

－when Dolores returns with her food to reprise her surprised squeak from earlier, this time without dropping her tray.

"Oh my," she stutters. "I thought... well! Here's your food, and the bath will be ready in a minute, if..."

She trails off, embarrassed. Iorveth is rude enough to laugh. ] He'll go.

[ Cockblocked again.

Astarion should be used to the lack of privacy by now. For two centuries, every private moment of his was ruined by the presence of his siblings, and for the past few months they've been ruined by the presence of his campmates. In the evening, he would abscond into his tent to read, irritated by the sounds of Wyll and Karlach drinking by the fire or Gale cornering whatever unfortunate soul into an impromptu lecture. Even Iorveth had counted among his annoyances. Strange how things change.

It's probably for the best. Astarion doesn't have the willpower not to try to get freaky in this tiny, gnome-sized bed. Dolores's interruption saved him from an eternity of living with that choice. He still frowns, displeased. Who knows what interesting places that hand might have gone, or that mouth? Now he'll never know. ]

If I must.

[ He really is rather filthy; a soak will do him some good. It takes every ounce of will he has—so, still not very much—to sit himself up and plant his feet on the ground. As he stands to leave, he glances over his shoulder at Iorveth. ]

Well, try not to think of me naked and glistening.

[ "Oh," squeaks Dolores again, scandalized. ]

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