essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

Edited 2025-01-09 03:28 (UTC)

[ 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.

Edited 2025-01-10 02:30 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

We can get our revenge later.

[ 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. ]

Edited 2025-01-10 04:19 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

Are you all right?

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. ]

―They struck your face, [ he hisses. ]

[ 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. ]

[ A frown, when Iorveth hears "I don't want to". If he was weak to Astarion's "I don't want to" before, it bothers him even more now, when he's feeling particularly inclined to do anything that would ease even a fraction of that Wet Cat Aura.

It is, however, a hard ask. He says as much. ]

I'll need to get our bearings. We shouldn't be far from Trade Way, but we've lost time― getting to Daggerford by daybreak may prove too difficult.

[ He shifts, wriggling out of the alcove to step out into the night, nose to the air like a hound. ]

Not to mention we've lost our packs. We've no coin. [ Finally, they're poor again. Probably not the kind of "finally" Astarion wanted to experience. ] ...But I can scout ahead and try to assess our options. Stay here.

[ Fuck. After all the effort they went to getting that coin (in morally dubious or outright unethical ways), they've lost it. To a pack of unbearable men, no less! He seethes thinking about those meaty hands flinging their stolen coin at a barmaid or the madame of a brothel.

He seethes more at being told to 'stay here'. Instinctively, he reaches for Iorveth's wrist, and again, he recoils upon remembering Iorveth's wounds. He grasps Iorveth's forearm instead, fingers curling around it tightly. ]

I think not. If those awful men come upon you in the dark, they'll put a dagger through your heart.

[ Tugged back, Iorveth finally loses his composure more fully: brows pinched, eye narrowed, his voice a hiss through clenched teeth. ]

They can try, [ He snaps. Perhaps unfairly, given Astarion is just trying to help. But he's on-edge in a way that nothing related to the Illithid threat or even the Bhaalist assassins did; those threats were more global, less personal than the familiarly-armored men wrenching a knife into old, well-formed wounds.

He remains tense under Astarion's grip, though he doesn't try to break it. ]

If you haven't noticed, [ a pause to sigh, aggravated. ] I would prefer having the parasite back in my brain to seeing you bound again.

[ Unfairly indeed. Astarion scowls, hypocritically irritated by the attitude. Would Iorveth prefer he simply hang back, say 'you're on your own, good luck'? Even if he did think it were the wiser choice, he simply can't. It's unreasonable of Iorveth to make him care and then essentially tell him not to. He'd be so powerless huddled up in this alcove, hiding like a rat. ]

Meanwhile, I'm practically chomping at the bit to be tied up again by some troglodytes. It was oodles of fun.

[ His voice is thick with sarcasm and a little annoyance, but he softens after a moment, fingers pressing insistently into Iorveth's arm. ]

I want to— protect you.

[ Protect him. Iorveth blinks surprise out of his eye for an uncharitable moment, though it's less that he doubts Astarion could― they've destroyed a giant brain creature capable of subjugating the Realms, of course Astarion could― but because he didn't see the statement coming. An indictment against himself, rather than Astarion: this entire time, Iorveth's only been seeing things from his own, infuriated perspective.

Of course, he could still argue. Feels inclined, even. "Protect me by protecting yourself" comes to mind, but even Iorveth can see how saying this might give Astarion an aneurysm; he shelves it, but doesn't completely rule out the option of sending the tressym a covert message later and making the wizard drag Astarion back to Waterdeep for a few tendays. That said, that might get him broken up with??? Terrible. Everything sucks.

A bit more gentling. Iorveth crouches by Astarion in their alcove, and reaches out, carefully, to see if Astarion will be amenable to a palm against his (unbruised) cheek. Mindful of touching, still. ]

Every single elf that's ever spoken those words to me has died.

[ So, like. He wants Astarion to know why this isn't something he can accept easily, even if it touches him to hear it in Astarion's voice. Survivor's guilt, some might call it, but the term has always sounded so trite to him. ]

...But I suppose you're not "every other elf". [ A sigh, and he slides his hand down to rest on the crown of one bent knee. ]

[ Astarion is all touched-out, but he leans into the offered palm anyway, because Iorveth's touch is different. Gentle, safe, something he craves rather than dreads. It's been days since he was properly touched by Iorveth—not sexually, but still intimately—and he nearly slides his hand down to hold Iorveth's, stopped only by the acid burns he'd have to contend with. When Iorveth drops his hand, the warmth of his palm lingers on Astarion's face. ]

Need I remind you that I've already died?

[ It was one of the worst experiences of his life. Pure helplessness, desperation. A gateway to more misery to come. Even still, he'd do it again for Iorveth. ]

I'll come with you. We can watch out for each other.

[ A low sigh, followed by: ]

...You're right. [ Someone should probably be recording this; Astarion can lord it over Iorveth for the rest of eternity. One paranoid wood elf, admitting that his emotions (ugh) have made him overly cautious. His brows are still knit, but his expression calms a fraction. ] It would be better than leaving you alone.

[ Together, then. He moves to slide out of the alcove, mindful of any footfalls that might indicate that the men could be cycling back. Nothing so far, but they may not be so lucky later.

Indicating for Astarion to follow, Iorveth swivels his head around a few times in an attempt to find his bearings, every bit the fox of his namesake. ]

...I have another request, then. If we're speaking of you protecting me.

[ The relief he feels when Iorveth relents is palpable, washing over him like rain. It's problematic how attached he's become to this strange, angry wood elf. He's everything Astarion detests—serious to a fault, deeply committed to a cause, smug—and yet he feels nothing of the like toward him, only warm affection, sometimes soft and comforting like lying in the sun and other times so hot it burns. Love is sometimes awful, the thought of something bad happening to him making Astarion feel like crawling out of his skin, but it's somehow all worth enduring for the feel of his palm against Astarion's cheek.

Oh, he's beyond help. He trails behind Iorveth like a loyal dog without even thinking about it, the act a natural instinct by now. Astarion will be little help navigating the wildernesss, he fears: every direction he turns looks the same to him. All green and brown, leafy foliage, tree trunks. It surprises even him that he has enough faith in Iorveth to follow him out into the woods when the consequences for him could be dire—even fatal, should the sun come up before they return to shelter—but he does; Iorveth, he knows, will do everything in his power to ensure that Astarion doesn't turn to cinders in the morning light.

Again, he feels a little twinge of— what? Embarrassment? Self-loathing? If not for his condition, Iorveth wouldn't have to consider these sort of things at all. He shakes the thought out of his head, disheveled hair growing even more humiliatingly messy, and steps up next to Iorveth. ]

Your wish is my... [ He trails off, thoughtful. 'Command' isn't quite right, considering he argues with Iorveth about nearly everything. Finally, he finishes: ] Strongly considered suggestion.

[ Love is deeply problematic when it drives someone to do things that most people would consider suicidal. Here's Exhibit A, B, and C: hitching your wagon to a wanted freedom fighter, accepting him despite his glaring faults, and letting his horrid fate dictate your own. Iorveth isn't good for anyone, let alone Astarion, but here they are, walking through a metaphorical minefield together.

Less metaphorical are the occasional traps he finds on the forest floor: jagged metal teeth meant more for bears than elves, obvious sinkholes covered by netting and leaves. Iorveth disarms some of them, throws rocks in others as a subtle fuck-you.

While he ruins one of the sinkholes (the bottom is full of jagged wooden spikes): ]

When we find shelter for the upcoming day, [ when, not if, ] I want to trance.

[ Not an unreasonable request, nor a particularly surprising one: it was stupid of him not to have rested for so long. That said, the real meat and potatoes is the addendum, which he delivers with some hesitation. ]

...Will you let me lean against you while I do?

[ Iorveth would understand if Astarion refuses. He's had to deal with unwanted bodies pressing against him, and he likely requires a bit of time to himself. ]

[ If it were anyone else navigating the wilderness and disarming traps, Astarion wouldn't give them a second thought (and his first thought would likely be something like "ew, move to a city like a civilized person"). It's enticing to see Iorveth in his natural habitat, though, and he watches him work with undisguised approval on his face. He even makes nature tolerable.

'I want to trance,' he says, and Astarion shrugs. Of course he does, when he hasn't tranced properly in days. 'Will you let me lean against you,' he asks after, and Astarion raises a brow, silent for a moment before: ]

...You can't possibly think there's any world in which I deny you.

[ Iorveth takes one of the claw traps and repurposes it by disarming and placing it in a different spot, one more likely for less experienced wanderers to get their foot caught in. He hopes one of the soldiers gets their ankle torn off for their trouble.

Looking up from where he's crouched: ] You could, [ is a little petulant, as close to pouting about something as Iorveth can get. ] You could be tired of others crowding your space.

[ Then again, Iorveth would still let Astarion tie him up somewhere as long as the place they were staying was safe, so. Maybe he's being hypocritical. A huff, and he waves one hand, as if to chase the thought away (ow, says his burnt wrist). ]

Clearly, next time I should collapse on you without asking. [ Mean elf!!! ]

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