essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ It isn't the knock that wakes him but Iorveth's movement; he's jostled into consciousness, groaning in protest as Iorveth sits up and he slides off of his chest. Reaching for one of the down pillows, he flops back onto the mattress and shoves it over his head in the hopes of muffling any sound. It's only once Iorveth whispers to him that his ears properly perk up and catch the soft sound of conversation outside their door, and he finally sits up himself, brow furrowed.

Iorveth sure as hells can't answer the door when there's probably posters bearing his likeness in the city—wanted: dangerous elven terrorist—so the responsibility falls to Astarion. He swings his feet off of the bed and rises, swiping his shirt to pull it on, still unbuttoned, to hide his scars. ]

Stay, [ he says quietly before making his way to the door. He opens it just enough to poke his head out, expression expectant and impatient. ]

Can I help you?

[ Iorveth brushes his hair into his face, hiding more of his features while he readjusts his eyepatch over his missing eye. On one hand, he misses his headscarf－ he'd felt more covered with it on－ but on the other, the bright red cloth might have been even more distinguishing.

From his vantage point, he can't see the two pretty young women who are standing out in the hall, but he can hear them. "I heard there were two Cormyreans staying with us now," one of them (a redhead with lipstick that matches her hair) says, singsong; another voice (a brunette with a defining mole sitting pretty under her left eye) chimes in with "two handsome Cormyreans", punctuated by a flutelike laugh.

A flash of pale skin. The redhead pokes her arm through the gap between the door and the wall, trying to touch Astarion's arm.

"We're ever so curious. Won't you let us in for a chat?" ]

—Ah.

[ Well, there's the courtesans he planned to gossip with. It seems someone else already gossiped to them; it's doubtful they really have any interest in handsome Cormyreans, at least not enough to come knocking on their door. It takes every ounce of his willpower not to slam the door on the redhead's arm, but he stays where he is, smiling. ]

I'd love to, of course, if it's two delectable treats such as yourselves asking...

[ His eyes shift to the side. ]

But my companion isn't, mm, decent.

[ "Oh," the redhead breathes. Not as good of an actor as her companion, who keeps her expression expertly trained to ignorant curiosity; the redhead tries to look past Astarion and towards where she knows the bed to be in a display of nosiness that isn't just idle interest. Like one of the visitors at the Circus of the Last Days, trying to catch a glimpse of the displacer beast.

"I'd love to see how indecent he is," she giggles, though her tone is less seductive and more like a child who's trying to eat some of the cookie dough before it goes into the oven. "Is he terribly shy?"

More standing on toes, more craning of necks. The brunette tugs on her companion's elbow in what could be a half-tease, a half-"don't blow our cover".

"Behave, Ada! You'll scare him off!" ]

[ Astarion tugs the door a little more shut, eyebrow twitching with annoyance. Mind your own business, he wants to snap, but he doesn't. Instead, he reaches down to pat at his belt, making sure his trusty dagger is still in its sheath. He has no intention of hurting these ladies, but it's better to be prepared for the worst. ]

I'm not sure my Edgar is up for your attentions tonight, however... titillating.

[ Mostly because they don't need to get up close and personal with Iorveth, lest they see something worth reporting. ]

But my dance card is empty, [ he adds, shooting them a grin. ] Perhaps we might get to know each other elsewhere.

[ Somewhere without a window, he hopes. Raising his voice: ] You don't mind if I step out, do you, darling?

[ "Edgar", the one her companion called Ada murmurs; Iorveth is better at responding to the alias by now, so there's no suspicious pause or hesitation when Astarion tosses the question back at him. ]

I'd deny you nothing, [ is not what Edgar from the novels would say, but it's Iorveth's reply. ] Do whatever pleases you.

[ A backwards scoot over to the bed's headboard, which he leans against while watching Astarion negotiate with the two women on the other side of the door. The brunette, who manages to make out Iorveth's voice from where she's standing, smiles in a way that could be interpreted as meaningful.

"Oh... he isn't the jealous type, is he?" Fishing. "If I were traveling with someone as gorgeous as you, I wouldn't let you near us!"

A statement of doubt, perhaps, that the elves are actually romantically involved, and that she suspects that they're just saying that they are as a cover. Still, the brunette ("Stella", her friend calls her) steps away from the door, bowing her head lightly. "Maybe your companion can join us later, then. My room is just around the corner― the one with a rose etched on the door." ]

Edited 2025-01-24 13:21 (UTC)

[ Stella and Ada are pleasant enough, if a little suspicious — particularly the redhead, although perhaps the brunette just hides it better. He wouldn't mind clinking tea cups and gossiping about the Commandant with them, if the opportunity presents itself. He shakes his head as if Ada is being too complimentary, although he of course knows that he's gorgeous, even without a reflection. He sure as hells better be, considering all the time he spends on vanity. ]

You ladies are nothing but trouble, aren't you? I do so love trouble.

[ Carefully, he scoots out of the room, squeezing through the teeny tiny opening in the doorway. No need to let Ada get a glimpse of Iorveth. ]

You know where to find me if I don't come back, [ he calls to Iorveth, breezy on the surface and a little paranoid underneath. You know, just in case. He shuts the door behind him, turning to the women with a grin. Iorveth can hear him as he makes his way down the hall to the rose-etched door, saying, ] Now, I bet you troublemakers know everything that happens in this town...

[ The troublemakers do know everything that happens in their town. Astarion is taken to Stella's dimly-lit room with deep-colored furniture, and is coaxed to sit on her floral-pattered bedsheets for their upcoming gossip session. Ada seems disappointed that "Edgar" hasn't joined them, and shoots the occasional backwards glance towards the door with expectant anticipation.

Stella surreptitiously hides her sleeping draught behind two bottles of wine; she pours Astarion a glass, and sidles up to him to start her questioning. Resourceful, and used to men who pay more attention to her cleavage than what's coming out of her mouth.

(The plan: either to knock Astarion out and use him as a means to lure his one-eyed companion to Loredo's mansion, or to get confirmation that the one-eyed companion is, in fact, the one-eyed elf they're looking for. Stella and Ada aren't eager to comply, but the coin they'll get if they cooperate will be enough for them to pack up and move to Waterdeep.)

"Tell us about your adventures," is where they start, sandwiching Astarion between them, leaning in like cats making a pile. An enviable position to be in, while Iorveth gears up and gets ready to stick a man's head into a river. The duality of man. ]

[ Iorveth gets ready to stick a man's head in the river, and Astarion basks in the undivided attention of two very pretty women. What? It's not like he's married. He takes the glass, giving it a cursory sniff. It smells a little odd, but so do most food and drinks since he clawed his way out of his grave. Hard to say if it's 'poison' odd or just regular odd.

Oh, well. He takes a sip. No one ever accused him of being prudent.

He launches into an entirely fabricated story that's dangerously close to the adventures of Nicholas and Edgar, albeit with some key details changed. He isn't a prince so much as, well, a very important magistrate—no one ever accused him of being creative, either—and Iorveth isn't so much an assassin as a hunky rapscallion with a heart of gold. The rest, though, follows the beats of the novel perfectly, sex scenes included.

Another sip. ] But I'd really rather hear about you. Any important customers? Like, oh, I don't know, that Commandant everyone keeps going on about? One has to wonder what he asks for.

[ Stella is privately surprised that the white-haired elf actually drank the wine (a moment of actual fear, here, that he might actually be telling the truth about being a Cormyrean traveler), but she feels a little less bad when said elf starts going on about his torrid sex life. She feigns interest, of course (the polite woman's version of "damn that's crazy"), but can't help but feel relieved when they start talking about the Commandant, which is actually more in line with what she expected the topic of conversation to be.

Meanwhile, Ada has her hand on "Nicholas'" knee, delighted by the traveler's raunchy adventures. Here, too, the duality of man.

"The Commandant?" Ada snorts, waving a hand. "Oh, he's positively awful. He has all these horrible fantasies about..." An awkward beat here, as she realizes that the man she's speaking to has pointy ears and is very non-human. "...Well, you know. Commandant Loredo has... a reputation."

Stella, still smiling, subtly reaches behind Astarion's back to pinch her friend's arm. Get your foot out of your mouth, essentially.

(Jumpcut to Iorveth in the forest upstream of the river, dragging an unconscious guard towards the water by his collar. It's hard work, but someone's got to do it. A dog barks in the distance.) ]

[ So the Commandant does frequent the brothel, and by Ada's account, he's an awful customer. Not a surprise, really. Powerful people love to exploit the helpless. A scowl threatens to cross his face, but he beats the expression back, landing on something more quizzical instead. He cocks his head like a confused dog, eyebrows raised. ]

Reputation? No, I— [ He blinks as a wave of lightheadedness overtakes him. Oof. He glances down at the dark liquid swirling in his glass. ] I'm sure I don't know what you mean.

[ Stella has a feeling that Nicholas is playing dumb, but he looks so pretty doing it that she can't help but sit back and let Ada explain:

"Oh... well, you really should know, since you're an elf." Not exactly the most delicate way to put things, but Ada is Trying. "Commandant Loredo really hates your kind."

This time, when Stella gives Ada a warning, it's not-so-subtle. "Ada!"

"What? It's true," the scolded party pouts. "He comes in here with his horrid fantasies about tying up captured elf girls and having his way with them." Predictable, probably. Stella looks like she might stomp on Ada's foot to make her stop talking, but Ada continues anyway, leaning closer to Astarion with her voice pitched low, conspiratory.

"But, you know," she half-giggles. "He sometimes asks me to tie him up. So he can play the part of the human stud for a raunchy 'she-elf' who captured him."

She shudders theatrically, then bursts into laughter. ]

[ Astarion intends to shudder and laugh along with Ada, but he feels suddenly very sluggish. Instead, all he manages is a distant, ] Eugh. [ It is gross. Hypocritical, perhaps, of a man who's repeatedly promised to tie Iorveth up, but it's different when he does it. It's charming and risqué when done by him, depraved and disgusting when done by the Commandant.

He blinks again, slower this time, and sets his glass down. ]

—Apologies, ladies, but I'm feeling rather under the weather. I should get going.

[ The sleeping draught is working, and Stella only looks unsure for a moment before leaning into her role. She's determined to get out of here and study at one of Waterdeep's academies with Ada before it's too late; steeling herself, she grabs hold of Astarion's arm in an attempt to keep him where he is.

"But you just got here," she whines sweetly, pressing close. "You can lie down for a bit if you feel unwell― we can take care of you, the both of us."

Her smile is guileless, beaming. "Anyway, your darling will come find you if you're missing, won't he?" Because the whole point of this is that the one-eyed wood elf will. This entire plan crumbles if the terrorist is the kind of man who would cut his losses and move on, let his comrade die for his sake. "He'd come fetch you." ]

He's— [ Busy flogging someone, Astarion doesn't say, half because it would be incredibly stupid and half because he's too tired to make such complicated words come out of his mouth. He makes a halfhearted attempt to get up, but his body feels very heavy, and he finds himself right back where he started, sandwiched between the women.

A twist in his gut says this isn't right, but it's overpowered by lethargy. His blinks get slower and slower as he fights to keep his eyes open— ] Yes, he'd come for me.

[ —before he passes out completely, gracelessly smacking into the table on the way down. ]

[ Graceless and concerning. The young women mill around the now-unconscious elf, Ada with her hands over her mouth― "Stella, was this really a good idea"― and Stella with more decisiveness, thin arms trying to roll the prone body towards the door. "Yes, Ada, this is going to be good for us."

The rest happens quickly: the pair report to their madam, who calls for Loredo's guards to come collect the sleeping elf. Astarion is hauled up and taken to a stately mansion overlooking the most scenic part of the nearby river (the silver lining: night has fallen by the time the armored men arrive), and, after a sneering evaluation by Loredo, tossed into a basement cellar with his arms and legs bound, dagger confiscated. A footman stands vigil near the stairs, half-asleep.

(Another jumpcut to Iorveth, river-soaked, going back to their inn to dry off before he can set out again to purchase a new shirt for Astarion. He pokes his head into their room, frowning at finding it empty; he presses his ear against the rose-etched door around the corner, and frowns even more when there's only silence on the other side.

Fuck.) ]

[ Astarion comes to in the dark, cold, bound, and immobile, and he could swear he's back in Godey's kennel, the last few months only a ridiculous fantasy, an impossible daydream. If he had a heart that could beat, it would be racing with fear. It doesn't, only lies dead and still as he stares up at the ceiling, mentally preparing himself to beg for forgiveness and mercy. It never works, but the punishment would be worse if he weren't to debase himself.

It takes a good few minutes for him to register that he hasn't just been transported back to Cazador's palace and is, in fact, still in Flotsam. Unable to move beyond impotent flopping and unarmed, there's very little for him to do but lie here helplessly and wait. Across the city, they both think fuck at the same time.

Back in the tavern, a young woman peeks her head outside of her own room. She's blonde and just as beautiful as Stella and Ada, but decidedly less confident about it, her small frame curled over itself in a slouch. Her delicate hand curls around the doorframe, and she says, in a small voice, "Are you looking for someone?"

It's obvious enough. There's only two elves staying here, and, well... "I saw—" A pause. She saw her fellow brothel workers rolling an elf out of their room, heard them talking as they dragged him down the hall past her door. Perhaps it isn't any of her business. Perhaps she should just keep her mouth shut. "—Never mind." ]

[ A mirrored sense of dread, though Iorveth's is laced with indescribable, molten-red anger turned inwards. It's all he can do to keep himself composed as he stands in the hallway, his expression set to blank neutral, no emotions evident on his chiseled features. If he allows himself any iota of feeling, he really might start removing heads indiscriminately.

He swivels his focus onto that small voice speaking to him, and for a knifepoint moment, he thinks he must look the part of a terrifying terrorist with a penchant for murder; she says "never mind", and he considers the pros and cons of dragging her out of her room by all that pretty gold hair and making her speak. Iorveth, despite how devoted he is to Astarion, is not a good person.

He tempers himself, with some effort. ]

If you saw a silver-haired elf, I would have you tell me. I'm traveling north with him.

[ Diplomatic. Iorveth wishes he could be anything but.

Meanwhile, where Astarion is being kept, there are voices above the stairs hotly debating whether it would be fine to rough up their new prisoner. The footman wakes up where he'd been dozing, and laughs passively at the conversation happening nearby; he makes a derisive comment to Astarion about all of them holding his fate in their hands, perhaps reaffirming Iorveth's very extreme claims that humans up north are all collectively trash. ]

[ The blonde woman shrinks back a little at Iorveth's initial, intense expression, clearly frightened. It's only once he moderates his temper that she takes a step forward, closing the door behind her, although she keeps a hand on the knob just in case she needs to make a quick escape. After all, this one-eyed elf, still dripping wet, is a bit... intimidating.

"I really shouldn't say," she says. "Madam says I keep sticking my nose where it doesn't belong."

She says a lot of things, actually. Isabel must be her least favorite courtesan. If you don't shape up, you'll be looking for new employment, she so often says. If it gets back to her that Isabel talked, she'll be out on the street. But it had been awfully suspicious what Stella and Ada were doing, and even more suspicious what they were saying. She visibly struggles for a moment, before she finally squeaks, "But I did see him. He didn't look, um, conscious. But maybe he was just tired!"

She sounds as much like she's trying to convince herself as she is him. "But if he were really tired, they could have just let him sleep in Stella's room..."

(Meanwhile, Astarion stares at a damp patch on the ceiling, dissociating as the footman laughs.) ]

[ He didn't look conscious. There's a long stretch of silence after the girl speaks, and the void that settles there should be even more terrifying than the one that preceded it: there's no word in any language for the unfiltered hatred that clogs Iorveth's throat for that lingering beat.

Finally, he opens his mouth again. ]

That man is more important to me than any one of you in this village.

[ It's a threat. Bare-faced. ] I'd have you tell me everything you know of where he went. Quickly, and concisely.

If you do, I'll take my leave, and you'll never see me again.

[ Cold, indifferent. There's nothing of the warm, smiling Iorveth with his lips pressed to Astarion's hair here; his face is almost a mask, one that might have been beautiful before war made it jagged and ugly. A different person entirely. ]

[ Luckily for Iorveth, the girl is easily threatened. One gets the sense that she would crack under minuscule pressure, much less the intensity that Iorveth is exuding now. She squeaks again, toying with a strand of golden hair nervously.

"I don't know anything," she assures him. "I mean, I just heard a thump, so I opened the door a crack, and there he was with Stella and Ada!" She claps a hand over her mouth. "Oh, I shouldn't have said their names... they're going to be so upset with me."

She's really stuck between a rock and a hard place here. Give the scary man what he wants, or face being yelled at by Stella and Ada. The scary man is more of an immediate threat, so she lowers her hand, looking wide-eyed and guilty.

"They looked like they were really struggling to drag him." If Astarion were here to hear this, he'd be so offended by the implication that he's heavy. "And they said something about getting the Commandant's guards. That's all I know, really! Please don't hurt me." ]

[ His current predicament isn't this stammering girl's fault, but Iorveth can't help the resentment that courses through him at the knowledge that people saw an unconscious elf being dragged through an establishment and did nothing to intervene. Setting that infuriating thought aside (difficult), he aligns the remaining puzzle pieces and puts together the rather trite reality of things: that the two women who visited them somehow managed to knock Astarion out and bring him to Loredo.

Still inscrutable, Iorveth turns away from poor Isabel. Keeping his promise, at least, that he'll leave her alone. ]

A sorry state of affairs. [ He shakes his head. ] I'll pay the Commandant a visit, then.

[ Stella and Ada, he'll think about later. It's likely they they've already started their escape into the forest, and he has no time to track down two rabbits while Astarion is in Loredo's hands; some disgusting lowlife may be attempting to harm Astarion at this very moment in time, even.

A sharp turn, and Iorveth makes his way down the hall and out of the building on swift, silent feet. Definitely not a "hunky rapscallion with a heart of gold": he storms away with the purpose of a man on a warpath, leaving poor Isabel to perhaps also consider the pros and cons of escaping to Waterdeep.

Meanwhile, again, on the other side of town: footsteps echo down the stairs leading to the stone basement that Astarion is being kept in. The disembodied sound winds up belonging to Loredo himself, a hairless brute with meaty features sunk into the middle of his potato-like face. He draws close to the prone elf splayed on the cold floor, and toes at him with one expensive but very muddy boot.

"You're awake, eh?" His voice is reedy, and his stomach shakes with each syllable. "I can't say it was smart of you to come prancing into my town like some pointy-eared prince, but nevertheless― I appreciate that you brought that one-eyed hellbeast with you. Been trying to get my hands on him for ages, you see."

Loredo crouches, fisting sweaty fingers in Astarion's hair to pull his face up into view.

"The whores," because of course he'd call the courtesans that, boor that he is, "they told me that your so-called companion'd come running for you if you screamed loud enough. Is that true?" ]

[ Astarion cringes at the feeling of damp fingers in his hair. Cazador and Godey were as cruel as cruel can be, but at least they were never moist. The entire situation has him perspiring himself—although he'd prefer the description of dewy rather than sweaty—with his body stuck in fight-or-flight even when neither are an option. The feeling of being helpless is perhaps the worst one in the world, although it's not one he's unaccustomed to.

He could respond with yes, tell the Commandant all the terrible things that Iorveth would like to do to him. He could refuse to respond at all. He could just spit in the man's face. Astarion's not proud of how he does respond, a futile attempt at weaseling out of suffering. ]

Hardly. Honestly, I don't even think he likes me. It's purely physical between us — I'm sure you know how it is.

[ Loredo smiles at the response, incongruous with the additional yanking of Astarion's hair, the low hiss of his voice between his bared teeth.

"If that's the case, it wouldn't matter to him one way or the other if we hung your corpse from my balcony. Would it?"

Calling Astarion out on the potential bluff, and demonstrating the lack of regard he has for elven lives in general. It's evident by the lack of anything resembling warmth or understanding in his eyes that he doesn't see Astarion as anything but a means to an end; certainly not a sentient being deserving of dignity or respect.

"If he's not going to come collect, we might as well take out the trash right now." ]

[ Astarion's mouth feels very dry, and impotent rage boils up inside him. It's treatment befitting a dog, or perhaps less than a dog; he doesn't matter at all, only bait for a bigger fish in the Commandant's eyes. That's what gets him the most. After all this time and effort, after smashing his tormentor's face in until it was unrecognizable, after killing a damn Netherbrain, he's still just a tool for a more important person to use.

It feels awful. Part of him would rather the Commandant just get it over with and 'take out the trash' so that this feeling stops, but a larger part of him, the desperate prey animal that persevered all those years in torment, would do anything to live. ]

—Well, don't be hasty. He... [ His voice sounds very small, and he clears his throat, willing himself not to be that person anymore. He's not that person anymore. At least, he thought he wasn't. ] He might come.

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iorveth, bashing a man's head in: it ain't much but it's honest work

iorveth, killing someone: man life is just so hard

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