essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ The tadpole connection breaks, and Iorveth lets out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Always a bit of a crapshoot, how that psychic back-and-forth works.

An inhale to steady himself again, and he tips his head. His expression is appropriately dry. ]

So says a man who's never been ugly a day in his life. [ He pauses here, reconsidering his phrasing. ] And in his death.

[ Yes, yes, he's aware that Astarion is a vampire. Iorveth gestures with one hand, halfway between contemplative and vexed. ]

You can fish for compliments after we've found what we're looking for. [ They'd sound nicer among belongings that don't belong to them, Iorveth wagers. ] Shall we go, or do you need a word or two about how you're still the most beautiful man here?

[ He cracks a smile at that, leaning against the wall and looking askance in a way meant to appear nonchalant. ]

A word certainly wouldn't hurt.

[ He doesn't need it, exactly; Astarion knows that he's good-looking, even with the obvious flaws of undereye circles and a deathly pallor. It still feels good to hear Iorveth say it, anyway. His ideal day would be spent lounging around doing nothing while Iorveth listed off all of the reasons that he's clever and charming and handsome.

A sigh, then: ] But I suppose it can wait until we're surrounded by riches.

[ Gaze flicking back to Iorveth's face, he extends a hand like a highborn debutante waiting for a gentleman to take it. ]

Keep your eyes peeled. I'm in the market for a pretty new dagger.

[ Ah, there it is. There's something about Astarion wanting a dagger that stirs something in Iorveth, tugs that unhinged, primal part of him that'd first felt attracted to Astarion when he saw splashed-back blood on pale skin. Sharp, unapologetic, dangerous.

He takes the proffered hand, rolling his eye at the theatrical gesture but responding, in kind, by pressing a brief kiss to the back of it. ]

You really should have asked Dolores for pockets.

[ Maybe the storage room will have a bag of holding for them to use. An amused half-chuckle, and he spins the both of them away from the stairs in direct defiance of what the tiefling guard commanded. ]

She wouldn't have permitted us to go upstairs if there was anything of value there, [ he offers by way of explanation, as he heads them down a corridor that leads to an entirely different wing of the mansion. More tasteless marble busts on elevated platforms line the hallway alongside portraits of well-dressed aristocrats painted in discordant styles; there's a sharp corner at the end of the hall, where Iorveth can spot two amorphous shadows peeking out from beyond the bend.

One of the shadows sways, and Iorveth hears it complain in a gravel-deep voice: "can't believe they didn't give us any of that fancy wine. Got no respect for the hard-workin', the lot of 'em."

Interesting. Iorveth leans, and whispers against Astarion's ear: ] There's not a single reliable guard in this entire city.

[ Iorveth's warm breath tickles his ear, and Astarion smiles. Across the way, the other guard gripes, "You know I had to miss my kid's piano recital for this? Unbelievable."

"Not little Susanna," his comrade says, dismayed.

Astarion instinctively grasps at his waist for a dagger that isn't there; like pockets, it would ruin the lines of the outfit. He scowls, disappointed that his easy plan of 'kill first, ask questions later' will have to be reconsidered. Fine — Susanna's father gets to live another day.

Instead of conferring with Iorveth to figure out their next steps, he takes the initiative to step out in front of the two chatting guards. ]

Ugh, there you are! The lady of the house has been looking for you two nitwits all night! She has half a mind to withhold your pay, you know!

[ The two chattering guards turn out to be heavy-set dwarves in nicely-maintained leather armor, leaning against the edge of an entrance that spirals down into what Iorveth assumes is the basement. One of them straightens up when spoken to, and squints at Astarion with obvious distrust.

"And who are you, calling us nitwits?"

Susanna's father, judging by his voice. Iorveth steps out as well and joins Astarion by his side, doing his best not to look at his companion with obvious exasperation. ]

Friends of hers, [ he ventures, to which the other dwarf bangs the butt of his dwarf-sized halberd on the floor. "Well, tell her to come give us her orders herself! She isn't paying us enough to do this as it is!" ]

[ This is already too much effort. He regrets the lack of pockets with which to store daggers and poisons in, and he further regrets not just choking these men out with one of his bony arms around their thick necks. Astarion sighs, put out, before saying, ] Hostess is a busy job, you know.

[ Honestly, he isn't sure what the lady of the house is up to, but it can't possibly be all that important. Rubbing elbows with the blue collar criminals of Baldur's Gate, he assumes. ]

She won't be paying you at all if all you do is sit your lazy bums here.

[ "Lazy bums?" the dwarven guard scoffs, hiking his bearded chin. "That's rich, coming from some high-falutin' elves." ]

[ Gods, all this talking. Patience worn thin, Iorveth snaps: ]

Enough of this.

[ Hawklike, he lashes out and snatches the halberd out of the unsuspecting dwarf's hands, twirling it deftly before hitting the guard with the blunt end of it. The man crumples, and poor Susanna's father, stunned, fumbles with his quarterstaff to retaliate.

"Oh no, no, I'm not getting paid for this!" He squares up, ready for combat, though it's evident by his sloppy stance that he hasn't done this in a while; he almost trips over his own feet when he lunges at Astarion, obviously finding the one-eyed elf with a halberd far less appealing to attack than the unarmed, pale high elf. ]

Oh— really, darling? [ is Astarion's exasperated reaction, sounding more like they're in the midst of a lovers' spat than a battle. He isn't exactly threatened by this out-of-shape dwarf with a staff, although perhaps he should be, because the man stumbles toward him and manages to crack him right in the face with his quarterstaff, very possibly by accident.

Whether it was intention or serendipity, Astarion grabs his suddenly throbbing nose, moaning, ] Godsdammit!

[ Now he's really going to have dark circles.

"You asked for it!" the man replies, all bluster and bravado, as he swivels between them, quarterstaff at the ready. ]

[ Bonk. Iorveth boggles for a moment at the dwarf's surprisingly good aim, and actually has the audacity to breathe a laugh. ]

Gods, I'll not hear the end of this for ages.

[ Lucky dice roll, Susanna's father. Well played. Still, it's one clumsy dwarf against one and a half elves (Astarion and his swollen nose counts as half an elf for now), and Iorveth has spent the better part of his life living with his fangs bared; it's easy enough for him to swiftly chop the dwarf's brandished quarterstaff in two with his stolen halberd.

"Oh hells," the guard murmurs, looking at his halved weapon with dismay. As one last-ditch effort, he throws one fragment of the polearm at Iorveth's face; it bounces harmlessly off of the leather eyepatch.

A valiant effort. Iorveth laughs again (very mean) as he knocks the poor dwarf out, letting him crumple in a heap on top of his friend.

Turning towards Astarion: ] When will you learn to guard your face?

[ Astarion sniffs, wiping away the little dribble of blood from his nostrils and scowling. ]

Perhaps I wanted to see you defend my honor.

[ Or perhaps he's still more skilled at striking from the shadows while someone else distracts his victim; face-to-face combat is far less appealing than sneaking up on someone before they even know he's there. He'll blame this one on Iorveth for starting the fight before he could prepare himself (and when he had nothing with which to defend himself).

Hands on his hips, he nudges the dwarf with his foot. ]

I guess he'll never make it to that piano recital now.

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