essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ Astarion scoffs loud enough that the half-orc and his tiefling date furrow their brows and frown, thinking that it's directed at them. ]

I don't jump.

[ Really. He's bad at it, and he can't stand doing anything that he's bad at. His legs are long enough, but they're built for looking thin and elegant in fancy pants, not strength. The only way he'd be able to jump anything would be if Karlach picked him up and threw him over, and that's not happening tonight.

Unwinding his arm from Iorveth's, he places his hands on his hips, regarding him with a challenging look. ]

You did say you wanted to be the distraction next time.

[ Back when Astarion had to be the distraction for that overconfident young Fist. He does hope that they don't run into him again. He'd rather not answer for leaving the man hanging. ]

Well, here's your chance. Go distract, why don't you?

[ ―Right. Distracting. Iorveth's usual idea of a diversion involves sharp objects pressed against soft skin, which isn't an option if he wants either of them to be able to set foot through the wrought-iron gates of their party venue. Hesitation flits across his well-defined features for a moment, evident in the way his attention see-saws from Astarion to the other partygoers not once, but twice.

Ugh. ] It would be easier to climb a tree, [ is the low grumble he leaves Astarion with before he makes his move. The obvious choice is the half-orc that'd bumped by them earlier, but he doesn't trust himself not to smash a rock against the stranger's smug face; that would certainly be a distraction, but it might be the sort that gets them uninvited before they even pretend to be invited. Hm.

Iorveth tables that strategy for now. Instead of crushing the half-orc's skull, he approaches two rather belligerent middle-aged men who seem to have pre-gamed way harder than strictly necessary― standing directly in the middle of their raucous warpath, Iorveth stops one of the men with a palm to his chest. ]

...I'm lost, [ he says after a beat, exceedingly brusque. He's noticed far too late that he's talking to two drunk humans (he'd hoped that they'd be half-elves at the very least), which throws a few wrenches into his "don't stab anyone" plan.

Regardless, he presses on. ] Where are you two headed, [ is phrased more like a demand than a question, the distinct lack of a lilt at the end of the statement making it sound far harsher than it should. Definitely not sexy. Maybe he should just punch these guys out and steal their stuff, actually????? ]

[ Astarion doesn't really need a distraction. He could, technically, just bump into someone who isn't paying attention and slip their invitations out of their pockets. He does, however, really want to watch Iorveth make some Charisma rolls, so he positions himself behind Iorveth's targets and waits.

They have similar tastes in victims. Sloppy drunks are always a good bet. Iorveth lacks finesse, though, and the two red-faced men are hardly charmed. "To the party, obviously," says one, like he thinks Iorveth is a little stupid. "I heard they're auctioning off a Belt of Enlargement that makes your you know two times bigger."

Astarion is absolutely certain no such item exists, and if it did, it wouldn't be auctioned off at a fancy party. The other man says as much. "You're such an idiot," he scolds, but immediately ruins it with, "It's a Potion of Enlargement."

They're clearly gullible marks. Astarion, eager to extend the time Iorveth has to spend humiliating himself, motions with his hands in a nonverbal go on. ]

[ For the first time in a while, Iorveth seriously considers the pros and cons of turning around and leaving Astarion's (cute) smug face to fend for himself. How horrible that he loves Astarion too much to go through with it.

Naturally, this means that Iorveth has to muscle through this interaction, the key word here being "muscle". Seduction is off the table. ]

You're thinking of the Balm of Virility, [ he says offhandedly, as if this is common knowledge. ] And it does more than just enlarge your prick.

[ The two humans blink, then hoot with laughter; evidently, they find something very funny about the fact that a stern-faced elf is being so blithe about penis enhancement. One of them claps Iorveth on his caped shoulder, not seeming to realize how he subtly wrinkles his nose.

"Oh, you've tried it yourself, have you?" Eyebrow waggle. Iorveth, once again, contemplates leaving. "I always knew you wood elves were..."

The man gestures with his hands. "Freaky", essentially. He isn't wrong, but not in the way that he thinks. ]

You don't know the half of it, [ he drawls, and flicks his attention, briefly, towards Astarion. ]

[ The two idiots grin widely, endlessly amused by the idea of foreign degeneracy. "Oh, yeah?" One of them elbows Iorveth, overfriendly. "I guess you ain't called wood elves for no reason." Both of the men laugh hysterically at the joke, and Astarion rolls his eyes. Meanwhile, he gravitates closer to the men; one of them has a violet envelope sticking out of his—ugh—waistband, and as he's distracted by the idea of Iorveth's (alleged) freaky humongous wood elf prick, Astarion slowly slides it out.

Ew, it's sweaty. He nearly gags.

"I hear you tree-huggers have wild orgies in the forest." Astarion bites back the laugh threatening to escape him. There's no one in the world he could imagine having a 'wild orgy in the forest' less than Iorveth. "You think they'd let me join?" ]

[ Proof that Iorveth isn't touch-starved and only really enjoys contact with specific people: this. As used as he's gotten to Astarion being in his space, of being pulled and prodded by familiar hands, he still can't stand it from others; when one of the two tries to slap his back mid-merriment, he steps away with a subtle click of his tongue. An obvious "don't-touch-me" that gets lost in the two men's drunken haze.

Also proof that Astarion is the sole recipient of Iorveth's leniency: the way Iorveth's expression twists when he's called a tree-hugger, despite the fact that Astarion has said similar things without earning a full-blown grimace from Iorveth. Incidentally, it's only because Iorveth remembers the delight on Astarion's face pre-party that he doesn't immediately crush the human's foot with his heel and make him regret his words.

Cool, clipped: ] My kind have standards. [ He smiles, and the expression is unkind. Sneer-adjacent. Iorveth doubts the men notice; they're too drunk out of their mind to sense anything beyond the tips of their noses. ] Not to mention that they'd eat you alive.

[ It's a threat, though it's not taken as such. The men laugh again, and one of them sizes Iorveth up with obvious amusement: "bet you've done a lot of eating. How you lost your eye, no doubt!"

A joke about poking himself in the face with a penis, how amusing. Iorveth goes tight-lipped, but gentles when he sees Astarion sneaking around behind the pair. He raises a brow, conveying are you done? ]

[ Astarion frowns. It's one thing to watch Iorveth humiliate himself, but quite another to watch someone else humiliate him. Memories flash in his mind of useless drunks in taverns, too close with their rotten breath and ugly words. The other man carries his invitation in his hand, though, and there's no way Astarion can snatch it out of his grip right now without him noticing.

He moves past them, shoulder bumping his victim a tad aggressively. Inebriated as he is, the man topples into his friend and they both go sideways, purple envelope fluttering out of his hand. ]

You clods, [ he scolds. ] What are you doing standing in the middle of the street like this?

[ Both of the men sway uncertainly, and one of them opens his mouth to bite back, but before he can— ]

Look, you've even made me drop my invitation.

[ He crouches down, snatching up the envelope before either of them can think twice. As he stands, he glances at Iorveth. ]

—Oh, there you are, darling. I've been looking all over for you. Come along, we're going to be late.

[ A nice little sleight of hand. Iorveth doesn't miss it, but doesn't skip a beat: he's by Astarion's side before the men can get their dizzy bearings, calm and neutral again. ]

Beloved. [ He says, to mirror "darling". He takes Astarion's envelope and slots it into his pants pocket, freeing that hand to hold Astarion's. ] It's good that you've found me.

[ A tinge of sarcasm, here and gone again. Their marks look torn between offense ("did he call us clods?") and vague admiration ("oi, that's one pretty high elf"); either way, Iorveth is tired of them already. In his eye(s), they deserve to have their partying rights revoked. ]

We'll go, [ he murmurs against Astarion's hair, and tugs him along to the wrought-iron gate. He only relaxes once he's out of earshot of the drunks, and sighs under his breath. ]

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