[ 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.
[ Astarion is the cat between the two of them, but Iorveth channels that energy for the purpose of distraction: with feline mischief, he reaches for a second bottle ("no, no!", the kobold shrieks,) and lets it follow in the footsteps of the first, pointedly keeping his focus on the mess he's making instead of the sneaking going on in his periphery. ]
Ah, [ he sighs, as if he can't believe he's done it again. The thin smile on his lips betrays him, though, and Popper starts to pound its clawed little hands against Iorveth's back, attempting to discourage him from further destruction.
"I gets you thrown out! No more circus for shady elf and his pasty love! No more treatos forever!"
The battering continues as Iorveth traces a finger around the rim of a third bottle; Iorveth glances sideways once he's sure that Astarion has the fetid hand safely in the confines of his pack, and decides to spare Popper from further grief. He steps away, still smirking, and gestures for Astarion to leave the vicinity of the kobold before it notices that its bloody plate is missing something on it. ]
So hard to help myself, when things are lined up so neatly. [ Hands back at his sides, he edges away from the stand. ] I'll take my leave before I cause more grief.
Oh, dear, I'm so sorry for him, [ says Astarion, pack closed over the foul hand now. He pops up next to Iorveth like he's been there the whole time, smile contrite. ] He hasn't been right in the mind since that horse kicked him in the head.
[ "Nasty elf!" Popper shouts, distressed as it crouches to pick up fragments of broken glass. "Horse shoulds have kicked you harder!" ]
Isn't that the truth! Don't you worry. I'll give him a talking to.
[ Astarion doesn't so much as pull on Iorveth's sleeve as yank it, scurrying away as quickly as his legs will take him. He doesn't fear a kobold of all things, even a loud and obnoxious one, but Lae'zel would be furious if they got kicked out of the circus before they could fulfill her mission, and the last thing he wants is to sit through one of her tirades.
Even after they've made it a distance away, he can still hear the muffled sound of Popper complaining about a "horrible, awful mans". He snorts before pressing the pack to Iorveth's chest, eager to get any clown body parts out of his possession. ]
You owe me, you know. I don't think I'll ever feel clean again.
[ The nasty, horrible, awful elf makes his expeditious retreat, chuckling to himself at the insults being hurled his way. He's still smiling as he takes his pack from Astarion, residual alcohol making him more pleased by his mischief than he should be. ]
Adding to my ever-growing debt.
[ Impossible to pay off, at this point. Winding through another throng of circus-goers, he steps under the shade of the one large tree situated nearly in the middle of the grounds, a strange-shaped thing that resembles an overgrown stump with two armlike branches on either side of it. Gnarled, old-looking. ]
Take heart. Lae'zel will be pleased with you. [ A hum. ] Her favor will earn you your peace.
[ The tree is hideous, but its shade is pleasant in the afternoon sun. He squints at the sky, taking in the position of the sun; it must be later than he'd thought. They've already whiled away so much of the day. Not that he particularly minds. Lazing about doing nothing of import with Iorveth is his favorite thing to do. ]
Mm. [ A hum back. He winds his hands into the fabric of Iorveth's shirt, tugging him nearer. With a coy grin: ] You're the only one I care to please.
[ "How lovely, that one so bound to nature approaches," comes a voice from behind him, and Astarion whirls around, hand flying to the hilt of his dagger. ]
Hells! [ he says, exasperated, when he sees that the interloper is only a dryad clad in an outfit made of leaves and twisted vines. With her green skin and her branchlike headpiece, she blends seamlessly into the scenery. Astarion points an accusatory finger at her nonetheless. ] Have you no manners, sneaking up like that?
[ Not a trace of irony to his scolding. It's only all right for him to skulk around and frighten people. The dryad hardly seems fazed, only giving him a mild once-over. "And one very unnatural." ]
Well, that's just rude.
Edited (please. english is hard) 2024-09-18 05:29 (UTC)
[ Iorveth's internal bias in favor of dryads muffles his own annoyance at being caught off-guard; his glare is only momentary, a touch of a frown that dissipates once he registers the shape of the stranger and ties it to positive memories of being sheltered by others who looked like her. For that gentle association, he tips his head in a gesture approximating a small bow; it's more for his own benefit than the dryad's, and quickly overtaken by a dry half-laugh when she calls Astarion unnatural. ]
So says a dryad participating in a circus.
[ As far as unlikely things go, a wood sprite allowing herself to be a sideshow attraction is on the same level as a vampire walking in the sun― or so Iorveth thinks. He raises a brow as he watches the almost-accusation roll off of the nymph's shoulder, her smile as steady as the glowing pulse of her tattoo-like markings.
"It has given me the opportunity to look into so many hearts, to see the shape of so many souls. And I see yours right now, child of the ancient woods." Her smile widens, unnervingly knowing. "You burn with love, with a newfound feeling."
She settles her warm gaze on Astarion, as if to connect the dots. "A child of nature, enamored by a child of death." ]
[ That word again: love. Astarion would like if everyone would refrain from abusing it until he can ruminate and brood. These foreign feelings need to be examined.
Love, as a concept, doesn't come easily to him. He must once have had family who loved him; only a muddy memory of them remains now, blurry, half-formed recollections of people who’d cared for him. Occasionally Cazador had claimed to love his spawn, but Astarion knew better than to believe it. He'd loved them the way a wealthy man loves his possessions. He may admire expensive vases for display, but do their thoughts or emotions matter?
Arms folded over his chest, Astarion squawks, ] That's hardly impressive. A blind grimlock could see your burning desire for me.
[ Placid and unflappable, the dryad smiles, not a hint of offense on her pretty face. "Allow me, then, to gaze into your hearts and tell you if this flame will blaze everlasting or burn out." ]
[ Could a blind grimlock see it? Iorveth glances at Astarion, slightly annoyed by the implication that he's quite so obvious about it all, very irritated that it's probably true.
Oh well. Regarding the proposition: ] Do you wish to do this?
[ Asking, because the thought of a stranger potentially telling them that they're horribly incompatible in the wake of all the earth-shattering decisions they've made seems, well. Unpleasant. Not that Iorveth would trust a dryad that they've just met to accurately foresee their future, but it might be a bit Much for Astarion.
He subtly brushes the back of their hands together, and watches as the dryad pulses a little brighter for it.
"This trial requires trust and honesty― no small things. If the heart is reluctant, it is understandable." ]
[ Indignation heats Astarion's face. How dare she imply that he's hesitant to engage in trust and honesty just because he's never been trusting and honest in his life. It's not like she knows that, anyway. At least, he doesn't think she does. His knowledge of dryads is scarce, sourced mostly from fiction books and idle gossip. As a city slicker, he's never seen one in the flesh—in the bark?—before. After all, their domain is the forest, the nearest of which is miles from here. ]
Why do you assume my heart is reluctant? I'm wonderful at trust and honesty, I'll have you know.
[ "Then let us go," she replies, voice breathy and soft. "Close your eyes, and take a deep breath." Before Astarion can reply that he doesn't breathe, the hustle and bustle of the circus gives way to a more idyllic scene. Greenery as far as the eye can see, dotting the path they're on and climbing up the nearby rocks. A waterfall roars to the right, spilling into a river that runs between them, the only path across a sturdy, moss-covered log. The cool, gentle breeze kissing their cheeks smells floral and clean.
Fey magic, he thinks. Both disconcerting and enchanting. Are their real bodies still standing in the middle of that circus, or did she somehow transport them to this place? Peaceful and calm, untouched by civilization yet perfectly cultivated, it seems almost too picturesque to be real. ]
We didn't agree to having your magic tricks played on us.
[ His words are grumpy, but a part of him finds this 'magic trick' fascinating, and his eyes are wide with wonder. ]
[ The magic feels old, transformative. Iorveth breathes in the scent of moss and running water, instinctively soothed by the inexorable inevitability of nature, how small he is compared to its timelessness.
Only for a moment, though. Astarion's voice pulls him back to the here (?) and now (?), mostly because he hears it from a distanceー a very spannable one, but still. There's Astarion, across the river with his hair catching late afternoon light, nose turned up like a cat refusing to go into water.
Huh. The dryad, ever-patient, explains: "a test, not a trick. To see how strong this new, tentative bond between you two may be, may yet become." She spreads her arms, gently imploring. "To know each other is to approach each other, physically and emotionally. Answer my questions true, and you may find yourself in the embrace of the one you hold dear."
Iorveth, arms folded and head tipped, thinks it's all very twee, even by his wood elf standards. ]
I could approach him without answering your questions, [ he points out. Who's going to stop him? The log?
The nymph pauses as if she's considering whether or not it would be prudent to roll her eyes, but she doesn't. "Let's not waste time." Possibly the rudest she's ever been. Shut up and do the test, morons, in dryad terms. "Astarion: his curated exterior belies the tumult he holds in his heart. What is the eye of his storm? When does he feel at ease?"
A very personal question, right out of the gate. Iorveth raises his brow. ] I suppose I jump into the water if I'm incorrect.
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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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Ah, [ he sighs, as if he can't believe he's done it again. The thin smile on his lips betrays him, though, and Popper starts to pound its clawed little hands against Iorveth's back, attempting to discourage him from further destruction.
"I gets you thrown out! No more circus for shady elf and his pasty love! No more treatos forever!"
The battering continues as Iorveth traces a finger around the rim of a third bottle; Iorveth glances sideways once he's sure that Astarion has the fetid hand safely in the confines of his pack, and decides to spare Popper from further grief. He steps away, still smirking, and gestures for Astarion to leave the vicinity of the kobold before it notices that its bloody plate is missing something on it. ]
So hard to help myself, when things are lined up so neatly. [ Hands back at his sides, he edges away from the stand. ] I'll take my leave before I cause more grief.
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[ "Nasty elf!" Popper shouts, distressed as it crouches to pick up fragments of broken glass. "Horse shoulds have kicked you harder!" ]
Isn't that the truth! Don't you worry. I'll give him a talking to.
[ Astarion doesn't so much as pull on Iorveth's sleeve as yank it, scurrying away as quickly as his legs will take him. He doesn't fear a kobold of all things, even a loud and obnoxious one, but Lae'zel would be furious if they got kicked out of the circus before they could fulfill her mission, and the last thing he wants is to sit through one of her tirades.
Even after they've made it a distance away, he can still hear the muffled sound of Popper complaining about a "horrible, awful mans". He snorts before pressing the pack to Iorveth's chest, eager to get any clown body parts out of his possession. ]
You owe me, you know. I don't think I'll ever feel clean again.
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Adding to my ever-growing debt.
[ Impossible to pay off, at this point. Winding through another throng of circus-goers, he steps under the shade of the one large tree situated nearly in the middle of the grounds, a strange-shaped thing that resembles an overgrown stump with two armlike branches on either side of it. Gnarled, old-looking. ]
Take heart. Lae'zel will be pleased with you. [ A hum. ] Her favor will earn you your peace.
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Mm. [ A hum back. He winds his hands into the fabric of Iorveth's shirt, tugging him nearer. With a coy grin: ] You're the only one I care to please.
[ "How lovely, that one so bound to nature approaches," comes a voice from behind him, and Astarion whirls around, hand flying to the hilt of his dagger. ]
Hells! [ he says, exasperated, when he sees that the interloper is only a dryad clad in an outfit made of leaves and twisted vines. With her green skin and her branchlike headpiece, she blends seamlessly into the scenery. Astarion points an accusatory finger at her nonetheless. ] Have you no manners, sneaking up like that?
[ Not a trace of irony to his scolding. It's only all right for him to skulk around and frighten people. The dryad hardly seems fazed, only giving him a mild once-over. "And one very unnatural." ]
Well, that's just rude.
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So says a dryad participating in a circus.
[ As far as unlikely things go, a wood sprite allowing herself to be a sideshow attraction is on the same level as a vampire walking in the sun― or so Iorveth thinks. He raises a brow as he watches the almost-accusation roll off of the nymph's shoulder, her smile as steady as the glowing pulse of her tattoo-like markings.
"It has given me the opportunity to look into so many hearts, to see the shape of so many souls. And I see yours right now, child of the ancient woods." Her smile widens, unnervingly knowing. "You burn with love, with a newfound feeling."
She settles her warm gaze on Astarion, as if to connect the dots. "A child of nature, enamored by a child of death." ]
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Love, as a concept, doesn't come easily to him. He must once have had family who loved him; only a muddy memory of them remains now, blurry, half-formed recollections of people who’d cared for him. Occasionally Cazador had claimed to love his spawn, but Astarion knew better than to believe it. He'd loved them the way a wealthy man loves his possessions. He may admire expensive vases for display, but do their thoughts or emotions matter?
Arms folded over his chest, Astarion squawks, ] That's hardly impressive. A blind grimlock could see your burning desire for me.
[ Placid and unflappable, the dryad smiles, not a hint of offense on her pretty face. "Allow me, then, to gaze into your hearts and tell you if this flame will blaze everlasting or burn out." ]
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Oh well. Regarding the proposition: ] Do you wish to do this?
[ Asking, because the thought of a stranger potentially telling them that they're horribly incompatible in the wake of all the earth-shattering decisions they've made seems, well. Unpleasant. Not that Iorveth would trust a dryad that they've just met to accurately foresee their future, but it might be a bit Much for Astarion.
He subtly brushes the back of their hands together, and watches as the dryad pulses a little brighter for it.
"This trial requires trust and honesty― no small things. If the heart is reluctant, it is understandable." ]
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Why do you assume my heart is reluctant? I'm wonderful at trust and honesty, I'll have you know.
[ "Then let us go," she replies, voice breathy and soft. "Close your eyes, and take a deep breath." Before Astarion can reply that he doesn't breathe, the hustle and bustle of the circus gives way to a more idyllic scene. Greenery as far as the eye can see, dotting the path they're on and climbing up the nearby rocks. A waterfall roars to the right, spilling into a river that runs between them, the only path across a sturdy, moss-covered log. The cool, gentle breeze kissing their cheeks smells floral and clean.
Fey magic, he thinks. Both disconcerting and enchanting. Are their real bodies still standing in the middle of that circus, or did she somehow transport them to this place? Peaceful and calm, untouched by civilization yet perfectly cultivated, it seems almost too picturesque to be real. ]
We didn't agree to having your magic tricks played on us.
[ His words are grumpy, but a part of him finds this 'magic trick' fascinating, and his eyes are wide with wonder. ]
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Only for a moment, though. Astarion's voice pulls him back to the here (?) and now (?), mostly because he hears it from a distanceー a very spannable one, but still. There's Astarion, across the river with his hair catching late afternoon light, nose turned up like a cat refusing to go into water.
Huh. The dryad, ever-patient, explains: "a test, not a trick. To see how strong this new, tentative bond between you two may be, may yet become." She spreads her arms, gently imploring. "To know each other is to approach each other, physically and emotionally. Answer my questions true, and you may find yourself in the embrace of the one you hold dear."
Iorveth, arms folded and head tipped, thinks it's all very twee, even by his wood elf standards. ]
I could approach him without answering your questions, [ he points out. Who's going to stop him? The log?
The nymph pauses as if she's considering whether or not it would be prudent to roll her eyes, but she doesn't. "Let's not waste time." Possibly the rudest she's ever been. Shut up and do the test, morons, in dryad terms. "Astarion: his curated exterior belies the tumult he holds in his heart. What is the eye of his storm? When does he feel at ease?"
A very personal question, right out of the gate. Iorveth raises his brow. ] I suppose I jump into the water if I'm incorrect.
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