essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ Iorveth reaches down and picks up the broken pieces of quarterstaff, and tosses one Astarion's way. Not the most stab-friendly weapon, but better than being completely unarmed. ]

The gods weep.

[ The meanest elf in the world, being sarcastic about a father missing his daughter's recital. He's more focused on the state of Astarion's face, which he inspects with a narrowed eye after propping his halberd against the wall. Once he's satisfied that nothing looks broken, he crouches in front of one of the prone guards and grunts under his breath. ]

We should've brought rope. [ As if a complaint like that is incredibly normal. ] Help me wrap them up and roll them into one of these rooms.

[ He points to a gaudy tapestry of naked dryads bathing in a forest lake. ]

[ It's a little freaky that Iorveth wants to carry rope around everywhere, but Astarion's into it. What he's not into is the request to do manual labor. He crinkles his nose, looking at the limp bodies of their dwarven victims in disgust. Not only are they in armor, but they're rather... stout. Ugh. ]

Can't we just say they fell asleep on the job?

[ Another nudge with his foot. The dwarf rolls over onto his back, a thin rivulet of drool dripping from his mouth into his heavy beard. ]

Perhaps put them into a compromising position?

[ He can sure think of some fun poses. ]

It'd be inconvenient for us if they woke up and sounded the alarm.

[ He says, by way of explaining why it's practical to wrap two dwarves in a tapestry and lock them up in a room. A testament to the kind of life he's led thus far, that his mind immediately goes to places like this instead of electing just to let two unconscious men sleep where they are.

But, well. The point of all of this is that Astarion enjoy himself, so he sighs and straightens back up. ]

Finicky cat. Arrange them in whatever way pleases you, but we'll have to use our time wisely once we get to the storage room.

[ His fingers brush along Astarion's swollen nose; a quick spell under his breath, and the worst of the swelling goes down. Cure Wounds is good for minor inconveniences like these. ]

When have I ever not used my time wisely?

[ But he grins, pleased at the acquiescence. There is really nothing better than when Iorveth gives up and lets him have his way; before, he'd probably have scolded Astarion for being foolhardy and impractical, but he's turned into quite the softie. Well, if one ignores that he just knocked two men out, which Astarion will for the sake of being charmed.

'Arranging' them turns out to be more difficult than anticipated. He grabs one under the armpits, tugging and heaving and sighing dramatically. It's all too much work, and by the time he gives up (prematurely), the dwarves look to be in a loving embrace rather than anything particularly risque. ]

—These dwarves should really consider a diet.

[ The problem is not his 8 STR! ]

[ A dwarvish cuddlepile. It would almost be cute if Iorveth cared. ]

Or you could try lifting something heavier than a dagger once in a while.

[ Says the 10 STR ranger. Pot, kettle, etc. He gives the prone guards one last look before heading over to the spiraling stone stairs leading down, down into the pits of the mansion. It seems their lot in life to always be going into cellars. Thankfully, this one doesn't seem to be full of imprisoned vampire spawn or mountains of mangled corpses: it's a rather well-lit, surprisingly large space that's comprised of one main room with two red-painted doors to the right and left. Labyrinthine, almost, if those doors lead to more halls leading to more rooms.

Rather grand, for a basement. Iorveth examines the braziers lining the wall closest to him, his boots clacking softly against the stone floor. ]

―There may be more items to loot here than we bargained for.

[ A good problem? He's not sure. Moving towards one of the doors on the left, he squints at the ornate padlock affixed to it. ]

[ A very good problem, in Astarion's opinion. Maybe he should have gotten himself some pockets after all, or at least a stylish handbag of sorts. As it is, Iorveth will have to be his pack mule. A sacrifice he's willing to make.

He steps toward the door Iorveth chose, peering down at the padlock before flicking it dismissively with his thumb and index finger. Overkill, really. Guards and padlocks? After a moment, he straightens back up, smoothing his palms over his legs to emphasize his lack of pockets. ]

This may surprise you, but I don't carry lockpicks in my underthings.

[ Even though, as the party rogue, it seems that lockpicking is his sole purpose in life. ]

[ Iorveth's brow hikes, amused. ]

I'm aware. I've taken your underthings off before.

[ He'd found the little note on one particular piece about bedding or beheading quite funny, actually. Astarion really does fancy himself clever, and occasionally, he really is.

A half-chuckle, and Iorveth tries the next door over. This one is unlocked, and makes way to a vault room full of knickknacks shoved in open crates and scattered on desk-tops. One pile of items is labeled with a handwritten note that says "will anyone buy these???"

Huh. Iorveth picks up a perfectly ordinary-looking pan that comes with a separate note of its own, vouching that holding this particular pan over a fire will cause a perfect omelette to manifest in two minutes. Slightly novel. Next to it is a feather quill labeled "letters written by this quill will feel more persuasive than if it were written by a normal quill." ]

The circus all over again. [ Though there are a few pretty little trinkets here and there, brooches and rings that doubtless have useless addendums of their own. ]

Edited 2024-12-05 13:53 (UTC)

[ The delight on Astarion's face as they walk into a room full to the brim of stealable items quickly fades when he realizes these items were probably left unguarded for a reason. No one's going to want to steal these, much less purchase them. It's difficult to imagine a bidding war over the Pan of Omelette Manifestation.

A little digging does, however, lead him to the new dagger he'd been requesting. He picks it up and reads off of the small notecard hanging from it: ]

'Whosoever is stabbed by this blade will be polymorphed into a sheep.'

[ Useless! With an exasperated sigh, he tosses it back in its crate. ]

This is all junk. Find me something I can pick that lock with.

[ Maybe, he reasons, they kept the good stuff under lock and key. ]

Turning one's enemy into a sheep my prove useful, [ Iorveth huffs, as he digs through more strange items. A tiara that makes one see dreams about flying, a bottle with enchanted nail varnish that will keep things from getting under one's nails. He tucks the latter into his pocket.

More digging. He fishes out a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles (literally rose-tinted, promising to make the world feel more nostalgic while wearing it), and a lock pick that "doesn't make it easier to pick a lock, but makes others believe that you can".

So stupid. Iorveth gravitates over to Astarion, and tries putting the glasses on him first. ]

Look this way.

[ Just so he can see what Astarion looks like with them on. ]

[ Glasses aren't exactly part of his outfit, much less ones as goofy as these, but he adores Iorveth—who let Astarion dress him however he pleased—so he allows the spectacles to slide onto his face. He blinks a few times, the world gone a pleasing pink shade. One can hardly even tell that his eyes are red when he has the tinted glasses on.

There's very little to feel nostalgic about in this world, but there's Iorveth, who is really the only thing in here worth looking at anyway. It's difficult to say if the glasses work, though, because cartoon lovebirds nearly always twitter around his head when he's looking at Iorveth. Who can say if this round of adoration is due to the glasses or his own fondness?

Ah, well— it's worth expressing regardless. ]

You look even more handsome in pink.

[ With a tap to the side of the spectacles. Then, tilting his head so that Iorveth can see his best angle: ]

Well, do I look like a gorgeous and eccentric genius? [ 'Do these glasses make me look smart', essentially. ]

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