essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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?

[ As the woman sizes Astarion up, Iorveth also takes stock of the well-built tiefling woman hovering a yard or two behind her, vigilant in a way that suggests that she's not a temporary hire like the guards at the gate were. Something to remember.

Something that Iorveth hasn't remembered: that he's Edgar for the night. A moment of uncomprehending silence passes, one brow arched to show vague bemusement, before he finally picks up on the cue. To Iorveth's credit, he doesn't say something stupid like "ah, right". ]

―If anything strikes his fancy, I'll find you to seek counsel.

[ He keeps the addendum, "so don't seek us out otherwise", to himself. The woman briefly looks surprised to have been refused, but recovers quickly with her insouciant smile.

"My, but aren't we cautious. This is a party, darlings! No need to be so guarded. We're all here to spend a little coin and indulge in questionable company― I'm sure you understand." ]

[ Ugh. He'd been so excited to attend a fancy soiree that he'd forgotten that he'd have to deal with people. (He hates people.) Astarion resists the urge to roll his eyes in annoyance only because he doesn't want to be thrown out so early, before he's even gotten to look at all of the fancy items on display much less appropriated them for himself.

Clearly, the subtle approach isn't working. Perhaps a different tack— ]

Yes, and I'd like to indulge in my companion's questionable company.

[ He leans in, then, mouth curling up. ] But don't worry. We plan to spend more than a little coin, should you give us the chance to peruse your wares.

[ Iorveth watches the woman consider the sincerity of that statement, and tucks Astarion closer to his side as she pulls away, momentarily satisfied by the promise of future transactions.

"Peruse away, then. You two are lucky that you came when you did― we received some very rare trinkets the other day. The master of a very prominent house just up and vanished recently, and some naughty vultures have started swarming the empty carcass of his manse."

A wink, and the lady of the house brushes by them in a cascade of silk, calling to a different pair on the other side of the ballroom for more conversation. Iorveth snorts, and wraps his arm around Astarion's waist. ]

Keep me close. Left to my own devices, and I'll start planning how to burn this place to the ground.

[ Naughty vultures, empty carcass. Astarion scowls at the thought of looters digging through the place that used to serve as his home. He never wants to set foot in that mansion again, but he feels a sense of ownership regardless. ]

Those rare trinkets are rightfully mine, [ he grouses. ] After all that time spent in that prison, it should be me profiting off its spoils.

[ It's he who suffered there for two centuries, and he who ended Cazador's life. The thought of someone else gaining from his hard work is unconscionable. He glowers further. ]

I should have ransacked the place when I had the chance.

[ But, of course, he was beside himself at the time, either entirely numb or filled with unbearable anxiety and dread. Afterward, returning there felt too insurmountable a task. Even with his tormentors dead, he couldn't imagine casually rifling through drawers while the oppressive atmosphere bore down on him. ]

[ Hard for Iorveth to say anything about ransacking, as he encouraged Astarion and later Ciaran to pick at Henselt's riches for their gain. The thing is, he agrees with Astarion on this, that they are entitled to retrieve what they can from their tormentors; he also remembers, however, how shattered Astarion'd been after both of their visits to the Szarr Palace, and how strongly he'd felt about getting Astarion the hells out of there.

Attempting to smooth the furrow between Astarion's brows with a thumb: ] We've still the chance to torch the place before others can profit further.

[ It'd earn them less coin, but it may be a bit more satisfying than the alternative. ]

...Come. We'll see what they've stolen from you. [ A gentle tug, head jerking towards the guarded displays scattered around the ballroom. He imagines that there's a separate room where the majority of the wares are being held, but the few trophy items are sure to be a good enough distraction for now. ] I'll even go so far as to fetch you a drink.

[ Very magnanimous of him. ]

[ The line on his forehead softens slightly, and not only because he's reminded of the possibility of getting wrinkles. Iorveth is very sweet, and the corners of his mouth lift up into a faint but unmistakable smile, if only for a moment. ]

What a gentleman you are.

[ It won't be the sort of drink he'd really like to have, but he'll have to tide himself over until he can indulge in privacy. Wine will have to do. He gravitates toward one of the display cases where an ornate glass bottle sits, filled to the brim with a swirling violet liquid. The card in front of the display case reads Purple Worm Poison. ]

Fetch yourself a drink, too. I suspect you'll need one to make it through any socializing.

[ He puffs a breath at that last would-be accusation. A laugh, despite himself. ]

You know me too well.

[ He really has nothing to say to any of these people, but a drink or two might take the edge off. Glancing at the item that Astarion is looking at, Iorveth lets himself breathe another soft chuckle as he's reminded of certain escapades back at the goblin camp. Bold of the party host to put poison where anyone could think of using it.

A quick peck to Astarion's hair, and Iorveth unwinds himself from their tangled grip. ] I'll be back shortly. Don't stray too far.

[ Off he goes, in search of a server carrying a tray with Astarion's preferred choice of drink, a rich red. He bypasses a few offers of what looks like bubbly white, completely ignores a stranger's question of whether he's come to the soiree alone, and finally procures two glasses of the appropriate liquor to bring back to Astarion. Iorveth cranes his neck, looking over a rather tall tiefling's shoulder to make sure that no flies have started circling around his companion. ]

[ Only one fly, and less a pest and more an attempt at polite conversation. Astarion stares morosely at one of the paintings purloined from Cazador's palace, a portrait of the Szarr family by a prominent Baldurian painter. It would cost anyone a fortune, but it's more likely than not that Cazador simply enthralled the artist. An unassuming young human nearby must take his displeased expression as somber remembrance, and says, "It's tragic what happened, isn't it? A great man like that, disappeared into thin air—" ]

Great? [ Astarion asks, eyebrow twitching. ] Tell me, what did he ever do that was so great?

[ The poor human shrinks back a little, chastened. "I just meant that the Szarrs are well-known around the Gate, and..." ]

Well-known for being a megalomaniac and a snake, you mean. [ A scoff. ] It's thoughtless muttonheads like you that gave him the delusion of greatness. The world is better off with the Szarrs wiped off of the planet.

[ "Oh, uh, I think I see my friend beckoning me—" he squeaks. There is no friend. ]

[ There is no friend: only a tall one-eyed elf with a glass of wine in each hand, striding towards them with straight-backed purpose. Iorveth traps the stranger between himself and Astarion, appraising him with the sharpness of a drawn blade as he passes Astarion his drink, a sharpness that gains in intensity when Iorveth notes the painting hanging on the wall. ]

I see I'm interrupting. [ A beat, and he adds, addressing the stranger directly: ] ―A friend of the Szarrs?

[ The man squeaks again, waving both of his hands in furious denial. "No, no... not at all, I was never important enough to be invited to his functions..."

Like a mouse caught between two snakes, Iorveth thinks. He pities the man a bit, but not enough not to append: ]

So you thought he was important.

[ The man flushes beet-red, embarrassed to be caught with his foot in his mouth. "No! Erm, well... yes, I did before, but... this gentleman here has made me realize how gullible I'd been..." ]

Gullible? [ Astarion snorts derisively. ] You would buy a spell scroll in Athkatla.

[ "Why wouldn't I want a spell scroll in Athkatla?" he nearly whimpers, clearly overwhelmed by being berated by two elves for simply expressing sympathies. Astarion scoffs, an unimpressed look on his face. ]

Run along out of my sight before I decide to take advantage of your stupidity.

[ The man's eyebrows raise, and for a moment he stands there like a deer in the headlights— ]

I said run along, [ Astarion repeats, like he really is stupid. The man quickly makes his exit, stepping aside and immediately hunting down a server to gulp down a large glass of white. Astarion sighs, swirling the wine in his own glass. ]

I forgot how terribly unlikable most people are.

[ Truly, the man's only sin was existing in their general periphery. Iorveth watches him scurry away and resumes his position by Astarion's side, sipping at the full-bodied red from his own unnecessarily gaudy crystal glass. ]

They tend to be, when their only talent is accruing wealth.

[ So says Iorveth, an elf who has no interest in accruing wealth but is extremely unlikeable anyway. He scoffs in the general direction of a group of gnomes crowded around yet another glass display case, who seem to be chattering furiously among themselves regarding whether or not the item inside is real or fake. ]

It seems that no one here can stand the sight of each other.

[ He gestures to a half-elf couple who, despite navigating the ballroom arm-in-arm, seem to be constantly resisting the urge to stomp on each other's toes. ] A miserable existence.

[ Yes, he's allowed to sit on his high horse, because he's here with someone he actually likes. Everyone else, in Iorveth's expert opinon, really has nothing going for them. ]

[ People tend to be unlikable period, in his opinion, regardless of if they're preoccupied with wealth. The idiots who live in tents in the outskirts of Rivington are just as intolerable as the idiots who live in mansions in the Upper City. He's fond of their companions—although he's loath to admit it—but they're a special case, clearly. Everyone else is either too stupid to waste time on or smart enough to be awful.

Astarion glances down at his glass, taking a small sip. He'd always wanted to indulge in the fancy wines Cazador kept for himself, but they're not nearly as satisfying as he'd imagined. Perhaps his vampirism ruins the taste the way it ruins most other things. ]

I guess I imagined it to be more... fun.

[ Glittering and glamorous. He'd laugh and clink glasses with the movers and shakers of the city, finally somebody important. One of the guests at one of Cazador's parties rather than one of his spawn scuttling around in the dark. ]

I thought it would feel different.

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