Astarion hasn't a clue what sort of 'special' the thing is suggesting he is, but he knows it isn't flattering if it's in response to him allegedly wanting a dismembered hand. His mouth drags down into a scowl, arms crossed petulantly over his chest as he stares down at the little reptile.
The kobold narrows its beady eyes, slit pupils shifting up and down as it looks appraisingly at its would-be customers. "This hands is exclusive," it finally says. "It's worth..." It scratches its scaly chin with its talons, clearly coming up with a number on the spot. "15,000!" Astarion gawks. "But because I'm so nice, I gives it away for 10,000. A steal!"
Astarion can't help but stamp his foot. ] 10,000? It's a hacked-off hand.
[ "Fancy hand," the kobold responds. "No other teeth marks like this one!" Apparently, it notices that Astarion's expression has grown only more disgruntled, so it turns back to Iorveth. "Price no object, if yous really love him." ]
[ Iorveth, still deadpan: ] We'll need a moment to discuss the state of my coinpurse.
[ Not exactly the attitude of a man looking to buy something for his "special love", but whatever. He tugs Astarion to the side and turns so that the both of them are standing with their backs facing the little reptile merchant, bodies slanted in a posture that reads distinctly conspiratorial. ]
If I distract the thing, [ casually, arms folded, ] would you be able to steal the hand?
[ He'd briefly considered just leaving it and telling Lae'zel to fetch it herself, but that conversation is possibly a bigger headache than shoplifting from a jabbering kobold, and sometimes one has to encourage larceny in a circus to cope with the horrors of casual life.
If Astarion wants to, that is. Again, the luxury of being free is that you can tell someone to piss off. ]
Bringing Lae'zel a treat will get her off our backs for a day or two, at least.
[ Gods. Astarion can't decide if he wants to kiss Iorveth for making this circus trip more interesting with theft, or slap him for suggesting Astarion touch a rotting, dismembered clown hand. Unable to agree with himself, he settles for huffing and folding his own arms across his chest. ]
It's only a kobold, [ he hisses, ] we could just stab it and take its things. Who would care?
[ Even as he says it, he knows someone would. There are Wyll Ravengards everywhere sympathizing with the plight of lesser beings. He groans. ]
Fine. You— [ He makes a vague hand gesture towards Iorveth. ] Do whatever it is that you need to do. I'll save the day with my light-fingered antics yet again.
[ The answer to "who would care?" is "not me", but Iorveth also understands the optics of murdering a creature in broad daylight, in witness of several small children who should probably not have to deal with the trauma of seeing a dead kobold on their day of harmless fun.
Astarion puffs up, and Iorveth fancies he sees silver hair bristle. Cute. ]
The hero we hardly deserve. [ He holds out his pack for Astarion to take, in case he's finnicky about putting a dismembered limb in his own. ] You never fail to impress.
[ This would have been far more facetious two tendays ago, when Iorveth would have delivered this with scathing sarcasm; as it stands, he just sounds slightly fond. A quick nudge, and he winds his way back to the kobold and its expectant gaze, answering its "well? Well? Hands for the gnarly elf? 10,000 is cheapo for a treato!"
Gods, the thing is annoying. Iorveth floats on over to the opposite end of the stall, ignoring the creature to inspect the poorly-labeled bottles again, and with a flourish－
－he drops one. It shatters, and the kobold leaps up and down in dramatic distress. "No! You breaks Businesslord Popper's stuffs!!!"
With dripping insincerity, Iorveth quips back: ] Mm, my depth perception isn't what it used to be.
[ No reasonable person would find Iorveth sacrificing his pack for dead clown parts to be romantic, yet Astarion holds the pack to his chest, foolishly happy at having been thought of. He'll never tire of the feeling. A small, meaningless action, but the message is significant all the same: I like you, it says, or maybe you matter to me. ]
Oh, goodness, [ he exclaims, melodramatic, pointing at the shattered pieces of glass on the ground as he gravitates toward the hand. It smells awful, like decay and rot, like the inside of Cazador's mansion. ] He's always doing this! You should give him what for. It's the only way he'll learn.
[ Popper stomps its feet, looking every bit an oversized, reptilian toddler. It might be cute, if the thing weren't so ugly. "You lies! That was on purpose!" It gestures emphatically at the shards of bottle on the ground, distraught though the thing really was, as it had said, junk. No one was ever going to buy an elixir from a kobold that doesn't look like it could rub two brain cells together, much less ensure the contents of the bottle aren't pure poison. "You breaks it, you buys it!"
Astarion opens Iorveth's pack, picking up the clown hand with his thumb and forefinger as if it were a particularly nasty piece of garbage. He gags at the tactile sensation; the hand is warm from sitting out in the sun all day, and what's worse, it's floppy. As he slips it into his pack, he encourages Popper from the peanut gallery, ] That's right. You tell him.
[ Astarion is the cat between the two of them, but Iorveth channels that energy for the purpose of distraction: with feline mischief, he reaches for a second bottle ("no, no!", the kobold shrieks,) and lets it follow in the footsteps of the first, pointedly keeping his focus on the mess he's making instead of the sneaking going on in his periphery. ]
Ah, [ he sighs, as if he can't believe he's done it again. The thin smile on his lips betrays him, though, and Popper starts to pound its clawed little hands against Iorveth's back, attempting to discourage him from further destruction.
"I gets you thrown out! No more circus for shady elf and his pasty love! No more treatos forever!"
The battering continues as Iorveth traces a finger around the rim of a third bottle; Iorveth glances sideways once he's sure that Astarion has the fetid hand safely in the confines of his pack, and decides to spare Popper from further grief. He steps away, still smirking, and gestures for Astarion to leave the vicinity of the kobold before it notices that its bloody plate is missing something on it. ]
So hard to help myself, when things are lined up so neatly. [ Hands back at his sides, he edges away from the stand. ] I'll take my leave before I cause more grief.
Oh, dear, I'm so sorry for him, [ says Astarion, pack closed over the foul hand now. He pops up next to Iorveth like he's been there the whole time, smile contrite. ] He hasn't been right in the mind since that horse kicked him in the head.
[ "Nasty elf!" Popper shouts, distressed as it crouches to pick up fragments of broken glass. "Horse shoulds have kicked you harder!" ]
Isn't that the truth! Don't you worry. I'll give him a talking to.
[ Astarion doesn't so much as pull on Iorveth's sleeve as yank it, scurrying away as quickly as his legs will take him. He doesn't fear a kobold of all things, even a loud and obnoxious one, but Lae'zel would be furious if they got kicked out of the circus before they could fulfill her mission, and the last thing he wants is to sit through one of her tirades.
Even after they've made it a distance away, he can still hear the muffled sound of Popper complaining about a "horrible, awful mans". He snorts before pressing the pack to Iorveth's chest, eager to get any clown body parts out of his possession. ]
You owe me, you know. I don't think I'll ever feel clean again.
[ The nasty, horrible, awful elf makes his expeditious retreat, chuckling to himself at the insults being hurled his way. He's still smiling as he takes his pack from Astarion, residual alcohol making him more pleased by his mischief than he should be. ]
Adding to my ever-growing debt.
[ Impossible to pay off, at this point. Winding through another throng of circus-goers, he steps under the shade of the one large tree situated nearly in the middle of the grounds, a strange-shaped thing that resembles an overgrown stump with two armlike branches on either side of it. Gnarled, old-looking. ]
Take heart. Lae'zel will be pleased with you. [ A hum. ] Her favor will earn you your peace.
[ The tree is hideous, but its shade is pleasant in the afternoon sun. He squints at the sky, taking in the position of the sun; it must be later than he'd thought. They've already whiled away so much of the day. Not that he particularly minds. Lazing about doing nothing of import with Iorveth is his favorite thing to do. ]
Mm. [ A hum back. He winds his hands into the fabric of Iorveth's shirt, tugging him nearer. With a coy grin: ] You're the only one I care to please.
[ "How lovely, that one so bound to nature approaches," comes a voice from behind him, and Astarion whirls around, hand flying to the hilt of his dagger. ]
Hells! [ he says, exasperated, when he sees that the interloper is only a dryad clad in an outfit made of leaves and twisted vines. With her green skin and her branchlike headpiece, she blends seamlessly into the scenery. Astarion points an accusatory finger at her nonetheless. ] Have you no manners, sneaking up like that?
[ Not a trace of irony to his scolding. It's only all right for him to skulk around and frighten people. The dryad hardly seems fazed, only giving him a mild once-over. "And one very unnatural." ]
Well, that's just rude.
Edited (please. english is hard) 2024-09-18 05:29 (UTC)
[ Iorveth's internal bias in favor of dryads muffles his own annoyance at being caught off-guard; his glare is only momentary, a touch of a frown that dissipates once he registers the shape of the stranger and ties it to positive memories of being sheltered by others who looked like her. For that gentle association, he tips his head in a gesture approximating a small bow; it's more for his own benefit than the dryad's, and quickly overtaken by a dry half-laugh when she calls Astarion unnatural. ]
So says a dryad participating in a circus.
[ As far as unlikely things go, a wood sprite allowing herself to be a sideshow attraction is on the same level as a vampire walking in the sun― or so Iorveth thinks. He raises a brow as he watches the almost-accusation roll off of the nymph's shoulder, her smile as steady as the glowing pulse of her tattoo-like markings.
"It has given me the opportunity to look into so many hearts, to see the shape of so many souls. And I see yours right now, child of the ancient woods." Her smile widens, unnervingly knowing. "You burn with love, with a newfound feeling."
She settles her warm gaze on Astarion, as if to connect the dots. "A child of nature, enamored by a child of death." ]
[ That word again: love. Astarion would like if everyone would refrain from abusing it until he can ruminate and brood. These foreign feelings need to be examined.
Love, as a concept, doesn't come easily to him. He must once have had family who loved him; only a muddy memory of them remains now, blurry, half-formed recollections of people who’d cared for him. Occasionally Cazador had claimed to love his spawn, but Astarion knew better than to believe it. He'd loved them the way a wealthy man loves his possessions. He may admire expensive vases for display, but do their thoughts or emotions matter?
Arms folded over his chest, Astarion squawks, ] That's hardly impressive. A blind grimlock could see your burning desire for me.
[ Placid and unflappable, the dryad smiles, not a hint of offense on her pretty face. "Allow me, then, to gaze into your hearts and tell you if this flame will blaze everlasting or burn out." ]
[ Could a blind grimlock see it? Iorveth glances at Astarion, slightly annoyed by the implication that he's quite so obvious about it all, very irritated that it's probably true.
Oh well. Regarding the proposition: ] Do you wish to do this?
[ Asking, because the thought of a stranger potentially telling them that they're horribly incompatible in the wake of all the earth-shattering decisions they've made seems, well. Unpleasant. Not that Iorveth would trust a dryad that they've just met to accurately foresee their future, but it might be a bit Much for Astarion.
He subtly brushes the back of their hands together, and watches as the dryad pulses a little brighter for it.
"This trial requires trust and honesty― no small things. If the heart is reluctant, it is understandable." ]
[ Indignation heats Astarion's face. How dare she imply that he's hesitant to engage in trust and honesty just because he's never been trusting and honest in his life. It's not like she knows that, anyway. At least, he doesn't think she does. His knowledge of dryads is scarce, sourced mostly from fiction books and idle gossip. As a city slicker, he's never seen one in the flesh—in the bark?—before. After all, their domain is the forest, the nearest of which is miles from here. ]
Why do you assume my heart is reluctant? I'm wonderful at trust and honesty, I'll have you know.
[ "Then let us go," she replies, voice breathy and soft. "Close your eyes, and take a deep breath." Before Astarion can reply that he doesn't breathe, the hustle and bustle of the circus gives way to a more idyllic scene. Greenery as far as the eye can see, dotting the path they're on and climbing up the nearby rocks. A waterfall roars to the right, spilling into a river that runs between them, the only path across a sturdy, moss-covered log. The cool, gentle breeze kissing their cheeks smells floral and clean.
Fey magic, he thinks. Both disconcerting and enchanting. Are their real bodies still standing in the middle of that circus, or did she somehow transport them to this place? Peaceful and calm, untouched by civilization yet perfectly cultivated, it seems almost too picturesque to be real. ]
We didn't agree to having your magic tricks played on us.
[ His words are grumpy, but a part of him finds this 'magic trick' fascinating, and his eyes are wide with wonder. ]
[ The magic feels old, transformative. Iorveth breathes in the scent of moss and running water, instinctively soothed by the inexorable inevitability of nature, how small he is compared to its timelessness.
Only for a moment, though. Astarion's voice pulls him back to the here (?) and now (?), mostly because he hears it from a distanceー a very spannable one, but still. There's Astarion, across the river with his hair catching late afternoon light, nose turned up like a cat refusing to go into water.
Huh. The dryad, ever-patient, explains: "a test, not a trick. To see how strong this new, tentative bond between you two may be, may yet become." She spreads her arms, gently imploring. "To know each other is to approach each other, physically and emotionally. Answer my questions true, and you may find yourself in the embrace of the one you hold dear."
Iorveth, arms folded and head tipped, thinks it's all very twee, even by his wood elf standards. ]
I could approach him without answering your questions, [ he points out. Who's going to stop him? The log?
The nymph pauses as if she's considering whether or not it would be prudent to roll her eyes, but she doesn't. "Let's not waste time." Possibly the rudest she's ever been. Shut up and do the test, morons, in dryad terms. "Astarion: his curated exterior belies the tumult he holds in his heart. What is the eye of his storm? When does he feel at ease?"
A very personal question, right out of the gate. Iorveth raises his brow. ] I suppose I jump into the water if I'm incorrect.
[ "Nothing so penalizing," she replies, her gentle voice comforting and reassuring. It's how it must sound to have a mother soothing you, Astarion realizes. ]
Ah— [ he interrupts. ] I think I'll decide the punishment for wrong answers.
[ It's a silly, ridiculous love test meant to entertain schoolchildren with their first paramours. Despite that, Astarion is curious what the outcome will be. Maybe because you know your days together are numbered, says a cruel voice in his head. It's true. Even now, after Iorveth asked him to accompany him to the North, Astarion waits for the other shoe to drop. If he loses the tadpole's protection against his vampiric shortfalls, perhaps Iorveth will grow weary of the burden. Even if he doesn't, the familiar forest and Iorveth's brethren might help him realize that this romance was never meant to survive real life. There are endless opportunities in their future for Iorveth to decide to rid himself of Astarion.
Verdant, glimmering eyes cast a look his way that almost seems chastising, but the dryad says nothing. Gleaming brilliantly, the markings on her body pulse like a heartbeat, and her red hair seems almost to flicker in the warm glow of the sun. ]
I know where you feel most at ease.
[ In nature. Even if Astarion hadn't intended to ascend and make Iorveth his kept thing, he would never have stayed in Baldur's Gate. Part of him would still like to steal away with Iorveth to some city or another instead of the forest; not Baldur's Gate, but somewhere new, somewhere exciting, where they could buy fancy things and go drinking together. Iorveth would never go for that, so he keeps the wish inside. ]
[ Difficult, Iorveth thinks. He has two equally legitimate options, which is to exercise candor or discretionー to undermine the point of this silly game, or to see how it might reward honesty.
Ultimately: ] I don't know. [ Candor wins. ] I doubt you do, either.
[ Speaking from his own experience of feeling displaced, of using discomfort as a crutch to cope with atrocities committed against himself. For Iorveth, it'd simply been easier to forego the idea of comfort to cope with the cruelty of his immediate situation.
Does Astarion ever feel at ease, ever? Should he be expected to? It seems trite to specify, which, again, undermines the point of this silly game; Iorveth could leave it at that, but he guesses he can like, at least try. ]
But I suppose you seem at ease in our bed.
[ No details about cuddling, as that would also be incriminating himself. Either way, it's a bit of a self-own: it's when Iorveth also feels at ease. ]
[ 'I don't know.' Astarion tries to hide the disappointed sag of his shoulders. It's only a frivolous little game meant to entertain and amuse lovebirds, but the answer is disheartening all the same. Iorveth knows him as well as anyone ever has, has seen the prison he called his home and watched him bash in his master's face in an incandescent rage. He's let Astarion curl up in his arms and touched him in ways he thought he'd never want anyone to touch him again. After all that, even he says 'I don't know' to the very first question he's asked about Astarion. As Astarion lifts his chin up to maintain some semblance of dignity, the nasty voice inside his head laughs at his disappointment. Stupid.
Then his shoulders are sagging for an entirely different reason, his face burning with embarrassment so hot that he wouldn't be surprised if his pale skin had gone a bright cherry red. Although Iorveth didn't say it, it seems obvious what he's referring to, and the thought of this stranger carny knowing that he likes to be cuddled is beyond endurance. Despite his humiliation, he feels a tiny flutter of pleasure in his chest at both the answer and the wording. 'Our bed', Iorveth had said. It's funny; Astarion still thinks of it as Iorveth's bed and himself as a temporary visitor who could any day overstay his welcome. The concept of having something that's ours makes his cheeks burn hot for a more pleasurable reason. ]
I— [ He clears his throat, then says, in an attempt to steer the dryad's thoughts toward the salacious instead of the embarrassing, ] Yes, I am a natural in bed.
[ "True honesty can frighten even the most fearless warriors," she says sagely, which Astarion finds very annoying. She nods at Iorveth, as if approving his answer. "But your bond burns all the brighter for it." Who made her the arbiter of truth, he doesn't know. ]
I was going to say yours is up a tree.
[ Or something rustic like that. Somewhere he can sit and observe the whole world from a distance. ]
[ Hard to catch all of Astarion's micro-expressions from this distance. Iorveth squints, trying to hear the soft clearing of Astarion's throat and the tone of his voice over the roar of the adjacent waterfall, slightly frustrated that the rules of this game dictate that he can't just hop over and look properly. It's easier when he can touch, when he can trace his thumb against Astarion's jaw and feel for any tension he may or may not be carrying as a result of what Iorveth's said.
So. He takes a step and a half forward, putting him on the edge of his side of the log-bridge. The dryad doesn't dissuade him, but clears her throat as if to say "no further". ]
You would've been wrong. [ Iorveth says about Astarion's answer to when he feels at ease. ] Your ease is my ease.
[ To the tune of "obviously", earning him another fond glow from their gamemaster.
"Shared peace－ wonderful. But the object of your desire can also be restless, ravenous. Tell me, what does your love desire above all else?"
Another loaded question. Again, Iorveth hesitates before offering the truth as he knows it: ] Strength and assurance. Steadiness, in himself and in others.
[ Inwardly, Astarion cringes that this strange dryad knows anything about their shared peace. It is, however, a terribly sweet sentiment from Iorveth. If he weren't saying it in public, Astarion would have kissed him all over as a reward.
'Elven freedom', Astarion would have said for Iorveth. But he's already achieved that, so what's left? ]
Silk and velvet, actually.
[ Though the intent is to round off the edges of Iorveth's unwavering honesty, it isn't entirely a falsehood. After centuries of going without, having nice things is more than just shallow materialism. I matter, it says to the world. I deserve this.
Once again, Iorveth is embarrassingly truthful, although the answer isn't quite as mortifying as it could have been. The value of strength is in the safety it provides. A flash of Astarion imploring him to stay in Baldur's Gate with him after ascension flits across his mind; they'd be safe, he'd said, and no one would ever hurt them again. Now that's mortifying. ]
—But I suppose strength is up there. Somewhere.
[ Light seeming to beam out of her through her luminescent eyes, the dryad smiles. "The greatest strength comes from our sweetest bonds," she says, and Astarion suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. ]
[ Another few steps, until he's nearly at the edge of the log separating them. Iorveth has no idea how he's doing, actually, and if any of this is resonating with Astarion at all, or just making him feel put on the spot.
Still, the dryad presses on, having saved the most difficult question for last. "Where there's desire, there's also dread. The heart fears as much as the heart wants: tell me, what is your love most afraid of?"
Iorveth's kneejerk temptation is to say something along the lines of "no, I won't tell you". Astarion is afraid of a myriad of things, he thinks, and somewhere near the top of that extensive list, possibly, is people knowing that he's afraid of things.
Iorveth's brows furrow, and he stays silent for a stretch of time. Suddenly, he just wants to cross the bridge and take Astarion's hand and demand that they be released from the spell, but what he knows of fey magic is that it's conditional: the strength of its power lies in the fulfillment of certain requirements. As much as Iorveth doesn't want to answer the question, he doesn't want to be stuck in this place either.
A huff of breath, and a wave of his hand later: ] Getting mud in his hair.
[ Not actually a facetious answer. Iorveth acknowledges, now, that Astarion's vanity is also a form of self-preservation. ]
[ The silence stretches on for too long. Astarion crosses his arms, worrying his lip with a fang and trying not to look like he's worried Iorveth is about to spill his deepest, darkest fears to some tree-hugging nymph. Because Iorveth knows, of course he does. He'd once said that Astarion was afraid of everything. He wasn't wrong then, and he wouldn't be wrong to say so now. Astarion swallows, his stomach uneasy at the thought.
But he doesn't, and Astarion's every muscle relaxes. The beaming smile that cuts across his face is genuine, born of relief and gratitude that Iorveth has decided to protect his secrets. ]
Oh, yes. Excellent answer. My hair is my best quality.
[ The dryad seems unconvinced, tilting her head and saying, "In love, there is no place for hiding our true—"
Astarion ignores her, striding over to teeter on the log and snatching up Iorveth's hand in the process. He squeezes it affectionately, Iorveth's palm a pleasant warmth against his. ]
I had my doubts about this little test, but it seems you do know me. [ He hums thoughtfully, looking off to the side, where the waterfall cascades over the craggy cliff. ] Better than anyone ever has.
[ A small measure of relief floods through Iorveth when Astarion bridges the gap and presses their palms together, a warmth that smooths over some of the jaggedness that came with answering personal questions about someone who's still ostensibly figuring things out.
Novel, to care so much about someone else's comfort. Or, well. To spare a non-Seidhe's feelings. He wouldn't have thought twice about hanging Astarion out to dry three tendays ago, but after seeing him scream with the entire breadth of his soul in an underground tomb of his former tormentor's making－
－things change. Iorveth softens, lowering the first few layer of his stubborn emotional walls. ]
Because you've allowed it. [ Bringing their held hands up, pressing his lips to the back of Astarion's. ] A foolish move, on your part.
[ Iorveth likes to know, and to know as much as he can. He lowers their hands again, looking over and behind Astarion's shoulder at the now-silent dryad, her expression pinched inwards just slightly in a sign of contemplation. Trying to make a verdict, which eventually boils down to:
"A strange bond binds the two of you. As fragile as it is powerful, as contentious as it is unshakeable. At odds, but in harmony."
Iorveth wrinkles his nose at the assessment. ] All that, and you call us "strange".
[ Rude, honestly. They didn't need to tightrope-walk across a log for her to come to this conclusion. ]
[ Before Astarion had even dreamed of allowing him in, Iorveth had seen him. Not in a flattering light, but he'd been seen nonetheless. Iorveth, blunt and honest to a fault, had sniffed out his untruths like a scent hound. It hadn't felt good for Iorveth to pin him so accurately with his observations—and in fact he'd been overcome with shame and irritation—but part of him had longed for it.
No matter how harsh his assessment, Astarion's true self had been invisible for centuries, and someone had finally thought to look at him. He can hardly be blamed for wanting Iorveth to keep looking, to see more.
With an annoyed look over his shoulder, he snaps, ] Jealousy is ugly, you know.
[ Envy is obviously the only reason the creature would describe their relationship in such a manner. She should be cooing over how perfect they are for each other, dammit. "Fragility can be beautiful," she says, which sounds a bit like a cop-out, but Astarion doesn't argue the point. "And every rose has its thorn."
Astarion glances back at Iorveth, canting his head to concede the point. ]
Perhaps, at times, we can be a little bit thorny. [ He shakes his head. ] But life would be so boring without a few pricks to the fingers.
[ Sagely, the dryad adds, "Handle each other with care, lest you get hurt." Astarion really does roll his eyes this time, although the warning rings a little truer than he'd like. "Now— close your eyes..." ]
[ Everything is fragile. This world, its balance, the things living inside it. It stands to reason that affection can be just as fragile, but Iorveth can't help but claw and bite and fight to keep the things that he wants to preserve. Even if they're doomed. Especially if they're doomed.
"Thorny", Astarion says, and Iorveth thinks that he doesn't know the half of it. But he closes his eye anyway, acquiescing to the dryad's request, waiting for the swell and flow of old, old magic－
－until he hears the clamoring of the circus materializing around them again, the music and the footsteps and the laughter, the djinni's booming voice echoing over the din. There they are, either back where they started or settled back into their bodies, he has no idea. He feels more present now, more alert, as if the last of the alcohol buzzing in his system has been flushed out thanks to the spiritual (corporeal?) displacement; he flexes his free hand instinctively, making sure that he still has control over it.
Once he finishes readjusting, he glances over to the glowing dryad and her knowing scrutiny. She smiles at him, and, as if sensing his suspicions, offers a soft addendum. "You're convinced of so much," she warns. "But you still know so little."
Iorveth doesn't like that. He frowns, slightly disconcerted. ]
Interesting, [ has an edge to it. ] ...If that's all, then.
[ His turn to tug Astarion this time, away from those calm eyes and the growing shadow of the tree. ]
[ Astarion isn't one to let himself be tugged around easily, but he allows it this time, trailing after Iorveth without a fight. As they make their way back to the hustle and bustle of the circus, he sighs, shaking off the last remnants of that strange magic and blinking to reorient himself to his surroundings. ]
Well. That was certainly interesting.
[ A beat of silence passes, save for the roar of the crowd and the vendors hawking their wares. ]
And personal.
[ Where does that dryad get off, asking such private questions? She might as well have asked his favorite sex position. In fact, he would have preferred that. He waves a hand, batting away an imaginary dryad. ]
Thought-provoking, too. [ He doesn't say that he's sure Iorveth is surprised to hear he's had a thought, although he does think it. ] I wonder, what is your greatest desire?
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no subject
Astarion hasn't a clue what sort of 'special' the thing is suggesting he is, but he knows it isn't flattering if it's in response to him allegedly wanting a dismembered hand. His mouth drags down into a scowl, arms crossed petulantly over his chest as he stares down at the little reptile.
The kobold narrows its beady eyes, slit pupils shifting up and down as it looks appraisingly at its would-be customers. "This hands is exclusive," it finally says. "It's worth..." It scratches its scaly chin with its talons, clearly coming up with a number on the spot. "15,000!" Astarion gawks. "But because I'm so nice, I gives it away for 10,000. A steal!"
Astarion can't help but stamp his foot. ] 10,000? It's a hacked-off hand.
[ "Fancy hand," the kobold responds. "No other teeth marks like this one!" Apparently, it notices that Astarion's expression has grown only more disgruntled, so it turns back to Iorveth. "Price no object, if yous really love him." ]
no subject
[ Not exactly the attitude of a man looking to buy something for his "special love", but whatever. He tugs Astarion to the side and turns so that the both of them are standing with their backs facing the little reptile merchant, bodies slanted in a posture that reads distinctly conspiratorial. ]
If I distract the thing, [ casually, arms folded, ] would you be able to steal the hand?
[ He'd briefly considered just leaving it and telling Lae'zel to fetch it herself, but that conversation is possibly a bigger headache than shoplifting from a jabbering kobold, and sometimes one has to encourage larceny in a circus to cope with the horrors of casual life.
If Astarion wants to, that is. Again, the luxury of being free is that you can tell someone to piss off. ]
Bringing Lae'zel a treat will get her off our backs for a day or two, at least.
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It's only a kobold, [ he hisses, ] we could just stab it and take its things. Who would care?
[ Even as he says it, he knows someone would. There are Wyll Ravengards everywhere sympathizing with the plight of lesser beings. He groans. ]
Fine. You— [ He makes a vague hand gesture towards Iorveth. ] Do whatever it is that you need to do. I'll save the day with my light-fingered antics yet again.
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Astarion puffs up, and Iorveth fancies he sees silver hair bristle. Cute. ]
The hero we hardly deserve. [ He holds out his pack for Astarion to take, in case he's finnicky about putting a dismembered limb in his own. ] You never fail to impress.
[ This would have been far more facetious two tendays ago, when Iorveth would have delivered this with scathing sarcasm; as it stands, he just sounds slightly fond. A quick nudge, and he winds his way back to the kobold and its expectant gaze, answering its "well? Well? Hands for the gnarly elf? 10,000 is cheapo for a treato!"
Gods, the thing is annoying. Iorveth floats on over to the opposite end of the stall, ignoring the creature to inspect the poorly-labeled bottles again, and with a flourish－
－he drops one. It shatters, and the kobold leaps up and down in dramatic distress. "No! You breaks Businesslord Popper's stuffs!!!"
With dripping insincerity, Iorveth quips back: ] Mm, my depth perception isn't what it used to be.
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Oh, goodness, [ he exclaims, melodramatic, pointing at the shattered pieces of glass on the ground as he gravitates toward the hand. It smells awful, like decay and rot, like the inside of Cazador's mansion. ] He's always doing this! You should give him what for. It's the only way he'll learn.
[ Popper stomps its feet, looking every bit an oversized, reptilian toddler. It might be cute, if the thing weren't so ugly. "You lies! That was on purpose!" It gestures emphatically at the shards of bottle on the ground, distraught though the thing really was, as it had said, junk. No one was ever going to buy an elixir from a kobold that doesn't look like it could rub two brain cells together, much less ensure the contents of the bottle aren't pure poison. "You breaks it, you buys it!"
Astarion opens Iorveth's pack, picking up the clown hand with his thumb and forefinger as if it were a particularly nasty piece of garbage. He gags at the tactile sensation; the hand is warm from sitting out in the sun all day, and what's worse, it's floppy. As he slips it into his pack, he encourages Popper from the peanut gallery, ] That's right. You tell him.
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Ah, [ he sighs, as if he can't believe he's done it again. The thin smile on his lips betrays him, though, and Popper starts to pound its clawed little hands against Iorveth's back, attempting to discourage him from further destruction.
"I gets you thrown out! No more circus for shady elf and his pasty love! No more treatos forever!"
The battering continues as Iorveth traces a finger around the rim of a third bottle; Iorveth glances sideways once he's sure that Astarion has the fetid hand safely in the confines of his pack, and decides to spare Popper from further grief. He steps away, still smirking, and gestures for Astarion to leave the vicinity of the kobold before it notices that its bloody plate is missing something on it. ]
So hard to help myself, when things are lined up so neatly. [ Hands back at his sides, he edges away from the stand. ] I'll take my leave before I cause more grief.
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[ "Nasty elf!" Popper shouts, distressed as it crouches to pick up fragments of broken glass. "Horse shoulds have kicked you harder!" ]
Isn't that the truth! Don't you worry. I'll give him a talking to.
[ Astarion doesn't so much as pull on Iorveth's sleeve as yank it, scurrying away as quickly as his legs will take him. He doesn't fear a kobold of all things, even a loud and obnoxious one, but Lae'zel would be furious if they got kicked out of the circus before they could fulfill her mission, and the last thing he wants is to sit through one of her tirades.
Even after they've made it a distance away, he can still hear the muffled sound of Popper complaining about a "horrible, awful mans". He snorts before pressing the pack to Iorveth's chest, eager to get any clown body parts out of his possession. ]
You owe me, you know. I don't think I'll ever feel clean again.
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Adding to my ever-growing debt.
[ Impossible to pay off, at this point. Winding through another throng of circus-goers, he steps under the shade of the one large tree situated nearly in the middle of the grounds, a strange-shaped thing that resembles an overgrown stump with two armlike branches on either side of it. Gnarled, old-looking. ]
Take heart. Lae'zel will be pleased with you. [ A hum. ] Her favor will earn you your peace.
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Mm. [ A hum back. He winds his hands into the fabric of Iorveth's shirt, tugging him nearer. With a coy grin: ] You're the only one I care to please.
[ "How lovely, that one so bound to nature approaches," comes a voice from behind him, and Astarion whirls around, hand flying to the hilt of his dagger. ]
Hells! [ he says, exasperated, when he sees that the interloper is only a dryad clad in an outfit made of leaves and twisted vines. With her green skin and her branchlike headpiece, she blends seamlessly into the scenery. Astarion points an accusatory finger at her nonetheless. ] Have you no manners, sneaking up like that?
[ Not a trace of irony to his scolding. It's only all right for him to skulk around and frighten people. The dryad hardly seems fazed, only giving him a mild once-over. "And one very unnatural." ]
Well, that's just rude.
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So says a dryad participating in a circus.
[ As far as unlikely things go, a wood sprite allowing herself to be a sideshow attraction is on the same level as a vampire walking in the sun― or so Iorveth thinks. He raises a brow as he watches the almost-accusation roll off of the nymph's shoulder, her smile as steady as the glowing pulse of her tattoo-like markings.
"It has given me the opportunity to look into so many hearts, to see the shape of so many souls. And I see yours right now, child of the ancient woods." Her smile widens, unnervingly knowing. "You burn with love, with a newfound feeling."
She settles her warm gaze on Astarion, as if to connect the dots. "A child of nature, enamored by a child of death." ]
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Love, as a concept, doesn't come easily to him. He must once have had family who loved him; only a muddy memory of them remains now, blurry, half-formed recollections of people who’d cared for him. Occasionally Cazador had claimed to love his spawn, but Astarion knew better than to believe it. He'd loved them the way a wealthy man loves his possessions. He may admire expensive vases for display, but do their thoughts or emotions matter?
Arms folded over his chest, Astarion squawks, ] That's hardly impressive. A blind grimlock could see your burning desire for me.
[ Placid and unflappable, the dryad smiles, not a hint of offense on her pretty face. "Allow me, then, to gaze into your hearts and tell you if this flame will blaze everlasting or burn out." ]
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Oh well. Regarding the proposition: ] Do you wish to do this?
[ Asking, because the thought of a stranger potentially telling them that they're horribly incompatible in the wake of all the earth-shattering decisions they've made seems, well. Unpleasant. Not that Iorveth would trust a dryad that they've just met to accurately foresee their future, but it might be a bit Much for Astarion.
He subtly brushes the back of their hands together, and watches as the dryad pulses a little brighter for it.
"This trial requires trust and honesty― no small things. If the heart is reluctant, it is understandable." ]
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Why do you assume my heart is reluctant? I'm wonderful at trust and honesty, I'll have you know.
[ "Then let us go," she replies, voice breathy and soft. "Close your eyes, and take a deep breath." Before Astarion can reply that he doesn't breathe, the hustle and bustle of the circus gives way to a more idyllic scene. Greenery as far as the eye can see, dotting the path they're on and climbing up the nearby rocks. A waterfall roars to the right, spilling into a river that runs between them, the only path across a sturdy, moss-covered log. The cool, gentle breeze kissing their cheeks smells floral and clean.
Fey magic, he thinks. Both disconcerting and enchanting. Are their real bodies still standing in the middle of that circus, or did she somehow transport them to this place? Peaceful and calm, untouched by civilization yet perfectly cultivated, it seems almost too picturesque to be real. ]
We didn't agree to having your magic tricks played on us.
[ His words are grumpy, but a part of him finds this 'magic trick' fascinating, and his eyes are wide with wonder. ]
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Only for a moment, though. Astarion's voice pulls him back to the here (?) and now (?), mostly because he hears it from a distanceー a very spannable one, but still. There's Astarion, across the river with his hair catching late afternoon light, nose turned up like a cat refusing to go into water.
Huh. The dryad, ever-patient, explains: "a test, not a trick. To see how strong this new, tentative bond between you two may be, may yet become." She spreads her arms, gently imploring. "To know each other is to approach each other, physically and emotionally. Answer my questions true, and you may find yourself in the embrace of the one you hold dear."
Iorveth, arms folded and head tipped, thinks it's all very twee, even by his wood elf standards. ]
I could approach him without answering your questions, [ he points out. Who's going to stop him? The log?
The nymph pauses as if she's considering whether or not it would be prudent to roll her eyes, but she doesn't. "Let's not waste time." Possibly the rudest she's ever been. Shut up and do the test, morons, in dryad terms. "Astarion: his curated exterior belies the tumult he holds in his heart. What is the eye of his storm? When does he feel at ease?"
A very personal question, right out of the gate. Iorveth raises his brow. ] I suppose I jump into the water if I'm incorrect.
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Ah— [ he interrupts. ] I think I'll decide the punishment for wrong answers.
[ It's a silly, ridiculous love test meant to entertain schoolchildren with their first paramours. Despite that, Astarion is curious what the outcome will be. Maybe because you know your days together are numbered, says a cruel voice in his head. It's true. Even now, after Iorveth asked him to accompany him to the North, Astarion waits for the other shoe to drop. If he loses the tadpole's protection against his vampiric shortfalls, perhaps Iorveth will grow weary of the burden. Even if he doesn't, the familiar forest and Iorveth's brethren might help him realize that this romance was never meant to survive real life. There are endless opportunities in their future for Iorveth to decide to rid himself of Astarion.
Verdant, glimmering eyes cast a look his way that almost seems chastising, but the dryad says nothing. Gleaming brilliantly, the markings on her body pulse like a heartbeat, and her red hair seems almost to flicker in the warm glow of the sun. ]
I know where you feel most at ease.
[ In nature. Even if Astarion hadn't intended to ascend and make Iorveth his kept thing, he would never have stayed in Baldur's Gate. Part of him would still like to steal away with Iorveth to some city or another instead of the forest; not Baldur's Gate, but somewhere new, somewhere exciting, where they could buy fancy things and go drinking together. Iorveth would never go for that, so he keeps the wish inside. ]
Go on. What about me?
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Ultimately: ] I don't know. [ Candor wins. ] I doubt you do, either.
[ Speaking from his own experience of feeling displaced, of using discomfort as a crutch to cope with atrocities committed against himself. For Iorveth, it'd simply been easier to forego the idea of comfort to cope with the cruelty of his immediate situation.
Does Astarion ever feel at ease, ever? Should he be expected to? It seems trite to specify, which, again, undermines the point of this silly game; Iorveth could leave it at that, but he guesses he can like, at least try. ]
But I suppose you seem at ease in our bed.
[ No details about cuddling, as that would also be incriminating himself. Either way, it's a bit of a self-own: it's when Iorveth also feels at ease. ]
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Then his shoulders are sagging for an entirely different reason, his face burning with embarrassment so hot that he wouldn't be surprised if his pale skin had gone a bright cherry red. Although Iorveth didn't say it, it seems obvious what he's referring to, and the thought of this stranger carny knowing that he likes to be cuddled is beyond endurance. Despite his humiliation, he feels a tiny flutter of pleasure in his chest at both the answer and the wording. 'Our bed', Iorveth had said. It's funny; Astarion still thinks of it as Iorveth's bed and himself as a temporary visitor who could any day overstay his welcome. The concept of having something that's ours makes his cheeks burn hot for a more pleasurable reason. ]
I— [ He clears his throat, then says, in an attempt to steer the dryad's thoughts toward the salacious instead of the embarrassing, ] Yes, I am a natural in bed.
[ "True honesty can frighten even the most fearless warriors," she says sagely, which Astarion finds very annoying. She nods at Iorveth, as if approving his answer. "But your bond burns all the brighter for it." Who made her the arbiter of truth, he doesn't know. ]
I was going to say yours is up a tree.
[ Or something rustic like that. Somewhere he can sit and observe the whole world from a distance. ]
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So. He takes a step and a half forward, putting him on the edge of his side of the log-bridge. The dryad doesn't dissuade him, but clears her throat as if to say "no further". ]
You would've been wrong. [ Iorveth says about Astarion's answer to when he feels at ease. ] Your ease is my ease.
[ To the tune of "obviously", earning him another fond glow from their gamemaster.
"Shared peace－ wonderful. But the object of your desire can also be restless, ravenous. Tell me, what does your love desire above all else?"
Another loaded question. Again, Iorveth hesitates before offering the truth as he knows it: ] Strength and assurance. Steadiness, in himself and in others.
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'Elven freedom', Astarion would have said for Iorveth. But he's already achieved that, so what's left? ]
Silk and velvet, actually.
[ Though the intent is to round off the edges of Iorveth's unwavering honesty, it isn't entirely a falsehood. After centuries of going without, having nice things is more than just shallow materialism. I matter, it says to the world. I deserve this.
Once again, Iorveth is embarrassingly truthful, although the answer isn't quite as mortifying as it could have been. The value of strength is in the safety it provides. A flash of Astarion imploring him to stay in Baldur's Gate with him after ascension flits across his mind; they'd be safe, he'd said, and no one would ever hurt them again. Now that's mortifying. ]
—But I suppose strength is up there. Somewhere.
[ Light seeming to beam out of her through her luminescent eyes, the dryad smiles. "The greatest strength comes from our sweetest bonds," she says, and Astarion suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. ]
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Still, the dryad presses on, having saved the most difficult question for last. "Where there's desire, there's also dread. The heart fears as much as the heart wants: tell me, what is your love most afraid of?"
Iorveth's kneejerk temptation is to say something along the lines of "no, I won't tell you". Astarion is afraid of a myriad of things, he thinks, and somewhere near the top of that extensive list, possibly, is people knowing that he's afraid of things.
Iorveth's brows furrow, and he stays silent for a stretch of time. Suddenly, he just wants to cross the bridge and take Astarion's hand and demand that they be released from the spell, but what he knows of fey magic is that it's conditional: the strength of its power lies in the fulfillment of certain requirements. As much as Iorveth doesn't want to answer the question, he doesn't want to be stuck in this place either.
A huff of breath, and a wave of his hand later: ] Getting mud in his hair.
[ Not actually a facetious answer. Iorveth acknowledges, now, that Astarion's vanity is also a form of self-preservation. ]
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But he doesn't, and Astarion's every muscle relaxes. The beaming smile that cuts across his face is genuine, born of relief and gratitude that Iorveth has decided to protect his secrets. ]
Oh, yes. Excellent answer. My hair is my best quality.
[ The dryad seems unconvinced, tilting her head and saying, "In love, there is no place for hiding our true—"
Astarion ignores her, striding over to teeter on the log and snatching up Iorveth's hand in the process. He squeezes it affectionately, Iorveth's palm a pleasant warmth against his. ]
I had my doubts about this little test, but it seems you do know me. [ He hums thoughtfully, looking off to the side, where the waterfall cascades over the craggy cliff. ] Better than anyone ever has.
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Novel, to care so much about someone else's comfort. Or, well. To spare a non-Seidhe's feelings. He wouldn't have thought twice about hanging Astarion out to dry three tendays ago, but after seeing him scream with the entire breadth of his soul in an underground tomb of his former tormentor's making－
－things change. Iorveth softens, lowering the first few layer of his stubborn emotional walls. ]
Because you've allowed it. [ Bringing their held hands up, pressing his lips to the back of Astarion's. ] A foolish move, on your part.
[ Iorveth likes to know, and to know as much as he can. He lowers their hands again, looking over and behind Astarion's shoulder at the now-silent dryad, her expression pinched inwards just slightly in a sign of contemplation. Trying to make a verdict, which eventually boils down to:
"A strange bond binds the two of you. As fragile as it is powerful, as contentious as it is unshakeable. At odds, but in harmony."
Iorveth wrinkles his nose at the assessment. ] All that, and you call us "strange".
[ Rude, honestly. They didn't need to tightrope-walk across a log for her to come to this conclusion. ]
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No matter how harsh his assessment, Astarion's true self had been invisible for centuries, and someone had finally thought to look at him. He can hardly be blamed for wanting Iorveth to keep looking, to see more.
With an annoyed look over his shoulder, he snaps, ] Jealousy is ugly, you know.
[ Envy is obviously the only reason the creature would describe their relationship in such a manner. She should be cooing over how perfect they are for each other, dammit. "Fragility can be beautiful," she says, which sounds a bit like a cop-out, but Astarion doesn't argue the point. "And every rose has its thorn."
Astarion glances back at Iorveth, canting his head to concede the point. ]
Perhaps, at times, we can be a little bit thorny. [ He shakes his head. ] But life would be so boring without a few pricks to the fingers.
[ Sagely, the dryad adds, "Handle each other with care, lest you get hurt." Astarion really does roll his eyes this time, although the warning rings a little truer than he'd like. "Now— close your eyes..." ]
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"Thorny", Astarion says, and Iorveth thinks that he doesn't know the half of it. But he closes his eye anyway, acquiescing to the dryad's request, waiting for the swell and flow of old, old magic－
－until he hears the clamoring of the circus materializing around them again, the music and the footsteps and the laughter, the djinni's booming voice echoing over the din. There they are, either back where they started or settled back into their bodies, he has no idea. He feels more present now, more alert, as if the last of the alcohol buzzing in his system has been flushed out thanks to the spiritual (corporeal?) displacement; he flexes his free hand instinctively, making sure that he still has control over it.
Once he finishes readjusting, he glances over to the glowing dryad and her knowing scrutiny. She smiles at him, and, as if sensing his suspicions, offers a soft addendum. "You're convinced of so much," she warns. "But you still know so little."
Iorveth doesn't like that. He frowns, slightly disconcerted. ]
Interesting, [ has an edge to it. ] ...If that's all, then.
[ His turn to tug Astarion this time, away from those calm eyes and the growing shadow of the tree. ]
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Well. That was certainly interesting.
[ A beat of silence passes, save for the roar of the crowd and the vendors hawking their wares. ]
And personal.
[ Where does that dryad get off, asking such private questions? She might as well have asked his favorite sex position. In fact, he would have preferred that. He waves a hand, batting away an imaginary dryad. ]
Thought-provoking, too. [ He doesn't say that he's sure Iorveth is surprised to hear he's had a thought, although he does think it. ] I wonder, what is your greatest desire?
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