essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.) ]

[ If Astarion were faced with a madman swinging around a rock in a bag, he'd probably run, too. Luckily for him, that madman is on his side. He smiles at Iorveth's catlike—foxlike—entrance, and grins wider at the sound of the rock colliding with one of the men's skulls. Good. Astarion hopes it hurt.

His grin falters, though, as he sees the leader approaching. It's not that he's scared, not with all this blood making his head fuzzy and his decision-making poor, but— ]

My pack, [ he all but growls, seething. Those are his things! He never had things before, but now that he does, he finds himself feeling very possessive of them. The thought of this human's grubby paws all over his shiny belongings makes him see red with rage, and he's throwing the knife before he even registers what's happening. It hits the man square in the chest, and he topples over in pain.

Astarion takes a few steps forward, freeing his pack from the thief and slinging it over one shoulder. The man grasps at the knife in his chest, but Astarion yanks it out, stabbing him a few more times for good measure. That's what you get, he thinks.

When he's done taking his anger out, he glances up at the lone remaining man, who's finally managed to draw his sword, stuttering, "St-stay back!". Not that it means much. He's outnumbered now. ]

Beg.

[ "Wh-what?" he asks, eyes wide. ]

Go on, [ Astarion says, twirling the bloody knife in his hand. ] Beg for your life. Maybe if you're convincing enough, my companion will take pity on you.

[ There's no way Iorveth would ever take pity on a human. Astarion is fine with that. ]

[ It's not that Iorveth enjoys causing pain (or seeing it, really), but Astarion's violent reclamation of his things sparks something close to joy; a distant cousin of seeing Astarion make his first shaky attempts at weighty decisions down in the pits of Cazador's palace.

He approaches, makeshift flail in hand. Expression steely, with a humor that slants his scarred lip but doesn't reach his remaining green eye. ]

Well? [ Glancing at the still-twitching will-be-corpse on the forest floor, flicking that same focus back to the stuttering human. He tries to assess what he feels about the man, where his heart is, but there's nothing there but hatred, angry and glittering, as strong as it always has been. ] He asked you to beg.

[ Personally, he doesn't want to hear it－ a waste of time, a waste of his attention－ but if Astarion wants to play with his metaphorical food, well. Far be it for Iorveth to deny him.

The man splutters. Despairs. Iorveth can see it in the lines of his face: the man doesn't believe that Iorveth will spare him, because, unlike Astarion, the man knows about everything Iorveth has done in the past. Villages burned, soldiers slaughtered, caravans ambushed. Unlike Astarion, this man knows the shape of Iorveth's limitless capacity for cruelty, when pushed.

So he doesn't. Beg, that is. He takes the sword in his hand and slits his own throat, which is an act of pride that Iorveth might have respected in another life.

He still feels nothing, though. His expression settles back to cold neutral, void of discernible emotion. ]

The nerve of him, to not do as you bid him to.

[ Astarion watches the man drop, lifeless, to the ground, still idly playing with his knife as if a man killing himself in front of him is banal and boring. Honestly, it sort of is. He was going to die one way or another; he could have at least made it enjoyable. ]

Ugh. Why can't someone ever beg me for once? [ He's spent plenty of time begging. It's only fair that the world pays it back. A sidelong glance precedes, ] After all, you won't do it.

[ 'You'd have me beg on my hands and knees if you thought I wouldn't protest,' he'd said. Absolutely right.

Astarion crouches down, wiping the knife's blade against the man's armor. ]

One of them might have your bow.

[ A full-bodied softening, as he glances towards Astarion again. Night and day in demeanor, though he remains as straight-backed as ever. ]

I would. [ He hums, regarding the begging. A jarring shift in tone, incredibly inappropriate given they were just speaking on the subject in terms of making a dead man plead for his life. ] You'd just need to use that clever mind of yours to think of how you could make me.

[ It would actually be incredibly easy, but Iorveth won't give up the method that easily.

That said, the more important matter of his bow. One of them does have it (the one with Astarion's pack－ he must've gotten dibs on trophies), and so Iorveth divests him of it and straps it back across his shoulderblades. A familiar, comforting weight. ]

We should cycle back to their camp. The rest of our belongings are likely being kept there.

[ Ha. No one's ever accused him of being clever before.

He stands, fixing the hunting knife onto his belt and looking up at the sky. It isn't starting to lighten yet, but that doesn't mean it won't soon; they've spent a lot of time on this unpleasant diversion. A tent would be wise, although he detests the idea of crawling into it to escape the sun yet again. It feels not unlike an insect crawling under its rock. ]

All right.

[ He gestures for Iorveth to lead the way. It's not like he knows how to track his way anywhere in the woods. ]

Then what?

[ Iorveth is the idea man, after all. He's just the devil on Iorveth's shoulder. ]

[ They hardly need to track their way back: the dead men have done Iorveth's job for him by drawing jagged lines in treebark. He follows the trail over animal trails and scuffed dirt, contemplating the implications behind then what? ]

You'd have my head if I suggested that you go to Waterdeep for the next few tendays.

[ Which is what he would've suggested if Astarion hadn't been so infuriatingly sweet with his offer of protection and the use of the word "together". This is his open and honest admission that he'd considered it, and considered it fairly deeply. ]

So, since I've had to rule that option out― [ A glance over his shoulder, brow raised. ] ―You'll have to come with me to Flotsam.

[ Back to basics. An echo of the first time Iorveth had ever confided in Astarion, a return to "I want you to help me kill a man". A downgrade from regicide, but killing a Commandant will still cause small-scale chaos.

He pauses for a second, as if considering whether or not he wants to say something else, a question that sits right on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it; instead, he breaks eye contact and sets his sights back ahead of him, towards the direction of the pinprick campfire that he can spot in the distance. ]

[ The mere words go to Waterdeep make him scowl. As if he'd spend, what, whole tendays drinking tea with Gale and listening to him natter on about how he's rebuilding his life in the city while Iorveth sets out to kill an important man. Gods! Even the fact that Iorveth thought of it is offensive.

He softens when Iorveth says come with me, mollified by the knowledge that Iorveth isn't casting him away like garbage while he does more important things. It isn't that Astarion particularly wants to travel to Flotsam and search for this man—it sounds like hard work, which he isn't a fan of—but he can't bear the thought of Iorveth in enemy territory, unprotected. Again, love is so very problematic.

Astarion watches Iorveth falter, then turn away. It's habit to touch Iorveth's wrist or his hand, but he settles on letting his fingertips graze between Iorveth's shoulder blades instead. ]

Is everything all right?

[ "Is everything all right" is kind of a ridiculous question to ask at this juncture; then again, it's been a ridiculous question to ask ever since they woke up after the Nautiloid crash, so it's a familiar sort of ridiculousness. Pleasant, even. A miracle that anyone is asking, made nicer by the fact that it's Astarion asking it.

He doesn't stop walking, but he shortens his stride. Mostly to let the fingers linger against his back－ he likes the feel of that almost-imperceptible weight. ]

Just thinking, I suppose. [ Never a good thing, when Iorveth is involved. ] ―Do you want to know what Saskia said about me, after Ciaran reported to her about Henselt's death?

[ He hasn't taken it personally, but he also kind of has. His voice is low, slightly brittle. ]

We fought for the same cause, under the same banner. Yet she called me a terrorist that needs to earn respect from others before my crimes could be forgiven.

[ A laugh, as brittle as his tone. ] This is what you'll hear of me, for the rest of this journey. I trust you, of course－ [ Again, Iorveth trusts Astarion implicitly, because it's the least he can do for someone he's come to care for. ] ―but I'll not lie and say that I feel nothing about you hearing these things.

[ Saskia, Saskia. A moment of blankness crosses his face, and it's obvious in his expression that he has no fucking clue who Saskia is. It takes a good few seconds before recognition lights up his eyes; oh, Saskia. Yes, he's sure Iorveth has mentioned her before. Could have sworn her name was Sasha, though. ]

Respectfully, darling, I don't give a rat's ass what they say about you.

[ A pause, then: ] Well, I do, but— [ Uncharacteristically, he trips over his words before settling on ] Only because they've no right to say it, of course.

[ He cares that Iorveth is being disrespected and denigrated, but he doesn't give a bit of stock to it. Astarion hates other people, so why would he listen to what they have to say? ]

As far as I see it, you've nothing to be forgiven for.

[ A beat here, slightly flabbergasted, before－

－Iorveth laughs. It feels like the first time he has in a while; at least, not to this degree. He's spent so long in the dichotomy of "supporters" and "detractors" that Astarion's lack of stakes in his centuries-old personal narrative feels disarmingly refreshing. A strange thing, not to resent someone for not caring about everything that shaped who he is now.

Astarion is wrong, of course. Iorveth has a lot to be forgiven for. Saskia wasn't wrong in her assessment of him, but the thing that stung wasn't the truth of the matter, but that she said it. Once upon a time, he would have done anything for her.

He turns and looks Astarion up and down again, from his mussed hair to his dirt-caked shoes. ]

I did what I had to. And I'll continue to do what I must. You, of all people, would know what that feels like.

[ Astarion is the only person in the Realms who would understand, and then some. Another laugh, and he leans in to briefly bump foreheads. ]

You may be the only person on this continent who's as crazy as I am.

[ 'I did what I had to.' Yes, Astarion understands what that feels like. It's been his mantra for the past two centuries. A young, promising woman lured to her doom? I did what I had to. One of his siblings, begging for mercy as he tortured them on Cazador's orders? I did what I had to. Every lie he's ever told? I did what I had to. ]

Crazy for you, perhaps, [ he lilts with an impish grin, nudging their noses together in a way he'd vehemently deny doing if pressed.

Then, with a sigh, he pushes Iorveth forward. It's a little forceful, but not unfriendly. Like a rambunctious puppy roughhousing with its favorite companion. ]

Go on, before you convince me to push you against a tree and have my way with you.

[ Astarion should care more about who he's decided to ally himself with, and what that person is known for doing, but there's at least one thing that even his detractors would agree about Iorveth: he has never betrayed someone he considers a comrade. Astarion, in that sense, remains safe.

Effectively shoved, he realigns himself back towards their previous trajectory towards the now-abandoned campfire. Not without a quick Cure Wounds, however－ a featherlight touch of soothing cold against the bloomed bruise on Astarion's face. The effects are superficial (is it worth casting a spell when it only recovers, like, 2 HP!!!!), but better than nothing. ]

Tempting, [ because it is, ] but I need to rest.

[ Finally admitting it. His strides are getting less sure by the second, weighed down by exhaustion finally rearing its ugly head now that the adrenaline is gone; his wrists are still a raw, bloody mess, and he must be a mess of bruises under his clothes. Trancing won't mend him, but at least he'll feel less like he's running on empty.

When they get to the abandoned campsite, most of their belongings are, in fact, there. Their bedrolls are still wound and lashed to their tent-packs, their supplies set aside near the haycart that Iorveth was deposited in. Iorveth reaches for the packs with their tents inside first, testing to see that nothing's been damaged. ]

We've lost a day of travel, but it's preferable to being dead.

[ Astarion wrestles the pack out of Iorveth's hands, dropping it on the ground and unearthing the tent and its poles. There's little he hates more than pitching a tent, but Iorveth is right; he needs to rest. If this campsite was good enough for their attackers, it should be good enough for them.

Besides, he'd rather the reason they set up camp now be Iorveth's exhaustion and not that he has to hide from the sun.

He lays the tent out on the ground and gets to work diligently connecting the poles. Honestly, he's never been very good at this. He usually bribed Gale into magicking his tent up. ]

Was my face so ghastly you needed to waste a spell on it?

[ Iorveth should have cast that on himself. Stupid. ]

Find some ointment, at least, and I'll tenderly patch your wounds.

[ Gods, Astarion really is bad at pitching tents. Iorveth watches the clumsy attempt at stretching the tarp across the crooked tent poles, and intervenes for a few minutes before giving up on the task altogether. His wrists are starting to protest the extra movement, and it's not like they need their sleeping space to be beautiful as long as it does its job, which is to block the sun.

Tossing an extra layer of fabric over the top as a cautionary measure, Iorveth rummages inside their other supply pack for a tin of ointment (for blisters, not acid burns) and bandages, and burrows into their shelter to assess his wounds. They look ugly― patches of raw, bloody skin coiled around his wrists, almost like poorly-molted snakeskin― but the burns haven't sunk too deep. If they find a healer within the next few days, he's sure the marks won't scar.

He's lifting the hem of his shirt to check the foot-shaped bruise spreading against his side when Astarion inevitably joins him inside the tent; a hum, and he smooths the fabric back over his torso. ]

Took you long enough, [ is a tired tease. He beckons for Astarion to nest next to him in their small space, and offers Astarion his hands. ] A pity you're here to bandage me, and not to bind me.

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