essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ Iorveth is allowed to say that Astarion will get wrinkles, because Astarion won't: an undead vampire, forever youthful, etc. Iorveth, on the other hand, will age the way Aen Seidhe do, which is to say that he'll get crow's feet and look approximately 40-something in human age until he kicks it.

He doesn't want to think about that right now, so he shoves that thought to the back of his overoccupied mind and pieces together an appropriate response that addresses his sour mood. ]

He disrespected you, [ is what he ultimately settles on, nose turned up and expression brittle. ] You hardly need me to fight for your honor, but it rankles regardless.

[ It would be absurd to fly off the handle every time someone thinks to flirt with Astarion, and it's not like Iorveth will. But this is all very new, and Iorveth knows that he doesn't do well when people tread barefoot over things that are important to him; he's never been particularly good at not getting involved. ]

A selfish irritation. It'll pass.

[ Iorveth looks handsome even with a too-big frilly shirt and a harsh expression, and although his rare softness is Astarion's favorite of all, he hardly minds if he gets wrinkles by looking like that. His words are a bit less appealing, though, and Astarion furrows his brow a little. He'd thought—or perhaps hoped—that it was petty jealousy. Something fun and light, not indignation at an assault on Astarion's honor.

Ha. Iorveth's mistake. He doesn't have any honor left to tarnish. ]

Gods, I'm not a victim.

[ His chin tips up, prideful. That's the last thing he ever wants Iorveth to see him as. ]

I used the tools at my disposal to best him.

[ At least, that's what he tells himself. It's what he's been telling himself for two hundred years. ]

And that's why I said that my irritation is selfish.

[ Because Astarion isn't some wilting maiden in need of someone to throw punches every time some idiot drools in his direction. It's likely that this is the closest that Iorveth will get to pouting about something, which makes Astarion's previous assessment of what his face is doing semi-accurate.

Sullenly: ] You do something to me.

[ An aggravated gesture with his free hand (the one attached to his injured shoulder, which protests the movement), indicating said Something that he has no idea how to describe. ] I'd thought myself above this.

[ Again, being infatuated is new. He's been loyal, he's been dedicated, but he's never felt compelled to raise his hackles at the mere thought of someone being discomforted by something. All of his feral aggression channeled into feral affection, biting and snapping at whatever it can, whenever it can. ]

[ Iorveth speaks as if Astarion has done something bad to him, but even still, one sullen admission from him is worth ten thousand compliments from a baby-faced (if admittedly good-looking) Fist. He slides his hand down Iorveth's forearm and wrist, slipping his hand into Iorveth's and closing his fingers around it. ]

Even you aren't above succumbing to my considerable charms.

[ Although that doesn't quite seem to be where Iorveth's issue lies. Astarion can understand to an extent; he often feels vexed by how pathetic he's made by love, a pitiful excuse for a vampire who longs for even a crumb of Iorveth's attention. He hadn't had much to take pride in all those years in the palace, but he'd felt satisfaction knowing that he was a lone wolf who didn't need attachments that would only make him vulnerable. That version of himself would be aghast at this version.

With his free hand, he gives Iorveth's cheek a gentle flick. ]

I said to stop pouting, even if you do look very handsome and brooding. Frowning won't make you any less madly obsessed with me, I'm afraid.

[ Iorveth only hates so vehemently because he loves just as vehemently: he can never do anything by halves, which is why he thinks to look offended by the implication that he's obsessed, but ultimately chooses not to snap back with something uncharitable. If the weird glove sort-of fits, etc. ]

I'm trying to exercise restraint.

[ Because it's not actually a laudable thing, hovering like an overbearing stormcloud over the object of his affection. Iorveth will cut himself out of the equation entirely and immediately, without argument or debate, if he ever finds himself acting like a second Cazador.

Who would've thought that loving someone would be so difficult. Worth the growing pains, though. Astarion holds his hand, and Iorveth finds that the touch facilitates the venting of his tension from his shoulders and face. Gods, he's been made so easy. ]

...I'll do the distracting, next time.

[ With finality, as he lets Astarion lead them back towards Elfsong. The detour's turned Iorveth around somewhat; it's a testament to his comfort around Astarion that he allows Astarion to tug him around now. ]

[ Astarion doesn't like the idea of Iorveth making unilateral decisions like this, but he does like the idea of Iorveth trying to seduce some 20-year-old human, so he doesn't argue. He adores Iorveth, really—the light of his life, fire of his loins, and so on—but there's very little provocative about him, unless one finds murderous scowls alluring. Luckily, Astarion does, but he can't see it going over as well with someone who's on the hunt for a one-eyed wood elf terrorist.

It's midday by the time they return to the Elfsong. Astarion opens the door without preamble, striding in on a half-elf and a githyanki with their lips locked. Lae'zel practically jumps back, green-yellow skin turning a dark coral color as she blushes profusely. They weren't doing anything salacious, but perhaps that's the worst of it; Lae'zel, fearsome githyanki warrior, kissing her sweetheart chastely. Shadowheart looks offended at having their canoodling interrupted, and Lae'zel glowers.

"Surely you've heard of knocking," she hisses, "or did the tadpole jumble not only your brains but your manners?" ]

Our manners! This is a shared space, you know. You're only lucky that poor Wyll didn't walk in and learn the facts of life!

[ He is, of course, only performatively scandalized. After all, he had his hand down Iorveth's pants in this very room yesterday. ]

[ The audacity of Lae'zel and Shadowheart being offended when they've participated in cockblocking him countless times. He arches his brow in a way that clearly conveys "am I meant to be surprised, or," which doesn't go over well with their already-annoyed party leader; she gives him a look that might have been able to wilt grass if not for the flush still lingering on her face. ]

We'll leave if you want to fuck, [ he suggests blithely. Shadowheart, despite herself, barks a laugh, but also throws the nearest armchair pillow at his head.

She's no markswoman. It bounces harmlessly off of Iorveth's chest.

"Gods, you two are the absolute worst," she quips as she fixes her shirt, casting her attention on Astarion and his bruised face; quite obviously, she doesn't have it in herself to be surprised by the state that these two elves come back to home base in anymore. "We really should start revoking certain privileges for them, Lae'zel."

Eyes still narrowed and ears still coral, Lae'zel hisses: "my thoughts exactly. I heard that they traumatized the wizard with their antics― perhaps they don't deserve to share a bed." ]

Ugh, you know Gale. The mind does tend to wander to scintillating topics when you're lonely. Clearly, he's imagining things.

[ He brings a hand up beside his head, circling a finger around in the universal sign for crazy. In all honesty, he doesn't care that Gale gossiped about what they did; he'd do it again in a (nonexistent) heartbeat. He'll throw Gale to the wolves before he ever lets Lae'zel revoke his Iorveth-cuddling privileges, though.

It's entirely practical, that's all. It gets cold at night, and he needs a warm body to stay comfortable. ]

Don't get your, ah, surprisingly scanty undies in a twist, [ he tells Lae'zel, to which she scowls even further. ] We did your little task.

[ Iorveth did it while Astarion stood around, but he takes half the credit anyway. ]

Go on, Iorveth. Tell her.

[ "Go on," Astarion says, and Lae'zel rolls her eyes in a way that feels distinctly of the School of Shadowheart. Endearing, almost, that they're rubbing off on each other. ]

I'll report, [ he says to Astarion, unwinding their hands and giving a nudge with his elbow. ] Have Shadowheart see to your face.

[ Best to divide and conquer before the women start coming up with more ideas to punish their wayward elves. Lest Astarion mistake this for getting summarily dismissed, Iorveth cranes sideways and presses his mouth to the edge of Astarion's bruise with the sort of easy affection that manages not to be performative― almost like tucking a stray piece of hair behind someone's ear.

Lae'zel looks vaguely put-upon (she was supposed to be indulging in this gross and fascinating Faerûnian custom of "softness" too, before these idiots ruined it), but allows Iorveth to lead her to the other side of the room, where they discuss what Iorveth'd found under Araj's workshop and the matter of his weaponized blood, while scrutinizing the items that Iorveth'd pilfered from the charred rubble. Talking shop. They fall into a more familiar rhythm, with Lae'zel settling back into her role as leader and Iorveth into his role as a neutral advisor.

Shadowheart, meanwhile, decides to pinch the bridge of Astarion's nose before she gets to work on mending his bruise. "I thought rogues were supposed to be sneaky," she notes. "Sneaky enough not to get decked in the face." ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject