essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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!!! ]

I am tired of others crowding my space.

[ He's been tired of it for the past two hundred years. he never stopped being tired of it. Nearly every touch from another person makes him irritated at best and nauseated at worst. If he could cast Invisibility eternally so that no one would ever bother him again, he would. ]

Obviously, you aren't others.

[ Iorveth is so ridiculously stupid for thinking that the rest of this awful world has anything in common with him in Astarion's eyes. They aren't even the same damn phylum, much less the same genus or species. ]

You're... [ He falters. Even after professing his love, the acknowledgement that he has feelings is still humiliating. A holdover, perhaps, from a time when emotions were just a weakness to be exploited. ] Special.

[ Embarrassed, he scurries ahead, failing his perception check and nearly stepping on a wayward bear trap. ]

[ Oh. Iorveth stops walking for a second just to watch Astarion fumble his exit, because gods, he's swept by the compulsion to grab Astarion by the shoulders and shake him until he goes limp. "Why are you making me like you more when I just considered letting you go elsewhere for your own good", essentially. Unhinged person problems.

Instead of doing that (because it would be insane), Iorveth catches up to Astarion and tugs him away from something that looks suspiciously like tripwire. Come on, party rogue.

Fingers curled around Astarion's elbow, Iorveth takes a moment to consider before tugging yet again, this time to pull him into a loose, brief embrace. More for his own sake than Astarion's― Iorveth buries his face in mussed silver hair, and feels the world make a little more sense again. ]

As are you, [ he says, referring back to "special". A murmur, as he lets go and steps away, swiveling his attention to the side; in the distance, he spots the lumpy shape of a lone human that may or may not be taking time to relieve himself next to a tree. Moodbreaker. ]

[ That brief embrace is far too brief for such a ridiculously sweet sentiment, and Astarion toys with the idea of pulling Iorveth back in for a longer one, or kissing him, or seeing if he'd be willing to participate in a very ill-advised quickie against a tree. The sound of someone urinating kills that potential, though, and Astarion scowls as he looks off into the distance. Although his elven vision allows him to make out the shape with ease, he imagines the human's inferior eyes can't spot them in the dark. Indeed, he seems far too preoccupied with using the forest as an outhouse to notice them.

Astarion leans in toward Iorveth, voice lowered. ]

I say we kill him and take his things.

[ The human isn't shaped like one of the soldiers that were going after them; a pity. Usually, Iorveth would be less enthusiastic about the murder of people that may or may not be related to their current predicament, but the sting to his pride is too fresh: if they don't kill first, that human might be yet another person that turns around and rats them out to the next bounty hunter that offers him coin.

So: ] Mm. We need the supplies. [ Easy assent. Taking advantage of their closeness, Iorveth reaches up and runs his thumb along Astarion's lower lip. ]

And you should eat, [ is his addendum. He hasn't been able to give Astarion blood in a while, and though he still dislikes the thought of Astarion putting his mouth on others (probably because he's let Astarion bite him before and after sex; the mental associations are There now), he's gotten better about understanding that it's just a meal, nothing more. ]

I'd really rather partake of you, [ he says, nipping harmlessly at Iorveth's thumb, ] but your blood is too precious to waste.

[ He hates to think of it as a waste, because drinking Iorveth's blood is the closest thing he's ever had to a religious experience, but it is. Unnecessary spilling of his blood might make him too fatigued to make the journey, much less defend himself if it becomes necessary. He glances back at the man, who appears to be whistling a jaunty tune as he relieves himself. He doesn't look particularly threatening, although Astarion is at a disadvantage without his weapons.

A shrug. He may be daggerless, but he still has teeth. With careful, quick steps, he positions himself behind the stranger before tapping him on the shoulder. ]

You should be more careful, travelling in the woods alone at night. [ The man startles, yelping and looking back over his shoulder in surprise— ] You never know what sort of monsters you might run into.

[ Feeding on the involuntary is always a messy, unpleasant affair. Astarion wraps his arms tightly around his victim as he sinks his fangs into the man's jugular; the man, meanwhile, yells out in pain and surprise. "What the— get away from me!" He thrashes in Astarion's grip, dick still fully out and flopping in the wind. Astarion's weak arms give way, and the man breaks out from the hold, stumbling away and pressing a palm to his bleeding neck. "Gods, what are you?" he practically shrieks.

Astarion scowls, red smeared across his face, and reaches back out for him. ] Stop struggling.

[ Unsurprisingly, trying to take a bite out of someone unwilling is a messy affair. It's all fun and games when Iorveth settles down and bares his neck for Astarion's taking, but "stop struggling" to a man who's leaking lifeblood from his neck is a hard sell.

That said, the human is making quite the ruckus, which is Not Great: he'll alert half the forest to their current location if he carries on.

So, to nip that in the bud, Iorveth tries to intervene. First, with a well-aimed rock that hits the man's exposed genitals― very effective in stopping him from struggling (he buckles forward, knees bent inwards and shoulders hunched), but not effective in shutting him up (he groans, wails, curses every God he can think of).

Very undignified. Iorveth's next attempt at intervening is to get behind the man to wrench his arms behind his back. Mostly, he doesn't want the guy to touch Astarion with the same hands he was just using to cup his dick. Gross!!!! ]

[ Iorveth wrenches the man's arms behind his back, and he shouts, "Ow!" Astarion rolls his eyes, pressing a cold palm over his mouth just as he starts to say, "You monsters—" ]

Die with a little dignity, at least.

[ A lot to ask from a man who was just pissing on a tree in the woods, he knows. Muffled noises of protest come from behind his palm, but Astarion ignores them, leaning back in to latch on to the man's throat again. As warm blood fills his mouth, he glances up at Iorveth. It feels oddly a little bit like infidelity to do this in front of him; it's different when it isn't Iorveth, entirely non-intimate and perfunctory, but that doesn't mean it doesn't feel a bit awkward to suck the blood of a man who's sandwiched between them.

Luckily, the sensation of having his hunger sated distracts him from any discomfort. It's been days since he fed on Iorveth, yes, but even longer since he drank his fill. With Iorveth, he has to be careful not to take too much, but he can gulp down as much as he pleases now. As the muffled sounds die down to weak whimpers and then nothing at all, he goes from sated to absolutely gorged. Once the man has gone limp between them, he swallows down a last mouthful and draws back, shoving his corpse to the side as if it were garbage. It makes a soft thud as it hits the dirt.

There's blood dripping down his chin and onto his shirt—messy is right—but he's surprisingly unbothered. In fact, he feels unbothered about just about everything now. He lets out a giggle, lightheaded and a bit blood-drunk. ]

[ Very messy. Iorveth watches the dead body fall facedown into tall grass, and crouches to rid it of its coinpurse before ripping off a segment of tunic to wipe Astarion's mouth with. It still rankles just a little to see Astarion so giddy over someone else's blood, but it's the nature of vampires, Iorveth supposes.

(Any sane person would harbor a healthy amount of disgust for what he just saw, not to mention its aftermath; Iorveth, love-stupid, just sees his unruly cat displaying poor table manners. Deranged.) ]

The closest I'll ever get to seeing you drunk, I suppose. [ Combing his fingers through Astarion's hair as a reward for incredibly bad behavior. Iorveth is beyond saving, at this point. ] Are you satisfied?

[ A flick under Astarion's chin, before gesturing to the corpse. ] He has a hunting knife and a satchel. Hold on to both.

[ There'd been a time when Iorveth had been anything but permissive with him, but that feels like eons ago. Astarion closes his eyes to enjoy the hand in his hair, opening them only when Iorveth mentions their loot. Still grinning, he crouches down and removes the satchel from the now-exsanguinated corpse, opening it and peering inside. Not much in the way of coin, but it'll keep them alive, he supposes. At the bottom is a small, folded note, and he opens it to read:

Daddy,

I miss you so much and can't wait for you to come home! Come back as quick as you can so I can give you lots of hugs and kisses!

- Liliana

Hm.

Astarion can't afford to feel bad about what they've just done, so he tears up the letter and tosses it in the dirt before taking the hunting knife from his belt. Again, it's no fancy dagger, but it'll do in a pinch. ]

Mmm, I think it's human season.

[ A raised brow at the tearing of the note, but Iorveth doesn't ask. (He's going directly to hell when he dies, and that's a fact.) ]

I'll not take it personally if you decide to feast on our pursuers.

[ Though the thought of Astarion drinking the rancid blood of those particular assholes (an assumption Iorveth makes based on pure bias) is, admittedly, disagreeable. He motions for Astarion to start moving again, mindful of the fact that the now-dead man made a lot of noise before he died; being caught twice in one night might actually prompt Iorveth to die of shame. ]

Come, [ he motions. Starting at a brisk trot, despite his exhaustion-heavy limbs. If not to Daggerford, he wants to make it at least to some semblance of shelter along Trade Way; if not that, he'll have to settle for a camp that may or may not be amenable to giving up a tent for Astarion.

More voices again, in the distance. Iorveth veers Astarion to the left, narrowly avoiding tripping over the skletal remains of what might have been an elf in life. ]

[ Astarion, in his blood-drunk haze, thinks little of shelter, or plans, or really anything except immediate desires. Be close to Iorveth, grind everyone who would ever threaten them to dust. You know, normal things. He satisfies the first by following behind Iorveth and grasping onto his sleeve so that he doesn't stray too far. The second is yet to be determined. ]

Where are we going? [ he thinks to whisper, although his voice somehow ends up quite a bit louder than he intends. ] We should go finish off the rest of those humans.

[ He has a knife now, after all. What more could they need? ]

[ A hop, a skip, and a skid. Iorveth stops and turns towards Astarion, head tipped, caught between being severely amused ("really?") and exasperated ("are you drunk???").

Sigh-laughing: ] Oh? Do you like our odds better now?

[ He hadn't liked them before back at the campfire, when it was one hungry vampire with a bruised face and one deranged acid-splashed elf with a dagger in a man's throat. Maybe Astarion is more confident now, with his stomach full and a blade in hand. ]

If you want to press our luck, [ he huffs, ] we can see how many of them you can bite before we need to run again.

[ Well, yes, of course he likes their odds better now that he has something with which to stab his enemies with. The feeling of liters of fresh human blood in his stomach doesn't hurt, either. He rolls his eyes, crinkling his nose at the suggestion that he wants anything to do with those horrid men's blood. He's had enough of being close to them. ]

I don't want to bite them.

[ A starving vampire can't be picky, but one who just finished feeding can. But more importantly: ]

And I don't want to run.

[ It was unpleasant enough the first time. He's tired of being a prey animal running from predators. ]

They want to hurt us. I want them and all of their friends dead.

[ Most partners would wish for a nice dinner or a new tunic or a refill of cologne; normal people don't have enemies that they would need to wish dead, that is. But they aren't normal, and Iorveth's skewed standards find "I want all of our enemies dead" to be far more romantic than a request for pretty trinkets. The latter, he could refuse― the former, well.

How could he? ]

If you want it, then they'll die. [ Like a lover promising to buy their partner a bouquet of flowers. As natural as anything, with a glimmer of something wicked in his remaining eye. ] Our pursuers first, then the Commandant of Flotsam.

[ One of the heads of the many-headed hydra. It'll be a small victory, but one that'll tide them over for a bit, Iorveth hopes.

He gestures for Astarion to give him the satchel that they pilfered from the dead man, and once he gets it, he finds a very nice heavy rock to put inside it: he brandishes it like a flail, whipping it side to side once, twice, before he's satisfied that it'll do the trick.

A low exhale, and he turns back to Astarion to kiss the corner of his mouth. ] My cat. You do bring out the best in me. [ ?????? Does he????? Iorveth is delusional. ]

[ Astarion lifts an eyebrow at the makeshift flail, amused and approving. He does love a man who can improvise a weapon, as well as a man who's willing to murder alongside him. Honestly, he hadn't given two shits about some backwoods racists before, but now they've personally offended him with their attempt to capture Iorveth (and worse, if they'd had the chance).

The kiss is sweet, but not nearly enough. He fists a hand in the front of Iorveth's shirt, tugging him back for a proper kiss, the faint taste of blood left in his mouth and all. ]

You already are the best of you.

[ An embarrassingly sappy assertion, helped along by the blood running through his system. Some part of him is still embarrassed, though, so he adds, ] But I am wonderful, aren't I?

[ He brandishes the hunting knife-- ] Just point me toward a fool.

[ The taste of copper in his mouth, punctuated by the nicest thing anyone has ever said about him. A person who always wants to have conviction in everything that he does, being told that that's the ideal shape of him－ Iorveth has never needed anyone to validate who he is, but hearing those words in Astarion's voice feels fortifying regardless.

Astarion is wonderful. To him, at least. Worryingly. Iorveth watches him handle a sharp object with deft grace, and tries not to look too much like someone smitten.

Maybe later. Now, he beckons for Astarion to follow him through the underbrush, past old traps set by presumably-dead elves and fresher snares set by clumsy humans. He guides them through thickets and towards what looks like a dirt path, an easier patch of forest to maneuver: predictably, the humans have preferred the well-trodden way to the wilds, and Iorveth spots one of the soldiers roaming in the middle distance, marking his way with scratches to the bark of a tree.

A fool, as Astarion put it. Even animals are better at covering their tracks; humans really are useless. Gesturing towards the man, he murmurs: ] He's yours, if you want him.

Ugh. I'm sure no one has ever wanted him.

[ Big, meaty paws for hands, a thin sheen of sweat on him, lumpy, ill-fitting armor (or worse, perhaps the armor is well-fitting, and the man is just shaped like that). Even from a totally superficial standpoint, the man is horrendous, but knowing what he did—and planned to do—to Iorveth makes him even worse.

Astarion scowls before fading into the darkness, one with the shadows. The altercation they'd had before put him entirely out of his comfort zone, but this is where he thrives: hidden, in control of when to strike. How many dark alleyways did he disappear into in his previous life? He's an expert at it by now.

He doesn't bother with taunts, although part of him wants to. Seeing the life drain out of the soldier's eyes is more important, so he keeps deathly quiet until the moment that he's right behind him, taking one more step to close the distance—

"Who's there?" the man calls, turning to face him just in time for Astarion to shove his blade into his throat. Blood spurts from his arteries, and he falls to his knees as he gurgles. ]

[ A few yards to Astarion's north－

－two more men. Less lumpy, but with the same ill-fitting leather armor and worse facial hair: an overgrown beard on one, patchy and uneven fuzz on the other. They hear their comrade say something garbled in the distance, and one of them cups his hand around his mouth to holler "found something?"

Again: a fool. By the time Astarion has embedded his blade into his victim's neck, Iorveth has scaled the nearest tree, bounding from branch to branch with wood elf ease: he appears from above the two men, flail in hand, and drops down on silent feet. A woodland creature, born to hunt.

His first swing hits the man closest to him－ full-beard－ in the head, contacting with a sickening crunch as the rock inside the satchel splinters his skull. He drops like a stone (heh) onto dirt, causing the other man－ patchy-beard－ to step back with a wail, dirty nails scrabbling against the scabbard of his sword in several failed attempts to draw it.

"Oh gods, don't, don't, I promise I won't come after you again, hells－"

(Meanwhile, the leader has taken one look at the proceedings and has made the executive decision to run. Briskly, unabashedly, and unwittingly in Astarion's direction in his madcap scramble to escape Iorveth's warpath.

On his person: Astarion's pack full of pretty things. Of course the bastard took it for himself.) ]

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