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.
[ Jealous. Iorveth has to force himself not to frown at the implication, though he does feel his face warm just slightly at how close the callout skims to the truth. Not jealous, per se－ Astarion can do with his newfound freedom however he pleases－ but incredibly resistant to the idea of Astarion's mind wandering, at the very least, when they're sharing the same space.
Brows furrow, then smooth again; Iorveth can feel his hands getting warmer in Astarion's grip to match the tips of his ears. Ugh. ]
They needn't be filthy, [ is the pushback, though it probably doesn't help. If anything, it might be an even more revealing admission. Ugh, part two. ] Gods, you do worse things to my brain than the tadpole could ever hope to. Plying me with drink in this state may prove disastrous.
[ "Why does my intellect take a nosedive when I'm with you," in (slightly) less (?) rude terms. Still, he doesn't tear his hands away from Astarion the way he might have done before. ]
[ Prove disastrous, that is. For Iorveth, at least. For Astarion, there's nothing better than watching Iorveth's IQ drop by the second. He'd enjoyed it even the first time that he'd egged Iorveth on to the point of drunkenness; Iorveth had been complimentary, sort of, and he'd entered himself in a fight, and he'd had fun, Astarion thinks. It had been the first time he'd felt Iorveth let his guard down a little, the first time he'd ever felt like maybe Iorveth liked rather than begrudgingly tolerated his presence. ]
Why else do you think I want to do it?
[ Hands occupied with Iorveth's, he opens the gate with a nudge of his foot before stepping backwards through it and tugging Iorveth along with him. Finally, out of this fancy house with its awful, irritating—if admittedly well-dressed—inhabitants. ]
As far as the disasters in our futures go, I find this one most appealing.
[ Good timing: Iorveth can hear the distant clamor of rich men and women finally getting wise to the treasure room break-in. Sucks to suck. Iorveth feels nothing for the petty merchants who stole blood relics from his people, and barely spares the mansion a second glance as they trot away from it, back onto cobbled paths lined with tall streetlamps. ]
You want to be seen in public with a drunk fool?
[ Just double-checking. Iorveth steers them both in the direction of Elfsong for a quick detour before they can circle back around to the taverns-turned-lounges or salons-turned-taverns that occupy the upper half of the Lower City, mindful of being as inconspicuous with the mustard-yellow bag full of stolen items as they can be. ]
I'll not be the only one suffering my antics, you're aware.
[ Iorveth is even more reckless when he's drunk, or so he's heard－ he doesn't remember getting plastered and gambling away his belongings on an ill-advised game of dice, but the dwarves who were there sure do. A wry half-grin, and he nudges Astarion's side with a gentle elbow. "Don't encourage me too much". ]
[ Once they're out on the street with the sound of panicked noble yelling getting softer and softer behind them, Astarion links their arms. Baldur's Gate in the evening time is bustling, and he has to step them to the side to avoid running face first into a group of tieflings out for a night on the town. They giggle as the two pass them by, excited for a night of revelry in the big city. ]
I suppose I find your drunken antics rather charming.
[ How embarrassing — and yet he can't find it in himself to feel embarrassed. What a strange and wonderful thing, to say how he feels without deflection or shame. ]
Amusing, at the very least. I'd suggest you start another fist fight, but I'd prefer you in one piece tonight.
[ "Charming", Astarion claims about potential drunkenness. A funny notion, that. He's spent so long being a bent bow with an arrow nocked on its string, eternally taut; how novel, to have someone enamored by his inefficiencies instead of his abilities. It's a symmetry of sorts, Iorveth supposes－ he, too, likes Astarion the most when Astarion isn't trying to play the role of a perfect archetype.
They walk, carefully staying to one side of the main road that weaves a clear path through the Lower City's most important landmarks. Despite attempts to be discreet, many passers-by give the pair a second, sometimes a third glance, inquisitive eyes flicking up and over the both of them, evaluative and curious.
Whatever. Iorveth continues their conversation, taking note of certain locations that look suitably ritzy enough to return to once they have their stolen wares tucked safely away under one of their beds (probably Iorveth's; Astarion's poor bed hasn't been seeing much use lately). ]
You want me to drink, [ he says with some incredulity, ] but you don't want me to fight.
[ Where's the fun in that!!!!!! What is a deranged elf to do if he's forbidden to start a ruckus!!!!! Honestly, Astarion is just playing himself if he thinks this is a good idea, in Iorveth's professional (?) opinion. ]
Well, I suppose the only thing left for me to do is to embarrass you in my drunken stupor, then.
[ Read: "I'll probably be overtly affectionate, which is not going to end well for you." Everyone in the bar is going to hate them so much. ]
[ Iorveth takes being told not to do something surprisingly well, Astarion notes, although he doesn't dare say so out loud lest Iorveth realize how ridiculously whipped he's acting and course correct. Astarion would hate nothing more. ]
Ugh, how awful, [ he moans melodramatically, as if he could give two shits about public displays of affection. He'd tangle tongues with Iorveth in front of even Withers, if he felt the need. Hedonism, Iorveth would probably call it, but that's only because he's accustomed to a harsher lifestyle. It isn't his problem if someone else gets offended by his affection.
(Of course, he doesn't extend that same grace to others. Anyone else showing affection in public is gross!)
The Elfsong stands tall in the distance, and as he pulls Iorveth along toward it, he adds, ] I suppose it's all right if you'd like to fight a little, just as long as you don't get too injured. [ A little bit injured would be appealing, actually. ] As long as you're still in a state to engage in vigorous physical activity.
[ The universe is screaming for Iorveth to get a grip, but consider: it has also screamed at him to calm down several times in his checkered past, to no avail. Someone will tell him to course correct someday, but that day isn't today.
More importantly, Astarion is so stupid (affectionate). The more he dares Iorveth to thaw all the bits of him that he'd been suppressing under all of his emotional permafrost, the more Iorveth thinks that Astarion has no idea what kind of person he really is. Hollow and exhausted, his yearning like an endless sinkhole. Damaged by loss, kept alive only by the fierceness of his emotions. It's not healthy or safe to be loved by someone like Iorveth, and Iorveth is, in part, aware of that reality.
He's waiting for the pushback. So far, it hasn't come. Tugged towards Elfsong and through the now-familiar entrance, he wonders what it'd take for this stupid (again, affectionate) vampire to push him away. ]
If you wished it, I'd bed you even with a broken limb. [ He'd probably enjoy it, too. He's a freak. ] You underestimate me.
[ Pulling Astarion back by his wrist, Iorveth kisses the corner of his mouth. ] ―Stay here while I go put your things away. [ At the bottom of the stairs leading up to their communal room, he means. It'll be easier to slip in and out that way, not to mention that he won't be tempted to drag Astarion into bed if they end up sitting on the mattress while they hide their stolen goods. ]
[ Iorveth is very much a freak, and Astarion is very much endeared by it. It feels nice to have such intensity of feeling focused solely on him, to be special to someone. It feels good to be liked, to have his thoughts and feelings matter. One could grow addicted to the feeling.
He leans against the railing leading up to the room, posing as nonchalantly and attractively as he can manage. ]
Don't take too long. You wouldn't believe it looking at this angelic face [ —ha— ] but I've been known to cause trouble when I'm bored.
[ If Gale's up there and traps Iorveth in one of his inescapable conversations, Astarion is liable to start making mischief down here. ]
[ A soft chuckle at "angelic", though Iorveth doesn't push it. ]
Just stay put, vexing creature.
[ This would have been sharp and cold a few tendays ago; now, it skews closer to warmly fond. It's punctuated by a quick press of his palm against Astarion's jaw, a brief cradle of his face before Iorveth slips away with the unwieldy pants-bag to hide it away from prying eyes.
The process itself doesn't take long: it's just a quick minute or two of negotiating the lumpy sack into the sliver of space afforded them under the bed. It's fielding the questions from the others that takes more time than strictly necessary: Lae'zel with her needling comments about how Iorveth needs to get his head on straight (there it is, the perspective that he probably needs), Shadowheart with her teasing observations about his new outfit and Astarion's taste level.
Iorveth swats them all away, replying to everything in monosyllables before unceremoniously taking his leave again. Closing the door rather roughly behind him, he strides towards the stairs and glances down. ]
Astarion? [ If he's managed to kill someone in the span of a few quick minutes of Iorveth being away, Iorveth will actually be quite impressed. ]
[ He hasn't killed anyone. In fact, he really did intend to be on his best behavior. It's the fault of Alan Alyth, the proprietor of the Elfsong, who decided to come over and confront one of the inhabitants of his noisiest room.
"I hear things with four legs bounding around up there at all hours of the night," he's saying as Iorveth comes back down. "And someone said they heard a dog barking! You know, we're not supposed to have those in city limits. I could get in quite a lot of trouble—" ]
A dog? That's ridiculous. You might as well accuse us of harboring an owlbear up there.
[ What kind of joyless establishment would deny lodging to a dog??? No establishment that borrows the name of elves, Iorveth thinks. He steps down onto the first floor with austere purpose, settling one steel-green eye on the man speaking to Astarion. ]
More complaints about the druid? [ An easy decision to make, throwing Halsin under the line of fire. The giant wood elf can fend for himself; Scratch can't. ] To be expected, I suppose.
[ "The druid?", Alan frowns, then adds: "oh."
Recalling Halsin's general size and shape, perhaps. Hard to forget, really－ he's massive. ]
[ Both Alan and Astarion frown in confusion at 'the druid', but to Astarion's credit, the realization comes quickly. ]
Yes, the druid. Surely you've seen him. Behemoth of a man, yea tall?
[ He holds a hand up high above even Iorveth's head, perhaps exaggerating Halsin's size a little for dramatic effect. ]
He prefers spending his time as a bear. Satisfies those, ah, murdery urges, I think.
[ Alan gulps, and Astarion glances back to him, hands on his hips. ]
But if you'd like to have it out with him, be my guest. He's certainly larger than a peacock, if it's city law you're worried about. [ Honestly, if they aren't allowed Scratch, there's no reason to allow Halsin. He's far more of a nuisance, Astarion thinks. Taking a step up the stairs: ] Shall I go get him and tell him you're eager to kick him out? He's been in a mood lately, but I'm sure he'll take it well.
[ "Uh, never mind," mutters Alan, taking a step back. "As long as it's not a dog..." ]
[ Iorveth wagers that this stupid man would have nothing against Scratch if he actually met him, but he's not going to pick a fight over the dog's honor tonight.
(Maybe some other time, though. It might be fun.)
He watches the innkeep slither away while he mumbles something about floorboards and the potential state of them; when he's sure that Alan is out of earshot, Iorveth scoffs: ]
Did you have to mention the owlbear?
[ Now they have to hope that no one complains about errant hooting in the night. A sigh, and Iorveth makes his way through Elfsong's first-floor tavern-space, taking care not to step on Zambomba the cat (who meows aristocratically at the both of them, a clear warning for the hairless servants to mind his tail) along the way. ]
[ He trails behind Iorveth, lazy until he spots a dwarf sitting at one of the tables that he'd cheated in a game of Three-Dragon Ante a few days ago. That encourages him to pick up the pace before he can be confronted, unceremoniously yanking Iorveth out of the tavern as he does so. ]
It's growing, [ he says as they walk out into the night breeze. ] If the innkeep gives us trouble again, we can just have the little hellion eat him.
[ Back out into still-teeming streets, narrowly avoiding bumping into a tittering couple making their way towards Rivington by way of the bridge. Iorveth pulls Astarion closer to him by his forearm, making sure that neither of them gets swept sideways or, more likely, pickpocketed by eagle-eyed thieves. ]
Not the best idea. If it develops a taste for human flesh, Gale might be next on the menu.
[ Unlikely; Gale probably tastes awful. Wyll, on the other hand...
Iorveth laughs under his breath, and surveys the establishments that they're passing. Most of them seem too rustic, still, with names like "The Dancing Boar" and "The Rabbit Den"－ once they start invoking divinity, they'll know the place is suitably ritzy. "Moonmaiden's Respite", "Waukeen's Breath". ]
[ With the regularity with which Gale bleeds—often, considering he's a weak, slow wizard—Astarion can say with certainty that the mere smell of his blood is revolting. Even the owlbear cub wouldn't be so desperate, he thinks. Still, he's willing to sacrifice Gale for the greater good, if the little thing gets hungry. ]
Not that one, [ Astarion says, pointing to a building adorned with a shoddy wooden sign, the name Hjulnar's carved into it. He scoffs, rolling his eyes. ] Ugh, too many dwarves.
[ As they make their way down the street, it becomes apparent that he's been to nearly every one of these taverns — and has a bone to pick with each as well. Smells awful, for one. More murders here than you'd think, for another. It's only once they stop in front of an establishment decorated with garlands of flowers, the entryway lit by enchanted, floating lanterns, that he cocks his head in thought.
The Silken Sash, reads the artful sign above the door in flowery script. A small statue of a beautiful woman with cascading locks welcomes them in; Sune, he notes, the goddess of beauty. No wonder the place looks nice. ]
[ Iorveth hasn't forgotten that Astarion has spent a good part of his two hundred years in Baldur's Gate's many, many taverns, but it's a different thing altogether to see how Astarion navigates them all; it's a bit of a relief, really, that they find one that hasn't been somewhat tarnished by the past.
Looking the facade of the place up and down: ] It seems as good a place as any. [ He doesn't recognize the stone figure greeting them, but he figures that he doesn't have to be able to identify the theme of a place to have a drink in it.
Letting go of Astarion's arm, he takes a step back and gestures theatrically to the door. ]
After you, milord.
[ Dry sarcasm, offset by a quirk of his scarred lips. He pushes the door open with a palm (getting hit in the face with the floral scent that permeates the entirety of the establishment in the process), and bows his head in mock deference to allow Astarion the luxury of stepping in first. To a casual onlooker, they're the very picture of a high-born high elf waited on by a wood elf that looks to be a bodyguard or a right-hand man. ]
[ Astarion doesn't even bother telling himself not to be into being called 'milord', although a rational person probably would. Iorveth encourages all of his worst characteristics, so why should this be any different? He grins widely, pleased as the cat that ate the canary, as he steps in with his head held high. The overwhelming scent of roses fills his nose, the obvious culprit the quite frankly excessive amount of flowers dotting nearly every surface. He grabs Iorveth's hand, tugging him inside and letting the door swing shut behind him.
The night is young, but there's already a fair amount of patrons in the tavern, most of them dressed in the same sort of upscale, stylish clothing as Astarion and Iorveth. A few of them are clad in more understated outfits, perhaps dragged here by their more aesthete companions. The most glorious clothing of all is worn by the barkeep, although such a word seems crude to describe her. A human woman, tall, with long raven-black hair and exquisitely applied makeup. She glitters quite literally, every inch of her covered in jewelry.
"What beautiful new faces!" she coos, beaming as they enter. "And in such gorgeous attire!"
[ Iorveth is seldom intimidated by strangers, so he doesn't let the curious glances from the relative elite cow him; he's been judged by onlookers before, and the appraising from well-dressed half-noblepeople rolls off his broad shoulders. He's more invested in how the others are perceiving Astarion, and stifles a soft snort at the attractive barkeep's assessment. She addresses the both of them― faces, plural― but Iorveth assumes that the compliment is mostly directed towards Astarion, who really is striking from every angle. Silver and black and gold, lit prettily by the enchanted lights pulsing behind flower-covered lanterns. ]
It would be impossible not to note how beautiful he is, [ Iorveth says flatly, situated a step behind Astarion with their hands still held. ] But if you wish to admire him properly, offer him your best table and your finest drink.
[ Speaking as if Astarion is truly a person of import, which isn't a lie in the strictest sense: he's Iorveth's most important person.
The beautiful owner of the establishment pulls her perfect lips into a smile, craning forward towards Astarion to show even more of the cleavage revealed by her low-cut dress. "But of course― exalting beauty is what I do best. Sit wherever you'd like, lovely guests." ]
[ Astarion flashes a megawatt smile at the proprietress, glancing down at the name embroidered next to her bountiful cleavage--which he makes a CON save not to ogle, because he's not blind. 'Hyacinth'. Appropriate, given all the flowers. ]
And two glasses of your finest for my companion.
[ He is still very much intending on getting Iorveth incredibly, embarrassingly drunk.
The proprietress smiles winsomely, and Astarion tugs Iorveth over to a table in the corner, away from the action. Old habits are hard to break, and his habit is to gravitate towards the edges of a tavern to observe the patrons. Another habit: sitting with his back to the wall, facing the door. Paranoia also dies hard. ]
Not one complaint out of you about the venue. I fear you've gone soft.
[ No complaints about the choice of table, either－ Iorveth, too, is a terminally paranoid elf, so the vantage point suits him well. The only thing he debates is whether to sit next to Astarion or to sit across from him, and he ultimately decides on the latter. He doesn't want to make things too easy for Astarion, especially with this rather unwarranted callout.
Keeping a table's worth of space between them, Iorveth leans backwards in his chair. ]
What complaint would I have? That there are too many flowers?
[ It seems the most obvious reason for pushback. He flicks his gaze across the room, and reaches behind him to brush long fingers against the flowered garlands hanging from exposed ceiling beams. ]
You seem to forget that I'm of the forest. The flowers are the least offensive things here.
[ The people, he can take or leave. The pretty barkeep can stay. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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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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Brows furrow, then smooth again; Iorveth can feel his hands getting warmer in Astarion's grip to match the tips of his ears. Ugh. ]
They needn't be filthy, [ is the pushback, though it probably doesn't help. If anything, it might be an even more revealing admission. Ugh, part two. ] Gods, you do worse things to my brain than the tadpole could ever hope to. Plying me with drink in this state may prove disastrous.
[ "Why does my intellect take a nosedive when I'm with you," in (slightly) less (?) rude terms. Still, he doesn't tear his hands away from Astarion the way he might have done before. ]
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[ Prove disastrous, that is. For Iorveth, at least. For Astarion, there's nothing better than watching Iorveth's IQ drop by the second. He'd enjoyed it even the first time that he'd egged Iorveth on to the point of drunkenness; Iorveth had been complimentary, sort of, and he'd entered himself in a fight, and he'd had fun, Astarion thinks. It had been the first time he'd felt Iorveth let his guard down a little, the first time he'd ever felt like maybe Iorveth liked rather than begrudgingly tolerated his presence. ]
Why else do you think I want to do it?
[ Hands occupied with Iorveth's, he opens the gate with a nudge of his foot before stepping backwards through it and tugging Iorveth along with him. Finally, out of this fancy house with its awful, irritating—if admittedly well-dressed—inhabitants. ]
As far as the disasters in our futures go, I find this one most appealing.
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You want to be seen in public with a drunk fool?
[ Just double-checking. Iorveth steers them both in the direction of Elfsong for a quick detour before they can circle back around to the taverns-turned-lounges or salons-turned-taverns that occupy the upper half of the Lower City, mindful of being as inconspicuous with the mustard-yellow bag full of stolen items as they can be. ]
I'll not be the only one suffering my antics, you're aware.
[ Iorveth is even more reckless when he's drunk, or so he's heard－ he doesn't remember getting plastered and gambling away his belongings on an ill-advised game of dice, but the dwarves who were there sure do. A wry half-grin, and he nudges Astarion's side with a gentle elbow. "Don't encourage me too much". ]
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I suppose I find your drunken antics rather charming.
[ How embarrassing — and yet he can't find it in himself to feel embarrassed. What a strange and wonderful thing, to say how he feels without deflection or shame. ]
Amusing, at the very least. I'd suggest you start another fist fight, but I'd prefer you in one piece tonight.
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They walk, carefully staying to one side of the main road that weaves a clear path through the Lower City's most important landmarks. Despite attempts to be discreet, many passers-by give the pair a second, sometimes a third glance, inquisitive eyes flicking up and over the both of them, evaluative and curious.
Whatever. Iorveth continues their conversation, taking note of certain locations that look suitably ritzy enough to return to once they have their stolen wares tucked safely away under one of their beds (probably Iorveth's; Astarion's poor bed hasn't been seeing much use lately). ]
You want me to drink, [ he says with some incredulity, ] but you don't want me to fight.
[ Where's the fun in that!!!!!! What is a deranged elf to do if he's forbidden to start a ruckus!!!!! Honestly, Astarion is just playing himself if he thinks this is a good idea, in Iorveth's professional (?) opinion. ]
Well, I suppose the only thing left for me to do is to embarrass you in my drunken stupor, then.
[ Read: "I'll probably be overtly affectionate, which is not going to end well for you." Everyone in the bar is going to hate them so much. ]
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Ugh, how awful, [ he moans melodramatically, as if he could give two shits about public displays of affection. He'd tangle tongues with Iorveth in front of even Withers, if he felt the need. Hedonism, Iorveth would probably call it, but that's only because he's accustomed to a harsher lifestyle. It isn't his problem if someone else gets offended by his affection.
(Of course, he doesn't extend that same grace to others. Anyone else showing affection in public is gross!)
The Elfsong stands tall in the distance, and as he pulls Iorveth along toward it, he adds, ] I suppose it's all right if you'd like to fight a little, just as long as you don't get too injured. [ A little bit injured would be appealing, actually. ] As long as you're still in a state to engage in vigorous physical activity.
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More importantly, Astarion is so stupid (affectionate). The more he dares Iorveth to thaw all the bits of him that he'd been suppressing under all of his emotional permafrost, the more Iorveth thinks that Astarion has no idea what kind of person he really is. Hollow and exhausted, his yearning like an endless sinkhole. Damaged by loss, kept alive only by the fierceness of his emotions. It's not healthy or safe to be loved by someone like Iorveth, and Iorveth is, in part, aware of that reality.
He's waiting for the pushback. So far, it hasn't come. Tugged towards Elfsong and through the now-familiar entrance, he wonders what it'd take for this stupid (again, affectionate) vampire to push him away. ]
If you wished it, I'd bed you even with a broken limb. [ He'd probably enjoy it, too. He's a freak. ] You underestimate me.
[ Pulling Astarion back by his wrist, Iorveth kisses the corner of his mouth. ] ―Stay here while I go put your things away. [ At the bottom of the stairs leading up to their communal room, he means. It'll be easier to slip in and out that way, not to mention that he won't be tempted to drag Astarion into bed if they end up sitting on the mattress while they hide their stolen goods. ]
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He leans against the railing leading up to the room, posing as nonchalantly and attractively as he can manage. ]
Don't take too long. You wouldn't believe it looking at this angelic face [ —ha— ] but I've been known to cause trouble when I'm bored.
[ If Gale's up there and traps Iorveth in one of his inescapable conversations, Astarion is liable to start making mischief down here. ]
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Just stay put, vexing creature.
[ This would have been sharp and cold a few tendays ago; now, it skews closer to warmly fond. It's punctuated by a quick press of his palm against Astarion's jaw, a brief cradle of his face before Iorveth slips away with the unwieldy pants-bag to hide it away from prying eyes.
The process itself doesn't take long: it's just a quick minute or two of negotiating the lumpy sack into the sliver of space afforded them under the bed. It's fielding the questions from the others that takes more time than strictly necessary: Lae'zel with her needling comments about how Iorveth needs to get his head on straight (there it is, the perspective that he probably needs), Shadowheart with her teasing observations about his new outfit and Astarion's taste level.
Iorveth swats them all away, replying to everything in monosyllables before unceremoniously taking his leave again. Closing the door rather roughly behind him, he strides towards the stairs and glances down. ]
Astarion? [ If he's managed to kill someone in the span of a few quick minutes of Iorveth being away, Iorveth will actually be quite impressed. ]
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"I hear things with four legs bounding around up there at all hours of the night," he's saying as Iorveth comes back down. "And someone said they heard a dog barking! You know, we're not supposed to have those in city limits. I could get in quite a lot of trouble—" ]
A dog? That's ridiculous. You might as well accuse us of harboring an owlbear up there.
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More complaints about the druid? [ An easy decision to make, throwing Halsin under the line of fire. The giant wood elf can fend for himself; Scratch can't. ] To be expected, I suppose.
[ "The druid?", Alan frowns, then adds: "oh."
Recalling Halsin's general size and shape, perhaps. Hard to forget, really－ he's massive. ]
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Yes, the druid. Surely you've seen him. Behemoth of a man, yea tall?
[ He holds a hand up high above even Iorveth's head, perhaps exaggerating Halsin's size a little for dramatic effect. ]
He prefers spending his time as a bear. Satisfies those, ah, murdery urges, I think.
[ Alan gulps, and Astarion glances back to him, hands on his hips. ]
But if you'd like to have it out with him, be my guest. He's certainly larger than a peacock, if it's city law you're worried about. [ Honestly, if they aren't allowed Scratch, there's no reason to allow Halsin. He's far more of a nuisance, Astarion thinks. Taking a step up the stairs: ] Shall I go get him and tell him you're eager to kick him out? He's been in a mood lately, but I'm sure he'll take it well.
[ "Uh, never mind," mutters Alan, taking a step back. "As long as it's not a dog..." ]
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(Maybe some other time, though. It might be fun.)
He watches the innkeep slither away while he mumbles something about floorboards and the potential state of them; when he's sure that Alan is out of earshot, Iorveth scoffs: ]
Did you have to mention the owlbear?
[ Now they have to hope that no one complains about errant hooting in the night. A sigh, and Iorveth makes his way through Elfsong's first-floor tavern-space, taking care not to step on Zambomba the cat (who meows aristocratically at the both of them, a clear warning for the hairless servants to mind his tail) along the way. ]
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[ He trails behind Iorveth, lazy until he spots a dwarf sitting at one of the tables that he'd cheated in a game of Three-Dragon Ante a few days ago. That encourages him to pick up the pace before he can be confronted, unceremoniously yanking Iorveth out of the tavern as he does so. ]
It's growing, [ he says as they walk out into the night breeze. ] If the innkeep gives us trouble again, we can just have the little hellion eat him.
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Not the best idea. If it develops a taste for human flesh, Gale might be next on the menu.
[ Unlikely; Gale probably tastes awful. Wyll, on the other hand...
Iorveth laughs under his breath, and surveys the establishments that they're passing. Most of them seem too rustic, still, with names like "The Dancing Boar" and "The Rabbit Den"－ once they start invoking divinity, they'll know the place is suitably ritzy. "Moonmaiden's Respite", "Waukeen's Breath". ]
ーSpeak up if you find something appealing.
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Not that one, [ Astarion says, pointing to a building adorned with a shoddy wooden sign, the name Hjulnar's carved into it. He scoffs, rolling his eyes. ] Ugh, too many dwarves.
[ As they make their way down the street, it becomes apparent that he's been to nearly every one of these taverns — and has a bone to pick with each as well. Smells awful, for one. More murders here than you'd think, for another. It's only once they stop in front of an establishment decorated with garlands of flowers, the entryway lit by enchanted, floating lanterns, that he cocks his head in thought.
The Silken Sash, reads the artful sign above the door in flowery script. A small statue of a beautiful woman with cascading locks welcomes them in; Sune, he notes, the goddess of beauty. No wonder the place looks nice. ]
I've not visited this one before.
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Looking the facade of the place up and down: ] It seems as good a place as any. [ He doesn't recognize the stone figure greeting them, but he figures that he doesn't have to be able to identify the theme of a place to have a drink in it.
Letting go of Astarion's arm, he takes a step back and gestures theatrically to the door. ]
After you, milord.
[ Dry sarcasm, offset by a quirk of his scarred lips. He pushes the door open with a palm (getting hit in the face with the floral scent that permeates the entirety of the establishment in the process), and bows his head in mock deference to allow Astarion the luxury of stepping in first. To a casual onlooker, they're the very picture of a high-born high elf waited on by a wood elf that looks to be a bodyguard or a right-hand man. ]
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The night is young, but there's already a fair amount of patrons in the tavern, most of them dressed in the same sort of upscale, stylish clothing as Astarion and Iorveth. A few of them are clad in more understated outfits, perhaps dragged here by their more aesthete companions. The most glorious clothing of all is worn by the barkeep, although such a word seems crude to describe her. A human woman, tall, with long raven-black hair and exquisitely applied makeup. She glitters quite literally, every inch of her covered in jewelry.
"What beautiful new faces!" she coos, beaming as they enter. "And in such gorgeous attire!"
Astarion, of course, preens. ]
Oh, this? I just threw it on, really.
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It would be impossible not to note how beautiful he is, [ Iorveth says flatly, situated a step behind Astarion with their hands still held. ] But if you wish to admire him properly, offer him your best table and your finest drink.
[ Speaking as if Astarion is truly a person of import, which isn't a lie in the strictest sense: he's Iorveth's most important person.
The beautiful owner of the establishment pulls her perfect lips into a smile, craning forward towards Astarion to show even more of the cleavage revealed by her low-cut dress. "But of course― exalting beauty is what I do best. Sit wherever you'd like, lovely guests." ]
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And two glasses of your finest for my companion.
[ He is still very much intending on getting Iorveth incredibly, embarrassingly drunk.
The proprietress smiles winsomely, and Astarion tugs Iorveth over to a table in the corner, away from the action. Old habits are hard to break, and his habit is to gravitate towards the edges of a tavern to observe the patrons. Another habit: sitting with his back to the wall, facing the door. Paranoia also dies hard. ]
Not one complaint out of you about the venue. I fear you've gone soft.
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Keeping a table's worth of space between them, Iorveth leans backwards in his chair. ]
What complaint would I have? That there are too many flowers?
[ It seems the most obvious reason for pushback. He flicks his gaze across the room, and reaches behind him to brush long fingers against the flowered garlands hanging from exposed ceiling beams. ]
You seem to forget that I'm of the forest. The flowers are the least offensive things here.
[ The people, he can take or leave. The pretty barkeep can stay. ]
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