essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ He'd expected Astarion to look more ridiculous than he does; how annoying, and yet, how predictable. Iorveth takes a step back, barely registering the compliment passed his way, too busy trying not to draw his own cartoon hearts around Astarion. It's so unbelievable that this is happening to him.

Rearranging Astarion's bangs, repositioning stray strands of hair that'd fallen when the guard'd bonked him in the face: ] Like someone I wouldn't trust my coin with. [ "Sketchy". An amused quirk of his lips, as he thumbs at Astarion's jaw. ]

Annoyingly beautiful, despite it. [ He flicks the bridge of Astarion's nose. ] I'll never tire of looking at you.

[ As he slips the lockpicking tool Astarion's way. Weirdly, he does become convinced that Astarion could open anything with it the moment it rests in his companion's grip. ]

Edited 2024-12-06 04:29 (UTC)

[ Despite the fact that Iorveth has just called him suspicious-looking, he melts at the follow-up compliment. It's so odd; he knows he's beautiful, of course, has heard it a million times, but somehow hearing it from Iorveth's lips just sounds better. Again, despite the flick, he grins. ]

And I could look at you for eternity.

[ An overexaggeration for anyone else, but he actually has an eternity to spare. Why not spend it looking at Iorveth's lovely face?

He closes a hand around Iorveth's, tugging him back out to the padlocked door. ]

If there's nothing of worth through here, we may have to just burn the whole place down.

[ Finally, a grin. Fangy, crooked, imperfect. Iorveth tucks Astarion's reaction into his mental pocket, alongside the actual, physical tea cozy that he tries to cram in his too-tight leather pants. A gift for Dolores ("any object kept inside this cozy will retain its temperature indefinitely"), who really should have thought to make his trousers less form-fitting.

Tugged outside of the junk room and back in front of the (hopefully) treasure room, he barks a soft laugh at Astarion's casual mention of arson. ]

An appealing notion. [ Because Iorveth is not a nice person, and it seems like everyone in this mansion kind of deserve what's coming to them. Still: ] Or we could return to the party, pilfer a bottle or two of red, and leave.

[ He steps back, giving Astarion more space to do the lockpicking. ]

We can dance elsewhere.

[ The smile lingers on his face even as he crouches down to work the lock, coaxing it with deft movements of the pick. His grin fades, though, at the mention of dancing, his expression taking a more embarrassed form before he schools it back into something casual. ]

Ah, I don't know if I know how to dance.

[ A pause, and then he corrects: ] I'm sure I knew, once. [ His life pre-Cazador is a bit blurry, but he's certain he was the type of person who got invited to balls and galas. He wouldn't have hesitated to make himself the center of attention on the dance floor. ] I'm just not sure if I... remember.

[ But he can already hear Iorveth's response: you think I know how to dance? As the lock clicks open, he adds, ] Well. I'm sure it's nothing a hefty amount of wine can't fix.

[ Astarion used to know, once. Iorveth turns that thought over in his mind, and feels that now all-too-familiar twinge in his chest. The same unpleasant mental itch he'd felt when Astarion said that he thought the party would be more fun for him. Not pity or sympathy― closer to anger, if he had to categorize the murky emotion.

He'll unpack that on his own time. Click goes the lock, yielding under Astarion's clever ministrations. ]

Alcohol never seems to do anything to you, [ Iorveth reminds, which means that he'll be the one sloshed and trying to sway awkwardly if they do decide to be ridiculous. By now, he's given up on trying to outdrink Astarion, which he has finally discovered to be a losing battle. ] But I'll enjoy watching you be graceless, for once.

[ An affectionate pat to Astarion's head, and Iorveth slowly pushes the now-unpadlocked door open, wary of any additional traps. Thankfully, they're not immediately engulfed in flames or frozen on the spot, and all that greets them is a room full of rare items in varying shapes and sizes: furs and weapons and clothing, gilded furniture and paintings of strangers who look like they might be nobility. ]

―I'm reminded of Gerringothe, [ Iorveth murmurs, as he avoids stepping on something that looks like an egg of some sort. An exotic creature for some bored noble to exploit, he suspects. ]

[ Yes, he opens his mouth to say, the wine is for you. You know, so Iorveth doesn't notice that he doesn't remember how to dance. The words die in his throat, though, as his greedy eyes widen to saucers in the face of all of this treasure. He immediately makes a beeline for the sparkliest thing he can find, a large gem that appears black at first but reflects prismatic color when held up to the light.

As he inspects it: ] Who?

[ A beat passes before recognition comes to him, and he says, ] Oh! That beast of a woman.

[ He didn't remember her name, because it wasn't worth remembering. Just another strange encounter on the way to Moonrise Towers.

Whirling around to face Iorveth, he holds the gem up— then frowns. ] Mm. I don't think this will fit in your pockets.

[ By his own fault, the pants are a bit... form-fitting. ]

[ A moment of near-exasperation, as Iorveth gears up to say "what do you mean, who"― it comes and goes, replaced by a look that, this time, says "yeah, that checks out" (rude), which is subsequently subsumed by a hike of one brow. "Wow, you remembered". A bit uncharitable, all of it. Iorveth loves Astarion more than anyone else in this godsforsaken world, but sometimes he worries about Astarion's awareness of...

...well, awareness of things in general. And his inability to plan ahead. Take, for example, the state of his pocket space, or the lack thereof. ]

You should have thought of that before encouraging Dolores to paint these trousers on me.

[ What did Astarion expect!!!!!!!!!!! Blithely, Iorveth walks over to a rack stocked full of expensive-looking finery, and picks out a pair of mustard-yellow harem pants that are doubtless expensive (squint close enough and there are pure gold patterns woven into the yellow fabric), but also criminally ugly. They are, however, very good for storing things in. ]

The price of short-sightedness. There's a lesson in there somewhere.

[ He's never put forethought into anything before, and he's not going to start now. Besides, he may never have a chance to force Iorveth into tight pants again, and giving up his one opportunity would be ridiculously foolish.

Astarion steps forward, inspecting the yellow pants with a look of abject disgust. Sure, they're expensive, but the cost of wearing these is far greater than any coin. It costs dignity. His lip curls at the ugliness before him before he glances up at Iorveth, eyes suddenly gone wide and pleading. ]

I hope you're suggesting that you wear them.

[ Iorveth would never suggest something so awful as putting Astarion in ugly clothes! ]

[ Iorveth wasn't going to make Astarion wear these pants, but the doe-eyed pleading works anyway. Appalling. Cute aggression whispers in the back of Iorveth's mind again, telling him to chew on some part of Astarion, but it only manifests as a hike of Iorveth's brow. Repress, don't address. ]

Neither of us will wear them. [ Obviously, he thinks it's stupid that Astarion wants to see his ass in tight pants when he can see his bare ass literally any day he pleases, but that's beside the point. Iorveth turns the pilfered pants upside down and ties off both legs at their ankles, creating a rather strange-looking impromptu bag.

Holding it out for Astarion to take: ] Now you can fill it with trinkets. [ Gesturing to the furs, the jewelry, the wall-length spider-silk robe hanging a few feet away. There's a lot to peruse, and some of the items look fairly suspect (a gold lamp sits primly on a pedestal); he's not sure if any of House Szarr's goods made it down here, but Astarion should be able to pick them out if there are any.

Meanwhile, Iorveth gravitates towards a well-catalogued set of woven leather accessories that look familiar to him. Sure enough, the note reads "authentic accessories made by the wild wood elves of the north. Donation from the house of the late Henselt". His expression twists into an angry grimace. ]

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