essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ It's a small miracle that Dolores hasn't noticed how both men seem to be avoiding mirrors like the plague, but she's being kept busy: Iorveth notes how thrilled she seems to be that she's getting not one, but two entire customers to flutter around, and wonders if the poor woman hasn't adopted a score of cats with her old fool of a husband out of loneliness. A bit of a crime, that. He would care less if she weren't so skilled with a needle and so sweet in her demeanor－ as it stands, Iorveth makes a mental note to bully Kurug (who turns out to be looking not only for an outfit, but an apprenticeship) to work on his marketing skills.

Idle, overly-empathetic thoughts while Astarion changes. Terrible. Thank the gods that Astarion is extremely distracting. He seems to shimmer in his new outfit, wrapped in silk (if that's what it is, Iorveth has no idea) and delicately-embroidered gold, framed and embellished with flawless ease.

After an obvious pause to take everything in, too long to be casual: ]

You'll have people lining up to make smalltalk with you all night.

[ Doesn't Astarion ever get tired of being so ridiculously good-looking??? Ugh. Iorveth takes a step forward and rakes his palm down Astarion's chest, unnecessarily smoothing the fabric down. ]

Still the most beautiful thing I've seen, [ he assesses. Not exactly painting a picture with words.

Second attempt: ] ...Your waist looks eminently hold-able.

[ Dolores actually laughs. At him, presumably. "Oh! It might be better to just look in a mirror, love. He's obviously speechless." ]

[ Drily: ] Obviously.

[ It's partly endearing and partly annoying, since Iorveth's assessment is all he has to go on for his appearance. Ah, but like all the things about Iorveth that are endearing-annoying, endearing wins out. ]

No need for a mirror. [ For obvious reasons. Dolores might be willing to allow a pair of persecuted lovers to track blood into her home and workplace, but Astarion isn't certain she'd be so accepting of a vampire. The thought makes him tug his collar up his neck self-consciously, hiding Cazador's teeth marks. ] I'm sure it suits. You've done excellent work, my dear.

[ Dolores flushes at the compliment. One gets the feeling she doesn't often praised for her work when there are much more prolific tailors in the city. A pity; hers is some of the finest needlework he's seen. Thoroughly flattered, she gets to examining the length of his sleeves and the cut of his shirt, a dedicated professional with an eye for detail.

Gaze flicking back to Iorveth: ] Now, what do we think about adding a cape to this get-up?

[ It would look so very debonair for Iorveth to drape one over his shoulder. ]

[ There is absolutely no earthly way Iorveth is going to go on and on about Astarion's pale skin contrasted with the dark fabric of his new jacket, or all the ways in which Iorveth would love to corral him against a wall－ at least, not when Dolores is within earshot. Not because he's afraid of scandalizing a woman who already seems to support the presence of a healthy libido, but because he doesn't want Dolores to think that he's quite as receptive to Astarion's fishing for compliments as he is.

(Fighting an uphill battle, probably.)

Freed from the sweet old woman's scrutiny for now, Iorveth circles Astarion with slow, deliberate strides. A fox surveying its surroundings. ]

I think it would be ridiculous. [ Predictably. He's blunt, but he manages not to sound entirely dismissive. ] A cloak is one thing, but there's no practical advantage to wearing a cape unless one loves to trip.

[ Dolores gives Astarion a sympathetic glance. Iorveth pretends not to see it. ]

I'll only agree to wear it if it matches something of yours.

[ 'Practical.' As if practicality has any place in fashion -- it's about looking hot as hell, which Iorveth will in a cape. Astarion rolls his eyes, sticking his leg out so Dolores can crouch down and inspect the hem. ]

Well, obviously.

[ There's no point in a cape if it doesn't match! He'll look like a fairy tale prince with one swooshing behind him -- not that Astarion is interested in fairy tale princes or anything. That would be pathetic. ]

I'm sure Dolores has one with gold. It'll complement your complexion.

[ "Oh, yes! Gold would stand out wonderfully!" Dolores coos, although Astarion gets the sense she would say that about just about any color. ]

[ Dolores whizzes around them, a gnome-shaped blur as she fusses with hems and the odd loose end. She promises to bring them a few selections of capes Iorveth can try－ suggesting one that drapes over one shoulder, if Astarion wants both the drama of a cape but also a practical view of Iorveth's back(side)－ and leaves the two to converse for a bit while she flits out to rummage through her atelier.

Some breathing room, finally. Iorveth lowers his shoulders and stretches his neck from side to side, relaxing in a way that he only does when he's in a room alone with someone he trusts, lowering some of his omnipresent walls. ]

I'm surprised that you didn't make her prepare gilded underclothes.

[ Not that they wouldn't look nice on Astarion, mind. All dolled up, and Iorveth is already looking forward to being naked; he's truly lost his mind. Navigating towards Astarion, he readjusts the high collar of Astarion's doublet and runs his thumb over delicate embroidery. ]

...You do look beautiful, [ is a quiet addendum. Just for the record. ] Regal. Finery suits you.

[ Astarion preens, visibly pleased. It isn't just that he's happy to look beautiful—although he is, of course, vain as he is—but that Iorveth thinks so. Iorveth, who thinks his looks are the least interesting thing about him, but thinks he's striking anyway. He can't help grinning. ]

It does, doesn't it?

[ This is the sort of clothing he must have worn when he was someone. He hardly remembers now, but he does remember that he's always been appearance-focused. If only his vampirism hadn't taken the ability to see himself away. ]

You look rather regal yourself.

[ Iorveth wears his clothing with a bit of an awkward, uncomfortable air, but it doesn't matter. The thrill of seeing him in well-fitted clothing outweighs any discomfort he might be putting off. Astarion wraps his arms around Iorveth's middle, hands clasping behind him.

Teasing: ] And your waist eminently holdable.

[ This is probably the life that suits Astarion most: gilded to the teeth, weaponizing himself like a finely-sharpened blade. Beautiful, and liable to make someone bleed if they came too close. Iorveth tips his head, wondering briefly if Astarion wouldn't prefer being a tailor in Baldur's Gate to more adventuring in the wilderness.

Well. He'll see how the party goes. Iorveth is planning on purchasing or stealing some pretty bauble from the less-than-reputable members that will show up to the auction-fête; perhaps that'll keep Astarion pleased enough to be around a weird wood elf for another tenday or two. ]

Don't test me, vampire. [ A low hum, too warm to be breezy. ] The proprietress would have my head if I tore your pretty clothes under her roof.

[ Putting his own hands on Astarion, both palms bracketing his toned waist. He's so attractive, and what for!!!! Iorveth is angry about it every single day, which one would assume would be a negative thing, but by Iorveth's deranged standards is extremely positive.

Another formless sound, and Iorveth rests his forehead against Astarion's. His palms slide down, tracing shapely thighs. ]

Mm. Your pants don't have pockets. [ A problem, if he's planning on having sticky fingers tonight. ]

[ Chiding: ] Pockets would ruin the silhouette.

[ His tone says you should know this. What in the hells is Iorveth learning during their time together if not for the tenets of fashion? He sighs, shaking his head and tsking in disapproval. ]

When will you learn that practicality has no place in fashion?

[ First his ridiculous argument against the cape, and now this! The implication of what having no pockets means for him isn't lost on him, though, and after a moment more of his disapproving stare, he shrugs, hands sliding very presumptuously into the pockets of Iorveth's trousers. ]

Besides, I'll have my fingers in your pockets so often that I'll hardly need my own.

[ Another spike of pure indignation, warmed by inconvenient infatuation. Iorveth absolutely refuses to get hard under Dolores' roof, so it's only iron willpower that keeps him from pushing Astarion against the nearest wall and shoving that cool hand down his new leather trousers. Maybe the desire to do so flits across his expression, single green eye made noticeably sharper by a moment of daggerpoint desire.

Infuriating. Iorveth scours his touch over Astarion's hips, slotting their bodies a little closer. ]

You expect me to be your pageboy, do you.

[ A dry laugh; Ciaran would boggle if he ever found out that Iorveth was playing at being anyone's elven servant. Which reminds Iorveth: ]

―Will you be using an alias? [ Leaning back just a little, looking over his shoulder to make sure Dolores doesn't come back while they're talking shop. ] Or is it too likely that someone would know you by name?

[ If Iorveth intended to throw a bucket of cold water on Astarion, that's exactly what he's done. A shadow darts across his face, there and then gone in an instant. ]

No one who'd know me by name ever got away.

[ Images of those gaunt, ghastly spawn in Cazador's dungeon flood his mind. Their skin sallow and sickly, their eyes and cheeks sunken, ravenous hunger only in the eyes of the ones that weren't too starved to feel anymore. Thinking of the misfortunate creatures scurrying around like vermin in the dark underground of Baldur's Gate makes him feel a little disgusted with himself, but he swallows down the bile in his throat and smiles. ]

What name shall I take?

[ The flicker isn't missed, but Iorveth doesn't call attention to it; he catalogues the misstep for his own reference, makes sure to remember that Astarion still prefers not to contend with the things he had to do in the grand void of post-Cazador, pre-tadpole.

Without moving away, Iorveth considers his reply to the reciprocated question. ]

"Astarion", then.

[ If no one is going to try to kill Astarion mid-party after hearing his name, then there's no need for him to use an alias. Iorveth says as much. ] Unless you'd like to go as "Nicholas".

[ Which would make Iorveth the Edgar of the pair. Hmm. ]

[ So, maybe Astarion did end up reading that book from cover to cover after all. And maybe he became a little invested in it. And maybe he was incensed to reach the last page and find that the damn thing ends on a cliffhanger, and that there's more installments out there that he has no idea how to procure. It's whatever.

The corner of his mouth twitches in amusement, and he raises a questioning eyebrow. ]

The irresistibly gorgeous prince? I do see a resemblance.

[ Although he'd really prefer to think of himself as the bad boy romantic lead, royalty is certainly an acceptable alternative.

Affectionately goading, he asks, ] You fancy yourself the well-endowed assassin, do you?

[ Iorveth, who has only read snippets of the novel in passing, realizes that he has no idea what either of the main characters look like beyond the size of their genitals and the fact that they have heaving chests.

He laughs about it, and at the suggestion that he could be a "well-endowed assassin". ]

A wood elf whose cock is as plain as the rest of him, more like. [ He's not going to stand here and lie to Astarion about the size of his dick, mostly because Astarion has already seen it. ] But I could hold a knife to your neck on occasion, if it pleases you.

[ Some people are into that. Iorveth might be a little into it, on both the knife-holding and knife-threatened end. Aggression and affection are two sides of his particularly deranged coin.

He pats Astarion surreptitiously (?) on the behind, which is when Dolores decides to return with her bundle of capes. She squeaks a bit, but quickly recovers this time around, commenting about how she can't blame her two strange boys for not being able to keep their hands off of each other, and how she's pinched a few bottoms back in her day. ]

[ There's nothing Astarion finds plain about Iorveth, including his lovely cock—his girth isn't as impressive as Edgar the assassin's, but whose is?—but that, at least, he has the propriety not to say in front of Dolores. She might find public ass-grabbing sweet, but certainly even she has her limits. And, besides, he gets the feeling that Iorveth actually likes the old biddy, and furthermore that he might prefer she not hear about his cock.

So, Astarion only withdraws from Iorveth, hands slipping out from his pockets to snatch up one of Dolores's offered capes. A pretty cinnamon color, lined with a shiny, silky fabric and embroidered along the edges with gold, just as he'd requested. He throws it over one of Iorveth's shoulders, delighted. ]

Don't you look gallant? You could just sweep me off my feet.

[ Capes, sashes, and bits of stray jewelry. Iorveth wonders if they're actually going to be expected to pay for all of this, or if these are rentals that Dolores expects to get back in the near future. If it's the latter, he should probably refrain from getting into situations that require shedding blood, his or otherwise. Fingers crossed.

For the moment, he contents himself with Astarion's exuberance, finding it all a bit endearing despite the layers he's being forced into. He'd assumed before that the only reason Astarion would enjoy dressing someone else besides himself in finery would be to keep up appearances, but recent events have forced Iorveth to reassess.

A huff, dry but amused. ]

I intend to.

[ Well, maybe not sweep Astarion off his feet, given that Astarion isn't some tiny, willowy waif that could be picked up quite as easily as some might assume. Karlach could, but one must give Iorveth a break. Instead, he flicks Astarion under his chin as one would do to a well-loved cat. ]

If I have to entertain this farce, I may as well make sure that you enjoy it thoroughly.

[ "Farce?" Dolores asks, chuckling and shaking her head. "Dear, it's a party!" Of course, she has the impression that they were actually invited, but Astarion sees no reason to correct her assumption. He rolls his eyes, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of his face. ]

It's hardly a farce. Do I not belong at an auction for Baldur's Gate's most important people?

[ It's a rhetorical question. He might not be a magistrate anymore, but he still likes to behave like one. He belongs there, really, in the midst of all of that glitz and glamour. A little sparkle is the least he deserves after centuries of dullness and dinge.

He taps Iorveth's chin with one long, spindly finger. ]

Besides, you might actually have fun, and then won't you look like a fool?

Admittedly, [ is slightly exasperated, ] you've proven adept at making me look a fool.

[ Which means that there is a small chance that, yes, Iorveth might enjoy himself. Very vexing for Iorveth, who used to be able to say things like "I don't have fun" and "I don't fall in love" with immovable certainty.

Dolores, meanwhile, flits around with a small box full of antique jewelry, offering them to the pair with unearned generosity: "these used to be my husband's, he stole them from a drow family while he was still in the Underdark－ oh, it's a long and exciting story, what a pity that I don't have the time to tell it! I can lend these to you, my dears, as long as you promise to come back and return them to me."

Iorveth plucks a delicate gold ring from the pile, and gestures for Astarion to give him his hand. ] That would depend on if my sticky-fingered cat would agree to relinquish a pretty trinket after it's been offered to him.

[ Astarion scoffs, offended, then turns to Dolores to assure her, rather emphatically, ] I'd never keep anything that didn't belong to me. I don't know why he says these things! I think he's been hit in the head a few too many times.

[ Dolores, sweet, gullible dear that she is, touches her hand to her heart. "Poor thing." Gods, it's really no wonder why her business isn't as successful as Facemaker's; she's not the slightest bit shrewd. Talented, yes, but savvy, no.

All the better for Astarion. He glances back at Iorveth, smiling sweetly and holding out a hand so that Iorveth can slip the ring on it for him. Even after that, he expects to be spoiled. ]

Of course, I adore you no matter how much brain damage you've sustained.

[ "Aww," says Dolores. ]

[ If anyone else on Toril accused him of having brain damage, Iorveth would shove them away and walk right out, clothes unpaid for; if a human accused him of having brain damage, Iorveth would shove a knife through their skull and say something to the extent of "who has brain damage now?"

The compulsion to be offended flicks across his face, just a moment of prideful ire, before it recedes. A wrinkle of his aquiline nose, a furrowing of his brows. Quick to smooth over, as he slots the ring on Astarion's index. ]

One more hard hit to my head away from being unwell enough to attend parties, I wager.

[ He steps away from Astarion, cape fluttering behind him. ]

Is there more of this, or are we properly gilded?

[ Astarion presses the pad of his thumb between Iorveth's eyebrows, a nonverbal 'Don't pout, you'll get wrinkles'. ]

Look who's eager to get to the party all of a sudden.

[ Ha. He predicts Iorveth asking if they've done enough reveling yet five minutes in. An inveterate killjoy; he can hardly believe he likes such a grouser so much. Love works in mysterious ways, he supposes. ]

There's never enough gilding, but I guess you're suitably sparkly.

[ As is Astarion, but of course he is. He always sparkles! He wraps a hand around Iorveth's wrist, tugging gently. ]

Come, then. I wouldn't dream of making you wait another second.

[ A soft hmph, just for the sake of vocalizing that he's only tolerating this for Astarion's sake, though the terrorist elf doth protest too much: no small part of him enjoys spending time in Astarion's company, even if he has to wear unfamiliar clothes to do so.

Dolores, however, stops them both from leaving with a well-timed "wait!", and flits towards them to pull them into what she presumably wanted to be a three-person embrace: her gnome-sized arms only manage to rest at both of their waists, but Iorveth picks up on the intent.

"My lovely boys," she sniffs. "Such a lovely couple. You make me feel young again." Stepping back, she offers the finishing touches to both of their outfits: a new eyepatch for Iorveth in the same soft leather as his trousers and embroidered with the same gold on Astarion's jacket, a pair of gold earcuffs for Astarion which she hands to him instead of putting on, as he's eminently too tall. The gesture is sweet enough that Iorveth almost feels bad that he's far more awful than Dolores imagines him to be, but shattering her illusions would probably be crueler than letting her have it; he bows his head in thanks for her hospitality, and she beams up at him, completely guileless.

Maybe he should steal something for her at the auction. Not because he's gotten soft, mind, but because she deserves more from life than mid-level white-collar criminals do.

Iorveth clips the accessory on Astarion's ear as they walk out of Dolores' salon, admiring the gold against his silver hair. ] I've seen mothers that dote on their children less, [ he observes about the kind gnome woman, without any bite. ] She'd shower you with endless praise if you stayed long enough.

[ The sky is darkening in the distance, struggling to keep itself above the horizon; a good time to infiltrate a party. Iorveth guides Astarion's arm, and tangles it around his forearm. ]

[ Dolores is even more delulu than Iorveth if she thinks Astarion is lovely, but he takes the compliment regardless, basking in the warmth of her praise. Kindness has been a rarity in his life, and receiving it still feels foreign and incredible. Maybe not all people are terrible. Just most of them. ]

And why shouldn't she? I'm a delight.

[ He has no mother now--more than likely, she's still alive, but no one would be pleased to see the son they buried come back as the undead--which is all the more reason he deserves to be doted on. Neither of his families, biological or vampiric, are going to do it.

He curls his arm tighter around Iorveth's, pressing their sides together so he can share in Iorveth's warmth while the cool evening breeze blows. ]

Don't be jealous. She's fond of you, too. [ With a raised eyebrow: ] And, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were fond of her.

[ Iorveth walks them to the upper segment of the Lower City, towards the neighborhood closest to the Gate proper where the party is located. The venue is a sprawling mansion not unlike the Szarr Palace, its warm stone facade flanked on either side by a well-maintained garden; the cliche would be for it to have a garden maze, but alas. That level of extravagance and space is likely reserved for Upper City residents.

There are a few similarly well-dressed people heading in the same direction, characterized by manicured nails and complex up-dos. They glance over at Iorveth and Astarion with entirely unsubtle appraisal, and some of the women whisper animatedly to each other behind their hands. Very tiresome, in Iorveth's opinion.

Ignoring the rest of the supposed partygoers: ] Contrary to popular belief, I've no quarrel with the non-human population.

[ Dolores is a very nice gnome lady, and thus, Iorveth isn't compelled to fight her on sight. Iorveth smooths the front of Astarion's jacket again, letting the gold embroidery glitter more prominently in the fading sunset. Honestly, he hopes every single person who glances at Astarion feels unworthy to do so. ]

She deserves more than coin for putting up with our nonsense. Hopefully, I'll find something to give her at this function.

[ Astarion adores attention, but it's surprisingly uncomfortable to be looked at by so many people. It isn't the lovely, feel-good attention that he gets from Iorveth; with the stylish crowd staring at them, he feels gawked at, like an animal in a cage for display. He tugs Iorveth's arm a little closer. ]

Please. I'm sure your attention is enough for that old fussbudget.

[ Said without too much scorn. She doesn't strike him as the materialistic type, despite her penchant for fashion. Dolores seems lonely, and perhaps she is, with her husband's mind clearly going. Mere conversation from Iorveth is probably worth more to her than any trinket. ]

—But, [ he adds, under his breath, ] if we spot something we like, well, there's no reason not to... relieve the attendees of it.

[ The not-so-casual looking from third parties persists; a half-orc with a tiefling companion on his arm brushes by Astarion, his leering undercut by his unsuccessful attempt at whistling through crooked teeth. Iorveth fantasizes about lodging an arrow in the sneering stranger's neck. ]

Speaking of relieving attendees, [ he murmurs, craning close to avoid being overheard. ] We'll need to relieve some of these attendees of their invitations.

[ Angling his chin towards the beloathed half-orc's coat pocket, surreptitiously trying to call attention to the violet envelope sticking out from it. There are a few others with similar envelopes in their hands, getting ready to show them at the entrance to be let in－ or so Iorveth assumes. It's the only discernible commonality between all of these well-dressed strangers beyond their casual extravagance.

A beat, and he laughs under his breath. ]

Unless you'd prefer jumping the fence. [ Like real degenerates. Iorveth wouldn't mind that, actually. ]

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