essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ Beloved. Oh, he does like to hear that. After Cazador and Godey's cruel names—'worm' if he was in trouble, 'boy' if he wasn't—and the shallow, appearance-focused pet names from his various marks, it makes him feel warm inside to be someone's beloved thing, a cherished person. He squeezes Iorveth's hand with one of his while wrapping the other around his arm, clinging to him in a way that's pathetically, overtly affectionate.

As they approach the gate, the mansion looming in the distance, he wonders if its inhabitants ever had dealings with Cazador. Probably; he had his fingers in nearly every important pie in the city. ]

We'll need to work on your distraction skills, [ he says, peering up at the enchanted sconces of Continual Flame glowing warmly against the facade. ] Luckily for you, you can practice seducing me as much as you need.

[ Cute aggression. Sometimes Iorveth just wants to gnaw on Astarion when he's being particularly sweet; the compulsion is stronger in this particular moment, when the memory of unsavory interactions is fresh on his mind. ]

A dangerous thing to permit me to do. [ He doesn't feel particularly inclined to practice seducing other people, but he does feel inclined to make Astarion flush every so often. Iorveth has no idea what to expect from this party, really, but his only goal is to make sure that Astarion feels important throughout. The things he'd do to make sure that his fussy cat feels catered to occasionally, he swears. ]

I'll distract you from all the pretty trinkets on display, and you'll go home tonight with your pockets empty.

[ He hums, offhandedly teasing as they slow their strides to match the people in front of them who are lined up to be let in; the wait turns out to be negligible, as the guards at the entrance barely look at the invitations to see if the names on print match the ones that are spoken. A testament to what kind of people have shown up: if they were smart enough to steal or con an envelope from someone who legitimately received one, they're qualified to join the celebration. ]

[ Astarion half-laughs, half-scoffs. How very confident Iorveth is in himself to think that he could ever distract Astarion from something shiny! It's too bad for him that he somehow finds this cockiness unbearably charming. He leans against Iorveth's shoulder like a friendly cat pressing itself to someone's leg, grinning. ]

I already have one valuable I'll be going home with right here.

[ As much as the Elfsong can be called 'home'. It all feels very transient, temporary. If there's anything that could make someplace home, though, it's the presence of their companions (both two- and four-legged).

"Invitation," drones one of the guards at the gate, clearly not being paid enough to give a shit. Astarion flashes the violet envelopes, which the guard barely glances at before gesturing for them to move along. Through the gate is the garden, awash with roses and hydrangeas and crocuses, extravagant in its excess. The pathway to the mansion proper is paved with stone and lined with well-trimmed shrubbery, and the gaudy garden statues off of the walkway are obvious attempts to flaunt wealth.

He makes a face as he stares at one ostensibly of Ilmater, sporting his classic bound hands. He doesn't quite remember Ilmater being so ripped, though; the statue sports a full six-pack. ]

Ugh, I guess even money can't buy taste.

[ The entire place stinks of new money. Everything looks to have been freshly commissioned or procured, with discordant items featured more prominently based on pricing rather than design. He squints at the inaccurate rendition of Ilmater, and laughs out loud as he gestures to the deity standing next to it. ]

Hm, [ he chuckles. ] I don't know, I think that one is rather interesting.

[ The statue he's calling attention to is an obscenely big-chested Mystra complete with comically pert stone nipples. Ridiculous. The equal-opportunity sexualization of commonly-invoked Gods has to be blasphemy on some level, but at the same time, Iorveth can take or leave Mystra; sure, he bullies Gale, but only their companions are allowed to bully their sad brown-eyed wizard. ]

A good indication of what we'll be up against in the manse proper, [ Iorveth notes as he watches the other invitees unironically praising their surroundings. ] If you start to feel lightheaded from the tasteless decor, speak up.

[ There are going to be so many ugly velvet armchairs in that building, Iorveth can feel it. No, he hasn't ever been to a soiree before, but he's seen the inside of Henselt and Cazador's accommodations, and they've both been eyesores. ]

[ Astarion laughs, squeezing Iorveth a little tighter. They have little in common in so many ways, but one thing they do share is a love of being mean. He adores when Iorveth is catty and disparaging like this. He's never more handsome than when he's insulting poorly chosen decor. ]

Perhaps I shouldn't say anything, so you'll have to catch me when I faint of horror.

[ So romantic! He wouldn't mind swooning into Iorveth's arms a little bit. ]

—But, [ he adds, voice lowered, ] I lived for two hundred years in a vampire's lair. Tasteless hardly begins to describe the look.

[ So much ugly furniture, so many tacky paintings. Even eternity wasn't long enough for Cazador to improve his style — or perhaps 'gaudy' is a necessary requirement for a vampire's lair. ]

[ Ugh. Iorveth will always hate the sound of "two hundred years" in relation to what Astarion's had to endure, even if they're just talking about bad interior decoration. It serves as a reminder to fetch Gale at some point to Fireball the Szarr Palace at their nearest convenience. ]

Well, [ he offers as he leads Astarion away from Buff Ilmater and back on their path towards the front entrance, ] I'll not stop you from voicing your opinion of whatever you see tonight. Furniture and people alike.

[ A responsible man would tell his partner not to do anything that could ruin the night for others, but Iorveth is here on the basis that this party is for Astarion and Astarion only; if his most important person wants to cause trouble, well. All Iorveth will do is make sure no one puts their hands on Astarion for said trouble.

He reaches with his free hand to fix the gold cuff peeking out from silver hair, and traces the line of Astarion's jaw. ]

Enjoy yourself tonight. [ A touch of a smile in his voice, grounding a statement that might have sounded offhanded otherwise. ] I'll permit you your excesses.

Oh, you'll permit me, will you?

[ It's a sentence that would have been entirely offended at the beginning of their journey. Astarion requires no one's permission to do anything, not anymore. Now, though, with the knowledge that Iorveth has no intention of controlling him, it only sounds faintly teasing. Hells, if Astarion wanted to strip naked and dash through the crowd, Iorveth would probably say that he supports Astarion's freedom to make his own choices.

He releases Iorveth's hand and taps him on the chin instead. ]

What a relief. I'd hate to do something that isn't permitted.

[ Said, of course, with a tone that implies he very much likes to do things that aren't permitted.

Arm in arm with Iorveth, he walks them past the excessive greenery and tacky statues into the glittering light of the mansion. The foyer's walnut floors are shined to the point of gleaming, the light of the chandelier above reflecting off of it. Velvet armchairs—of course—line the entry hall leading up to a winding staircase that heads up to what must be the inhabitants' personal rooms. An intricate ornamental clock stands in the corner, and an opening in the wall leads to a hall on the side; that's where all of the action is, he assumes, judging by the sound of conversation and clinking glasses.

He tugs Iorveth along, down the hall and into the ballroom where the main festivities are being held. Instantly, he feels overwhelmed. A number of people in finery glance at them as they enter, and he's instantly transported back to the sort of parties Cazador threw at his manse. He wasn't an attendee then, nor were his siblings; they were the help at best, the entertainment at worst. He blinks the unpleasant memories away just in time for a woman to approach them, her eyes narrow and her smile wide.

"Now, I know I'd remember those faces if I'd seen them before," she coos. "You two must not be from around here." ]

[ The party is an interesting slice of what Iorveth assumes is the larger half-criminal pie that keeps the economy of a large city turning; a battlefield of sorts, with jewelry and silks taking the place of swords and armor. The crowd undulates and separates in time to the live music playing softly underneath the clamor of conversation, a rainbow oilslick of dresses and well-cut doublets that pool around glass displays holding some of the artifacts up for auction. Iorveth lets his attention flick over one of many items, a chalice that supposedly belonged to someone important in a place called Barovia.

No time to linger on that, though― he's being spoken to. He sizes the woman up when she approaches them, looking up from her sinfully scooping collar up to her carefully made-up face. The beauty mark under one of her impeccably-lined eyes looks drawn-on, rather than natural.

Iorveth tips his head. ] We've come from the north, [ is his reply, the inclination to be just as brusque as he'd been with the drunks taking a reluctant back seat to the need to make some sort of effort for appearance's sake. Ugh. He's a warrior, not a diplomat. ] ...My companion wanted to see the finest that the Sword Coast has to offer, and thus, here we are.

[ His tone is a rigid as a soldier reporting about reinforcements coming from the north. The woman seems to find it amusing enough, and turns her attention towards Astarion with the sort of knowing smile that suggests that she's made an assumption about the power balance between the two elves.

"Well, you've certainly come to the right place. Travelers always make the mistake of assuming that finery is only in the Upper City, when that's simply not the case." Her smile grows more coy, as she touches her well-manicured fingers against Astarion's forearm. "I'd love to show you all that we have to offer." ]

[ He'd wondered if the people in this mansion had ever dealt with Cazador, but now he knows. This woman is exactly the same as all of the cronies he'd invited over for dinner and cutthroat conversation. Fancy clothing, a sharp smile, a look in her eyes like she's only trying to size them up to see what she can get from them. If she hasn't met Cazador, it would only have been a matter of time before he sunk his claws into her.

By instinct, he moves his arm away, clasping his hands behind his back — and out of reach. Even if she didn't seem intolerably slimy, he wouldn't be able to bear the too-friendly touch. ]

A lovely offer, but we'd hate to monopolize your time. I'm sure you're a terribly busy hostess.

[ A glance Iorveth's way, and: ] We don't mind showing ourselves around. Do we, Edgar?

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