essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ With a playful grin: ] Oh, but I have the loveliest trinket right here.

[ Iorveth can't seem to see himself as anything less than hideous, much less lovely, but Astarion's happy to keep beating it into his thick skull. All dressed up in his finery, with his eyepatch and cape and very tight pants, he's absolutely swoon-worthy. More desirable than all of the people upstairs combined, Astarion thinks.

He winds his ankle around Iorveth's, pressing him closer, basking in all of the attention that he so rightfully deserves. Dressed in these soft, silky clothes, warmed by the expensive pelt around his shoulders, and enjoying the feel of Iorveth's breath, it's the closest he's ever going to get to Elysium. That is, until he hears, "Oh, gods! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt—"

As he cranes his head, he sees a half-orc woman instinctively backstepping out of the room she so rudely entered without knocking. Halfway through, though, she stops, a look of realization crossing her face. "Hey, wait a minute..." ]

[ So good of her to piece together the conked-out dwarves and the picked padlock and come to the only logical conclusion: these two elves should not be making out in the room full of incredibly precious belongings. Iorveth frowns mid-kiss, his hand still cupped around Astarion's cheek, and makes a snap judgment－

－which is to pretend that he doesn't speak Common. He's used this tactic before in the past, and it usually helps buy him some time while the other party struggles through futile attempts to communicate. (He always wonders why they bother, but it's funny regardless.)

Sternly, he rattles off a few statements in his native language. Not even bothering to say anything relevant, really. "Nothing ever goes the way we want them to", essentially. The half-orc squints, having cautiously made her way towards the duo, her hands lifted as if she's approaching two wild animals in the middle of a forest.

"Uhh." Not a single employee in this mansion is being paid enough to deal with Iorveth. Iorveth is aware of this, as he watches the half-orc gesture back and forth between herself and him. "Speak... Common? Gods, you're not supposed to be down here."

Iorveth feigns ignorance, and imperiously delivers another statement in Aen Seidhe before planting another kiss to Astarion's jaw. The half-orc throws up her hands.

"Ohhhh Gods! Take the side job, they said! Being a flautist doesn't make coin, they said!" ]

[ Astarion's eyes flick from the half-orc to Iorveth, brow furrowed in confusion for a moment before recognition flits across his face. Ah. Going for the 'blameless foreigner' angle. The only issue with that, of course, is that Astarion is no foreigner. He can't speak Aen Seidhe worth a damn; even with its similarities to Elvish, he can only somewhat make out the words that sound familiar.

So, he goes with the only phrase he knows. "I like you", or something similar to it — Iorveth has never bothered to correct his garbled pronunciation, so it's hardly authentic. But it's foreign-sounding enough that the half-orc, who speaks even less of the Aen Seidhe dialect than he does, seems to believe that he's just another elf who can't speak Common.

"YOU," she says loudly (as if that'll somehow cross the language barrier), gesticulating wildly with each word, "UPSTAIRS." A point upwards. "NOT DOWNSTAIRS." ]

[ Iorveth is counting on the half-orc's reticence to spark a potential international incident because she antagonized a foreigner, and he should really focus on that instead of being enamored by Astarion's horrible pronunciation. "I like you," he corrects after a touch of a smile, and finally gets up off of the divan to approach the half-orc with entirely unwarranted confidence.

He looks her up and down; he earns the same level of scrutiny from her. "What?", is a valid question she tosses his way, keeping her hands raised as if she really doesn't want to start anything that might get her in trouble. "Listen, I know you don't understand, but I'm gonna be in so much trouble if anyone found out you were down here."

As soon as she stops talking, Iorveth presses an index finger to her mouth to hush her; she seems surprised by the gesture, breathing an oh as Iorveth draws close, as if she's being approached by a wild animal.

Meanwhile, he pushes against Astarion's tapole with his own, trying to convey "I'll distract her" through the psychic connection. His second attempt of the night, one that will hopefully be a bit more successful. ]

[ Astarion raises an eyebrow, watching as Iorveth stalks toward the half-orc interloper with some sort of intent. What kind, exactly, he can't say. Iorveth might just as easily kill her as kiss her, he thinks. Hopefully he fears Astarion's wrath enough not to do the latter. Getting physical with someone else is one thing—a thing he's growing less and less ambivalent about the more he realizes that physicality can, in fact, mean something—but getting physical with a half-orc? At least make it another elf!

He follows Iorveth's lead and stands, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, ugly mustard bag mostly concealed at his side. As he steps carefully to the side, he reaches inside and wraps a hand around the decorative golden shortsword he'd pilfered. As his eyes flicker back to Iorveth's, he lets the tadpole transmit the mental image of him stabbing the half-orc in the back while she's distracted with Iorveth. A can I kill her, pretty please. ]

[ He has to stifle a snort when he's hit with the mental image (literally) of a knife-happy Astarion. It's wholly unnecessary, he thinks, and he tries to convey it with a subtle wave of one hand behind the half-orc's back, a "don't bother, just go"―

―but is interrupted when the half-orc in question tries to look over her shoulder. "Hey, is the other one leaving?"

Uh-oh. More distraction necessary. Iorveth would sooner chew on dirt than kiss anyone who isn't Astarion, but he feigns the barest outline of intent by tipping the woman's chin back towards himself and craning forward, just enough so that their noses almost touch. Aristocratic and straight-backed, as if he's used to getting his way. (A little bit of Nicholas, a little bit of Edgar.)

"I've never hated anything more," he murmurs in Aen Seidhe. Apparently, it sounds sufficiently sultry to the half-orc, who interprets it as a come-on. "You elves are insatiable," she laughs, and reaches around Iorveth to unceremoniously squeeze his ass with one broad palm.

Ah. The "don't bother" regarding Astarion and his desire to stab graduates to "maybe you could stab her a little". Iorveth's kneejerk reaction is to beam his own mental image of stabbing the half-orc directly to Astarion's tadpole. ]

[ Ugh. He's spent so much time telling Iorveth that he doesn't care about any 'extracurricular' dalliances he might care to have, but the sight of Iorveth so near to another person makes his blood boil. Astarion isn't jealous, exactly, because there's no way in any of the hells that this half-orc holds a candle to him, but it's a different feeling that flares up inside him. Possessiveness, maybe. That's his leather-clad ass to grab.

Before he even fully registers what he's doing, he's pulling the shortsword from its hidden place in the makeshift bag. In one swift movement, he rears back and plunges it into her torso. A bit of an overreaction, perhaps, but she really shouldn't have touched his elf.

She opens her mouth in shock, but all she can do is sputter as she reaches out to steady herself, first on Iorveth's shoulders and then on the shelves of expensive items. Priceless artifacts go down with her as she collapses to the ground, the (mostly) innocent victim of Astarion's sour attitude.

With a scowl: ] You're no good at distracting. I'll do it from now on.

[ Ugh, the sequel. Iorveth steps back and away from the quickly-dying half-orc, careful not to get blood on any part of his new clothes or boots. ]

I did well enough, [ is his sullen retort, as he swats at his own shoulders and wipes his hands on nearby drapery. Getting rid of the lingering sensation of unwanted touch, shuddering phantom hands off of himself before approaching Astarion (rather rudely stepping over the body on the floor to do so; psycho behavior). ]

We need to go, [ he warns, wiping blood off of the back of Astarion's hand before attempting to wind his fingers around it. ] I'll listen to your criticisms once we leave this place behind.

[ Astarion is entitled to be as irate as he wants, but preferably not in a jail cell. That wouldn't do either of them any good. ]

[ Astarion gives the bloodied corpse of their poor interloper a kick with the toe of his boot, sullen and pouting. He didn't like watching that one bit. The image of someone's grimy hands all over Iorveth brings to mind all the times he had someone's grimy hands all over him, and it makes him full-body shudder in disgust.

He lets Iorveth tangle their fingers together, frown deepening into something petulant and disappointed. On one hand, getting out of here does sound like a good idea. On the other— ]

You haven't even gotten embarrassingly drunk yet.

[ What was all of this for if not to see Iorveth in pretty clothes, swaying back and forth like a sailor on the high seas? ]

[ Gods, he should tell Astarion to get a grip. None of this would have been worth anything if it ends with rope around their wrists, Iorveth would like to remind.

But, for the millionth time, this night is for Astarion. Iorveth doesn't love that look on Astarion's face, and likes the thought of having been the reason for that frown even less. So he tugs Astarion closer to him by the hand that he's holding, prepared to let go or retreat if he feels even a sliver of resistance from the other party. ]

...Then we forgo the trinkets in favor of rejoining the party, or we find a tavern to go to after we leave this place.

[ Yes, he realizes that he's proposing these things at his own expense (he can't imagine why it would please Astarion to see him be stupid drunk); still, Iorveth can deal with Astarion being haughty or bossy or even angry with him, but he hates the thought of Astarion being disappointed. Life has disappointed his beloved cat far too often for Iorveth to continue that trend into Astarion's future. ]

[ Iorveth hardly needs to watch for resistance, because Astarion has no intentions of resisting him. It's he who deserves to put his hands on Iorveth, not some stranger, so he does just that, squeezing Iorveth's hand and winding his free arm under that debonair cape and around his waist to pull him closer. ]

I'm not abandoning my trinkets, [ he says, tone a little offended. Just as he's the one who deserves to feel Iorveth up, he's the one who deserves to keep these trinkets. Who else is going to have them, the wealthy idiots upstairs? Please. ]

But, [ he continues, ] I'm sure we could find a suitably upscale tavern to wear this finery to.

[ Not some dingy old tavern where common adventurers congregate. Someplace fancy, where a man can wear a cape without judgment. ]

[ It's becoming a real problem, how good it feels to be close to Astarion. Iorveth has never fancied himself either touch-starved or touch-repulsed, choosing mostly to opt out for the sake of doing what's expected of him (being an upright champion against oppression)― and yet, here he is, feeding off of the sensation of being pulled close by someone who'd actually obliged Iorveth's plea to stay.

Very dangerous. The smart, practical part of Iorveth tells himself to love Astarion a little less, for both of their sakes; the snarling animal who also lives within Iorveth bares its teeth at that rational voice.

Oh well. The fight between Iorveth's inner voices can wait. ]

The things I endure for you, [ he sighs, very much unconvincingly. No one actually strongarmed him to be here, and no one made him suggest further plans. He knows he's the clown here. Iorveth has never claimed to be a good person. ] Let's go, then, before we're found again.

[ A reminder to himself not to get distracted by rogue desires to kiss Astarion (also again), even if they really are set up correctly for it. Hands held, waist held, dead body on the floor. Very romantic. Instead of pressing their mouths together, he murmurs the Aen Seidhe word for "beloved", en'ca minne, then tugs Astarion towards the open door, bag of stolen goods and all. They'll have to re-padlock the door, go back to up the first floor, and find a suitable window to climb out of. Not very glamorous at all. ]

[ Although he would very much have liked to be kissed while standing over a stabbed corpse, he allows the tugging, closing the door behind them and pressing the shackle back into the padlock's body with a click. The auction will certainly begin soon, and someone will have to come down here when that half-orc doesn't return with the items to be sold. What a shock they'll be in for, seeing two knocked-out dwarves and a dead body.

Hand in hand, he leads Iorveth back up to the foyer on the first floor. With guards posted outside, the front door is hardly an option. The hall on one side leads back to the party; yet another choice that would likely get them arrested for thievery. It's down the other hall that's the only reasonable option, so that's where he tugs Iorveth along until they reach a comparatively dingy room with multiple small beds lined against the wall. Astarion frowns again, the image of threadbare bunks in the spawn dormitories flashing in his mind. ]

Servants' quarters, I suppose. The rich and powerful do prefer to keep their lessers out of sight.

[ Iorveth lets go of Astarion's hand once they pause within the servants' quarters to take stock of the room's layout, gravitating towards one of the thin rectangular windows lining the wall. Too narrow for either of them to fit through, let alone the bulky bag full of pilfered goods. ]

And yet they always seem to want to populate their mansions with these so-called "lessers".

[ A snort. Obviously, Iorveth sees nothing practical or appealing about living in a palace with staff at his beck and call; it would only breed contempt, he thinks. One of the biggest reasons he'd cited for not wanting to be a kept elf in a gilded manor.

Running his hand over the wall, he makes his way to one of the two doors on the opposite end of the room. He opens it a crack, and is disappointed to find that it only leads into a tiny closet packed full of rumpled jackets. ]

―Do you still aspire to live a life like this, in your future?

[ An honest question, as they try to find a way out of here. Yes, Astarion has agreed to stay with him and endure whatever that entails, but that doesn't mean that Astarion isn't allowed to also aspire to a vague future where he lives in a big house and has people to listen to his whims. ]

[ The question gives him pause. It feels loaded, like the wrong answer will suggest that he regrets not sacrificing the thousands of spawn in that dungeon so that he could live a life of luxury. He busies himself with investigating a small chest beside one of the beds that seems to hold the servants' belongings. Nothing worth stealing, but he still rifles through them regardless. A comb, a hairpin, a letter marked To Alice, Love Philip. ]

I don't know, [ he finally says, eyes still downcast as he flips open the note and reads Philip's flowery prose. Another moment passes in silence before he shrugs, tossing the letter back in the chest. ]

I suppose there's no reason to want what will never be, is there?

[ He gave up his chance at being one of the rich and powerful when he gave up ascension. There's no palace in his future, no horde of servants at his beck and call. ]

[ What will never be. Iorveth huffs a little, idly examining a row of books and finding something that seems to be a continuation of Edgar and Nicholas' adventures in fucking their way across the continent. He doesn't pick it up, because he didn't read the first one. ]

Don't be so short-sighted. You've an eternity ahead of you.

[ Astarion could open a bank account and toss the things they've stolen into a vault; in a few centuries' time, he might be independently wealthy just from the interest. He won't be beholden to a strange elf and his elf rights crusade forever― he's a free creature with all the time that Toril has to offer.

A sobering thought, from Iorveth's mortal perspective. Still, it's the truth, and he mulls it over as he gravitates towards the one other remaining door and slowly pushes it open. A narrow hallway extends beyond it, leading to what looks like a kitchen space, a pantry, and an exit. ]

Mm, [ is his concession. ] An eternity is an awfully long time.

[ Especially for him, who's only lived for two centuries. Even a mortal elf lives far beyond what he's already experienced; it's difficult to imagine eternity. Honestly, he can barely imagine next tenday. Perhaps that's for the best — his future looks a bit dark, quite literally. Better not to dread what's to come too much before it's happened.

He ambles down the hallway toward the kitchen, which smells of fancy spices and sugar. No doubt the servants have been hard at work preparing food for the party. Unfortunately, the smell of food doesn't entice him much, even when it's as aromatic as this. ]

Well. [ Another shrug. ] Who knows what 'forever' holds? Perhaps in a thousand years' time I'll have a castle to myself after all.

[ They need to go, but Iorveth is, in fact enticed by the scent of sugar and spice in the kitchen, and pokes his head inside to find it unoccupied save for a halfling fast sleep on a stool with his back propped against the wall, snoring softly next to a batch of cooling pastries. Iorveth slinks over on silent feet, plucks an oversized cookie and a scone from the vast variety of baked desserts to choose from, and slips back by Astarion's side.

Nibbling on the edge of his stolen cookie: ] And when you finally get your castle in a thousand years' time, remember this moment.

[ A low breath, almost a laugh. ] I'll say "I told you so" from beyond the grave.

[ His stupid, lovely cat, making the most of his eternally free life. Iorveth'd like that― as long as Astarion finds a way to make himself happy, he'd be able to rest easy. Licking a bit of chocolate from his thumb, he presses a kiss to the cuffed tip of Astarion's ear. ]

[ From beyond the grave. Now that's a sobering thought from an immortal perspective. He's never really thought about it before, that eternity means everyone he likes and loves will eventually fade away. After all, before recently, he had no one he liked or loved. It's an unpleasant realization, and his face falls as he watches Iorveth chew on his pilfered treat. ]

Will you?

[ Mood gone sour, he crosses his arms over his chest, eyeing the door that—presumably—leads to the outside. The back gardens, perhaps. ]

I guess we'll see about that. [ He wraps a hand around Iorveth's forearm, pulling him along. ] Come, let's get out of here before you eat every pastry in the building.

[ A shame that Astarion tugs him away when he does: there's a rather lovely-looking pecan tart that he would've loved to sample. But he follows, chewing on a scone as they make their way out of the kitchen and past the pantry, out of the back door and out into the yard behind the mansion, less elaborately decorated than the front gardens with its statues of gods and goddesses in various states of undress. The area is clearly designed for labor, with large tubs and washboards sitting in neat rows under tautly-pulled clotheslines; the only decoration on this side of the property is a modest-sized fountain with flying tressyms carved in stone, situated just off to the side opposite the path that leads to a small wrought-iron gate out of the premises.

It feels nice to be outside. Perhaps Iorveth, a wood elf, is designed to feel uncomfortable when he's cloistered between walls. He breathes in, a deep, indulgent inhale, and glances sideways at Astarion, who seems to be...

...in a bad mood? Iorveth can't read his expression too well, and wonders if it's because he pointed out the fact that they do not, in fact, have mansions and luxury in their immediate future. A lupine tip of his head, and Iorveth moves to take the not-quite-bag of items from Astarion to hold on his behalf. ]

We should stop by Elfsong and leave this in our room before we set out again. [ Hm. ] Unless you've had enough excitement for the night.

[ Gale would probably like the carved tressyms, he thinks. Horrifying, that he now thinks of what his companions might like and dislike. Awful! Astarion never asked to consider other people. He never asked to give a damn about anyone else at all.

It's got him in a brooding mood, but he certainly doesn't want to trouble Iorveth with his sudden realization of the downfalls of immortality, so he squares his shoulders, tipping his chin up. With a wave of his hand, he replies, ] You know me. I'm not one to retire early.

[ Besides, this evening hasn't been what he'd call 'exciting'. A few guards knocked out, a half-orc dead. Nothing to write home about, really. ]

I'd hate not to live up to my reputation. —Or un-live, as it may be.

[ A look, followed by a half-affectionate tsk. ]

You've nothing to prove to me. [ If Astarion decides to pack it in for the night, Iorveth would simply enjoy the process of wrapping him in their new blanket (stuffed into the pants-bag) and watching him settle. But Iorveth did promise a few drinks, and he doesn't want to end the night on a lukewarm note.

He leads the both of them to the gate, tugging on it once to find it locked. Annoying. They really need to get out of here before chaos starts brewing; thankfully, the gate is isn't so tall that Iorveth couldn't haul Astarion up on his shoulders and help him climb over the top of it if there's no way to pick it open.

Stepping aside to let Astarion take a look at the lock, Iorveth hefts their bag of spoils and listens to the chime of jewelry hitting jewelry. ]

At our next destination, [ as if he's just remembering, ] call me by my name, not an alias.

[ Astarion digs through the bag on Iorveth's shoulder until he finds the little lockpick they'd stolen from that room of ridiculously mundane items. Tool in hand, he approaches the gate, crouching down to eye level with the lock. It's a little rusted, and perhaps they could even try to break it if they had Karlach with them, but he doubts even their combined strength would be enough. Their talents lie elsewhere, of course.

As he fiddles with the lock, he says, ] I only thought you might enjoy a little roleplay, that's all.

[ He'd thought it might spice up Iorveth's life to pretend to be a sexy romantic lead in a trashy novel! Selfless of him, really. ]

[ Bluntly: ] If it makes you fantasize about men who have nothing to do with me, I don't enjoy it.

[ Iorveth can pretend to be a sexy romantic lead in a trashy erotica, but the reality is that he's a weird-looking wood elf with a tadpole in his brain. He stands to the side of the gate with his arms folded, looking out towards the mansion to make sure that a horde of guards doesn't suddenly start streaming out of it. ]

We can still playact at being nobility. As long as you still see me while we're doing it.

[ Because it's going to be really disappointing for Astarion if he finds that he prefers the sexy romantic lead to the weird wood elf, and is brought rudely back to reality in subsequent days. ]

[ The lock pops open and falls to the ground with a clang at the same moment that a laugh bubbles up out of Astarion unbidden. He can't help it; the thought that he's 'fantasizing' about anyone else is too ridiculous. As he glances up at Iorveth, his eyes glint with amusement (and the faint light of the few sconces lining the perimeter). ]

You impossible creature, don't tell me you're jealous of Edgar.

[ It's ridiculously endearing if he is, partially because Edgar is terribly, irrevocably fictional. He stands, tossing the lockpick aside, and reaches out to grab Iorveth's hands. ]

Have you been hit on the head recently? [ he asks, sweetly. ] Surely you must know that all of my filthy fantasies feature you in the starring role.

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