essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ Someone has to consider how to navigate their uncertain future, Iorveth thinks, but he doesn't say so. No indictments tonight, not even about Astarion's underutilized brain cells. (Like Iorveth is one to talk.)

He gets up off of the stool and brushes the last of his fallen hair from his bath-warm skin, then wraps the towel on his lap around his waist as a perfunctory way to hide his privates. ]

You keep me busy, either way.

[ Which is a good thing, if Astarion is wondering. Iorveth plants a quick peck to Astarion's forehead before doing as he's told (gods, when did he become so easy), navigating towards poor Shadowheart's ransacked things to examine himself in her handmirror. He still isn't much to look at, but regardless: ]

―Mm. You truly are good with your hands. [ Tipping his head to the side, watching nicely-trimmed hair fall tidily into place. ] Talented, even.

[ Iorveth could have said that when Astarion was up to his knuckles inside him, but he's feeling generous, so now is good, too. He peers into the mirror from behind Iorveth, entirely invisible in the reflection. ]

Yes, [ he says, narcissistically, ] but even the most talented artist does better with a lovely canvas.

[ He tucks a strand of hair behind Iorveth's ear. In the mirror, the hair seems to move by itself. ]

And you are lovely.

[ Perhaps the refreshed hairdo will make him more likely to believe Astarion's compliments. He'd certainly like if that were the case; someone so wonderful should never have to feel undesirable.

Speaking of undesirable, Astarion fingers a curl at the front of his own head, frowning. ]

Now you'll need to rid me of this charred thing. I'm not going to a soiree looking like this.

[ Still skeptical of "lovely", but not recoiling at the compliment outright. The resistance is no longer a matter of mistrusting Astarion or his so-called shallow praise, but a lingering reticence to acknowledge his appearance. Not uncomfortable by the prospect, per se, but out of practice.

A shame, that he can't distract himself with Astarion's reflection in the looking glass. Iorveth sets the thing back down onto Shadowheart's dresser after a quick dip of his head (an underwhelming reaction to being complimented, perhaps, but not an outright dismissal), and turns to Astarion to survey the barely-there damage to the very tips of soft silver bangs. ]

You trust me with a sharp object near your precious hair, do you.

[ Joking!!! Joking. Still, Iorveth can't resist taking the scissors from Astarion and snipping it threateningly in the air, lopping off an imaginary chunk of hair from that lovely head. ]

Stay still, lest I accidentally shave you bald.

[ The horror. It would be tragic if Iorveth got dumped right after sleeping with someone, but if anyone could make something like that happen, it would be Iorveth. ]

[ Astarion reacts to the threat with appropriate horror, eyes widening at the snip, snip of the scissors. Even more horrific: he really does trust Iorveth with a sharp object near his precious hair. Gods, he'd trust him with a sharp object at his throat. What kind of misanthrope is he? One that's stupidly, deliriously in love, apparently, beyond all reason and rationality. ]

You wouldn't.

[ His wide eyes narrow, and he sticks his nose up in the air, haughty. ]

Then you wouldn't have any more soft hair to tangle those fingers of yours in.

[ Who else's hair would he run his fingers through? Lae'zel? Gale? Please. ]

—But, [ he adds, pointing a finger, ] do be careful. This coiffure is two hundred years in the making, you know.

[ It's the only haircut he knows how to style without a mirror, too. ]

You should cast your head in plaster and immortalize it, then.

[ Another dry joke, affectionate. Turnabout is fair play: Iorveth has trusted Astarion with sharp teeth near his jugular, so now Astarion has to trust Iorveth with a scissor to his precious, centuries-old hairstyle.

It's a good thing that the trim doesn't take much time or finesse at all. Just a single snip, slow and careful, to the slightly-burnt ends of one damp curl. There, Iorveth mouths, and makes sure that it falls artfully along Astarion's forehead. ]

I barely recognize you.

[ More teasing, pulling at Astarion's metaphorical pigtails. Still the most relaxed he's been since their journey, comfortable enough with the man in front of him to let his smile linger on his face. ]

[ He'd be lying if he said he didn't feel even a little trepidation as those scissors near his hair. There's a fleeting but very real fear of what might happen if Iorveth's hand slips and he takes a chunk out right by Astarion's face, leaving him hideous for (potentially) eternity.

It's an unfounded fear, because Iorveth is good with his hands, too, and careful not to trim more than what he has to. Astarion touches the curl, feeling its soft end compared to the crunchy, ashy feeling of before, and smiles. It's so minuscule in the grand scheme of things, but there's something about having someone to do this sort of thing for him. It's surprisingly nice not to be all alone in the world.

He curls his arms around Iorveth's neck, fingers toying with the newly-cut hairs at the nape. ]

Here's where you say I'm lovely, you fool.

[ Gods, he likes Astarion so much. Iorveth can't decide if Astarion is the exact opposite of what he'd usually be attracted to, or if Astarion is the exact example of what he actually is attracted to, and just never knew until now. Either way, Iorveth finds himself juggling both an impossible compulsion to punch himself in the face and an infuriating desire to kiss Astarion breathless.

He ends up doing neither; instead, he loops his arms around Astarion's middle and keeps him in a loose embrace. ]

Something so obvious hardly bears saying.

[ Even when Iorveth couldn't stand how Astarion weaponized his looks, he'd still been annoyingly lovely. Iorveth nuzzles against Astarion's neck, finding an unmarked patch of skin to gently worry his teeth over―

―when he's interrupted by a sudden shimmer of magic in his periphery, a faint tremor in the air near them that forms, eventually, into a glowing outline of a familiar wizard. An illusory figure, cheery as ever.

"Hello!", it chirps. "Once again, you find me here on behalf of Gale of Waterdeep, who wishes to know if it would be appropriate to, ah, interrupt the current proceedings by entering what he would like to remind is a common area, for the entire group." ]

[ Astarion grins, tilting his head to allow Iorveth more access to his neck. He, too, likes Iorveth so much, but he doesn't feel the need to punch himself, only kiss Iorveth until neither of them can think straight. He's poised to do just that when the apparition of Gale pops up like the grim specter of cockblocking. Godsdammit. ]

Godsdammit.

[ Well, it's better than if they'd been interrupted earlier. He really would have killed Gale for that. Still, he raises his hackles like a displeased alley cat, fists clenched beside him as he stomps his foot at the projection. ]

What could you possibly want now?

[ His tone says 'this better be good'. ]

[ Wizards are so passive-aggressive. Iorveth doesn't quite step away from Astarion, but he unwinds his hands and pivots to face the projection, who doesn't seem to be fazed by the two elves' obvious ire. Instead:

"To turn in after a spot of meaningful adventuring, I'd imagine!"

All smiles, the shimmering image of Gale spreads his arms. Needlessly grandiose despite the simplicity of his answer. If it rankles a bit that they were interrupted by Gale needing a nap, it's smoothed over somewhat by how comical it is.

Iorveth folds his arms across his chest, snorts, and finally steps away from Astarion. ]

All this time, we've been accusing the wrong person for being high-maintenance.

[ Which isn't to say that Astarion isn't, but Gale is such a baby. Or, at least, Iorveth is allowed to think so now that he's demoted Gale to the bottom of the group hierarchy. Iorveth is awful. ]

Let him in. I don't want an accidental Netherese explosion on our hands.

Ah, yes. The all-powerful archwizard, in need of a catnap.

[ Astarion scowls, far less amused by the situation than Iorveth. Honestly, Gale—and all of their other companions—should get the message that they aren't wanted here and clear out, so that he and Iorveth can have the place to themselves. He throws up his hands as he walks away, back toward Iorveth's bed. ]

Fine. I wouldn't want those dark circles under your eyes to get worse, Gale.

[ Petty.

He picks up Wyll's book—the one full of smut, not the courtly romance—and flops down on the bed, sticking his nose in it. Ugh, it really has too much plot for his tastes. The least the author could do is be honest with themself and stop pretending their work is anything but pornography. ]

[ What Iorveth could say: "You also have dark circles under your eyes, you know." What Iorveth doesn't say: that. Either way, the projection is satisfied (?) by the answer, and shimmers back into nothingness as the actual wizard carefully, carefully makes his way into the room, as unsubtle as a burglar in a fairytale.

Iorveth hasn't followed Astarion back to bed yet, having taken it upon himself to at least tidy up the mess they've made of the bathing area, Sweeping up fallen hair into one pile and bunching it into a spare rag that he then discards into the nearest trash receptacle. He barely reacts when Gale balks at his state of undress, and ignores the very pointed clearing of the human's throat to adjust the towel around his waist.

"I would like to remind you," Gale starts, to which Iorveth responds with a curt: ] You would, wouldn't you.

[ The meanest elf in the world. Gale looks offended, and calls out to Astarion's general direction:

"Gods, you've made him worse." ]

[ Oh, it does feel good to watch Gale be the subject of Iorveth's ire instead of being it himself. Astarion grins into the pages of his book, juvenile. ]

Oh, don't pout. It isn't becoming on you.

[ Unlike on me, is the unsaid implication. It's really too bad that Astarion looks adorable and brooding, while Gale just looks annoying! (At least, in Astarion's opinion.) He sets the book down on his lap for a moment, calling back: ]

Besides, you and I both know that no one can make Iorveth anything.

[ True. Iorveth is Iorveth, no matter what. Staunchly himself, which includes being incredibly rude and brusque. Astarion couldn't change him if he tried, and luckily, he doesn't want to. Iorveth's bad behavior is terribly endearing, as long as the victim is someone other than Astarion. ]

Look at your own bad manners, Gale. You didn't even compliment his haircut.

[ The matter of the haircut earns Iorveth a lingering few moments of focus from Gale, which reminds Iorveth that his face is still uncovered; he tips his face away and slips past the human and back towards his bed, ignoring Gale's soft oh.

"...It's very nice," Gale ventures as Iorveth is slinking back by Astarion's side, returning to him like a wild animal to a favored nest. "Have we abandoned the headscarf entirely?"

Iorveth, as he pulls on a pair of underwear so that he isn't quite as terribly naked when he goes to settle on the bed next to Astarion: ]

That would depend on how much our vampire would whine if I wore it again.

[ No one could make Iorveth do anything, but horror of horrors: Iorveth would take Astarion's opinions into account. A terrifying reality that Iorveth has to contend with now. ]

[ Gale looks relieved by Iorveth clothing himself, however minimally; what a prude, Astarion thinks, as if Gale wasn't just in real danger of getting an eyeful he wouldn't soon forget. The wizard creeps in toward his own bed, casting the both of them a wary look as if he's still traumatized from what he overheard the other day. Again, what a prude! Plenty of people would pay good money for the show that Gale got for free, he thinks.

At the mere mention of the headscarf, Astarion makes a face, nose wrinkled, lip curled. ]

That awful thing? Ugh, I was hoping to burn it.

[ So, he'd whine a lot. ]

[ Gale has had full-body sex on the astral plane, and thus has no room to judge anyone for harmless intimacy on the physical realm. In fact, Iorveth would have preferred not to hear about Gale's past exploits with Mystra, but he didn't raise a stink about it when the conversation came up in camp. Hmph.

Still largely naked save for his underwear, Iorveth pulls the apparently-loathed headscarf out from a drawer of his bedside dresser and tosses it onto Astarion's lap. ]

Do with it as you will.

[ Burn it, bury it, let the dogs have it. The headscarf is, in fact, Iorveth's first attempt at sewing anything, complete with the poorly-made hole on one side for his ear to poke out of; he doesn't have any particular attachment to it besides the fact that it's done a noble job of hiding his scars.

Gale, from the other side of the room, drawing his curtains and readying himself for a nap: "If I'm permitted to share my opinion, I think it's rather nice that we get to see more of you." A stuttering pause, as he clearly considers how that sounds in light of Iorveth's current state of undress. "Your face, I mean. More of your face." ]

[ Astarion snatches up the headscarf with new delight, a little bit rushed, like he doesn't want to give Iorveth the opportunity to change his mind. He hates this thing. Not only is it a crime against fashion, but it's a crime against Iorveth's face. And a crime against Astarion, for that matter, because it covers up something he adores so much. ]

Oh, Gale.

[ A tut-tut escapes him. Were it anyone besides Gale, it might have raised his hackles enough for him to stake his claim more obviously, but— well, it's Gale. The chances of Iorveth becoming romantically involved with him are less than zero. ]

Now I know why you stayed and listened, you naughty, naughty boy.

[ Gale turns bright red. "I'll have you know I cast Deafness—" ]

[ Poor Gale, is what a normal person would think; instead, Iorveth reacts by rolling his eye and sitting on the mattress next to Astarion with his sewing kit again. ]

The wizard may be desperate, but I doubt he's that desperate.

[ A low huff-chuckle, and he flicks the corner of the pilfered smut novel with an index finger. ]

That said, he may enjoy descriptions of a crown prince's glistening, spread thighs more than I do.

[ Poor Gale, Part 2. Iorveth hears him splutter and pointedly pull his blankets over his head.

"I came back for a nap, thank you very much." ]

Good. It's my book.

[ Wyll's, technically, but Astarion firmly believes in 'finders keepers'. Possession is ten-tenths of the law, and that's coming from a former magistrate. The smut is so-so, admittedly, but Astarion can't help but feel a little curious about how Nicholas and Edgar are ever going to work things out. And how many positions they're going to try while doing so.

He'd been lounging, but when Iorveth pulls out the sewing kit again—adorable—he sits up, shrugging off the sleeves of his robe and wrapping it around Iorveth's shoulders. Astarion couldn't care less about modesty, but Iorveth does look a little cold, sitting there nearly naked with his hair still damp from the bath. ]

As much as I hate to follow Gale's lead, I could stand to catch up on my beauty rest myself.

[ What neither of them know is that the book in Astarion's hands is that it's the first of a trilogy, and the erotic adventures of Edgar and Nicholas span several countries and involve every single position that bipedal creatures are capable of. The third and final instalment has just come out recently, is sold out everywhere, and is about 800 pages long.

Iorveth, who is more interested in etching circles in fabric than following Nicholas and Edgar's saga, softens his expression incrementally at the feeling of Astarion's robe settling around him. He edges closer to Astarion and tucks him near his side, sharing as much body heat as possible with their proximity. ]

Hm. You did do some strenuous exercising today.

[ An airy, sly drawl. Iorveth combs his fingers through Astarion's freshly-washed hair, and smiles despite himself. ]

Rest. You've earned it.

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