[ Astarion is greedy and endlessly hungry, every taste just making the monster inside ravenous for more. He doesn't want to stop—he never does—but Iorveth might never forgive him if he tries to push his luck, so he musters up every bit of self-control collecting cobwebs in his mind and wills his body to obey him. He tears himself away with a start, swallowing thickly around a mouthful of blood.
Back at the Spearhead, he'd said it was difficult to control himself around Iorveth. It's certainly challenging now, pressed close to keep him upright, the scent of his blood in the air. Astarion's own knees feel weak for reasons entirely unrelated to blood loss. He blinks a few times, eyes gone a little glassy and unfocused.
Is he drunk? He feels happy, which might as well be drunk. His whole body vibrates with giddiness, but he isn't certain whether to attribute that to the wine or simply partaking in Iorveth's blood. He can't quite recall what it felt like to be tipsy from drink alone, but maybe the bloodletting has always been just as potent as a stiff ale. It hardly matters in the end. He feels good, galvanized from head to toe, buzzing with excitement. He wants badly to put his mouth to Iorveth's neck again and indulge until he feels sick, but he can't; instead, he presses an enthusiastic kiss to his lips, letting his weight lean against him. ]
You're intoxicating, [ he quips playfully, and that much is true regardless of the outcome of their experiment. ]
[ Gods, that smile. Iorveth is quickly finding out that drunk dehydration combined with bloodloss is a physically incompatible combination, but it's so difficult to care when Astarion beams at him like that, when he presses their mouths together and says something altogether so absurdly sweet.
He lifts one heavy arm and tangles his fingers in soft hair, playing with the soft strands at Astarion's nape. ]
You must be drunk, to say something like that.
[ His tone is light, reciprocating the playfulness. The world is spinning on too many axes, but Iorveth manages to lean in and find Astarion's lips, kissing the last of his own blood off of smiling lips and trying, with some success, not to slide down against the bookshelf and collapse into a pleased puddle by Astarion's feet.
Still more footsteps pass, with one female voice ringing too clearly through the door: "Elminster's Library...? What kind of fun do people usually get up to in there, I wonder?" ]
We should go, [ Iorveth murmurs sluggishly. ] ...In a minute. [ Still swaying, relying entirely on the bookshelf and Astarion's torso to keep him upright. The voices conversing in front of their door are saying something about a tour, but he really couldn't care less; he nuzzles into Astarion's neck, breathing through his nose to find his balance. ]
[ The sounds in the hall seem muffled and distant even to his keen elven ears, the world as big as Iorveth's flushed face against his neck and no larger. He likes the feeling of Iorveth slumped against him, soft and trusting. A starving creature of the night pressed to him while he's too weak to defend himself, but there's not an ounce of wariness in him. ]
Hurry, before I get impatient.
[ Another tease, an echo of Iorveth's own words. Impatient though he may be, Astarion doesn't mind waiting. He's in no rush to make it to the circus, especially when he'd rather keep Iorveth backed against a bookcase all day.
In the end, there isn't time for him to truly get impatient. The knob to the library turns, and the door opens. Mamzell Amira herself walks in, accompanied by what appears to be a young couple, hands intertwined and giggling at the scandalous things they're being shown. "This room is currently unoccupied while we search for a new librarian," Mamzell explains, then stops in her tracks.
Astarion thinks to step away, but then Iorveth might really fall to the floor, and he's not sure which would look worse. He gulps, still tasting blood on his tongue.
"I thought you said it was unoccupied," says the man, frowning. Mamzell opens her mouth to reply something undoubtedly along the lines of it is, but before she can, the intruder tilts his head, gaze on Iorveth. "...Is that man all right?"
The woman's brow furrows, and she places a hand to the side of her neck, right where one would find two faintly bleeding red dots on Iorveth's own. "—Is that blood?" ]
[ The intrusion is a whipcrack oh shit moment; it's a pity that other people existing in his general vicinity clears that cotton-soft fog of comfort that Iorveth rarely has the chance to indulge in, but that's life. He's a wild animal again, irritation like knives in his single eye, poised and primed at the three humans standing only several feet away from where he's leaned against dusty shelves.
Gods, fuck. His mind chugs slowly around the wine and bloodloss. ]
Have you prudes never heard of experimenting, [ he hisses. ] Stop gaping, you'll catch flies with those open mouths.
[ Sluggishly, he tries to loop his arms around Astarion's neck. It's so inconvenient that he can't murder his way out of this particular situation. He's reminded, once again, of being mud-caked and soggy in Umberlee's House, trying to explain their unwarranted presence. Swiveling his still-hazy focus back on Astarion and trying to will his knees to straighten more properly, Iorveth hikes his chin with obstinate pride.
Mamzell, on the other hand, only looks like she's at a complete fucking loss for a fraction of a second. Credit where it's due: she's obviously dealt with worse than two extremely suspicious men doing potentially weird sex acts in one of her empty rooms, though she does, in fact, glance behind her as if to look for anyone she can call upon if things go south.
"In my home," she recovers after a moment, "all are encouraged to explore their most lurid fantasies." Her laugh is low, twinkling. "Though we encourage doing so with one of our courtesans, instead of sneaking about like two naughty little mice with dirty secrets."
The man, still squinting at the pale elf with the blood-red eyes, only manages a skeptical "oh". ]
[ At least she didn't call them rats. It's like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over his pleasant high; he turns his face away, mouth a thin line, afraid that if he opens it too much his fangs will be on full display. He couldn't care less if he and Iorveth had been caught in flagrante delicto, but the idea of his vampirism being found out because he couldn't control himself in a brothel is intolerable. ]
Well, you've all ruined the mood now, [ he mumbles, eyes downcast in an attempt to hide their red hue. Maybe they'll mistake them for a particularly vibrant brown, or think he's just a very pale drow.
Iorveth still seems unsteady on his feet, but Astarion steps back and yanks on his arm. He doesn't like the way that man is looking at him. ]
[ Mamzell seems mollified by Astarion's compliance, but there's a questing glint in the man's eye that Iorveth notes as they try to slip past the trio on their way out of the room. The scrutiny takes physical form when the man reaches for Astarion's forearm when he's within range, fingers squeezing with the intent to keep him in place.
"Wait. I want names, before you two leave."
Authoritative, in stern neutral. The woman standing next to him looks embarrassed by her paramour's sudden insistence, and tugs at the hem of his shirt. "Oh, don't be like that― you're off-duty right now, and they were just trying to have some fun."
A Fist? Iorveth doesn't actually care what the man is, actually: his expression pinches into a dangerous frown, sluggish muscles coiling in the promise of a fight. ]
[ Astarion flinches at the unwanted touch, but survival instinct tells him to keep his head down, eyes trained on the floor. They're not exactly innocent to begin with, what with the fact that they murdered a visiting king not long ago, and robbed a vampire hunter after that. Maybe he recognizes them from the descriptions Henselt's mercenaries gave, or maybe the hunter decided to go to the Fists after their confrontation. There's any number of reasons this Fist could want their names, and none of them good.
"Trouble?" the man scoffs. "You're the one denying a Fist."
"Henrik," the woman says, a warning in her voice. "Come on. I wanted to see the—" Her voice lowers to an embarrassed whisper. "Naughty paladin's holy temple."
Henrik, as she'd called him, looks unconvinced. Mamzell just looks bored, like she can't wait for this arguing to stop so she can bilk a Fist out of his coin. ]
Petras, [ Astarion finally mutters, before canting his head toward Iorveth. ] That's Leon.
[ "Petras and Leon," Henrik parrots, sliding his attention sideways towards Iorveth without letting go of Astarion's arm. There seems to be another glimmer of semi-recognition in the man's steel-blue eyes, as if he's heard something related to a one-eyed elf in his recent memory, and is just having a hard time conjuring the context.
"Henrik," his partner hisses at him. "Will you leave them alone." Her embarrassment has made way for genuine ire; Iorveth can see it brewing under her pretty face, her frown turning into a glower, until her frustration bubbles over after being told, slightly condescendingly, to "wait a moment, Delia, this is important."
"Oh, of course, your work is always more important than my plans, isn't it," she snaps. "I saved up for us to have a bit of fun with the Caress' new paladin because your prick is always useless after you've exhausted yourself at your precious work!"
Iorveth's brow arcs; he stifles an urge to bark a laugh as he pries Astarion away from the human's now-faltering grip, and observes the catastrophe unfolding in front of him. The argument rages on, and after hurling a few more heated insults, the woman― Delia― turns to the both of them, pointing with dramatic passion.
"At least they're having sex!", she shouts at Henrik, before lowering her voice to speak to Astarion. "Petras, was it? Gods, I'm so sorry, I don't care if you are a dangerous criminal, you don't deserve this." ]
[ Paranoia had closed around his heart like a vise, but its grip on him loosens with Henrik's. Astarion still finds himself taking one unconscious, surreptitious step behind Iorveth as he watches the madness unfold. He has his voice back, though, and he lets his gaze flicker up at Delia for a brief moment. With any luck, his reluctance to be looked at will be seen as a sign of a demure personality. ]
A dangerous criminal? Why, I wouldn't hurt a fly. [ He glances at Iorveth. ] —Outside of the bedroom, of course.
[ "What I wouldn't give!" Delia groans before turning back to Henrik, her stare withering. "Is that it? You're jealous that they actually have some adventure in the bedroom instead of lying there like a dead fish while I do all the work?"
That's a death blow. Astarion lifts a hand to cover his mouth, concealing both the laugh that pours out of him and his fangs. Henrik has gone red from head to toe, hissing, "Delia! Not in front of strangers!" ]
Ah— clearly, you two could use the library more than we could. [ Torrid sex life, and all. It does always seem to come back to that cover story one way or another. As light and breezy as he can muster, he adds, ] We'll just take our leave. Try the chair, why don't you? Restraints always work a treat to get this one excited.
[ With a pleasant smile plastered on his face, he shoves Iorveth toward the door. ]
[ More chatter, this time about how Delia envies a couple that can take risks, and how unhealthy it is that Henrik is taking his work everywhere with him. Henrik is trying to counter with his vague recollections about a one-eyed terrorist, to which he's met with an onslaught of fresh reprimands: "oh, now you're giving the poor elf a hard time about his face?! I can't believe you!"
Iorveth staggers outside the door, but not without a quick: ] I suggest you find someone with a functional cock, [ which is probably not the wisest thing he could've said, given that he is now Henrik's public enemy number one, but Iorveth doesn't care. If they ever meet outside this brothel, it's Henrik's head, not his. So says the loudest and meanest elf in any given room.
He meanders across walkways and down flights of stairs, past the cat manning the front counter and out onto the street. To bystanders, he's sure they look like a pair of lovers who have done something stupid in a den of debauchery, and they're not wrong― he barks a short laugh, slightly brittle from adrenaline and paranoia, but a laugh nevertheless. ]
Not our finest moment, [ he huffs. ] My stupidity almost cost you your head. Apologies.
[ Iorveth's laugh is echoed in Astarion's own, breathless even though he doesn't need to breathe. That encounter had the potential to be awful, and it was in some ways, but it was fun, too. It's hard not to have fun when he's with Iorveth, which the Astarion of months ago would have scoffed at. He'd thought Iorveth the ultimate killjoy then, but Iorveth hadn't disparaged a member of the Flaming Fists' cock in front of him yet. ]
I'm the one who pinned you against a bookcase and sank my teeth into you.
[ And, unlike Iorveth, he was sober when he made that decision. As much as Astarion loves to foist the blame onto others, he was no innocent flower in this scenario.
He lets the backs of their hands graze against each other as if by accident, pinky finger brushing against the smooth stone of the stolen ring he gifted Iorveth. ]
I hope that didn't sober you up too much. We still have the circus to face.
[ It's ridiculous that he still feels so fuzzy and cotton-packed after a near-miss encounter with a member of the Flaming Fist, but he does: as proof, he turns his hand over once it's touched, winding fingers with Astarion's for a brief moment. ]
I'm still warm. [ Roughly a bottle of wine left to metabolize. The adrenaline's fixed most of the unsteadiness, and Delia's fury has left him with a relatively good mood after that encounter. He's fine. ] ―Turn this way.
[ Maneuvering a bit to make Astarion face him, so Iorveth can fix his hair and smooth the slight rumple of his shirt after Henrik'd grabbed his arm. Fussing in the way a wild fox might groom its companion after a tussle; once he's done, he hums. ]
...You're alright? [ Yes, he knows Astarion can handle himself. No, he doesn't want to hover. Still, he wants to check in. ]
[ Astarion preens under the attention, pleased to be minded to. Shoulders back, chin tipped up, as if to boast to any passersby. ]
Asks the man who's missing blood.
[ Ridiculous. Endearing. The aforementioned blood circulating warmly through his system makes it difficult not to smile, his eyes twinkling with fondness. ]
I'm fine, of course. [ An automatic response, given without thinking. A hard habit to break after centuries of being afraid to show the slightest hint of weakness. Admitting to being anything but fine would have only painted a target on his back then. Not now, though, so he hums in thought, eyes drifting off to the side as he admits, ] I didn't care for being manhandled.
[ It's been some time since he's been touched by a stranger. Hells, since he's been touched by anyone he didn't care for. Shadowheart, with her careful healing. Karlach, squeezing him half to death in a hug. Wyll, offering a friendly pat on the back after a challenging fight. Iorveth, of course. He'd almost forgotten how it feels to be pushed around. ]
But I was mostly worried we'd spend the night behind bars, and I'd have to orchestrate a great escape. It just seemed like a lot of work.
[ Capture. He rolls that concept over in his head, and considers the real possibility of it happening again if the Fists ever got their hands on him. Incredibly dire, given that he is an actual criminal who has contributed actively to the murder of many humans, but distant in the way that ceremorphosis feels now: active but dormant at the same time.
He should probably be more careful. "A sullen-looking one-eyed wood elf" is actually a pretty distinct descriptor, and he has yet to see anyone but him that fits the bill so far. It really isn't the time to be going to circuses and walking around with a vampire in broad daylight.
Regardless: ] Fine, save for the fact that I missed the opportunity to throw a human from a second-floor balcony.
[ Very wanted criminal, always looking to add to his list of misdeeds. He's been slacking on his tenday-ly terrorizing quota; he has a carefully curated persona he needs to uphold, for the sake of the plight of the elves.
Also, he doesn't like Astarion being manhandled. He starts walking in the direction of the circus, brushing his touch against the forearm that Henrik'd grabbed. ]
The bloodlessness bothers me less than the hangover I may have tomorrow. Remind me to hydrate.
[ Astarion can picture himself now, standing in the middle of the circus, surrounded by clowns and face-painters and lion tamers, cooing don't forget to hydrate, dearie like some saccharine old woman. A shiver runs down his spine. He'll do it, but he'll complain about it.
He sighs, brushing their little fingers together. ]
Only because I fear Shadowheart may revoke our healing privileges if we come asking after a hangover cure.
[ She'd have little sympathy. You got yourself into this mess, she'd say with a roll of her eyes. You can get yourself out of it. I hear raw eel works wonders. It's a surprise how easily he can hear her voice ringing in his head. One by one, each of their companions is wriggling their way inside of him like a— well, like an illithid tadpole.
As they near the circus, a gaggle of children sprints by, their faces painted garish colors. They squeal, howling in amusement. ]
Ah, the sound of children's laughter— [ Astarion holds his hands up to his ears, glowering. ] I detest it.
[ Honestly, the bickering is just a bonding exercise: Iorveth doesn't mind Shadowheart telling him and his hangover to fuck off as long as she heals him when it counts. The same goes with his idle request for Astarion to give him reminders to hydrate, which he fully expects Astarion to forget.
The great thing about being a free-thinking individual is having the power to tell other people to piss off. Iorveth glances next to him, taking in the daylight-haloed outline of Astarion grimacing at happy children, and weirdly feels his bitter heart grow softer. ]
A sound you only hear in peacetime. [ Stepping under pennants strung between trees, Iorveth watches as one little human boy waves a stuffed animal that they presumably earned from one of the circus' games, whacking a pint-sized elf girl with it as they duck and weave behind the circus grounds' many bushes and greenery.
Humbling. Iorveth hasn't seen an Aen Seidhe child in ages, let alone heard one laugh. Hard to be sentimental about that when Benji the ghoul is looming behind him, though, sniffing as Iorveth tries to dodge the unpleasant creature. ]
ーThough it's hard to fathom what these children have to laugh about. [ This entire place is kind of a horrorshow, in Iorveth's opinion. There's nothing particularly cute about dancing skeletons and pushy creatures hawking overpriced merchandise; Zara the Mummy stares at them from a few yards away, her eyeless face pleading with them to approach her for some face paint. ]
[ Astarion ignores the mmph, mmph of that ugly mummy beckoning them over. No amount of blood or alcohol could persuade him to sully his appearance with common face paint. Cold fingers closing around Iorveth's wrist, he tugs him through the throng, afraid to lose Iorveth in the crowd. He'd never thought of himself as claustrophobic, but there's something about being surrounded by people in every direction that makes him feel suffocated.
He glances back at Benji, then leans in next to Iorveth's ear and whispers, ] I should count my blessings. I could have risen again as one of those hideous creatures.
[ As they pass that awful djinni, his voice booms out. "COME HITHER, AND SPIN THE WHEEL!" ]
[ The circus is shockingly crowded for a place housing casual horrors, like the Displacer beast on the other side of the grounds, staring at each passing parent and child with the cold fury of an animal just waiting for the lock of its cage to loosen. Iorveth steps around a small girl carrying handful of circus treats, tries not to step on a boy throwing a tantrum near the Spin the Wheel game, and finally just decides to hold Astarion's hand before they can be jostled out of each other's orbit.
"UGLY ONE!", the djinni yells, as they try to bump by. Presumably at Iorveth, because gods forbid anyone ever thinks that Astarion is ugly. "APPROACH AND TEST YOUR LUCK!" ]
That creature is testing its luck, [ Iorveth mutters as he cranes his neck over a half-orc's shoulder to spy a bunch of dancing skeletons a few yards away. ] －There.
[ He tries to push past a group of young humans, only to find them ambushed by a kobold in a top hat who tugs at Astarion's pant leg: "Welcome, welcome! You! Why so pale? You need a treato?"
Horrifying. Iorveth wrinkles his nose, obviously disgusted. ]
[ Astarion is looking over his shoulder as Iorveth moves them along, mouth open to berate the djinni that thought to call him ugly, but the words die in his throat when he's accosted by some revolting little kobold in a hat. ]
I have alabaster skin, you nasty little runt.
[ Hopefully Iorveth has no love for kobolds. It would be a shame for him to change his mind on how 'sweet' Astarion is after watching him verbally abuse one. And perhaps punt one, if the thing irritates him enough.
"Right, right," agrees the kobold, then glances down at their intertwined hands. "The pasty elf can buys gift for his love. I gots lots of junks!" Then, realizing how it sounds— "Romantic junks." ]
Oh, of course. Flowers, chocolates, and trash.
[ "Used to be trash," the kobold corrects, and Astarion lets out an exasperated huff. "Whats about you?" ]
[ The kobold's stand is less a stand and more a haphazard gathering of disparate items hiding under a tent that seems to be collapsing on its weight. Iorveth narrows his eye at both the suggestion that either of them would want anything from this mess, and the implication that they're looking for "romantic junks" at a circus; unwinding his hand from Astarion's, Iorveth walks over to a row of bottles and inspects one, the smudged lettering on its label reading "ILIXR?"
It's possible that this kobold is far funnier than the dead clown ever was. Speaking of clowns, though― ]
―Is that a hand?
[ His focus snaps to a severed limb sitting primly on a grimy, bloodstained plate. Hells. This place really is a nightmare.
"Yes, yes! My special hand, not-so-fresh from the clown man's tent." The kobold gives them the approximation of a grin, nonexistent lips curling back to show sharp, uneven teeth. It hops on its feet, yellow eyes twinkling. "I finds it, a one-of-a-kind hand, nibbled and gnawed. You won't finds anything else like it, anywheres else. Hueh!"
Gods, the irony of Lae'zel telling her elf messengers to relay a message about a missing hand, only for them to find it sitting out in the open, guarded by a demented kobold. Iorveth would laugh if he weren't so revolted.
Straight-faced, absolutely deadpan: ] A special hand for my special love.
[ Yes, he will frame this as a purchase for Astarion. ] How much?
Astarion hasn't a clue what sort of 'special' the thing is suggesting he is, but he knows it isn't flattering if it's in response to him allegedly wanting a dismembered hand. His mouth drags down into a scowl, arms crossed petulantly over his chest as he stares down at the little reptile.
The kobold narrows its beady eyes, slit pupils shifting up and down as it looks appraisingly at its would-be customers. "This hands is exclusive," it finally says. "It's worth..." It scratches its scaly chin with its talons, clearly coming up with a number on the spot. "15,000!" Astarion gawks. "But because I'm so nice, I gives it away for 10,000. A steal!"
Astarion can't help but stamp his foot. ] 10,000? It's a hacked-off hand.
[ "Fancy hand," the kobold responds. "No other teeth marks like this one!" Apparently, it notices that Astarion's expression has grown only more disgruntled, so it turns back to Iorveth. "Price no object, if yous really love him." ]
[ Iorveth, still deadpan: ] We'll need a moment to discuss the state of my coinpurse.
[ Not exactly the attitude of a man looking to buy something for his "special love", but whatever. He tugs Astarion to the side and turns so that the both of them are standing with their backs facing the little reptile merchant, bodies slanted in a posture that reads distinctly conspiratorial. ]
If I distract the thing, [ casually, arms folded, ] would you be able to steal the hand?
[ He'd briefly considered just leaving it and telling Lae'zel to fetch it herself, but that conversation is possibly a bigger headache than shoplifting from a jabbering kobold, and sometimes one has to encourage larceny in a circus to cope with the horrors of casual life.
If Astarion wants to, that is. Again, the luxury of being free is that you can tell someone to piss off. ]
Bringing Lae'zel a treat will get her off our backs for a day or two, at least.
[ Gods. Astarion can't decide if he wants to kiss Iorveth for making this circus trip more interesting with theft, or slap him for suggesting Astarion touch a rotting, dismembered clown hand. Unable to agree with himself, he settles for huffing and folding his own arms across his chest. ]
It's only a kobold, [ he hisses, ] we could just stab it and take its things. Who would care?
[ Even as he says it, he knows someone would. There are Wyll Ravengards everywhere sympathizing with the plight of lesser beings. He groans. ]
Fine. You— [ He makes a vague hand gesture towards Iorveth. ] Do whatever it is that you need to do. I'll save the day with my light-fingered antics yet again.
[ The answer to "who would care?" is "not me", but Iorveth also understands the optics of murdering a creature in broad daylight, in witness of several small children who should probably not have to deal with the trauma of seeing a dead kobold on their day of harmless fun.
Astarion puffs up, and Iorveth fancies he sees silver hair bristle. Cute. ]
The hero we hardly deserve. [ He holds out his pack for Astarion to take, in case he's finnicky about putting a dismembered limb in his own. ] You never fail to impress.
[ This would have been far more facetious two tendays ago, when Iorveth would have delivered this with scathing sarcasm; as it stands, he just sounds slightly fond. A quick nudge, and he winds his way back to the kobold and its expectant gaze, answering its "well? Well? Hands for the gnarly elf? 10,000 is cheapo for a treato!"
Gods, the thing is annoying. Iorveth floats on over to the opposite end of the stall, ignoring the creature to inspect the poorly-labeled bottles again, and with a flourish－
－he drops one. It shatters, and the kobold leaps up and down in dramatic distress. "No! You breaks Businesslord Popper's stuffs!!!"
With dripping insincerity, Iorveth quips back: ] Mm, my depth perception isn't what it used to be.
[ No reasonable person would find Iorveth sacrificing his pack for dead clown parts to be romantic, yet Astarion holds the pack to his chest, foolishly happy at having been thought of. He'll never tire of the feeling. A small, meaningless action, but the message is significant all the same: I like you, it says, or maybe you matter to me. ]
Oh, goodness, [ he exclaims, melodramatic, pointing at the shattered pieces of glass on the ground as he gravitates toward the hand. It smells awful, like decay and rot, like the inside of Cazador's mansion. ] He's always doing this! You should give him what for. It's the only way he'll learn.
[ Popper stomps its feet, looking every bit an oversized, reptilian toddler. It might be cute, if the thing weren't so ugly. "You lies! That was on purpose!" It gestures emphatically at the shards of bottle on the ground, distraught though the thing really was, as it had said, junk. No one was ever going to buy an elixir from a kobold that doesn't look like it could rub two brain cells together, much less ensure the contents of the bottle aren't pure poison. "You breaks it, you buys it!"
Astarion opens Iorveth's pack, picking up the clown hand with his thumb and forefinger as if it were a particularly nasty piece of garbage. He gags at the tactile sensation; the hand is warm from sitting out in the sun all day, and what's worse, it's floppy. As he slips it into his pack, he encourages Popper from the peanut gallery, ] That's right. You tell him.
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Back at the Spearhead, he'd said it was difficult to control himself around Iorveth. It's certainly challenging now, pressed close to keep him upright, the scent of his blood in the air. Astarion's own knees feel weak for reasons entirely unrelated to blood loss. He blinks a few times, eyes gone a little glassy and unfocused.
Is he drunk? He feels happy, which might as well be drunk. His whole body vibrates with giddiness, but he isn't certain whether to attribute that to the wine or simply partaking in Iorveth's blood. He can't quite recall what it felt like to be tipsy from drink alone, but maybe the bloodletting has always been just as potent as a stiff ale. It hardly matters in the end. He feels good, galvanized from head to toe, buzzing with excitement. He wants badly to put his mouth to Iorveth's neck again and indulge until he feels sick, but he can't; instead, he presses an enthusiastic kiss to his lips, letting his weight lean against him. ]
You're intoxicating, [ he quips playfully, and that much is true regardless of the outcome of their experiment. ]
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He lifts one heavy arm and tangles his fingers in soft hair, playing with the soft strands at Astarion's nape. ]
You must be drunk, to say something like that.
[ His tone is light, reciprocating the playfulness. The world is spinning on too many axes, but Iorveth manages to lean in and find Astarion's lips, kissing the last of his own blood off of smiling lips and trying, with some success, not to slide down against the bookshelf and collapse into a pleased puddle by Astarion's feet.
Still more footsteps pass, with one female voice ringing too clearly through the door: "Elminster's Library...? What kind of fun do people usually get up to in there, I wonder?" ]
We should go, [ Iorveth murmurs sluggishly. ] ...In a minute. [ Still swaying, relying entirely on the bookshelf and Astarion's torso to keep him upright. The voices conversing in front of their door are saying something about a tour, but he really couldn't care less; he nuzzles into Astarion's neck, breathing through his nose to find his balance. ]
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Hurry, before I get impatient.
[ Another tease, an echo of Iorveth's own words. Impatient though he may be, Astarion doesn't mind waiting. He's in no rush to make it to the circus, especially when he'd rather keep Iorveth backed against a bookcase all day.
In the end, there isn't time for him to truly get impatient. The knob to the library turns, and the door opens. Mamzell Amira herself walks in, accompanied by what appears to be a young couple, hands intertwined and giggling at the scandalous things they're being shown. "This room is currently unoccupied while we search for a new librarian," Mamzell explains, then stops in her tracks.
Astarion thinks to step away, but then Iorveth might really fall to the floor, and he's not sure which would look worse. He gulps, still tasting blood on his tongue.
"I thought you said it was unoccupied," says the man, frowning. Mamzell opens her mouth to reply something undoubtedly along the lines of it is, but before she can, the intruder tilts his head, gaze on Iorveth. "...Is that man all right?"
The woman's brow furrows, and she places a hand to the side of her neck, right where one would find two faintly bleeding red dots on Iorveth's own. "—Is that blood?" ]
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Gods, fuck. His mind chugs slowly around the wine and bloodloss. ]
Have you prudes never heard of experimenting, [ he hisses. ] Stop gaping, you'll catch flies with those open mouths.
[ Sluggishly, he tries to loop his arms around Astarion's neck. It's so inconvenient that he can't murder his way out of this particular situation. He's reminded, once again, of being mud-caked and soggy in Umberlee's House, trying to explain their unwarranted presence. Swiveling his still-hazy focus back on Astarion and trying to will his knees to straighten more properly, Iorveth hikes his chin with obstinate pride.
Mamzell, on the other hand, only looks like she's at a complete fucking loss for a fraction of a second. Credit where it's due: she's obviously dealt with worse than two extremely suspicious men doing potentially weird sex acts in one of her empty rooms, though she does, in fact, glance behind her as if to look for anyone she can call upon if things go south.
"In my home," she recovers after a moment, "all are encouraged to explore their most lurid fantasies." Her laugh is low, twinkling. "Though we encourage doing so with one of our courtesans, instead of sneaking about like two naughty little mice with dirty secrets."
The man, still squinting at the pale elf with the blood-red eyes, only manages a skeptical "oh". ]
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Well, you've all ruined the mood now, [ he mumbles, eyes downcast in an attempt to hide their red hue. Maybe they'll mistake them for a particularly vibrant brown, or think he's just a very pale drow.
Iorveth still seems unsteady on his feet, but Astarion steps back and yanks on his arm. He doesn't like the way that man is looking at him. ]
So we'll just be going.
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"Wait. I want names, before you two leave."
Authoritative, in stern neutral. The woman standing next to him looks embarrassed by her paramour's sudden insistence, and tugs at the hem of his shirt. "Oh, don't be like that― you're off-duty right now, and they were just trying to have some fun."
A Fist? Iorveth doesn't actually care what the man is, actually: his expression pinches into a dangerous frown, sluggish muscles coiling in the promise of a fight. ]
Don't make trouble, human.
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"Trouble?" the man scoffs. "You're the one denying a Fist."
"Henrik," the woman says, a warning in her voice. "Come on. I wanted to see the—" Her voice lowers to an embarrassed whisper. "Naughty paladin's holy temple."
Henrik, as she'd called him, looks unconvinced. Mamzell just looks bored, like she can't wait for this arguing to stop so she can bilk a Fist out of his coin. ]
Petras, [ Astarion finally mutters, before canting his head toward Iorveth. ] That's Leon.
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"Henrik," his partner hisses at him. "Will you leave them alone." Her embarrassment has made way for genuine ire; Iorveth can see it brewing under her pretty face, her frown turning into a glower, until her frustration bubbles over after being told, slightly condescendingly, to "wait a moment, Delia, this is important."
"Oh, of course, your work is always more important than my plans, isn't it," she snaps. "I saved up for us to have a bit of fun with the Caress' new paladin because your prick is always useless after you've exhausted yourself at your precious work!"
Iorveth's brow arcs; he stifles an urge to bark a laugh as he pries Astarion away from the human's now-faltering grip, and observes the catastrophe unfolding in front of him. The argument rages on, and after hurling a few more heated insults, the woman― Delia― turns to the both of them, pointing with dramatic passion.
"At least they're having sex!", she shouts at Henrik, before lowering her voice to speak to Astarion. "Petras, was it? Gods, I'm so sorry, I don't care if you are a dangerous criminal, you don't deserve this." ]
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A dangerous criminal? Why, I wouldn't hurt a fly. [ He glances at Iorveth. ] —Outside of the bedroom, of course.
[ "What I wouldn't give!" Delia groans before turning back to Henrik, her stare withering. "Is that it? You're jealous that they actually have some adventure in the bedroom instead of lying there like a dead fish while I do all the work?"
That's a death blow. Astarion lifts a hand to cover his mouth, concealing both the laugh that pours out of him and his fangs. Henrik has gone red from head to toe, hissing, "Delia! Not in front of strangers!" ]
Ah— clearly, you two could use the library more than we could. [ Torrid sex life, and all. It does always seem to come back to that cover story one way or another. As light and breezy as he can muster, he adds, ] We'll just take our leave. Try the chair, why don't you? Restraints always work a treat to get this one excited.
[ With a pleasant smile plastered on his face, he shoves Iorveth toward the door. ]
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Iorveth staggers outside the door, but not without a quick: ] I suggest you find someone with a functional cock, [ which is probably not the wisest thing he could've said, given that he is now Henrik's public enemy number one, but Iorveth doesn't care. If they ever meet outside this brothel, it's Henrik's head, not his. So says the loudest and meanest elf in any given room.
He meanders across walkways and down flights of stairs, past the cat manning the front counter and out onto the street. To bystanders, he's sure they look like a pair of lovers who have done something stupid in a den of debauchery, and they're not wrong― he barks a short laugh, slightly brittle from adrenaline and paranoia, but a laugh nevertheless. ]
Not our finest moment, [ he huffs. ] My stupidity almost cost you your head. Apologies.
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I'm the one who pinned you against a bookcase and sank my teeth into you.
[ And, unlike Iorveth, he was sober when he made that decision. As much as Astarion loves to foist the blame onto others, he was no innocent flower in this scenario.
He lets the backs of their hands graze against each other as if by accident, pinky finger brushing against the smooth stone of the stolen ring he gifted Iorveth. ]
I hope that didn't sober you up too much. We still have the circus to face.
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I'm still warm. [ Roughly a bottle of wine left to metabolize. The adrenaline's fixed most of the unsteadiness, and Delia's fury has left him with a relatively good mood after that encounter. He's fine. ] ―Turn this way.
[ Maneuvering a bit to make Astarion face him, so Iorveth can fix his hair and smooth the slight rumple of his shirt after Henrik'd grabbed his arm. Fussing in the way a wild fox might groom its companion after a tussle; once he's done, he hums. ]
...You're alright? [ Yes, he knows Astarion can handle himself. No, he doesn't want to hover. Still, he wants to check in. ]
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Asks the man who's missing blood.
[ Ridiculous. Endearing. The aforementioned blood circulating warmly through his system makes it difficult not to smile, his eyes twinkling with fondness. ]
I'm fine, of course. [ An automatic response, given without thinking. A hard habit to break after centuries of being afraid to show the slightest hint of weakness. Admitting to being anything but fine would have only painted a target on his back then. Not now, though, so he hums in thought, eyes drifting off to the side as he admits, ] I didn't care for being manhandled.
[ It's been some time since he's been touched by a stranger. Hells, since he's been touched by anyone he didn't care for. Shadowheart, with her careful healing. Karlach, squeezing him half to death in a hug. Wyll, offering a friendly pat on the back after a challenging fight. Iorveth, of course. He'd almost forgotten how it feels to be pushed around. ]
But I was mostly worried we'd spend the night behind bars, and I'd have to orchestrate a great escape. It just seemed like a lot of work.
[ His eyes flick back to Iorveth's face. ]
And you?
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He should probably be more careful. "A sullen-looking one-eyed wood elf" is actually a pretty distinct descriptor, and he has yet to see anyone but him that fits the bill so far. It really isn't the time to be going to circuses and walking around with a vampire in broad daylight.
Regardless: ] Fine, save for the fact that I missed the opportunity to throw a human from a second-floor balcony.
[ Very wanted criminal, always looking to add to his list of misdeeds. He's been slacking on his tenday-ly terrorizing quota; he has a carefully curated persona he needs to uphold, for the sake of the plight of the elves.
Also, he doesn't like Astarion being manhandled. He starts walking in the direction of the circus, brushing his touch against the forearm that Henrik'd grabbed. ]
The bloodlessness bothers me less than the hangover I may have tomorrow. Remind me to hydrate.
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[ Astarion can picture himself now, standing in the middle of the circus, surrounded by clowns and face-painters and lion tamers, cooing don't forget to hydrate, dearie like some saccharine old woman. A shiver runs down his spine. He'll do it, but he'll complain about it.
He sighs, brushing their little fingers together. ]
Only because I fear Shadowheart may revoke our healing privileges if we come asking after a hangover cure.
[ She'd have little sympathy. You got yourself into this mess, she'd say with a roll of her eyes. You can get yourself out of it. I hear raw eel works wonders. It's a surprise how easily he can hear her voice ringing in his head. One by one, each of their companions is wriggling their way inside of him like a— well, like an illithid tadpole.
As they near the circus, a gaggle of children sprints by, their faces painted garish colors. They squeal, howling in amusement. ]
Ah, the sound of children's laughter— [ Astarion holds his hands up to his ears, glowering. ] I detest it.
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The great thing about being a free-thinking individual is having the power to tell other people to piss off. Iorveth glances next to him, taking in the daylight-haloed outline of Astarion grimacing at happy children, and weirdly feels his bitter heart grow softer. ]
A sound you only hear in peacetime. [ Stepping under pennants strung between trees, Iorveth watches as one little human boy waves a stuffed animal that they presumably earned from one of the circus' games, whacking a pint-sized elf girl with it as they duck and weave behind the circus grounds' many bushes and greenery.
Humbling. Iorveth hasn't seen an Aen Seidhe child in ages, let alone heard one laugh. Hard to be sentimental about that when Benji the ghoul is looming behind him, though, sniffing as Iorveth tries to dodge the unpleasant creature. ]
ーThough it's hard to fathom what these children have to laugh about. [ This entire place is kind of a horrorshow, in Iorveth's opinion. There's nothing particularly cute about dancing skeletons and pushy creatures hawking overpriced merchandise; Zara the Mummy stares at them from a few yards away, her eyeless face pleading with them to approach her for some face paint. ]
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He glances back at Benji, then leans in next to Iorveth's ear and whispers, ] I should count my blessings. I could have risen again as one of those hideous creatures.
[ As they pass that awful djinni, his voice booms out. "COME HITHER, AND SPIN THE WHEEL!" ]
Ugh. Where is that necromancer?
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"UGLY ONE!", the djinni yells, as they try to bump by. Presumably at Iorveth, because gods forbid anyone ever thinks that Astarion is ugly. "APPROACH AND TEST YOUR LUCK!" ]
That creature is testing its luck, [ Iorveth mutters as he cranes his neck over a half-orc's shoulder to spy a bunch of dancing skeletons a few yards away. ] －There.
[ He tries to push past a group of young humans, only to find them ambushed by a kobold in a top hat who tugs at Astarion's pant leg: "Welcome, welcome! You! Why so pale? You need a treato?"
Horrifying. Iorveth wrinkles his nose, obviously disgusted. ]
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I have alabaster skin, you nasty little runt.
[ Hopefully Iorveth has no love for kobolds. It would be a shame for him to change his mind on how 'sweet' Astarion is after watching him verbally abuse one. And perhaps punt one, if the thing irritates him enough.
"Right, right," agrees the kobold, then glances down at their intertwined hands. "The pasty elf can buys gift for his love. I gots lots of junks!" Then, realizing how it sounds— "Romantic junks." ]
Oh, of course. Flowers, chocolates, and trash.
[ "Used to be trash," the kobold corrects, and Astarion lets out an exasperated huff. "Whats about you?" ]
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It's possible that this kobold is far funnier than the dead clown ever was. Speaking of clowns, though― ]
―Is that a hand?
[ His focus snaps to a severed limb sitting primly on a grimy, bloodstained plate. Hells. This place really is a nightmare.
"Yes, yes! My special hand, not-so-fresh from the clown man's tent." The kobold gives them the approximation of a grin, nonexistent lips curling back to show sharp, uneven teeth. It hops on its feet, yellow eyes twinkling. "I finds it, a one-of-a-kind hand, nibbled and gnawed. You won't finds anything else like it, anywheres else. Hueh!"
Gods, the irony of Lae'zel telling her elf messengers to relay a message about a missing hand, only for them to find it sitting out in the open, guarded by a demented kobold. Iorveth would laugh if he weren't so revolted.
Straight-faced, absolutely deadpan: ] A special hand for my special love.
[ Yes, he will frame this as a purchase for Astarion. ] How much?
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Astarion hasn't a clue what sort of 'special' the thing is suggesting he is, but he knows it isn't flattering if it's in response to him allegedly wanting a dismembered hand. His mouth drags down into a scowl, arms crossed petulantly over his chest as he stares down at the little reptile.
The kobold narrows its beady eyes, slit pupils shifting up and down as it looks appraisingly at its would-be customers. "This hands is exclusive," it finally says. "It's worth..." It scratches its scaly chin with its talons, clearly coming up with a number on the spot. "15,000!" Astarion gawks. "But because I'm so nice, I gives it away for 10,000. A steal!"
Astarion can't help but stamp his foot. ] 10,000? It's a hacked-off hand.
[ "Fancy hand," the kobold responds. "No other teeth marks like this one!" Apparently, it notices that Astarion's expression has grown only more disgruntled, so it turns back to Iorveth. "Price no object, if yous really love him." ]
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[ Not exactly the attitude of a man looking to buy something for his "special love", but whatever. He tugs Astarion to the side and turns so that the both of them are standing with their backs facing the little reptile merchant, bodies slanted in a posture that reads distinctly conspiratorial. ]
If I distract the thing, [ casually, arms folded, ] would you be able to steal the hand?
[ He'd briefly considered just leaving it and telling Lae'zel to fetch it herself, but that conversation is possibly a bigger headache than shoplifting from a jabbering kobold, and sometimes one has to encourage larceny in a circus to cope with the horrors of casual life.
If Astarion wants to, that is. Again, the luxury of being free is that you can tell someone to piss off. ]
Bringing Lae'zel a treat will get her off our backs for a day or two, at least.
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It's only a kobold, [ he hisses, ] we could just stab it and take its things. Who would care?
[ Even as he says it, he knows someone would. There are Wyll Ravengards everywhere sympathizing with the plight of lesser beings. He groans. ]
Fine. You— [ He makes a vague hand gesture towards Iorveth. ] Do whatever it is that you need to do. I'll save the day with my light-fingered antics yet again.
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Astarion puffs up, and Iorveth fancies he sees silver hair bristle. Cute. ]
The hero we hardly deserve. [ He holds out his pack for Astarion to take, in case he's finnicky about putting a dismembered limb in his own. ] You never fail to impress.
[ This would have been far more facetious two tendays ago, when Iorveth would have delivered this with scathing sarcasm; as it stands, he just sounds slightly fond. A quick nudge, and he winds his way back to the kobold and its expectant gaze, answering its "well? Well? Hands for the gnarly elf? 10,000 is cheapo for a treato!"
Gods, the thing is annoying. Iorveth floats on over to the opposite end of the stall, ignoring the creature to inspect the poorly-labeled bottles again, and with a flourish－
－he drops one. It shatters, and the kobold leaps up and down in dramatic distress. "No! You breaks Businesslord Popper's stuffs!!!"
With dripping insincerity, Iorveth quips back: ] Mm, my depth perception isn't what it used to be.
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Oh, goodness, [ he exclaims, melodramatic, pointing at the shattered pieces of glass on the ground as he gravitates toward the hand. It smells awful, like decay and rot, like the inside of Cazador's mansion. ] He's always doing this! You should give him what for. It's the only way he'll learn.
[ Popper stomps its feet, looking every bit an oversized, reptilian toddler. It might be cute, if the thing weren't so ugly. "You lies! That was on purpose!" It gestures emphatically at the shards of bottle on the ground, distraught though the thing really was, as it had said, junk. No one was ever going to buy an elixir from a kobold that doesn't look like it could rub two brain cells together, much less ensure the contents of the bottle aren't pure poison. "You breaks it, you buys it!"
Astarion opens Iorveth's pack, picking up the clown hand with his thumb and forefinger as if it were a particularly nasty piece of garbage. He gags at the tactile sensation; the hand is warm from sitting out in the sun all day, and what's worse, it's floppy. As he slips it into his pack, he encourages Popper from the peanut gallery, ] That's right. You tell him.
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