[ To the outside observer, they certainly look like an elf and the man who just betrayed him. Astarion's expression turns furious, and he leans in further, shoulders hunched as the rope pulls at his wrists. He hisses, ] You're supposed to come up with a plan, not just— lie down and die.
[ Gods, he's never been so angry in his life. His face slowly turns red, fang pressing so deeply into his lower lip that it cuts the skin of his mouth. He hardly notices. How dare Iorveth even think to take himself away from him, he thinks immaturely. And because of what, a few dumb humans? ]
If you want me to survive, then I suppose you'll just have to come up with something better. [ Emotional blackmail, he knows. ] Whatever your fate, I plan to share it.
[ Wholly unintentional, most likely, but "come up with a plan if you want to survive" is such a well-aimed statement that it momentarily knocks the wind out of Iorveth. All that familiar rage of deaths he couldn't accept, the unfiltered, corrosive despair he'd held close to his chest every time he'd huddled against the gaunt, hollowed outlines of once-beautiful elves.
In that moment of breathless agony, Iorveth stares at Astarion with self-imposed blankness. Allowing any sort of emotion to bleed through his cracks would be to bare fangs at Astarion, which he won't allow; any accusations along the lines of don't you know how it feels would be comical to the point of parody― the irony is that of course Astarion knows. Astarion knows the shape of agony more than anyone.
A beat, and the miles of distance that Iorveth shoves between them start to shrink. Rather, he allows them to. His throat bobs, and air whistles through his teeth. ]
Stupid. [ Softly, with no real edge. ] Stupid. You're such a fool.
[ It sounds a little like "I love you". Iorveth sinks sideways, resting his head against the scratchy wood of the hay cart. ]
There are elves in the forests near Flotsam. I could send them a message via bird, if the humans don't gag me again. [ His tone is neutral, flat. It's a long shot; not everyone is willing to help a known criminal, even for the sake of elf justice. ]
[ Stupid has never sounded so sweet. Relief floods over him, every muscle he'd unconsciously tightened slowly relaxing. Let Iorveth think he's a fool; at least he'll be alive to think anything at all. He's so happy that he could kiss Iorveth, but he refrains, both because it would blow what little cover they have and because, well, it would be a bit weird without hands. ]
They won't, not if I say that you're telling me valuable information. Coin breeds stupidity.
[ He doesn't know that, not really, but Iorveth has given him an inch and he's delusionally willing to take a mile. There's nothing left for him to do besides hope, even if it's a little detached from reality.
Astarion pauses before adding, softly, ] You didn't doubt me, even though I said I'd sell you out.
Stupid, [ he says softly, for the millionth time. ] Why would I?
I've given you my heart. I trust you with my life.
[ Strangely naive of him, perhaps. There it is again, his bad habit of putting all of his eggs in one basket and being disappointed if and when they come back a mess: yes, he didn't doubt that Astarion was bluffing. Yes, he didn't consider what would happen if Astarion were planning on betraying him. Yes, he would have been devastated if Astarion actually did betray him. Another painful lesson to learn on top of all the others in his life.
That said: ] Astarion. [ More firmly this time: ] I'll not lie down and accept death so easily. But if things go south, promise me you'll look out for yourself, first and foremost.
[ Something he'd said before, warm and drunk and lovesick in a bathhouse: that he hadn't wanted Astarion to play hero. Some part of that still holds. ]
[ Astarion falters. There had been a time when he would have assured Iorveth that he's only looking out for number one all by himself, with no prompting needed. Now, his response to Iorveth's question is annoyance, offense. Why would he even still be here if he only wanted to look out for himself? He would have already run for the hills long ago, leaving Iorveth behind to be tortured and gutted by these animals. There's nothing in it for him except the potential of more pain and suffering, yet he finds himself unable to leave. What had he thought, back when he'd stayed behind to fight Henselt's men with Iorveth? Oh, right: fuck it.
Telling Iorveth that he actually wants to play the hero this time won't go well, he imagines. Besides, why give him something else to worry about? So Astarion lies through his teeth: ]
[ "I always do" is decidedly not an "I promise", but Iorveth relaxes when he hears it. Maybe it says too much about him that it does, but he wouldn't know what. ]
Good. [ (A blind spot: Iorveth, having asked Astarion to stay, hasn't considered that Astarion would also want him to stay.) ] ...I might send a message to Waterdeep, as well. Though that damned tressym may intercept it.
[ Swallowing his pride to appeal to Gale, who is geographically the closest, despite him also being part of the loathed human race. Iorveth would kiss that frumpy wizard's feet if it meant saving Astarion from this catastrophic shitshow, really.
He glances at Astarion. At the quickly-forming bruise on his face, at his disheveled hair. Anger was always Iorveth's closest companion, but it's getting louder than it has in recent tendays. ]
Tara, you mean? [ Put some respect on her name! From one cat to another: ] Actually, I rather like her. She's feisty.
[ And he'd much rather her show up to save them with a well-timed fireball than Gale, who'd never let them hear the end of it, he's sure. Then he'd probably insist on inviting them back to his tower in Waterdeep, where he'd talk their ears off as if it's been any time at all since they saw each other last. (Then again, it would be an awful lot of fun to watch Iorveth verbally spar with Gale over a glass or two of wine. He's sure the Wizard of Waterdeep has a fabulous wine cellar.)
He worries his lip, then, trying not to look as fearful as he is. They've gotten out of worse jams before. Hells, they survived having illithid parasites in their brains. This should be a piece of cake, but— ]
Ah, no pressure, but perhaps you could find a way to send it sooner rather than later. [ His voice is light, breezy, performatively so. ] It's just that— well, the sun didn't feel so pleasant the first time.
[ A low huff of breath, at the mention of the sun. Humans, they can do something about－ grand, immovable forces of nature, not so much. ]
I'll have to find a bird, [ is a ridiculous thing to say when they're tied up and moments away from possibly being killed in a horrific and gruesome way, but, again: that's life.
They don't have time for that, though. If the sun comes up, Astarion is dead regardless of whether or not the humans decide to let him live. So－ ]
―Can you cast Acid Splash?
[ Rolling over on the cart, exposing his trussed-up hands behind his back. The acid won't eat at the rope entirely, and it'll hurt him more than it'll do permanent damage to the rope, but it'll be corrosive, and it'll help him wriggle out of his bonds with enough finessing. They don't have the "talk to Shadowheart later to fix it" option, but it's having fucked-up wrists as opposed to Astarion turning into bacon; Iorveth knows which one he'd choose. ]
[ Iorveth rolls over, and Astarion's eyes drift back to their captors, wary. They're sitting around the campfire, enjoying what's likely a stolen bottle of alcohol and recounting a grisly assault on an elven camp. The image of standing up, walking over, and kicking them into the fire one by one flits through his mind, but it doesn't hold his attention over Iorveth's question. ]
What? [ he hisses, red eyes narrowed to slits.
Laughing mirthlessly: ] Surely I misheard you, and you aren't asking me to burn you with acid. I mean, that would be insane!
An attempt, here, to look over his shoulder; it's difficult with how his arms are pulled so tautly behind him, shoulderblades risen near-painfully, but Iorveth semi-manages.
His simple reply to "that would be insane": ]
Did you think I wasn't insane?
[ Darling, sweetheart, love of his life. Of course he's a nutcase. ]
[ Petulant, he pouts. There's nothing in this world he'd like more than a tied-up and vulnerable Iorveth, yet these horrible men have found a way to sully even that. For one long moment, he looks down at Iorveth, eyes tracing the tightness of his shoulders down to the slowly but surely blooming rope burn across his wrists.
His voice is nearly inaudible when he whispers, ] Don't make a sound.
[ He shifts, angling his hands over Iorveth's bound wrists. Humorlessly, he notes that this is the closest they've come to holding hands in days. As his palms settle over the knots of rope, he says, quietly, ] Acido.
[ It's difficult to make the right hand gestures with his wrists tied behind his back, but he does his best, the muscles between his shoulder blades complaining as he flicks his fingers. For a moment, he isn't sure it worked. Then he hears it: the sound of acid eating through rope and flesh alike. ]
[ Collateral damage, he tells himself as his nerves light on fire from where acid bleeds into ropeburned skin. Pain, white-hot and blistering－ familiar, almost comfortingly so. This, Iorveth can bear without issue.
As suggested, he doesn't make a sound. Teeth grit, fingers curling into his palm, he stays silent, waiting until the rope gives way just enough for him to start shifting his wrists side to side. It's agonizing－ he saws raw flesh, making it tear and bleed－ but more satisfyingly, it's working.
Sweat beads on his brow. Physically, his body is screaming in protest; mentally, it's a chorus of yes yes yes. His arms relax, his shoulders pull forward again. He wiggles his blood-sticky, acid-burnt wrists, and feels them slip out of loosened knots.
An exhale, as he glances towards the soldiers. One of them mentions that they should get a move on if they want to get to Flotsam by noon, and another asks what the hurry is, the coin isn't going to grow legs and run away.
He whispers, voice ragged from holding his breath against the pain: ] Step away for a bit. They'll grow suspicious.
[ He should avert his eyes, but he can't. Memories rip through him of being ordered to burn his siblings, to carve their skin and bloody their faces. The sweet smell of Iorveth's blood mixed with the sour scent of acid makes him gag, and Astarion holds back the urge to vomit the blood he drank earlier, finally past 'feeling sick' fully into 'being sick'.
Step away, Iorveth says, and he wants to argue. He wants to stay and look at the damage he's done so that he can brand his brain with it. He also wants never to look at it again, so he absconds from the hay cart without another word, eyes downcast until he reaches the campfire. Then, as if a switch has just been flipped, he looks up, eyes keen. ]
Gentlemen! Did you hear that rustling over there?
[ He cants his head in the opposite direction from Iorveth, through the woods. ]
I'm not saying it's a group of wood elf guerrillas come to enact vengeance, but... weeellll, it would probably be prudent to check, don't you think?
[ The five men look up from where they're lounging, regarding Astarion with open suspicion. On one hand, it seems very convenient for a pack of guerrillas to be attacking them right now, but on the other, it would make sense for a pack of guerrillas to be attacking them right now. Caught between two diametrically opposing opinions, half of the men get up grudgingly to investigate ("you're gettin' a beating if it turns out you're lying, elf"), and the other half－ the two men who'd restrained Astarion earlier－ grab Astarion by the elbow and wrestle him onto the ground, holding him between their bodies like a novelty to gawk at.
"How'd that one-eyed freak get you to agree to work for him, anyway?" The man on Astarion's right leans in, his acrid breath tickling his ear. "You know what he is, right? All the shit he's done? Of all the vermin in the forests, he's the worst kind."
Meanwhile, said vermin is loosening the knots around his ankles, ignoring the searing pain running from his wrists to the base of his brain. He hears Astarion's theatrical distraction attempt, and smiles despite himself; it's impossible, how much he loves that stupid cat. ]
[ The sound and smell of Iorveth's wrists mixed with acid is still fresh in his mind, and the acrid aroma of this human's hot alcohol breath nearly makes him gag again. He swallows his disgust in service of continuing the distraction. If he's going to have hurt Iorveth, he had better make sure it was worth it. ]
No need to manhandle, boys--
[ His voice is airy, but there's a sharp undercurrent that suggests it bothers him more than he'd like to let on. In fact, being tugged around and roughly handled makes his chest feel tight. ]
It was an easy decision. I love money and I have loose morals.
[ The men chasing him are a different breed of human, Iorveth would say: delighting in the discomfort of elves, while regarding them as nothing more than strange animals occupying space in unilaterally-claimed human territory. They continue crowding Astarion, touching his ears and tipping his face in a way that would get most people slapped, or even worse―
―stabbed, which is what Iorveth is planning to do. Ankles finally freed (the men are still yapping on and on about how the Woodland Fox killed their cousins, how they lost an entire town because Iorveth took a torch to it, et cetera, ad infinitum), Iorveth slips, silent, from the cart he was deposited on, and slinks towards the man occupying Astarion's left.
"Guess none of this matters to a loose elf like you," he sneers. Iorveth has no context for this statement, but it makes him see red. Or, well. It makes the red he's been seeing even darker.
A mauled but still-deft hand finds a curved knife that one of the other man left behind; without hesitation, Iorveth makes his may behind the man occupying Astarion's left and plunges the weapon through the human's neck, back to front, until the blade protrudes and glints in firelight. ]
Don't speak, [ he snarls as he roughly pulls the knife out from the man's throat, letting him fall to the side with a wet gurgle and a flailing of thick limbs. The rest of the declaration, "just die", is put on reserve: Iorveth sets his sights on the second man, now scrambling onto his feet with a half-choked yell of alarm. ]
[ Iorveth pulls the knife out of his victim's throat, and blood sprays everywhere, including on Astarion's face. With some difficulty, Astarion gets to his feet, stumbling a little without his hands to steady him. He's not proud that he licks his upper lip, but a man's got to eat. If he can't have filet mignon (Iorveth), the least he can settle for is ground beef (random humans). He has the feeling that Iorveth wouldn't like him sinking his fangs into any of these men, but licking his chops is a victimless crime. ]
Hush, [ he hisses at the still-living human, worried that his shouts will draw back his comrades. ] Just die quietly.
[ Punctuated with a clumsy kick to his groin. The man shouts louder. ]
[ Pathetic, Iorveth thinks, of the man currently clutching his neck and writing on the ground. He doesn't spare him a second glance before he lunges towards the second soldier, aiming for the parts of him that aren't wrapped in leather armor－ which is primarily his face, his neck. Iorveth lands a shallow cut across the man's face, bisecting the bridge of his nose and causing him to lurch backwards in pain and anger; the man fumbles with his weapon and goes for a desperate strike that Iorveth parries with a twist of his burnt wrist (ow). He uses that momentum to shove his opponent onto his back, then land a savage kick to the side of his head that knocks him out immediately.
More gurgled screaming by the man with the hole in his throat. Iorveth hurries towards Astarion to cut his ropes, choosing to free him before making sure that the two men are properly dead.
(In the distance, the other three who are scouting in the forest hear the sound of a scuffle back at camp; they turn around, sensing trouble.) ]
We can stay and fight, or we can run. [ As he saws at Astarion's bindings. ] The others will be back soon.
[ Astarion doesn't mind the idea of slicing open a few more throats, but the issue is that it's three armed men against an elf who's barely tranced in days and an unarmed vampire. He knows what their odds are, and they aren't worth betting on. Besides, he's always been a coward. It's why he strikes from the darkness while his enemies are distracted rather than daring to face them head-on.
He reaches for Iorveth's wrist— then recoils at the feeling of burnt skin. ]
—Oh, [ he breathes out, displeased, before grabbing Iorveth's bicep instead, not so much tugging as yanking him along. ]
[ Iorveth wants his bow back, now, but he can appreciate how sticking around to let three armed soldiers catch up with them without the element of surprise can spell disaster. His gaze swims, furious, to the two men lying prone by their feet, and slides away at the sting of that momentary touch and the vehemence with which Astarion starts dragging him in the opposite direction of the clamor.
Survival first. More than anything, they need to find someplace that will shelter them not only from the men giving chase, but from the inevitable appearance of the sun; not only have they left their pack with their tent behind, it'll be difficult for them to find any traveler willing to let two blood-splattered elves onto their caravans for safe travel.
So. Their best bet is to find a cave, or an alcove of some kind. Maybe an abandoned hut, if they're lucky. Iorveth steers them both into the direction of the forest, which he can navigate with wood elf balance and certainty; he can find sure footing on an uneven forest floor with his eye closed.
Making sure that Astarion doesn't trip over branches and get tangled in bramble is a different story, though. He sidesteps a rather nasty-looking thorned plant, and stops briefly to make sure that his partner doesn't accidentally collide into it. ]
Careful, [ he whispers, steadying Astarion with one fucked-up hand. ]
[ Astarion is nimble, but unfamiliar with forest terrain. It would be a trifle to disappear into the dark alleys of the city, stepping over every loose cobblestone and stray cat running underfoot. The uneven ground of the woods has him stumbling, though, working to yank his foot away from the bramble that's caught on the ankle of his trousers. ]
I am being careful, [ is his whispered, petulant complaint. ] Gods, I detest nature.
[ Maybe not the most flattering thing to say in front of a nature-loving wood elf. Still, as he nearly trips over a gnarled branch, he certainly doesn't feel warmly towards nature.
What he lacks in survivalist know-how he makes up for in experience hiding in the dark. As he hears the heavy footsteps of armored men behind them, he drags Iorveth toward a small, shadowed alcove. He all but shoves him inside, pressing himself as flat as he can as the the footsteps grow louder. ]
[ Funny, probably, that the fact that Iorveth is a wood elf is more controversial to Astarion than the fact that Iorveth is a known terrorist. Definitely not the time to be reflecting on the improbability of their relationship, however-- heavy footsteps herald the presence of the unwelcome soldiers, and Iorveth stifles his suicidal inclination to fight by pressing closer to Astarion in their small space.
"Couldn't have gone far", one voice pants. "Hells, how hard is it to catch one elf--"
"Should've killed the other one when we had the chance," another voice grouses, followed by the sound of a sword cutting through overgrown underbrush. "Won't make that mistake twice."
More rustling, more hacking. Iorveth holds his breath until the frustrated conversation recedes into the background, brushing against the perimeter of the alcove they're tucked in before meandering in a nebulous direction.
A long moment later: ] A right mess. [ Iorveth closes his eye, slumps back. ]
[ Astarion follows suit, sighing and slouching in exhaustion. 'A right mess' is correct. He can't help but think that he led them right to Iorveth; if he'd only been more careful, more alert, but he'd been so wrapped up in his own feelings about regressing that he didn't even notice. It isn't like him to let his guard down. It won't happen again.
He glances at Iorveth, frowning. ]
I hurt you.
[ His voice is miserable. There's almost no one in this world who he wouldn't like to hurt, but Iorveth is one of them. ]
You saved us, [ is a near-immediate correction. Eye still closed, shoulder to the dirt-streaked perimeter of their hard-earned alcove. He finally looks at Astarion when he's asked if he's alright, and though the answer is "no" ("I'm angry, I'm fucking furious, I'll never stop being fucking furious"), he gentles at the Wet Cat Aura that Astarion is exuding. ]
I'm tired enough that I don't wish to argue with you.
[ Because he could. He's on the verge of telling Astarion that he should go to Waterdeep and stay with Gale while Iorveth goes to burn the entire town of Flotsam down, that it would simply fucking kill him if he had to watch anonymous humans treating Astarion like an animal again. Iorveth knows that Astarion doesn't want to be told to go, but seeing him with rope around his wrists felt like a shattering of something hereto unknown inside him; never again, he thinks for the millionth time that night.
He notes how disheveled Astarion looks, how his hair is a mess of flyaway curls. There's a compulsion to touch him, but Iorveth remembers all those hands on Astarion just recently, and keeps his own to himself. Astarion deserves some reprieve. ]
[ Astarion is only just now in a mindset to be self-conscious; he runs his fingers over the tender area by his temple, bruising quickly thanks to his deathly pallor. The touch of his fingers hurts, and he winces. He must look 'a right mess', as Iorveth had called it, to match the situation they're in. He should be furious about the punch, but he can't muster up the energy to feel anything other than disappointed that Iorveth is seeing him this way. ]
I suppose you were right. I need to start guarding my face.
[ He makes a cursory attempt to fix the hopefully-charmingly-tousled mop on his head, but it's ultimately a futile endeavor, and he settles for it at least being out of his face. ]
...I don't want to spend the day here.
[ Then again, leaving could prove dangerous. He has no idea where they are relative to the road--although perhaps Iorveth does, man of the woods that he is--and making their way to civilization could prove too time-consuming. ]
We should-- [ He trails off, unsure. ] Well, I'm not sure what we should do. But we can't just hole up here like roaches hiding from the sun.
[ Because Iorveth needs medical attention, for one, but also because it's humiliating. ]
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[ Gods, he's never been so angry in his life. His face slowly turns red, fang pressing so deeply into his lower lip that it cuts the skin of his mouth. He hardly notices. How dare Iorveth even think to take himself away from him, he thinks immaturely. And because of what, a few dumb humans? ]
If you want me to survive, then I suppose you'll just have to come up with something better. [ Emotional blackmail, he knows. ] Whatever your fate, I plan to share it.
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In that moment of breathless agony, Iorveth stares at Astarion with self-imposed blankness. Allowing any sort of emotion to bleed through his cracks would be to bare fangs at Astarion, which he won't allow; any accusations along the lines of don't you know how it feels would be comical to the point of parody― the irony is that of course Astarion knows. Astarion knows the shape of agony more than anyone.
A beat, and the miles of distance that Iorveth shoves between them start to shrink. Rather, he allows them to. His throat bobs, and air whistles through his teeth. ]
Stupid. [ Softly, with no real edge. ] Stupid. You're such a fool.
[ It sounds a little like "I love you". Iorveth sinks sideways, resting his head against the scratchy wood of the hay cart. ]
There are elves in the forests near Flotsam. I could send them a message via bird, if the humans don't gag me again. [ His tone is neutral, flat. It's a long shot; not everyone is willing to help a known criminal, even for the sake of elf justice. ]
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They won't, not if I say that you're telling me valuable information. Coin breeds stupidity.
[ He doesn't know that, not really, but Iorveth has given him an inch and he's delusionally willing to take a mile. There's nothing left for him to do besides hope, even if it's a little detached from reality.
Astarion pauses before adding, softly, ] You didn't doubt me, even though I said I'd sell you out.
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I've given you my heart. I trust you with my life.
[ Strangely naive of him, perhaps. There it is again, his bad habit of putting all of his eggs in one basket and being disappointed if and when they come back a mess: yes, he didn't doubt that Astarion was bluffing. Yes, he didn't consider what would happen if Astarion were planning on betraying him. Yes, he would have been devastated if Astarion actually did betray him. Another painful lesson to learn on top of all the others in his life.
That said: ] Astarion. [ More firmly this time: ] I'll not lie down and accept death so easily. But if things go south, promise me you'll look out for yourself, first and foremost.
[ Something he'd said before, warm and drunk and lovesick in a bathhouse: that he hadn't wanted Astarion to play hero. Some part of that still holds. ]
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Telling Iorveth that he actually wants to play the hero this time won't go well, he imagines. Besides, why give him something else to worry about? So Astarion lies through his teeth: ]
I always do.
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Good. [ (A blind spot: Iorveth, having asked Astarion to stay, hasn't considered that Astarion would also want him to stay.) ] ...I might send a message to Waterdeep, as well. Though that damned tressym may intercept it.
[ Swallowing his pride to appeal to Gale, who is geographically the closest, despite him also being part of the loathed human race. Iorveth would kiss that frumpy wizard's feet if it meant saving Astarion from this catastrophic shitshow, really.
He glances at Astarion. At the quickly-forming bruise on his face, at his disheveled hair. Anger was always Iorveth's closest companion, but it's getting louder than it has in recent tendays. ]
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[ And he'd much rather her show up to save them with a well-timed fireball than Gale, who'd never let them hear the end of it, he's sure. Then he'd probably insist on inviting them back to his tower in Waterdeep, where he'd talk their ears off as if it's been any time at all since they saw each other last. (Then again, it would be an awful lot of fun to watch Iorveth verbally spar with Gale over a glass or two of wine. He's sure the Wizard of Waterdeep has a fabulous wine cellar.)
He worries his lip, then, trying not to look as fearful as he is. They've gotten out of worse jams before. Hells, they survived having illithid parasites in their brains. This should be a piece of cake, but— ]
Ah, no pressure, but perhaps you could find a way to send it sooner rather than later. [ His voice is light, breezy, performatively so. ] It's just that— well, the sun didn't feel so pleasant the first time.
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I'll have to find a bird, [ is a ridiculous thing to say when they're tied up and moments away from possibly being killed in a horrific and gruesome way, but, again: that's life.
They don't have time for that, though. If the sun comes up, Astarion is dead regardless of whether or not the humans decide to let him live. So－ ]
―Can you cast Acid Splash?
[ Rolling over on the cart, exposing his trussed-up hands behind his back. The acid won't eat at the rope entirely, and it'll hurt him more than it'll do permanent damage to the rope, but it'll be corrosive, and it'll help him wriggle out of his bonds with enough finessing. They don't have the "talk to Shadowheart later to fix it" option, but it's having fucked-up wrists as opposed to Astarion turning into bacon; Iorveth knows which one he'd choose. ]
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What? [ he hisses, red eyes narrowed to slits.
Laughing mirthlessly: ] Surely I misheard you, and you aren't asking me to burn you with acid. I mean, that would be insane!
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An attempt, here, to look over his shoulder; it's difficult with how his arms are pulled so tautly behind him, shoulderblades risen near-painfully, but Iorveth semi-manages.
His simple reply to "that would be insane": ]
Did you think I wasn't insane?
[ Darling, sweetheart, love of his life. Of course he's a nutcase. ]
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This isn't the way I imagined having you tied up.
[ Petulant, he pouts. There's nothing in this world he'd like more than a tied-up and vulnerable Iorveth, yet these horrible men have found a way to sully even that. For one long moment, he looks down at Iorveth, eyes tracing the tightness of his shoulders down to the slowly but surely blooming rope burn across his wrists.
His voice is nearly inaudible when he whispers, ] Don't make a sound.
[ He shifts, angling his hands over Iorveth's bound wrists. Humorlessly, he notes that this is the closest they've come to holding hands in days. As his palms settle over the knots of rope, he says, quietly, ] Acido.
[ It's difficult to make the right hand gestures with his wrists tied behind his back, but he does his best, the muscles between his shoulder blades complaining as he flicks his fingers. For a moment, he isn't sure it worked. Then he hears it: the sound of acid eating through rope and flesh alike. ]
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As suggested, he doesn't make a sound. Teeth grit, fingers curling into his palm, he stays silent, waiting until the rope gives way just enough for him to start shifting his wrists side to side. It's agonizing－ he saws raw flesh, making it tear and bleed－ but more satisfyingly, it's working.
Sweat beads on his brow. Physically, his body is screaming in protest; mentally, it's a chorus of yes yes yes. His arms relax, his shoulders pull forward again. He wiggles his blood-sticky, acid-burnt wrists, and feels them slip out of loosened knots.
An exhale, as he glances towards the soldiers. One of them mentions that they should get a move on if they want to get to Flotsam by noon, and another asks what the hurry is, the coin isn't going to grow legs and run away.
He whispers, voice ragged from holding his breath against the pain: ] Step away for a bit. They'll grow suspicious.
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Step away, Iorveth says, and he wants to argue. He wants to stay and look at the damage he's done so that he can brand his brain with it. He also wants never to look at it again, so he absconds from the hay cart without another word, eyes downcast until he reaches the campfire. Then, as if a switch has just been flipped, he looks up, eyes keen. ]
Gentlemen! Did you hear that rustling over there?
[ He cants his head in the opposite direction from Iorveth, through the woods. ]
I'm not saying it's a group of wood elf guerrillas come to enact vengeance, but... weeellll, it would probably be prudent to check, don't you think?
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"How'd that one-eyed freak get you to agree to work for him, anyway?" The man on Astarion's right leans in, his acrid breath tickling his ear. "You know what he is, right? All the shit he's done? Of all the vermin in the forests, he's the worst kind."
Meanwhile, said vermin is loosening the knots around his ankles, ignoring the searing pain running from his wrists to the base of his brain. He hears Astarion's theatrical distraction attempt, and smiles despite himself; it's impossible, how much he loves that stupid cat. ]
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No need to manhandle, boys--
[ His voice is airy, but there's a sharp undercurrent that suggests it bothers him more than he'd like to let on. In fact, being tugged around and roughly handled makes his chest feel tight. ]
It was an easy decision. I love money and I have loose morals.
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―stabbed, which is what Iorveth is planning to do. Ankles finally freed (the men are still yapping on and on about how the Woodland Fox killed their cousins, how they lost an entire town because Iorveth took a torch to it, et cetera, ad infinitum), Iorveth slips, silent, from the cart he was deposited on, and slinks towards the man occupying Astarion's left.
"Guess none of this matters to a loose elf like you," he sneers. Iorveth has no context for this statement, but it makes him see red. Or, well. It makes the red he's been seeing even darker.
A mauled but still-deft hand finds a curved knife that one of the other man left behind; without hesitation, Iorveth makes his may behind the man occupying Astarion's left and plunges the weapon through the human's neck, back to front, until the blade protrudes and glints in firelight. ]
Don't speak, [ he snarls as he roughly pulls the knife out from the man's throat, letting him fall to the side with a wet gurgle and a flailing of thick limbs. The rest of the declaration, "just die", is put on reserve: Iorveth sets his sights on the second man, now scrambling onto his feet with a half-choked yell of alarm. ]
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Hush, [ he hisses at the still-living human, worried that his shouts will draw back his comrades. ] Just die quietly.
[ Punctuated with a clumsy kick to his groin. The man shouts louder. ]
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More gurgled screaming by the man with the hole in his throat. Iorveth hurries towards Astarion to cut his ropes, choosing to free him before making sure that the two men are properly dead.
(In the distance, the other three who are scouting in the forest hear the sound of a scuffle back at camp; they turn around, sensing trouble.) ]
We can stay and fight, or we can run. [ As he saws at Astarion's bindings. ] The others will be back soon.
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He reaches for Iorveth's wrist— then recoils at the feeling of burnt skin. ]
—Oh, [ he breathes out, displeased, before grabbing Iorveth's bicep instead, not so much tugging as yanking him along. ]
We can get our revenge later.
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Survival first. More than anything, they need to find someplace that will shelter them not only from the men giving chase, but from the inevitable appearance of the sun; not only have they left their pack with their tent behind, it'll be difficult for them to find any traveler willing to let two blood-splattered elves onto their caravans for safe travel.
So. Their best bet is to find a cave, or an alcove of some kind. Maybe an abandoned hut, if they're lucky. Iorveth steers them both into the direction of the forest, which he can navigate with wood elf balance and certainty; he can find sure footing on an uneven forest floor with his eye closed.
Making sure that Astarion doesn't trip over branches and get tangled in bramble is a different story, though. He sidesteps a rather nasty-looking thorned plant, and stops briefly to make sure that his partner doesn't accidentally collide into it. ]
Careful, [ he whispers, steadying Astarion with one fucked-up hand. ]
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I am being careful, [ is his whispered, petulant complaint. ] Gods, I detest nature.
[ Maybe not the most flattering thing to say in front of a nature-loving wood elf. Still, as he nearly trips over a gnarled branch, he certainly doesn't feel warmly towards nature.
What he lacks in survivalist know-how he makes up for in experience hiding in the dark. As he hears the heavy footsteps of armored men behind them, he drags Iorveth toward a small, shadowed alcove. He all but shoves him inside, pressing himself as flat as he can as the the footsteps grow louder. ]
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"Couldn't have gone far", one voice pants. "Hells, how hard is it to catch one elf--"
"Should've killed the other one when we had the chance," another voice grouses, followed by the sound of a sword cutting through overgrown underbrush. "Won't make that mistake twice."
More rustling, more hacking. Iorveth holds his breath until the frustrated conversation recedes into the background, brushing against the perimeter of the alcove they're tucked in before meandering in a nebulous direction.
A long moment later: ] A right mess. [ Iorveth closes his eye, slumps back. ]
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He glances at Iorveth, frowning. ]
I hurt you.
[ His voice is miserable. There's almost no one in this world who he wouldn't like to hurt, but Iorveth is one of them. ]
Are you all right?
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I'm tired enough that I don't wish to argue with you.
[ Because he could. He's on the verge of telling Astarion that he should go to Waterdeep and stay with Gale while Iorveth goes to burn the entire town of Flotsam down, that it would simply fucking kill him if he had to watch anonymous humans treating Astarion like an animal again. Iorveth knows that Astarion doesn't want to be told to go, but seeing him with rope around his wrists felt like a shattering of something hereto unknown inside him; never again, he thinks for the millionth time that night.
He notes how disheveled Astarion looks, how his hair is a mess of flyaway curls. There's a compulsion to touch him, but Iorveth remembers all those hands on Astarion just recently, and keeps his own to himself. Astarion deserves some reprieve. ]
―They struck your face, [ he hisses. ]
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I suppose you were right. I need to start guarding my face.
[ He makes a cursory attempt to fix the hopefully-charmingly-tousled mop on his head, but it's ultimately a futile endeavor, and he settles for it at least being out of his face. ]
...I don't want to spend the day here.
[ Then again, leaving could prove dangerous. He has no idea where they are relative to the road--although perhaps Iorveth does, man of the woods that he is--and making their way to civilization could prove too time-consuming. ]
We should-- [ He trails off, unsure. ] Well, I'm not sure what we should do. But we can't just hole up here like roaches hiding from the sun.
[ Because Iorveth needs medical attention, for one, but also because it's humiliating. ]
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iorveth, bashing a man's head in: it ain't much but it's honest work
iorveth, killing someone: man life is just so hard
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