essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ It does give him heartburn. Honestly, it's rather bizarre to consider that, if not for his vampirification, he probably would be a husband by now. A high status man with an equally high status spouse. Maybe he'd even have some little silver-haired brats running around.

Ugh. How awful. He hates the pitter-patter of little child feet. ]

I thought it was 'milord'.

[ In that ridiculous sex fantasy of his, wherein he's a darkly sexy vampire lord with Iorveth as his eternal consort. Something that will remain only fantasy forever; even if he did become a true vampire, there's no way in the hells that Iorveth would agree to be his consort. It's even less likely that he'd allow Astarion to turn him. Not that he wants Iorveth to experience vampirism, exactly, but it does sound nice to have him around forever.

He leans his head against Iorveth's wet fingers, seeking affection. ]

I don't mind playing house, but you'll have to buy me something shiny first.

[ No roleplay until you put an expensive ring on it!! ]

[ Absurd. Iorveth has never fancied a future for himself in which he settles down with someone and lives in a house with absolutely no complications to plague him for the rest of his days; honestly, look at him. Headed straight for the gallows or a ditch in the middle of a forest, really.

Which makes Astarion a complicated curveball to handle. Iorveth wants more for Astarion than a life where he goes down kicking and screaming, so he'll have to factor that in if he's going to bring his sweet, high-maintenance cat up north.

He scoops more water in one palm, and wets Astarion's hair properly for a careful wash. Keeping his hands busy while he thinks. ]

I may be good at many things, but not at playing house. [ A deft sidestep, followed by a distraction: ] Something shiny, though, I can arrange.

[ Uncapping the bottle of product, warming its contents before massaging it into Astarion's hair. He'd forgotten to check the fragrance, but it smells nice enough: something warm and amber-sweet. ]

[ No, he doesn't imagine Iorveth would be very good at playing house, even for pretend. He's a wild, undomesticated animal that belongs in the forest, hunting and scavenging. The polar opposite of soft, indoor cat Astarion, although he has to question his own ability to play house, too. He lost whatever remnants of normalcy existed in him a long time ago, and he might lose even more soon. It won't matter how much he longs for a glamorous life in a castle if he's relegated to skulking in the shadows again.

A sigh escapes him at that thought, but he doesn't linger on it. Perhaps he doesn't even have to worry about such things, and the tadpole will continue to grace him with its powers even after the Netherbrain is gone. That's the state of denial he'd prefer to live in, anyway.

After a moment: ] Rubies would flatter me, I think.

[ Spoiled. ]

But perhaps blood red is a little too on the nose. I'd hate to be a cliche.

[ Iorveth wonders if Astarion wouldn't get bored of being confined in one place again, but maybe stability would be nice after two hundred years of being trapped with an unpredictable sadist and his inhumane whims. That's a contemplation for post-tadpole Iorveth, though, so he lets himself think about what he might gift Astarion now that he has coin enough to spare. Turns out that killing a king and stealing his trinkets can be very lucrative. He recommends it.

As he works the product in Astarion's hair to a nice lather: ] They'd suit. [ Regarding the rubies, because they would. Most anything would, really. ] ―Maybe something on your ear. A gold cuff.

[ Nothing that requires needles. Iorveth pinches the cartilage of one ear, imagining it. ]

We could make Enver Gortash tell us who his craftsman is before we kill him.

[ Iorveth hates that rat bastard, but whoever he commissioned to make him his gauntlet could probably make something pretty for Astarion. Under duress, and for a very generous discount. ]

You only like me for my pointy ears.

[ A statement that would have been very much genuine not long ago. He'd been convinced that the only reason Iorveth included him in his plan of vengeance against Henselt because he was an elf. He's still not sure Iorveth would have given him a second thought if he were a tiefling or a dwarf or, gods forbid, a human, but he likes to think he would have been so utterly entrancing that Iorveth would have had no choice but to fall for him, even with round ears.

All of that is to say that it's humorous now, a dry, amused comment accompanied by a smile. He does like the idea of adorning his ears, pointy or not.

Then-- ]

I dislike Lord Gortash as much as anyone with eyes [ --because what is that midlife crisis hair-- ] but I'm not certain we shouldn't utilize his assistance against that awful changeling. Killing a man with his own Steel Watcher bodyguards seems, ah... challenging.

[ And he hates challenging. ]

[ Iorveth does like Astarion's pointy ears. They're familiar, they're pretty, and they're traits of similarity and safety. He doesn't like the word only being thrown into the mix, but he has to admit that Astarion being an elf was a big part of things.

A slightly-indignant but gentle tug to an earlobe later, Iorveth goes back to work massaging Astarion's scalp, letting the product sit in his hair for a luxurious few moments before he moves to rinse it all out.

As he sifts his fingers through wet curls: ] I trust Gortash's potential assistance as much as I trust the Illithid Emperor.

[ Which is to say that he doesn't trust them at all. His expression wrinkles into a slight frown. ]

I suspect his contribution to our cause would be to stand idly by and do nothing.

[ Sitting idly by and doing nothing is about 90% of what Astarion contributes to the cause, too, but perhaps that wouldn't be wise to point out right now. He lets Iorveth run his fingers through his wet hair for a few moments more before he stands, stepping out of the bath and dripping all over the floor. Towels weren't exactly high on Cazador's shopping list, so he shakes off by habit, only remembering to grab something to dry off with after the fact.

As he does so: ]

It's obviously not that I think any politician will be any big help.

[ Even putting aside the whole 'chosen of the god of tyranny' thing. ]

It's just that, well, I'd rather not die crushed under the metal boot of one of his contraptions. [ A pause, then, ] I'd rather not die at all, but with this worm in our heads, that could be asking too much.

[ His voice is light-hearted, airy, although their possible imminent deaths is a real concern. He shrugs, then gives Iorveth's shin a little kick. ]

In you go.

If you're so fearful of the Steel Watchers, [ Iorveth huffs, flicking Astarion's waist with a thumb and forefinger as a response to being kicked, ] Karlach's been trying to do something about them, I've heard.

[ The Wulbren Bongle Drama. ] Something to do with that ill-tempered gnome and his terrorist agenda. I would have assumed that one anti-establishment belligerent would have been enough for you all.

[ Very offended that Wulbren Bongle is trying to one-up him in the extremist department, but whatever. He limps his way into the bathtub, settling into the slightly lukewarm water. ]

I could speak to Karlach about assisting her. [ If it'd make Astarion feel safer, maybe Iorveth could be persuaded to blow up a foundry. ] You can stay here and rest.

[ After the past tenday, it's likely that Astarion needs some time to unwind. No gnome drama for him, Iorveth assumes. ]

[ While Iorveth sinks into the tub, Astarion seeks out clothing. Wyll so politely laundered his things, so he has plenty to choose from now. He selects the dark robe and pant set that Iorveth had purchased for him, shimmying the silky smooth fabric up his legs as Iorveth talks. ]

You're the one who had a sword slice through him recently.

[ If either of them requires rest, he'd think it would be Iorveth. Then again, he never really seems to rest. Maybe, like a shark, if he stops moving, he'll suffocate. Astarion can't relate. There's nothing he wants to do less than be productive.

Pants pulled on, he slips his arms into the robe and comes to crouch by the tub. Unlike Iorveth, he doesn't bother providing any quiet alone time in the bath. ]

One might think that you just want to commit terrorism.

[ It's so stupid that, of all the things in the world, seeing Astarion in loungewear is what does it for Iorveth. Finely-tailored doublets and slim trousers are nice, but seeing Astarion look comfortable has unlocked something heretofore untouched; something Iorveth will keep to himself lest Astarion think he really has lost his godsdamned mind.

He dips underwater for a second, and resurfaces like an elf-shaped sea monster. ]

Admittedly, it would be satisfying to ruin Enver Gortash's day.

[ And if a bit of terrorism achieves that, well. It wouldn't be the worst thing that Iorveth has done, and sweet little Dolores would probably appreciate not sharing her neighborhood with a bunch of clanking sentient armor. His lips curl into a wry smile, which he aims towards Astarion while combing his own bangs over the indent where his eye used to be. ]

And it would make you feel safer, I assume. [ Important. ] Or, at the very least, it would lower our chances of being arrested before we manage to invade a soiree.

[ Also important. ]

[ Astarion lets an arm dangle over the side of the bathtub, pointer finger dipped into the lukewarm water. He casts a small cantrip, warming the water a little, although it's nothing compared to the scalding hot baths that Gale can create. Oh, well. That's the only perk of being a wizard, as far as Astarion is concerned.

It's sweet that Iorveth is thinking of him. He fights the little smile spreading across his face; how romantic, committing terrorism for his sake! Of course, he doesn't address the idea of 'making him feel safer'. He doesn't want Iorveth to think that he needs to be in any way coddled or protected. He was helpless once, and he won't bear being helpless again. The latter comment, though— ]

Invade is such an ugly word.

[ Reaching for the soap, he lathers up a damp cloth before he takes the liberty of running it over Iorveth's shoulders and chest, paying special attention to his bite marks and the faint line left over from where that horrible Fist had carved into him. ]

I prefer calling it a surprise attendance.

Edited 2024-11-17 18:44 (UTC)

[ Iorveth hums in appreciation at the warmer water and the extra hands; they've come a long way from awkward soaking in a bathhouse, he thinks. ]

Search for a function that could benefit from your surprising presence, then.

[ There's bound to be many, in a city like this. Plenty of moderately-affluent citizens looking for a way to spend coin or show that they have it, plenty of merchants bringing in wares that they'd want to auction in grandiose venues. Iorveth has never lived in a place like Baldur's Gate, but he's done enough research to know that something is always going on.

He scrubs soap into his hair, far less careful with himself than he was with Astarion. Perfunctory, even. He's more interested in what Astarion will do with the pair of scissors once he's finished bathing, so he expedites the process until he feels ready to slowly lift himself out of the water. ]

[ Astarion tosses the cloth aside, letting it make a wet thwop sound as it hits the floor, and stands to give Iorveth room to step out of the tub. He places his hands on his hips and tilts his head as he watches Iorveth rise, pleasure tugging at the corner of his mouth. ]

I really do love to see you all moist and dewy.

[ He likes a wet man. What can he say? He bends to pick up the scissors Iorveth stole from poor Shadowheart, who'll soon find herself unable to trim her bangs, and tests them out in the air. Snip, snip. ]

I'll have to get you soiree-ready, of course. It won't do to have you walking into the party of the season with overgrown hair.

[ Canting his head toward the stool: ] Go on, sit. Clothing optional.

[ A wet, tattooed wood elf with old scars littering his long-limbed body. Iorveth really can't imagine that he's much to look at, but he'll allow Astarion's eyes on him as he towels off and makes his way back onto the stool, naked except for a strip of fluffy cloth spread over his lap. Not to preserve his nonexistent modesty, but to prevent stray pieces of hair from accidentally landing on his dick.

He glances up at Astarion from where he's sitting, and huffs a laugh. ]

No one is going to look twice at me, you realize.

[ Everyone is going to be admiring the pale-haired high elf in his (Iorveth assumes) glittering finery, not the sullen-looking country elf with his covered face and his new haircut. ]

But, mm. Do as you please. [ He closes his eye, and presents his damp head for Astarion's scrutiny. ] Your delusions are endearing.

[ The rudest elf in the world, showing affection through ribbing. The only reason he doesn't make an attempt to pull Astarion onto his lap is because Astarion is holding something sharp in his hand. ]

I'll look at you far more than twice.

[ And he's sure he won't be the only one. Iorveth isn't conventionally pretty, no, but he has strong, handsome features, lovely tanned skin, and back muscles you could bounce a coin off of. The scars he's so certain have ruined his appearance forever make him look rugged, Astarion thinks, and he's always right. ]

No one else will be worth looking at, once I've gotten you into the ensemble Dolores and I have cooked up.

[ A compliment as well as a threat. Iorveth should be afraid.

He combs his fingers through Iorveth's wet hair, slicking it back and then bringing it forward again, trying out different styles. Iorveth's hair is dark and shiny, and he doesn't like the idea of it too shorn, but he also doesn't care to see it hang limp and unstyled in Iorveth's face. He'll trim the bangs and leave the rest long, he thinks, so that Iorveth might one day braid it again the way he had in the memory he showed Astarion.

Without asking Iorveth's opinion on the matter, he gathers up some of Iorveth's face-framing hair and snips. ]

I'll fight off any of your prospective suitors, though, don't you worry.

[ Snip, goes the scissors, and Iorveth doesn't even flinch. Astarion is the only person in Toril that could hold a sharp object near Iorveth's face without raising Iorveth's hackles; he stays perfectly still, palms face-down on his naked thighs. The nightmare memory of a raised spearpoint is too far away to touch him in this moment, overshadowed entirely by the pleasant wash of Astarion's voice, his presence. ]

My hero. [ Near-sarcastic, softened by a chuckle. He opens his one remaining eye a sliver, trying to see if he can flick his gaze up to meet Astarion's. ]

And how well do you expect me to behave? [ Because honestly, that should be Astarion's primary point of concern. Iorveth appreciates that Astarion would like to enjoy this hypothetical soiree, being that he has never been invited to one in the past two hundred years, and he can give Astarion his word that he'll do his utmost not to get them thrown out in the first five minutes of their stay.

Hopefully. ]

I should refrain from breaking too many fingers, I assume.

[ Disappointing. Many would likely assume that Iorveth is exaggerating here despite his matter-of-fact tone, but Iorveth has never in his deranged life made a threat he hasn't been willing to follow through on. ]

[ Iorveth opens one eye, and Astarion closes one, tongue running over the point of his fang in concentration as he trims the curve of Iorveth's bangs. He isn't particularly experienced in hair-cutting, but he's dexterous enough with the scissors that his work looks passable. Besides, he's spent more time looking at Iorveth's face than anyone else in the world, which probably helps.

More hair falls to the floor as he says, ] Well, maybe you can break some fingers.

[ It's hot when Iorveth hurts someone. He won't be accepting any criticism of his mental wellbeing at this time. ]

But parties really are for more subtle forms of violence. You know, spreading rumors, ending friendships, causing mass hysteria.

If anyone touches you without your express permission, [ Iorveth declares, perhaps with a bit too much self-satisfaction, ] I'll break a hand or two.

[ Or three, or four. Iorveth "if someone does a bad thing to someone I like, I will immediately resort to violence and/or murder" NoLastname. This isn't strictly exclusive to Astarion－ Ciaran has a few stories to tell, if he's ever asked.

Snip. It's a shame that Iorveth only has one eye, and thus his field of vision remains shot despite the trimming of his overgrown bangs; still, it's the sentiment that counts. He no longer feels the longest part of his hair hanging like a drape over his face, which may or may not be an improvement. He has no idea. ]

Though you're right, I suppose. It would benefit us to know who's planning on ending who in this city.

[ That's the Woodland Fox in him speaking. He hasn't forgotten that he committed regicide in a city where people are bound to talk about it, so it would be nice if he could gauge Baldurian reaction to that bit of information. ]

We've caused two power vacuums in quick succession. People are bound to be speaking about it.

[ Astarion picks up a long piece of Iorveth's hair and holds it between his index and middle fingers so he can cut it, blending the newly-shortened hair of Iorveth's bangs with the longer bits still left. Cut hair falls onto Iorveth's shoulder, and Astarion sweeps it off with his hand. ]

You know I love when you scheme.

[ Although he's not particularly excited by the idea of listening to boring political talk. He's even less excited by the idea of hearing the great and the good of the Gate discuss Cazador's untimely death unless they all plan to dance on his grave. Possible, considering how many influential people Cazador had under his thumb via blackmail and coercion, but still unlikely. ]

Ah, that does beg the question, though — who will take that human king's place now that we've ended his reign?

[ Henselt, he means, although he's already forgotten the name. He hadn't even considered that someone would take his place when they'd set out to kill him; even if he had, he wouldn't have cared. It's only now that he realizes Iorveth could very much still have an enemy out there in the world, growing a new head like a hydra. ]

[ A brief pause, similar to the pause before he spoke openly about Isengrim. Maybe that silence speaks volumes, maybe it doesn't― either way, Iorveth chooses to be frank. ]

A golden-scaled dragon disguised as a beautiful human woman.

[ Recycling a phrase he'd used earlier. He doesn't sound bitter, per se, but there's an effort to distance himself from this particular reality, given that the painful lesson he learned from her rejection of him is still fresh in his memory. Iorveth never loved her the way he loves Astarion now, selfishly and deeply personally, but it still stings to know that she won't accept him as he is. ]

Someone worthy of the crown we've worked to place on her head― a queen who would seek peace for all, including the Aen Seidhe.

[ She's the best he can hope for. But expanding on that would be more boring political talk for Astarion to sit through, so he waves it aside with one hand. ]

I might introduce you to her, if we go north. My presence may not be welcome, but she may be able to aid you.

[ He's not certain if this whole 'golden dragon' thing is literal or metaphorical, but he doesn't really care. It's weird, certainly, but it's none of his business if the north wants a scaled queen. He hardly gives a shit what happens to them politically, as long as Iorveth is happy.

He does question, though, ] Aid me?

[ Another snip, and Iorveth's split ends fall to the floor. ]

Not that I'm opposed to taking whatever a queen can offer me, but whatever would she aid me with?

[ Money? Maybe. Status? Sure. But those don't seem the type of thing Iorveth would be concerned about. ]

[ Iorveth blinks up at Astarion as if he doesn't understand the question, until he reminds himself that so much of what he thinks about exists in his own head and nowhere else.

After a brief pause, again: ] The matter of you conquering the sun.

[ Because yes, he's been thinking about it. Gears preternaturally turning― scheming, as Astarion'd put it. A survival instinct that extends to the important things and people in his periphery, a paranoid jitter. Sure, Astarion can live without the sun if he has to, but the sun would make him happier. ]

She's well-connected. If she can't help directly, she's likely to know someone who could.

[ A cabal of ambitious sorceresses comes to mind; Iorveth wrinkles his nose. ] Call it getting ahead of myself, if you wish.

Hm, [ is Astarion's thoughtful reply as he rounds Iorveth on the stool to get the back of his hair. It's difficult to pinpoint how he feels about Iorveth's queenly connection helping him to conquer the sun. From an objective standpoint, it's a wonderful idea, and terribly sweet of Iorveth to think of him. From an Astarion standpoint, he's not even sure he wants to admit that there's a very real possibility he won't be able to walk in the sun anymore after this journey.

And, of course, because he can't help but be pessimistic: ]

Aid like that doesn't come without a price.

[ There's no such thing as a free lunch. Everyone always has their own agenda. Even Wyll, the selfless hero among them, does his heroic deeds because he wants to feel like a hero. ]

It doesn't.

[ Iorveth agrees with that much, at least. It isn't pessimism, to him, as much as it's realism: one commonality that he shares with Astarion is that he's lived a lifetime of shattered hopes. He knows better than to rely on the goodness of another person's heart.

Scissors at his nape, Iorveth bows his head a little for easier access. ]

Not a single wizard or sorceress does anything that doesn't also further their goals. Be that as it may, they would be the only ones who would know how to go about freeing you from a nocturnal life.

[ Iorveth is no alchemist, and certainly no spellcaster. His knowledge of the arcane is academic, if even that; he isn't interested, and he isn't compelled.

But, again, he's getting ahead of himself. He breathes through his nose, and flicks a piece of hair away from his knee. ]

These are just my personal musings, mind. Ideas to occupy my restless mind with.

[ Astarion isn't certain he likes Iorveth occupying his restless mind with thoughts of Astarion's upcoming return to the dark. Is it because he dreads being saddled with a partner who can't even walk outside during the day without burning to a crisp? Whatever drawbacks Astarion will have, Iorveth will have, too. It makes him feel— well, bad. For another person's misfortune, which is still a strange and foreign concept. ]

You mustn't worry that pretty little head of yours, [ he says, stroking Iorveth's hair as he comes back around to the front. ]

Not when I've given you so many better things to occupy your restless mind with. Although I fear some of them may only make you more restless.

[ He cocks his head as he surveys his work. Shorter bangs, swept to the side and out of Iorveth's face. Kept longer on the sides and the back, but cleaned up; Iorveth's hair no longer looks scraggly and uncared for, like the hair of, well, a woodland terrorist. He fluffs the sides a bit, pleased. ]

I'd offer you a mirror, but I don't keep one on hand. [ For obvious reasons. Shadowheart probably keeps one for doing that ghastly makeup, though. ] Go look.

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