essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

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.

[ Fun. A concept that Iorveth doesn't flirt with often; he so rarely seeks it out or expects it (while he has fun, his people suffer) that it seems rather trite whenever people bring it up. Especially here, in the context of enjoying this particular gathering of ill-humored individuals whose idea of fun seems to be borrowed from drow society.

Still, it's well within Iorveth's interests to contribute to Astarion's happiness, and if that involves the term fun, well. ]

What would make it feel better, then?

[ He asks, moving to lean against the nearest wall. He beckons for Astarion to follow, creating a quiet sliver of space for the both of them. ]

You could go gossip with the others, if that strikes your fancy. Do whatever you wish－ I'll not be far.

[ As he presses himself into the space Iorveth created: ] It's not them I want to gossip with.

[ Disdainful, dismissive. He has no desire to engage with these partygoers unless he's tormenting them. Perhaps, he thinks, he could spread a nasty rumor about the hostess. Ooh, or start some mass hysteria by claiming that there's an assassin hiding in the crowd tonight. ]

They're all painfully boring. But I'm sure we could make our own entertainment.

[ A thoughtful tap to his chin, then, ] I wonder how heavily guarded the rest of the items for auction are.

[ Slightly exasperated: ] We didn't have to attend a party to steal from the rich.

[ He'd thought Astarion would want to mingle a bit more, to brush elbows with individuals of (middling) prestige, but apparently he finds them all boring. Figures. His foolish, shortsighted, fickle cat― Iorveth is reminded of a stray that paws at someone's leg for food, then complains incessantly when the food isn't exactly what they wanted.

Stupid, that he loves Astarion so much regardless. It's a bit unconscionable how much "I thought it would feel different" bothers Iorveth despite all the ways in which he hems and haws about Astarion not knowing what he wants; it seems terribly unfair that Astarion be disappointed by something that he didn't even know how to want.

So: ] ...That said, if the guards are as incompetent as the ones at the gate, it should be easy enough to get past them.

[ Astarion's barely smiled all night. If breaking and entering is what it takes for him to enjoy this stupid soiree, Iorveth will play along. ]

We'll need to search the mansion, first. An easy task.

[ If they didn't attend a party, Iorveth would never have worn this very low-cut, very tight outfit, and how could Astarion go on without seeing that? He straightens out Iorveth's collar unnecessarily, just an excuse to touch him. He spots a halfling woman looking from across the room and smiles smugly. ]

I adore how willing you are to steal from the wealthy.

[ One of Iorveth's best characteristics is that he never tries to moralize about Astarion's ethically-dubious-at-best actions. Perhaps it doesn't make him a better person, but being a better person is overrated. He'd rather be accepted for who he is.

With a tug on Iorveth's lovely, silky sleeve, he urges him toward the room's exit, stopping only when the large tiefling woman from earlier steps in front of them. "Don't go anywhere," she says. "The auction will start soon." ]

[ As anticipated, the lady of the house's personal guard is the one they had to look out for. She cuts an imposing and impressive figure with her thick arms folded over her chest, chin hiked with intimidating purpose, but Iorveth has been traveling with Karlach for the past few tendays. He's built a tolerance for tall tieflings that could snap his spine over their knee.

Instead of being cowed: ] My companion isn't feeling well. He needs his space; somewhere to lie down. [ He pulls Astarion into an exaggerated one-armed embrace, playing the part of an overprotective lover with neutral ease. ] It must be all this polluted southern air. Or the cheap wine, perhaps.

[ Mean. The wine is far from cheap, but it's theater. The guard looks offended by the tacit insult to her mistress, but before she can get a word in, Iorveth swiftly adds: ] It seems that this is what Baldurian hospitality looks like, beloved.

[ He presses a kiss to Astarion's temple as another theatrically indulgent gesture; funny, how he found it so challenging to feign courtesy to the two drunk men outside, but finds it so much easy to playact with Astarion. ]

Edited 2024-12-02 22:16 (UTC)

[ He also adores how willing Iorveth is to lie through his teeth for Astarion's benefit. What could be a more romantic couple's activity than deceiving others together? Astarion, ever the actor, presses a hand to his forehead before covering his mouth as if he might be about to retch. The guard wrinkles her nose, looking a little grossed out. ]

Gods, can't you see I've taken ill? [ Full of melodrama, he drapes himself over Iorveth's shoulder as if he's simply too weak to hold himself up any longer. ] Direct me to your nearest fainting couch!

[ "Well," the guard says, giving him a once-over. "You do look rather pale and sickly..." ]

—Well, I wouldn't go that far.

[ Iorveth fights back the urge to scoff at "fainting couch", despite being the one to come up with the "look at my poor companion, he is so ill" excuse. Ridiculous. Astarion could probably run laps around most of the partygoers here. ]

This disrespect, despite him trying to spare your mistress the humiliation of having someone be sick mid-auction. [ A long-suffering sigh, punctuated by a shake of his head. ] Maybe we should stay, and see how much she enjoys having an unconscious elf in her ballroom.

[ The tiefling scowls, eyes swimming from the dramatic elves in front of her to the lady of the house, currently happily chatting away with a trio of dwarves. Something in her seems to fold a moment later, and she steps away from the door leading out of the ballroom and into the foyer with an annoyed grunt.

"There's a guest bedroom upstairs. First room on the left. You'll be missing the first few items of the auction, but don't complain about it." She wrinkles her nose. "Gods, look at the dark circles under your eyes. You really should go lie down."

Now she's just being rude for the sake of it. Iorveth can tell, because he, too, employs that technique regularly. He'd say something about it, but they're being waved off as if they're annoying gnats; it's Iorveth's turn to wrinkle his nose and guide Astarion away from the tiefling before more shots can be fired. ]

[ Astarion continues to sway theatrically as they make their way down the hall until they're back in the foyer again, now thankfully devoid of partygoers. He peels himself away from Iorveth's side once he's certain they're out of the tiefling's eyeshot, folding his arms over his chest and grumbling. ]

I don't have dark circles.

[ He sounds as offended as he's ever been. Pale, sickly, dark circles? Certainly not! He's full of verve and vitality! Just because he's dead doesn't mean he has to look it. Right?

A wave of uncertainty flashes over him, and his fingers fly to his undereye. ]

Do I?

[ He could lie and say "you don't", but: ]

See for yourself.

[ It occurs to him that he hasn't let Astarion take a gander at himself after he's gotten into his new clothes; an oversight on Iorveth's part. He won't have the tadpole in his head forever to serve as an impromptu mirror in the future (or so he hopes), so he might as well use it when he can; he taps his temple to imply that Astarion has permission to dip into his mind, knowing full well that he doesn't fully control what the parasite chooses to show. He'll do his level best to focus his mind on what he's seeing, and everything else will be... well, everything else.

He leans against the nearest banister for balance, head tipped and chin hiked. Bracing himself. Unlike getting bitten by vampire fangs, invoking the brainworm is never strictly pleasant. Still, it's worth it to show Astarion how little he has to worry about: he's annoyingly put-together, even with the dark tinge under his red eyes. ]

[ Eagerly, he allows his own tadpole to reach out psionically, seeking its kind. Just as eagerly, the tadpole winds its way around Iorveth's, and Astarion pushes into his mind without another word. As the image of his own face comes into focus, he takes a step closer, craning his neck one way and then the other, looking at himself from all angles.

A wave of disappointment rocks through the connection. Gods, he does have dark circles. He looks, well, as dead as he is. Pale and sickly skin, just as the guard had said, and dark, tired circles beneath his eyes. He isn't sure whether those are due to the vampirism or just a result of living under Cazador's heel for two centuries.

He takes a step back, turning to look at himself in his outfit, going as far as to turn all the way around to get a good view of his backside (an important thing to appraise). Finally, he turns back around, hands on his hips. ]

...Well. At least I pull it off.

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