essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Astarion kicks Iorveth's shin with his, ankle scandalously exposed in his ill-fitting, borrowed trousers. Pointedly, he says, ] Careful what you say about the dead.

[ The corpse in front of Iorveth is plenty useful, thanks. The besweatered tabby worms its way between them, rubbing its furry head against the warmth of Iorveth's torso. And ignoring Astarion, he notes, although one can hardly blame it. The cold skin of the undead is no comparison to the warmth of the living, even when it's as lovely as his cold, undead skin. ]

Well, if we're going to sift through the rubble of some insane drow's workshop—

[ Gods. He can hardly believe he's going to do such a thing. He'd always suspected that love turned people into fools, but now he has proof. ]

—Did you want to do it now, or were you hoping to spend more time cuddling with these flea-ridden things?

[ They aren't flea-ridden at all. They're really rather cute, but he'd never admit it. ]

[ Iorveth shakes off the existential quandary that threatens to creep into his conscious: the very real problem of him, a very mortal and alive being, being in love with a vampire, who is very immortal and undead.

More pressingly: ] Before we go, [ because they should, before they overstay their welcome and before more customers arrive who are less liable to accept the absurdity of two suspicious elves skulking about (bless Kurug, the best of them), ] I want you to hold this cat.

[ Reaching sideways to pick up the white fluffy one, who has nested by Iorveth's feet and started dozing on the (probably handmade) rug. It looks annoyed by the interruption to its nap, but looks more put-off when it finds itself unceremoniously placed on Astarion's lap.

Iorveth leans back, clearly amused. Two fluffy cats in one place, albeit in different forms. ]

[ Both Astarion and the cat look perturbed by this development. Astarion holds his hands to his chest as if Iorveth has dumped something disgusting in his lap, and the cat stands stock still atop his thighs like it's unsure what to do in this situation. A protracted moment passes, neither of them moving, before the cat seems to accept its fate and curls up on his lap to finish its nap.

Astarion places a hand lightly on its little body, but it hardly stirs. Lazy thing. ]

Well. [ There's that upturned nose of his again. ] I suppose, out of all the cats here, this one is the...

[ Prettiest? Fluffiest? Somehow, the thought of admitting that he likes the way its fur feels under his fingers is embarrassing. ]

—Least mangy.

[ Iorveth leans back, and when that doesn't provide a suitable-enough vantage point for him, he gets up off of the bed and takes a few steps back. ]

You two make a pretty picture.

[ Not a single mangy creature in the room. The cat flicks its tail, brushing it against Astarion's forearm. ]

I'll make a wood elf of you yet.

[ A joke. Aen Seidhe aren't followers of Silvanus, and the vast majority of them don't spend time Wild Shaping and living with animals; they just know how to coexist with nature better than most. Still, it's nice to watch how the cat nestles in Astarion's lap, perhaps not entirely comfortable with the undead man it's using as a cushion, but comfortable enough to trust him with its nap.

That's enough bullying, though. Iorveth gravitates back to Astarion, and raises a smug brow as if to say "well? do you want me to take the cat off your hands or not?" ]

[ Astarion wrinkles his nose. He's a high elf through and through, supercilious and pompous, and he'll never be the friend to all animals that, say, Halsin is. (Hopefully he's just a friend.) The little cat is one of the better animals, though, he has to admit. Hesitantly, he strokes its long white fur, and the thing purrs faintly at the gentle touch. It's more like him than he thought. ]

It's only lucky that I've decided not to make it a snack.

[ It's small enough that it would be a poor snack anyway, but Astarion says it regardless, as if threatening the little creature lest it think he, ugh, likes it.

He lifts the cat by the middle, and its eyes open, flicking at him in annoyance for interrupting its nap yet again. He places it on the ground gently, and it immediately flops back down to finish its sleep, done with these ridiculous elves that keep moving it around. Astarion stands up, then glances down and pats at his borrowed trousers, stomping his foot in indignation. ]

You got fur on my pants!

[ It's the little things, sometimes: having an owlbear cub drowsily nuzzling one's knee, having a small cat curled on one's lap. Having a living creature's trust, and having it share its warmth. It'd be nice to have Astarion experience these things, increments at a time.

That said, Iorveth is still mean enough to chuckle at Astarion's expense. There are, in fact, trails of long white cat fur clumped obviously on the dark fabric of his borrowed trousers. ]

You look fetching, [ Iorveth notes breezily, adding a my sweet cat in his native language as he looks for the rest of his things. He'll likely have to borrow a shirt of his own― it won't do to go outside shirtless, so he gathers his pack and bow and steps out of the room, gesturing for Astarion to follow, and looks for Dolores who's getting ready to open up shop in the main living room of the first floor.

The only other shirt she has available in non-gnome size is, unfortunately, the sort with frills on its sleeves. "I would have given it to your sweetheart," she explains as she hands it over to him, "but it's even bigger than the shirt he's wearing now."

Iorveth pulls it on. It's obviously meant for a Halsin-sized individual, and Iorveth tries not to look too miserable. ]

[ Astarion is disappointed by the fact that Iorveth plans to cover up his lovely torso, and it shows in a childish pouting as he seeks out Dolores. His mood improves quickly, though, as Dolores pulls out the spare shirt. Sleeves that balloon out—even more so than they should, given the poor fit—and cinch in with ruffles at the wrist. Astarion's pout instantly turns to a grin of delight as Iorveth puts the shirt on, and he steps back to give him a proper once-over. ]

You look positively darling.

[ It's half-bullying, half-compliment. He does look darling, in Astarion's opinion, but he also looks like he wants to die. Stepping back in, he takes the liberty of reaching out and tucking the shirt into Iorveth's waistband. ]

Something like this for the fitting next tenday, I think, [ he says, adjusting the collar so that Iorveth's tattoo peeks out more. Good stitchwork, he notes. ] You'd look ravishing festooned in frills.

I look ridiculous, [ Iorveth corrects, noting Dolores' sudden eagle-eyed sharpness. She hovers around them with her measuring tape in hand, all traces of her previous bashfulness gone in favor of scoping out what would flatter his elongated form. A professional, through and through.

"I think a sharper silhouette might suit him better," is an audacious challenge to Astarion's suggestion. "Or some nice draping, if you'd like some movement."

Gods, what has he signed himself up for. Iorveth (gently) wrenches his arm away from Dolores' inquisitive touch, and takes a step back. ]

I'm starting to think that being naked would be preferable to this.

[ Dolores, more scandalized by the implication that her clothes wouldn't be fitting than the suggestion of nudity, squeaks "nonsense, dear! You'll love the clothes I fit you into, you'll see!" ]

Yes, Iorveth, don't be rude.

[ He couldn't care less if Iorveth is rude. In fact, he happens to like it quite a bit. Still, he likes bullying him even more, and Dolores's unintentional help in that is priceless. The both of them flit around Iorveth like buzzing gnats, poking and prodding at Iorveth — Dolores with her measuring tape, winding it around Iorveth's waist, and Astarion adjusting his shirt to look casually and unintentionally (but sexily) rumpled. A talent of his, really. ]

Naked would be better, but we'll save that for after the party.

[ A fancy party he hasn't yet heard tell of, and that they would never be invited to, and certainly can't attend as two wanted men.

Details. He'll figure them out as they go. Astarion tilts his head, imagining what Iorveth might look like in a mask. That could work; it would hide his most distinctive feature. Once he's satisfied with how attractively disheveled Iorveth's oversized shirt looks, he waves Dolores off. ]

Unfortunately, we have business to attend to, but I'll be back to review your designs, of course. My input on these things is invaluable.

[ Iorveth should see that as nothing less than a threat. ]

[ Terrifying. Iorveth tries to envision himself wearing five layers of ruffles tied together with a silk sash, but his imagination fails him; Facemakers' was the first time he'd worn anything in ages that wasn't borrowed or stolen, and he hadn't bothered looking too closely at himself in the mirror then, either. He can't fathom how Astarion can derive any pleasure from dressing him up (like putting a bonnet on a head of cabbage, he thinks), but Iorveth will put up with it just to see Astarion's eyes light up.

Dolores seems disappointed to see them go ("you don't have to rush out the door!"), but is placated by the promise of the return trip; they step back out into sunshine after they're seen out by the kind old woman and her score of cats, and Iorveth steers them in the general direction of where he remembers Araj's workshop to have been.

Lucky for them, when they get within seeing distance of the burnt-down wreckage of the drow's former home, the only living soul lingering there is a young-looking Fist Recruit poking miserably at the rubble with his booted toe. He's muttering something under his breath, which becomes clearer the closer they get to the disaster site: "riches and glory, they promised! Power and authority! Ain't nothin' powerful or authoritative about shovelin' coal around all day..." ]

A grunt, [ Iorveth notes quietly. ] We might yet survive this.

[ For once, Astarion doesn't trail behind Iorveth blindly with no idea (or interest in) where they're going. There's hardly anyone who knows the streets of Baldur's Gate like him, even though they look different in the sunlight. He could have navigated back to Araj's workshop with his eyes closed.

When they make it to the accursed place, Astarion peers down the cobblestoned street at the young man Iorveth so politely named a "grunt". He isn't wrong; the rookie might even be younger than Wyll, and he's an obvious newcomer to the ranks by his complete and total lack of situational awareness. He's focused on himself, whatever menial task he's been assigned, and little else. ]

Mm, [ Astarion hums in acknowledgement. ] I could distract him while you do [ —he waves a hand vaguely— ] whatever it is that you're here to do.

[ Assuming that Henrik hasn't already put a call out to arrest any pale, white-haired, impossibly handsome elves. Best case scenario, he's dead. Second best case scenario, he's too injured to plaster wanted posters all over the Gate. Third best case scenario, this tenderfoot barely remembers what side of his sword to poke people with, much less the descriptions of two criminal elves. He's willing to roll the dice. ]

[ Honestly, Iorveth has no right to critique Astarion's methods when this plan really does boil down to "be sneaky and murder if necessary, try not to get killed in the process." He looks gives Astarion a once-over, single eye flicking over his oversized shirt and his exposed ankles, and huffs an amused breath. ]

You are distracting.

[ Very. Gods know how many times Iorveth has lost the plot around him. He gives Astarion a nudge with his elbow, a tacit do your thing, and steps into the shade of a nearby tree to obscure himself from the rookie's notice. If things start looking hairy, he can still intervene.

Meanwhile, the Fist Recruit－ a young man who looks about a month over twenty, if that－ finally stops scowling at the remnants of a charred dresser for long enough to note Astarion's presence a few strides away. He squints (he's a rather handsome young man, big hazel eyes and dark, wavy hair), as if he's trying to piece together what he's seeing with something that he's been told recently.

A sniff, freckled nose wrinkling, and he calls out: "oi, pretty elf, c'mere for a second." ]

[ Astarion does his best to adjust his clothing, tucking his shirt in tighter and tugging the cuffs of his pants down. He combs his bangs over the darkening bruise on his forehead. It's distracting in a way he doesn't want to be. ]

Who, me?

[ He presses a hand to his chest as if flattered, although in reality, being called 'pretty' by some baby Fist is hardly the height of flattery. It barely even sounded like a compliment, just a statement of fact. 'The pretty elf', same as 'the pale vampire' or 'the dagger-wielding rogue'. Incontrovertible.

Still: ] You flatterer!

[ He takes a step toward the Fist, careful to angle the bruised side of his face away. ]

I'm not sure what an important man like you could want with someone like me.

[ While the young Fist is occupied with Astarion, Iorveth slips from shadow to shadow until he reaches the ledge that used to separate the top and bottom floors of Araj's workshop. It's slow going－ thanks to the fire, there's not much to hide behind－ but the recruit is busy trying to strike up conversation with the "pretty elf" (he better fucking watch it), which helps.

As he tries to find a safe and discreet way to drop down to the charred rubble without causing a landslide, Iorveth hears:

"Think I've been told to look out for someone like you. Pretty wood elf with silver hair, travelin' in a pair with another wood elf with one eye."

The kid's clearly not been paying too much attention to his briefings; a wood elf with silver hair? Gods. Iorveth tries not to roll his eye as he slowly eases himself onto a beam, making good use of his expert sense of balance to shimmy downwards.

Meanwhile, the Fist continues: "Looks like you aren't with anyone, though. Don't look like a wood elf, either." The young man sniffs, trying not to sneeze from all the ash in the air. "Never seen a wood elf so pretty."

Oh, the kid really better watch it. Iorveth scowls, but drops down onto the first floor and starts looking through the furniture that's survived the explosion. ]

[ A wood elf! Astarion resists the urge to laugh, but only barely. The Fist is right about one thing: he's no tree-hugger. As for the compliment, it doesn't particularly excite him, but he has centuries of experience pretending to be excited by things he doesn't care for. He laughs like the Fist has made a hilarious joke, throwing his head back for good measure. ]

Goodness, no!

[ He gestures to himself, up and down. ]

Me, a wood elf? And silver hair? This is clearly ivory.

[ Astarion accentuates the statement with a flip of his hair, before quickly realizing that such a movement would expose the bruise Henrik gave him and smoothing his hair back down. ]

But if I had to be stopped by a man of the law, I'm thankful it was one so... [ Now he gestures to the Fist, at a genuine loss for words. There's really nothing complimentary he has to say. ] ...Indescribable.

[ The confidence with which the silver (ivory?)-haired elf makes his case helps to convince the young Fist; he puffs up at the compliment (?), pleased that he was recognized as a man of the law, and pleased to be called "indescribable" (which he has likely interpreted as "incredible").

"Just doin' my..." What was the term again? Oh, yeah. "...Due diligence. As a man of the law."

Flexing his authority, if one will. Iorveth can hear the Fist step closer to Astarion, boots shuffling in the debris.

"I'm up-and-comin', y'know. The kind of guy you should be friendly with."

He's really pushing his luck. Iorveth pulls open a cabinet drawer and finds a vial of mystery fluid that he pockets in his pack, quickly (but quietly) making his way through the rubble. He nearly trips over the broken lock of a hatch in the ground, which prompts the Fist to look over his shoulder and squint in the direction of the noise. ]

[ Astarion is already bored by this conversation, but the sound of Iorveth doing gods-know-what in the workshop energizes him, and he reaches out to grab the rookie Fist by the arm. ]

—I'd so love to become friendly.

[ As if he's ever been friendly in his life. An unimportant detail when this newbie could decide to impress his superiors by taking in a one-eyed wood elf and his silver-haired companion. If Astarion needs to be friendly, he'll be friendly.

Case in point: ] Perhaps more than friendly, if you're lucky.

[ Even this, mild as it is, makes him feel a little nauseated, but he pushes through. ]

What are you doing tonight, hmm?

[ Iorveth is slowly easing the broken lock off the hatch when he hears "more than friendly", and something about "tonight". It makes him want to stop exploring and slit the young Fist's throat, not for being the target of Astarion's false attention but for making Astarion wear that metaphorical mask again.

He'll have to hurry. The scorched wooden hatch gives way with a low creak, but the recruit doesn't notice it this time; he's surprised that shooting his shot actually worked, and devoting all of his attention to maintaining his false sense of bravado, like he totally expected the good-looking high elf to give him the time of day.

"Well... I gotta be protecting the city, and all that." Doubtful. "But I can make some time, since you seem so keen."

Iorveth wrinkles his nose (Gods, humans are the worst), and the expression deepens once he smells the fetid scent of death emanating from the hidden basement.

Under his breath: ] Is every cellar in this foul city a tomb?

[ He drops down, eye watering from the overwhelming stench of blood and rotten viscera, meandering past piles of mangled corpses that are impossible to identify as male or female or human or elf. An explanation of at least some of the disappearances in the area, he thinks, as he plucks a few stained research papers from a filthy desk and pockets another vial, this one full of blood. No way of knowing whether it's his, but it feels better not to leave it.

He can't stay down here. He hurries back to the ladder, and hears the Fist saying something about how he knows a good place that serves great calamari. ]

Edited 2024-11-01 03:26 (UTC)

[ Astarion longs to roll his eyes at the insinuation that this near-child could tell him, a centuries-long resident of Baldur's Gate, anything about the 'good places' around here. He has half a mind to tell him that, actually, the best calamari is at the Elfsong, not the Blushing Mermaid, and that he'd know that if any of his compatriots ever invited him out. He doesn't say any of that, though, which is a testament to how much he cares for Iorveth. The things he'll do for love. ]

You really know this city, [ he gushes insincerely. ] But, well, of course you do. You're the protector of it, after all.

[ The Flaming Fists like to think of themselves as heroes. In Astarion's opinion, they're ineffectual duds who couldn't even root out a den of vampires in their city. ]

It's a date. —But you're not going to wear that, are you?

[ Astarion gives a quick once-over of his heavy plate armor. ]

I only worry that it'll be difficult to remove, of course. Maybe you should go change.

[ Remove. The recruit looks like he can't believe his luck, which is not entirely becoming or suave of him, and replies with "eager, aren'tcha", without being aware of how eager he sounds.

"You minx," he says, which would usually be enough for Iorveth to find the sturdiest and heaviest bit of debris he can find to hurl at the human, but he also exercises restraint. Things, love, etc. Seething, Iorveth waits for the Fist to state that he's going back to the barracks to change, scowling even harder at how patronizing the request for Astarion to "stay put and be a good elf" is.

It's only once the clanging footsteps of the Fist fade into the distance that Iorveth pops out of the ruins of the workshop like a murderous gopher, his expression as dark as a stormcloud. He strides towards Astarion with purpose, and once he's within earshot: ]

He best not have put a finger on you.

[ If looks could kill. Iorveth stares at a patch of ground where he presumes the human must have been, and frowns even harder. ]

[ The whole thing leaves Astarion feeling a little dirty in a way he didn't expect. He can't even revel in Iorveth's sour attitude the way he wants to. He crosses his arms over his chest and glances in the direction that the Fist lumbered off in, frowning a little before turning his attention back to Iorveth. ]

Who knew you were so chivalrous?

[ There's probably some innuendo in there about how Iorveth's fingers are the only ones he's interested in, but he doesn't make it. At the moment, he doesn't really want to think about fingers going anywhere near him. It's stupid, really, because this time he led on some idiot of his own free will instead of being compelled to, but he still feels a little disgusted with himself.

He looks Iorveth up and down, eyes questioning. ]

I hope you found what you were looking for.

[ At least that won't have been for nothing. ]

[ Less chivalrous and more annoyed by the audacity of certain humans, but close enough. Iorveth doesn't pursue that subject further, because it tastes bitter in his mouth; speaking someone else's ill intentions towards Astarion into reality feels deeply unpleasant.

So. He folds his arms across his chest and jerks his chin towards the direction of the basement hatch, features still creased into crevasses. Two frowning elves talking about things that displease them. ]

Vials of mystery blood, and an underground torture chamber doubling as a laboratory. You can take a look if you're curious, but mind the dead spectator rotting in one of the rooms.

[ More hidden hellscapes in the dark bowels of this godsforsakened city. More and more, it seems like Gortash is the least of the place's problems. ]

At least some of the disappearances in this area are attributable to her, from what I could tell. My blood wasn't the only one she was tinkering with.

[ The frown on Astarion's face deepens into the sort of thing that Iorveth would tell him is going to give him wrinkles. His nose crinkles in distaste at the 'underground torture chamber' and even further at the mention of a dead spectator. Usually, he wouldn't be so put off by a little light torture (you know, for fun), but combined with the rotten quality of Araj's blood, it paints a sinister picture. ]

I'm glad you disposed of her. Gods forbid you ended up in that 'laboratory' of hers.

[ She always had an interest in parasite-laden blood, so Astarion wouldn't have been surprised if she had wanted to carry out one of her experiments on Iorveth. Furious, yes, but not surprised.

He glances back at the spot where the Fist had disappeared around the corner again, then tugs on Iorveth's ruffled sleeve. ]

We should get going before my new paramour gets back.

[ Hells, Astarion doesn't even know his name. Probably better that way. ]

Besides, Shadowheart will need to see to that shoulder. [ A pause, then: ] Well, perhaps Halsin. I'm afraid Shadowheart might have had her fill of tending to your injuries.

[ A snort, at paramour. Araj is dead and they no longer have to worry about her doing whatever she'd wanted to do with her tainted blood, but now Iorveth has to look out for Henrik and the stupid Fist recruit that didn't even ask for Astarion's name. With each passing day, Iorveth's disdain for human institutions grows. ]

She shouldn't have become a cleric if she didn't want to tend to the injured.

[ Iorveth's focus flicks back to the purple-yellow bruise still sunflowered on Astarion's face, but doesn't move to touch it; acknowledging the tug to his too-loose sleeve with a nod, he steps out of the rubble and, just to be safe, steers them both in the opposite direction of where the young man headed.

He's still mildly seething, which is, admittedly, his default state of being. Arms folded, his posture more imperious and imposing than usual. A bunch of kids playing hopscotch on the street take one look at him and scatter like squirrels, tittering about the "scary cyclops, look out!" ]

[ Iorveth does look like he'd like to murder someone, so the children can't be blamed for being frightened. Astarion still blames them anyway, baring his fangs at the ones who haven't yet dispersed and hissing to alarm them further. If nothing else, they can be scary together.

He can still feel the filth of that false seduction on his skin, and he's hesitant to touch Iorveth and dirty him with it, but after a moment he reaches out to place his hand lightly in the crook of Iorveth's elbow. ]

Don't pout.

[ Iorveth has probably never 'pouted' in his life. Scowled, yes. Glowered, definitely. Stared daggers, certainly. 'Pout' implies a sort of childish sullenness that Astarion possesses in spades and Iorveth is barren of. He still accuses him of it regardless.

Echoing Iorveth: ] You'll get wrinkles.

[ He couldn't care less if Iorveth became a wrinkly, shriveled-up old raisin of an elf. ]

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