essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Visiting Gale wouldn't be so bad, actually, but Astarion would never admit as much. He hates that some arrogant, verbose, far too earnest wizard somehow tricked him into not just tolerating but actually liking him; when he'd thought Gale might really blow himself up for their sakes, he'd felt— sad. The knowledge that he might never again tune out one of Gale's lectures on the flora of the Underdark or supposed Githyanki customs had made him morose.

Of course, he verbalizes none of this. Instead: ]

The City of Splendors? It does sound like the place for me.

[ Grand, influential, cosmopolitan. Exactly the sort of place he belongs. And— ] Perhaps we might pay a visit to that [ he waves a hand ] wizarding academy Gale has gone on about. They could be helpful to us.

[ 'To me', he means, really. ]

[ Funny, how liking Gale is kind of a universal feeling known to everyone but Gale himself. Iorveth looks up at Astarion from where he's reclined, his toes skimming just against the edge of their cramped tent. ]

Gods, [ he murmurs. ] I can't begin to imagine being in a room full of so-called intellectuals.

[ Translation: "could you imagine us having to deal with a bunch of nerds????" Iorveth is the meanest person on Toril. ]

I fear I'd become boring by osmosis.

[ Astarion laughs, soft and under his breath, as he runs his fingers through Iorveth's hair — more affectionate now, rather than comforting. ]

You're many things, my love, but 'boring' will never be one of them.

[ Even when Astarion had first met him and the mere thought of his self-righteous elf crusade had inspired irritation, he was never bored. How could he be? Iorveth was impossibly vexing from the beginning. Now, of course, he's still vexing, but somehow Astarion finds he likes being vexed by him. Again, problematic, but not boring. ]

But I thought they might have some insight into my, ah, problem.

[ If anyone would, wouldn't it be a group of 'so-called intellectuals'? Perhaps they won't have an answer, but they might be able to point them in the right direction to find one. ]

—But that's a thought for another day. Rest, darling.

[ The sun being their enemy is a very immediate problem, all things considered (what the fuck could Iorveth even have done if those horrid humans decided to toss Astarion out in daylight and watch him burn???), but he obliges the idea of it being an issue for another day. He's tired in a way he hasn't felt in a while, and so he rolls off Astarion's knee and flops onto the grass, beckoning for Astarion to join him in being horizontal.

If Astarion obliges, he'll find himself being tucked under one arm, held to Iorveth's chest with just enough wiggle room that he can squirm out if the embrace starts feeling a bit Much. That's how Iorveth eventually slips back into his trance state, comfortable with that Astarion-shaped weight sprawled halfway on top of him, grounding him in the present so that his meditations don't take him too far back into the past again.

Day wanes, and night falls. Sunset has come and gone by the time Iorveth groggily comes back to, which means that they both have to drag their weary bodies from forest to caravan path back into river-flanked forest as quickly as they can; luckily enough, they find one of the now-dead soldiers' horses still lingering by the camp, and Iorveth's wood elf charisma allows them to convince it to carry their bags, if not allow Astarion to climb on its back.

It's a grueling trek, but a few hours later, they make it to their destination: a somewhat ramshackle merchant town built near and, in some places, directly onto the wide river that runs north to south along it. The side of the town that faces the forest is fortified by a cobblestone wall, presumably to keep unwanted neighbors from coming in; the bare-boned residences closest to said wall are largely occupied by the few non-humans that have been granted sanctuary－ dwarves and gnomes, primarily－ and the closer Iorveth and Astarion get to the river and its commerce, the nicer (and more structurally sound) the buildings become.

Most of the town is still asleep by the time they arrive. A handful of fishermen trying to beat the morning rush stare at the two strangers warily, but say nothing despite noting their pointed ears.

Iorveth adjusts his eyepatch over his broken face. ] Someone might recognize me.

[ Astarion's used to being stared at; it comes with the territory of being pretty, or so he's always thought. These stares feel decidedly less complimentary, though, and he frowns in response, narrowed eyes glinting with the dim glow of street lanterns. Unthinkingly, his hand worms its way into the crook of Iorveth's elbow, a protective gesture. ]

I'm sure there's plenty of one-eyed wood elves around, [ he says, voice forcibly airy.

One of the fishermen meets his eye with a particularly mean scowl. Astarion tugs on Iorveth's arm. ]

We should find somewhere to stay before the sun comes up. [ A pause, before throwing a sidelong glance at the horse. ] —And somewhere to put this awful beast, I suppose.

[ They could just take their things and leave it to its own devices, but that feels strangely... unpleasant. ]

[ The awful beast in question nudges Astarion with her nose, unwilling to let an undead creature on her back but strangely willing to nibble on his shoulder whenever he presents the opportunity. Iorveth watches the mare huff and snort near Astarion's ear, and tries not to smile at the audacity. ]

An inn with a stable, then. There should be one or two.

[ They walk on, arm in arm, away from the fishermens' bared teeth and narrowed eyes, sidestepping a few drowsy-eyed dwarves carrying a stack of chopped wood. Even they give Iorveth a once-over despite being non-humans, noting the missing eye with a glimmer of recognition. "Is that...?", unspoken.

Iorveth walks a little faster. The inn they eventually find is the biggest one in town, only because it shares its premises with the town brothel: a symbiotic relationship. The nature of the establishment ensures that the proprietress is awake even at this ungodly hour, and she greets the two elves with the sort of distant politeness she reserves for people she doesn't strictly want to have near her, but will endure for the sake of coin.

Here, too, Iorveth gets a once-over. "Where'd you two come from?", she asks Astarion, clearly preferring to address him instead of the scary guy with the covered face. ]

Edited 2025-01-21 03:39 (UTC)

[ He doesn't like the way the proprietress looks at them, and especially not the way she looks at Iorveth. It takes everything in him not to scowl and say none of your business, and by the way, that shade of lipstick looks ghastly on you — they need a place to stay, after all, and it would be best not to start trouble right before the sun rises. ]

We aren't from around here, [ he's quick to say, as if that might ward off any suspicion. ] Never even been to this part of the continent, actually! We're Cormyrean, if you must know.

[ The woman raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised that someone who claims to be from the heartlands of the continent has travelled all this way. He ignores it, smiling pleasantly. ]

We're on our way to visit family in the Dales. Isn't that right, darling?

[ The story is a hard sell and it's doubtful as to whether the innkeep will believe then for even half a minute, but Iorveth corroborates with a not-quite-emphatic: ]

Distant relatives.

[ Since, you know, they've never been to this part of the continent, so clearly this side of the family wasn't worth visiting until now. Again, a hard sell, but coin is the great equalizer: before she can comment on inconsistencies in the elves' story, Iorveth slides over what she deems, ultimately, to be enough gold to shut her up for at least the next 48 hours. She pockets the money, and exchanges it for a little iron key "for the upstairs room at the end of the hall― don't turn the corner, you'll need to pay extra for that privilege".

Iorveth turns to leave, but before Astarion can follow suit, the innkeep reaches over and closes her fingers over his wrist. She leans in, auburn hair tied up and away from her made-up face, the scent of her lavender perfume having faded to an unpleasant sting of something that smells almost like baby powder.

"Our Commandant is looking for one-eyed wood elves," she murmurs under her breath, intending the statement to be for Astarion's ears only. ]

[ The unasked for touch makes him tense, but he doesn't yank his arm away no matter how much he wants to. Instead, he schools his features into something performatively mild, almost uninterested in what she's said. He tilts his head, eyebrows raising ever so slightly as if she's just told him a small fun fact. ]

Is he?

[ Damn Iorveth for being so distinctive. ]

Well, my sweet Edgar lost his eye to an owlbear attack. You know, he didn't even try to defend himself! That man wouldn't hurt a fly.

[ Said as if he didn't just watch Iorveth murder a few men a day ago. He smiles charmingly, pearly whites on display. ]

Best of luck to your commander. I do hope he finds the one-eyed wood elf he's looking for.

[ He skitters away after that, catching up to Iorveth to loop their arms together, the perfect picture of a Cormyrean couple travelling to visit the distant in-laws. Astarion leans in, voice lowered. ]

Far be it from me to rush perfection, but the quicker we're in and out, the better.

[ What does a Cormyrean couple look like? Iorveth follows Astarion's lead, taking care to lead him away from the front desk and up to the stairs with graceful deference.

At the suggestion that they try to expedite their task at hand: ] Or I get a new face.

[ A joke, bone-dry. ]

The fastest way to depose the current human in power would be to burn him and the entire town down. Unfortunately, this place is home to non-humans－ not to mention that the neighboring forest would burn down with it.

[ Moving up the stairs, down the hall. The key they've been given slots neatly into the room at the end of the hall, as promised, and the door swings open to reveal a modestly-sized space with one large bed. A normal-enough room, if not for the squirrel head mounted on the wall next to the lone window.

Iorveth grimaces, and closes the door behind him. ] I'll have to find a way to get to the Commandant. Preferably in private.

[ A stark difference between Iorveth and Astarion: he couldn't care less if some strangers or trees burned down in the process of killing their enemies. Iorveth cares, though, so he has no choice but to table the idea. (It's surprising, really, which one of them is the terrorist.) It's plan B, maybe. He'd hate to upset Iorveth, but they do need to rid the world of this Commandant one way or another.

He tosses his pack on the floor when they enter, putting his hands on his hips and staring disapprovingly at the mounted woodland creature. Ugh, tacky. After a long moment of judgment, he flops down onto the bed. Not exactly fancy, but better than sleeping on the ground. ]

Does he favor men, do you think?

[ Can't teach an old dog new tricks. Seduction is really just habit now. ]

[ The flattest look Iorveth can muster here, as he sets down his pack and weapons. Like, he gets it, but still－

－unimpressed, he sweeps over to Astarion where he's reclined on the bed, and flicks him between his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. ]

Even if he does, [ enunciating each syllable, ] do you think I'd willingly allow him to lay even a finger on you?

[ Not even a real question. Maybe 300 years from now, Astarion will be more comfortable with the thought of using seduction as a technique to get what he wants, but now? Not so much, Iorveth thinks. ]

Don't be stupid. I'd offer myself before I offered you, fool.

[ Another light flick, though this time he soothes over the little red spot with his thumb. ]

[ Astarion pouts in response to being flicked, but doesn't protest. How could he? It's not like he wants to seduce some unbearable man who wants Iorveth dead. He doesn't even want to stand in the same room as him without stabbing him into unrecognizable mush, much less degrade himself in such a way. Still, they do need to get him alone if they're going to assassinate him, and they don't have tendays to come up with better ideas. ]

You are irresistible, [ he teases, reaching up to take Iorveth's hand. He grasps it loosely, terribly aware of the damage he did a few inches up on Iorveth's wrist, but it sends a wave of warmth through him anyway. Iorveth may have an oral fixation, but for him, it's Iorveth's hands: long fingers, callused palms, capable of unimaginable violence and even more unimaginable gentleness. They're perfect. ]

Mmm. Well, I'm out of ideas.

[ Iorveth tangles their fingers, using that point of contact for balance as he moves to sit on the bed. After a moment of consideration, he climbs on top of Astarion, briefly pinning him to the mattress by that held hand.

The moment doesn't last; Iorveth has caught on to the fact that Astarion doesn't enjoy having someone bear down on him that way, and so he rolls off and onto his side after a careful but quick study of that perfect (but still-bruised) face. Sullen that Astarion still defaulted to his old habits of offering himself, but more annoyed that he put Astarion in a position where he'd have to offer. ]

Well. We do have a room next to the brothel. [ Thankfully, the walls aren't thin enough that he can hear what might be happening a few doors down, but there is the occasional thump or two. ] If he frequents this place, we might be able to catch him with his prick out.

[ It would be such a disgraceful way to die. Perfect. ]

[ He doesn't exactly have pleasant experiences of being pinned to the mattress, and while Iorveth's warmth draped over him is nice, he'd be lying if he said the feeling of someone's weight on top of him doesn't conjure up memories better left repressed. So much has changed, yet some parts of him still feel exactly, infuriatingly the same. Iorveth rolls off, and he feels disappointed in himself for associating anything sweet, perfect Iorveth has done with the unpleasant actions of his victims.

Astarion shifts to look at him, hand wandering of its own volition to grab Iorveth's again. ]

Perhaps the workers might talk.

[ For money, maybe, or just to watch him suffer. There are plenty of people whose secrets Astarion would have told for free. ]

[ A small age, since they've shared a bed like this. Iorveth doesn't let the twinge of guilt touch him beyond the suggestion that it might be there; he focuses, instead, on giving Astarion the attention he hadn't been giving him during this entire breakneck journey up from Baldur's Gate. One hand still held in Astarion's, the other moving up to gently trace the outline of a pointed ear. ]

They'd tell you anything. [ His voice lilts, and his next breath is a near-chuckle. ] You've a talent for gossiping.

[ It's a compliment. Iorveth draws a gentle line from the curve of Astarion's earlobe down to his jaw, savoring the feel of him. ]

Though I'd likely have to be out of the picture. I imagine that they'd be less willing to speak with me hovering nearby.

[ What with him being a one-eyed wood elf that may or may not be the one-eyed wood elf that the racist Commandant's been looking for for the past however many months. Sigh. ]

[ Astarion closes his eyes, basking in the gentle touch. He loves when Iorveth is full of murderous rage, but he loves more when Iorveth is loose and relaxed, when his touch is so soft that it's difficult to believe he could ever have hurt anyone in his life. Safe, warm, comforting. If he could, he'd live inside this moment forever and never have to deal with the drawbacks of vampirism or bigoted Commandants.

He can't, though, so he opens his eyes again. ]

I can chat with them while you rest. I'm sure they'd welcome a friendly face that isn't asking them for a sensual flogging.

[ Maybe in another life, Iorveth would have been just another wood elf without the massive and murderous chip on his shoulder, and Astarion would have remained a powerful magistrate lording his influence over the Upper and Lower Cities of Baldur's Gate. Iorveth might have brushed by Lord Ancunin during a rare trip outside of his forests, and he would have felt absolutely none of the gravitational pull he feels now－

－or maybe he would have, and chalked it up to a weird heart murmur. Ships passing, their lives too disparate to intersect. Iorveth cups Astarion's cheek with his callused palm, thumb pressing near his lips to idly find a fang. ]

That could work. But I won't sit idly by while you work. [ Terminally unable to not calm the fuck down and rest for even a second. ] Perhaps I could find someone to not-so-sensually flog.

[ Astarion can have tea with the women, and Iorveth can go torture a guy. ]

[ In another life, Astarion would brush shoulders with Iorveth and spare him only a glance. Then he'd return home, perhaps to a gaggle of shallow friends or maybe a superficial marriage made to secure his legacy, and he'd feel utterly alone. Astarion doesn't believe in soulmates—the gods don't care enough to divine such things—but he does believe that this universe, now, where he's lying next to Iorveth, must be the only one in which he's happy.

Codependent? Perhaps. Unhealthy? Certainly, but it's not as if Iorveth has done much to dissuade him. A few halfhearted comments about people not belonging to other people aren't enough to give him a healthy attachment style.

He nips playfully at Iorveth's thumb, the point of his fang grazing the pad. ]

But I want to be there when you flog someone.

[ It's hot!! Sue him. With a sigh: ] I'll allow it, if you must. You'll just have to recount the experience in painstaking detail for me later.

[ Dawn is starting to break. A quick press of his mouth to Astarion's brow, and Iorveth gets up to draw the curtains to keep the light out, taking a moment to unmount the squirrel head from the wall and toss it, with a thunk, to the corner of the room. ]

Every scream and whimper. [ Dryly, but with distant humor. Iorveth's lips quirk into a semi-smile as he pulls his boots off and retreats back to the bed, shedding some of his more uncomfortable layers to get ready for a quick trance.

Sliding a knife under their pillow before settling back down: ] I'll fetch you some new clothes, too.

[ His current travel shirt is stained with blood, and his pants leg is covered in dirt from where the humans had shoved and prodded him against the ground. They look like bog-standard travelers in that sense, disheveled and weather-stained, but Iorveth knows that Astarion likes to look tidy. ]

[ He tortures people, and he gets Astarion new clothes. Iorveth is his dream man, truly. Astarion grins as he sits up to kick off his dirt-caked shoes; they clatter on the floor, begging to be cleaned. Tomorrow, he promises them. They are, after all, his favorites. He peels off his bloody shirt, too, folding it neatly and placing it on the nightstand beside the bed. ]

I'll ask around about a healer for your wrists, [ he says as he sinks back into the mattress, pulling the covers up over his filthy trousers. ] Since I'm such an incorrigible gossip, as you say.

[ One of the fairest assessments Iorveth has ever made, probably. Astarion reaches out to curl around Iorveth, then withdraws. ]

Will you mind terribly if I— [ He never seemed to mind before, but that was before Iorveth started waking from flashbacks of dead bodies. ] I know that I have a certain... corpselike quality that some may not be able to— appreciate.

[ To say the least. ]

[ It's a little sweet, how Astarion folds his clothes so neatly before setting them aside, a casual subversion of vain people treating their belongings callously. Again, Astarion is a mess of charming contradictions that are as annoying as they are improbably, impossibly lovable.

Speaking of annoying, though. Iorveth knows why Astarion is making this disclaimer, but－ ]

I would "mind terribly", [ is a low murmur, with one arm curling around Astarion's bare waist to pull him inwards, ] if you don't come here.

[ Stupid cat. Iorveth fucking adores him. ]

Or are you saying that I've not properly expressed how much I appreciate your qualities?

[ No, you haven't, is what he'd say if the look of fear on Iorveth's face weren't still fresh in his mind. You should remedy that right now. Then he'd crawl on top of Iorveth and kiss him until they both fell into their trances, Astarion's weight pressing down on him and Iorveth's body heat keeping him warm.

Iorveth's distress is as vivid in his mind as if it were still happening right in front of him, though, so he doesn't. He allows Iorveth to pull him in, but he doesn't press any closer, doesn't crawl on top of him and assault him with affection no matter how much he wants to. ]

I'm saying that— well, I know what it feels like to be reminded of things you'd rather forget.

[ Awful. It feels awful.

A little exasperated, he adds, ] I'm trying to be thoughtful.

I don't wish to forget.

[ Is Iorveth's very simple, very unhealthy, very deranged correction to Astarion's very considerate remark about things that are better left forgotten. ]

I want to remember all of it. Every offense, every atrocity, so that I never forget how much they made us suffer.

[ Because everything that has ever meant anything to him has made him hurt; nothing is worth keeping if he can't fight tooth and nail for it. Iorveth splays his fingers against Astarion's back, touching as much of him as that one hand will allow. ]

...Besides. It wasn't you that reminded me of the dead. I'd only thought－

[ A beat, as he slowly drums his fingers. ]

－I'd feared [ he corrects, ] that I'd lost you.

[ Another stark difference between them. Iorveth replays all of the suffering and torment he's experienced to the point of insanity; Astarion stuffs it into a box under a rug in the dustiest corner of his mind, hoping never to see it again. Hard to say which is better. Hard to say which is worse. Neither option seems to be working particularly well for them.

If Iorveth had lost him that day, he wouldn't have had a body to wake up to. Astarion would have been a pile of ash before they ever reached Flotsam. Even he knows this is something that he shouldn't mention, though, lest he upset Iorveth. Better that he doesn't have the mental image of Astarion's disintegrated body in his head. ]

It doesn't bother you, then? Undeath?

[ The sound of insecurity in his own voice makes him sick. He hastily continues, ] I'm irresistible dead or alive, of course, but I can see how some might find it... disconcerting.

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