essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ "He better," Loredo spits. He lets go of Astarion's hair, letting him collapse back onto the grimy stone floor of the cellar with a click of his tongue.

"Then again, the slippery bastard might cut his losses and find another pointy-eared rat to stick his prick in. Must not be very happy with you anymore."

An appraising glance, sideways. Loredo toes Astarion with his boot again, rolling him onto his back for a better look. After he flicks his dull eyes over the entirety of him, Loredo lifts his foot as if to kick him in the stomach―

―but is interrupted by hurried footsteps above, and a voice shouting about a fire at the docks. "Our shipment's burning!", someone yells, and Loredo curses under his breath.

"Make sure the elf doesn't go anywhere," he snaps at his footman, and jogs up the stairs to see what the panic is about. Obviously Iorveth's doing, given the timing. The footman looks visibly disconcerted by the sudden change in atmosphere, but picks up where Loredo left off, kicking Astarion harshly in his side. "Behave yourself, elf."

While that's happening―

―the deranged terrorist that Loredo is looking for has swiftly made himself across town and into the nearby river, hidden by ink-dark water and tall grass. Iorveth watches as armored guards flail about with buckets of water, trying to salvage whatever they can of their now-burning cargo on their handful of barges; Iorveth considers killing every last one of them, but sets that thought aside in favor of something (someone) more pressing. He swims towards Loredo's riverside mansion, hoping that the fire claims at least some of the men he's left behind. ]

Edited 2025-01-25 23:49 (UTC)

[ Astarion can relate to the footman, in a way. When you're low on the totem pole, you take any opportunity to step on those lower than you. He tortured his siblings--literally and figuratively--and tormented the staff, although he still thinks the ones who weren't enthralled deserved every awful thing he did to them. Violence is a cycle, he supposes. That doesn't make it any less enraging when the man's boot connects with his side.

He grunts, curling up as much as he can to protect his stomach. ]

I'd get out now, if I were you.

[ A glance up at him-- ]

Ugh, but thank the gods I'm not.

[ Like he said: he knows what it's like to step on little people to make himself feel better. ]

[ It takes a second for the insult to sink in, and once it does― well. The man flushes red, and attempts another kick that lands across Astarion's forearms instead of his stomach. Bad aim. As far as goons go, this one obviously has more experience being shoved around than the opposite.

"I should kick your godsdamned teeth out," he hisses, and crouches next to Astarion for another poorly-aimed slap to his face. Not even a punch. Fingers dent into Astarion's cheek as the footman grabs his face, tugging him up so that they're almost nose-to-nose.

Speaking of. It's a wonder how he hasn't noticed Astarion's fangs.

"You think a little fire at the docks is going to save you? Loredo's gonna have fun mauling you before he throws your body in the river."

(Above them, a window opens. Iorveth drops into the first floor kitchen; he slinks through the chaos of the mansion, holding three men at knifepoint before one of them finally tells him that they have a prisoner being kept in the basement. Iorveth kills him and piles his body on top of the others in the broom closet, then makes his way through the corridor, shooting two other men in short range with a crossbow before finally finding the door leading down into the cellar.

He walks soundlessly down, down. Sopping wet and covered in blood, he looks the part of the unhinged monster who kills humans for sport.) ]

[ The footman's breath reeks of stale booze and cigar smoke. Astarion wrinkles his nose, craning as far away from him as his position allows. (Thank the gods he doesn't need to breathe.) If he'd been a little nicer, Astarion might have taken pity on him; it must be thankless being some bigot's toady, but it seems he's just as rotten as the rest of them.

Oh, well. Hopefully, his work will be over soon.

Astarion would be lying if he said he didn't feel a jolt of fear at the threat. Perhaps Iorveth will get killed on his way here and Loredo really will throw Astarion's body in the river. Maybe he'll ruin Astarion's pretty face until his corpse is unrecognizable. Maybe everything up until this point will have been for nothing, and the gods decided to gift him with a brief stretch of happiness just to snatch it away.

He finds himself without a rebuttal. How could he possibly rebut what seems like a very real possibility? A long pause stretches out before he finally says, ] Perhaps you might consider a breath mint.

[ Another moment to digest that insult (clearly not the sharpest bulb in the shed), and the footman snarls, throwing up the arm that he isn't using to hold Astarion in place―

―but the blow never lands. Iorveth descends on the human before he can throw his punch, and rams the sharp end of a crossbow bolt through his neck, cutting off any screams before they can escape his blocked airway. Blood sprays everywhere, coating Iorveth's bandaged hand and Astarion's poor face, and Iorveth grimaces at the mess, jabbing another bolt next to the one already embedded in soft flesh before tossing the writhing man aside as if he were garbage (he is).

Wiping his palm on his knee, he kneels next to Astarion. The neutral mask he'd been wearing slips; concern flits across his single eye as he draws a dagger and sets to work on undoing tightly-pulled binds, pragmatism keeping careful fingers from shaking with rage. ]

Astarion, [ he murmurs. A thousand different follow-up statements cross his mind, but the only thing Iorveth manages is a choked half-sound, angry and frustrated and, above all else, upset. ]

[ Astarion has never felt so humiliated as he does now, Iorveth kneeling before him while he's tied up like an animal for the slaughter, blood dripping down his face, entirely pathetic. Shame cuts him like a knife, and while he's relieved to be freed, an irrational part of him wants to shout at Iorveth to get out so that he doesn't see Astarion like this.

He doesn't, of course. He says, ] Don't be angry with me.

[ It was his own stupidity that ended them in this situation, after all, just as it had been his own stupidity that got him bitten and tossed into a grave. ]

[ Angry with him. Unbelievable. Iorveth has more rage in him than he has any idea what to do with, but none of it is directed in Astarion's direction. It's a different intensity altogether, the sort of heartsickness that could make Iorveth scream; this is his fault, this only happened because Iorveth told Astarion to stay.

That's an open wound to lick later, though. Now, he shakes his head and tosses severed rope aside, helping Astarion back upright with blood-streaked hands holding stiff shoulders. ]

You should be furious with me.

[ It would be deserved. Iorveth'd been half-expecting Astarion to snap at him, to tell him that nothing is worth being treated like this. A low breath, and he divests the still-shuddering corpse of the footman of Astarion's dagger, placing it carefully in Astarion's hands to give him some means of self-defense in this rapidly-worsening situation. ]

...Can you walk?

[ His legs are a little sore from being dragged around and thrown in a cellar, but they still work fine. A cautious step forward, and he nods, fingers wrapping around the handle of the dagger. The world feels a little bit brighter with a weapon in his hand, no longer helpless. As he stares down at the bloodied corpse of the footman, he gives him a retaliatory kick in the stomach. It's not as satisfying as it would be if he were still alive, but it makes blood spurt out of the Iorveth-made openings in his body. ]

Let's go.

[ He wants to be rid of this place already, but Iorveth didn't come here only to rescue him. ]

The Commandant must be somewhere upstairs.

[ Astarion, still speaking his language even after all this. A sane person would probably scream and cry and throw a fit, demanding that they be let out of here so they can go― instead, Astarion is graciously giving Iorveth a chance to kill a man, with the implication that he will, in fact, go with him.

Crazy. Iorveth stares for a moment, uncomprehending, before he snaps himself out of it with a shake of his head and a puffed exhale. ]

...Watching the docks from a safe distance, no doubt. [ A coward, through and through. ] Come. Stay close to me.

[ Fortunately for them, they still have the element of surprise: the confusion reigning in the mansion is first and foremost attributable to the nearby fire than an intruder in their midst, though some savvy guardsmen are starting to gear up, anticipating the worst. "It's got to be Iorveth," one man in the hallway whines to his companion, the both of them crouched on the ground lacing their boots. "It's because we stole his pet elf."

Not wrong. Iorveth deftly lodges a bolt in the whiner's skull, letting Astarion take care of the other one if he's so inclined. With those two dead, they have a clear path up to the second floor, where Loredo must be skulking about. ]

You can do me the honor of killing him, [ Iorveth murmurs mid-journey. Honestly, Astarion deserves it. ]

[ Astarion hurls his dagger into the other man's chest, retrieving it once he's crumpled on the ground and wiping it off against his now-prone body. His gaze falls on the whiner, bolt sticking out of his ugly head. Pet. Astarion's eyes narrow, his nose wrinkled, lip curled. Is that what people think of him, still? He supposes he proved them right, lying around and waiting for his owner to come and save him. For yet another time, he feels himself flood with shame.

No time to dwell on it, although he'd really like to. He glances at Iorveth. ]

We'll do it together.

[ A fair way to do it. They both hate him. It wouldn't be right to deprive either one of them of the pleasure of watching the light go out of his eyes.

As he skulks up the stairs, he calls, ] Oh, Commandant.

[ "Pet elf", the humans say, when the truth of the matter is that Astarion is the one with Iorveth, helplessly and furiously in love with him, wrapped around his little finger. A vengeful, ruthless attack fox, circling his beloved's feet with his fangs bared.

Case in point: Loredo. When they swing the door open into his upstairs office, the man is pressed to the wall opposite them, sword in hand, sweating. "How in the hells―", he groans, glancing at the window behind him, clearly assessing whether or not the fall would do serious damage if he chose to jump out.

"Fine," he spits, "you win. You burned my barges and you killed my guards. You've made an arse of me, so―"

A full-bodied tremor, as he watches Iorveth step forward. There's no discernible expression on the elf's features: it's impassivity to the point of insanity, rage so condensed that it's gone full circle to near-numbness. Loredo brandishes his sword, roaring at Iorveth to get back as he hacks away at air, graceless and frenetic. ]

Edited 2025-01-26 10:57 (UTC)

[ Even now, with Astarion standing in front of him with a dagger, the Commandant only sees Iorveth. It rankles how little importance, significance Astarion holds in his eyes. Just a hanger-on, or as the Commandant had so disgustingly said, someone for a more relevant person to stick his prick into. In contrast with Iorveth's impassivity, he's practically steaming from the ears, face turning red with rage. ]

He has a bow, you idiot.

[ Keeping Iorveth at a distance won't save him when he could put a bolt through the Commandant's eyes from a mile away. Astarion, though, would rather not close the distance when his enemy is swinging a sword. Instead, he throws his dagger with a quick flick of the wrist, aiming for Loredo's shoulder. ]

[ Loredo isn't wearing armor: a level of complacency that'll prove to be lethal, Iorveth thinks. Stupider than the man's lack of protection is his assumption that Astarion wouldn't know how to use the weapon he'd been holding in his hand, and Loredo yelps as the dagger strikes his shoulder with angry accuracy, prompting him to drop his sword.

The cost of letting one's narrow worldview dictate every situation. Iorveth watches the man drop to his knees in pain, tuning out his senseless babble.

Turning to Astarion: ]

Do you wish for him to beg?

[ Deferring to Astarion's preferences on this one, gesturing for him to come closer as Iorveth kicks the human onto his back and steps on his stomach with icy contempt. Loredo squawks inelegantly, and curses a few times before realizing that he is, in fact, on very thin ice.

"You two can go, I won't send my men after you again―" ]

[ Astarion draws closer, looking down at the man pinned on the ground, babbling. He isn't so scary now. Funny, how ten minutes and a cadre of dead guards can change things. ]

Mmm, [ he says in fake contemplation, ] yes.

[ Not that it will change anything. Iorveth wants him dead, so the miserable wretch has been dead since the moment they walked into this town. Astarion, too, despises him for the way he made him feel: small, powerless, insignificant. Allowing him to live after that is unthinkable. ]

Go on. [ His foot collides with Loredo's side, hard, just the way he'd done to Astarion. ] I imagine you're good at begging. I hear you do rather a lot of it in the brothel when you've been captured by she-elves.

[ The blow to Loredo's side lands, and while the physical pain should be immediate and unbearable, the verbal insult is what finally turns the man's face an interesting shade of red-purple. He splutters, caught between rage and mortification, and Iorveth watches with the sort of brow-raised disdain reserved for people he regards as less than something inconvenient stuck to the bottom of his boot.

"That's... Hells, I've never...!", Loredo protests, but is cut off by the bone-crushing pressure of Iorveth's foot against his diaphragm. ]

He told you to beg, not to make excuses.

[ Uncompromising. Not a shred of mercy anywhere on Iorveth's stone-faced expression. Loredo looks up with misty eyes, and turns towards Astarion to appeal, perhaps, to his conscience.

"I... Please. You should understand, he..." Loredo's attempt to gesture towards Iorveth with his injured arm ends in a groan and a wince, piglike features scrunching into the middle of his face. He takes a moment to breathe, but seems to give up on making a case for himself soon after. "Please, spare me. Mercy... Noble high elf, sir..."

More babbling, punctuated by sweaty fingers scrabbling over a mud-stained rug. They get too close to Astarion for comfort, so Iorveth removes his foot from the human's stomach to stomp on them, instead. ]

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