[ Astarion raises an eyebrow, huffing out a dry laugh. ]
My love, I thought we both knew. You haven't any sanity left to dwindle.
[ He hasn't for as long as Astarion has known him, but somehow he's become even more insane than the perpetually angry-looking wood elf with an ugly headscarf that Astarion met on the beach. Astarion doesn't mind, of course. Insane is hot. If not for Iorveth's insanity, he would never have helped Astarion free himself of Cazador, he never would have let a vampire drink his blood, and he definitely wouldn't have asked an undead being with no prospects to travel with him. Insanity works in Astarion's favor.
They're in no condition to cuddle, but Astarion reaches out to touch the tips of their fingers together. ]
You do look handsome, [ he says, because Iorveth always looks handsome in his eyes, ] but you also look as if you've been trampled by a horse. [ Handsomely. ] Rest. I'll keep watch until nightfall.
[ Funny. Astarion tells Iorveth that he has no more sanity left to lose, but he's also telling Iorveth that he looks handsome. A deranged observation, even when Iorveth doesn't look like he just came out of a boxing match with a minotaur.
He's a mess. Sweating lightly from the promise of a fever, mottled bruises obscuring some of the finer patterns of the tattoo snaking down his torso, cut and scraped and matted. He doesn't protest rest, even though he'd like to. ]
...We're farther from Waterdeep than I would've liked to be, [ is a soft murmur, single eye closing as he lists against the nearest flat surface. He curls his fingers where they're touching Astarion's, turning it into a proper handhold. ] It'll be a full night of travel. Less if we had a boat or a horse.
[ The boat option is out; the horse one too, unless they get really lucky. Of course Iorveth is trying to calculate routes even when he's told to rest, though－ terminally unable to keep his overactive mind from planning and plotting. His voice starts to slur. ]
I'll send the wizard a message, [ he murmurs, and it's the last thing he manages before he conks out, limp and unguarded with the rays of morning sunlight starting to warm his back. ]
[ The day comes and goes without incident. Astarion stays in his hole, only able to appreciate the sunlight from a distance. Once, his hand ventures out into the light for just a moment, but white-hot singeing causes him to yank it back. He broods for a while, and then he does something unthinkable: considers their next steps. Gale is an archwizard, or at least he used to be. What are the chances he's been hiding a sunlight ring this whole time?
Low. Gale isn't cruel. If he had the means to ease a friend's burdens, he would.
The sun sets, and he presses the back of his cold hand against Iorveth's forehead. It feels warm, but he always feels warm in comparison to Astarion, so it's difficult to say whether he's caught an infection or not. Gently, he nudges Iorveth's foot with his own. ]
[ The cool touch to his forehead rouses Iorveth, pulling him out of his deep void of unconsciousness. Less a trance and more a shutdown, his features slack, making him look younger than he prefers to present himself as.
Groggy, Iorveth lifts his head and nuzzles into the cold palm, grateful for the difference in temperature. ]
Unwell.
[ Bluntly, with his tired tinge of exasperation aimed inwards. Annoyed by his body not cooperating with him when he needs it to the most. ] But I can still walk, and we should be on our way.
[ He can collapse when they have a roof over their heads, not before then. He drags himself upright, slinging his bow across his bare back. ]
[ Astarion frowns. He's no healer, but he does know that if Iorveth is feeling unwell, pushing himself might make it worse. Perhaps they'll make it to Waterdeep, but then Iorveth will fall down in the middle of the street. Or perhaps they won't make it to Waterdeep at all, because Astarion can't imagine abandoning him if he's too ill to travel.
But he also knows Iorveth, and he knows that nothing he can say will stop Iorveth from pushing himself when he shouldn't, so he crawls out from under the stone bridge into the chilly night. ]
If you say so, [ sounds distinctly disbelieving. ]
If you collapse, I'm not carrying you on my back. [ Not because he doesn't love Iorveth, but because, well, he's very weak. ] One does wish they had a Karlach at a time like this. Hells, I'd even settle for a Halsin.
[ Settle for is funny, and so Iorveth laughs despite himself. ]
Quiet. You'll invoke him.
[ As if he might come striding out from behind one of the broken marble columns littering this elven mausoleum. Iorveth glances towards Astarion and takes a moment to fuss with him, combing dirt and dust from his hair, patting dried flakes of blood from his collar. Satisfied with the results, Iorveth takes stock of their surroundings and makes the executive decision to head vaguely towards where he believes Waterdeep to be－ he'll course correct along the way.
As he starts walking: ] If only I knew how to Wild Shape.
[ Not a real desire, but an invitation for Astarion to imagine him as a sullen, one-eyed creature capable of carrying Astarion on his back. An owlbear? Not a regular bear, Halsin has the monopoly on that. ]
[ It's almost inconceivable how satisfying it is to be groomed by Iorveth. It's nothing yet everything, a tiny gesture that makes him feel a gigantic surge of affection. Iorveth didn't fuss with himself, but he took the time to make Astarion's appearance tidy—as tidy as it can be, when he has little bruises all over from being dragged through the tavern and tossed into a cellar—because he knows that Astarion cares about it. For a moment, he can think of nothing but kissing Iorveth's wonderful face, but he tempers the urge, uncertain if his affections would be welcomed by a dirty, disheveled, feverish Iorveth.
He falls into step with Iorveth, following blindly. A testament to the trust Iorveth has earned. Like a lost puppy, Astarion would trail behind him into the hells (with some reluctance). ]
And here I thought you already knew. How else would I have a little fox curled up at my feet every night?
[ They only need to endure this journey to Waterdeep, and then Astarion can soak in a hot bath and buy some new clothes (courtesy of Gale, who will act as their inn and wallet for the foreseeable temporary future). This goal is the only thing keeping Iorveth doggedly moving, bullheaded as usual when it comes to something that needs accomplishing.
He spares another breath to laugh again, though. ]
I'm hardly "little".
[ And he definitely doesn't curl by Astarion's feet. Very cute and very delusional of Astarion to think that he's not the small spoon between the two of them. Iorveth says as much. ]
And, the way I see it― [ Reaching back to take Astarion's forearm, he guides the both of them away from a boggy pit. ] ―I'm the one holding an oversized cat to my chest every night.
[ He considers himself very lucky. He'll be even luckier if they can survive the night and wind up in a bed where they can actually huddle without feeling absolutely disgusting; the thought spurs him to press on, weaving and occasionally stopping whenever he thinks he hears something larger than a bird or squirrel in their vicinity, mindful of humans who may or may not still be pursuing them. He's sure that they have their hands full trying to regroup after having half of their village burned down, but he can never be too certain.
On they go. Along the way, Iorveth uses Animal Friendship to coax a sparrow onto his shoulder, but finds that he really has no more energy left to cast Speak to Animals. He winds up not being able to send Gale the message of their arrival, and is left to contend with a very affectionate bird that keeps nipping at his ear for attention. Life is hell. ]
[ The comparison to a cat—or any sort of animal—would rankle if it weren't coming from Iorveth, but it is, so Astarion knows it's meant affectionately and not disparagingly. That makes it pleasing rather than irritating, and he scoffs and rolls his eyes in a way that suggests he likes it but will never admit such a thing. ]
Don't expend your energy, darling.
[ He reaches out to touch Iorveth's back, but the sparrow looks at him sideways and he recoils. Eugh, nature. Perhaps it knows that there's something deeply unnatural about him, or perhaps it can tell that he'd sink his teeth into it if it weren't perched on Iorveth right now. ]
It's not as if Gale will turn us away.
[ Probably. Maybe. In fact, he very much could. It's hardly been any time at all since he returned to Waterdeep, but maybe he's already resumed his life there as an illustrious wizard. Maybe two bedraggled elves at his doorstep would be too much trouble.
No, Astarion thinks, shaking his head. Gale is nauseatingly loyal. He might balk at their travel-worn appearances, but he won't make them leave. (Still, there's a nagging little doubt in the back of his head: what in the world will they do if he does?) ]
He'll be overjoyed to see us, I'm sure, [ he adds in a voice that suggests he's convincing himself as much as Iorveth. ] Life must be so dull without us around.
[ Iorveth is also relying on Gale's willingness to give them shelter until the events of Flotsam die down to a background murmur, but there is that small-but-not-nonexistent possibility that they might get turned away. Or, well, that Iorveth might get turned away for being the terrorist at the center of the rumor mill. Consorting with a known criminal may not be the best for Gale's recovering reputation.
So: ] He'd not turn you away. [ Iorveth assumes. Gale likes Astarion, this much he knows for certain. As for Gale liking him, well.
...That's a tossup. Again, Iorveth assumes. He's fond of the wizard in his own way, but he wasn't exactly always kind to Gale in casual situations. ]
You could inject some much-needed excitement back into his life. [ Is a corroboration of Astarion's assertion. ] He never said so, but I suspect he enjoyed it when you pulled on his metaphorical pigtails.
[ You, Iorveth says, and Astarion hates the way it sounds. It's much like how he'd said Astarion would have no trouble getting a room at the tavern. If Gale were to turn only Iorveth away, Astarion would have to threaten drastic measures. Like shaving that beard of his, perhaps.
None of this needs to be said, though, because Gale won't turn either of them away. It's a requirement for their plans that he doesn't, so Astarion won't entertain another possibility. (Oh, gods, he really hopes Gale hasn't gone on a post-adventure vacation. Then again, maybe Tara would be willing to let them inside in his stead.) ]
Yes, I did always suspect that he carried a torch for me.
[ Conceited until the bitter end. ]
Along with Wyll, of course, and Shadowheart, and Karlach— [ He rattles off the names of all the people he's convinced are obsessed with him, which is pretty much everyone. Minsc, at least, is spared. ] Oh, and I once caught Jaheira giving me a very saucy look.
[ Iorveth takes it utterly for granted that Gale will be there, because Iorveth is a mean jock who assumes that Gale is a loser who would rather stay in a tower and talk about magic all day instead of going outside (affectionate). Sure, wizards might be satisfied with being intellectually and conceptually stimulated without moving from the comforts of their room, but, like. Iorveth can't relate.
Anyway. The sparrow on his shoulder titters for attention, and he scoops it onto his hand for idle petting and a little peck. He's going to have to ditch it before they get to Waterdeep－ he's seen Tara's capacity for avian cruelty. ]
Hm. You and Jaheira. Interesting.
[ Thinking About It. Logistically difficult, he thinks－ Jaheira doesn't seem the sort to stay on her back for anyone. (To be fair, he's pretty sure that everyone thinks that about him, too.) ]
Certainly, you would have looked pretty with any of them clinging to your elbow. [ Kind of wack, that Iorveth was travelling with a bunch of impossibly hot people. What the fuck was that about, actually. ] Or, in Karlach's case, with you dangling off of hers.
Ah— [ He holds up a finger correctively. ] I always look pretty.
[ No elbow-clingers required. Still, Iorveth is right: their companions were all ridiculously attractive. Despite that, not a single one of their pretty faces stirred him nearly as much as the sight of Iorveth killing a man, and not even in the realm of as much as Iorveth's hand brushing against his. Strange how that works. Astarion thinks Iorveth is wonderful-looking, but he finds he wouldn't particularly care if he didn't. Iorveth could be a hideous beast, and he fears he'd still swoon for him. ]
But you're right. We did make a good-looking group. Their charms were wasted on me, though.
[ Except superficially. He did very much enjoy being surrounded by beautiful people. ]
After all, I was instantly [ —ha— ] smitten with this rugged wood elf freedom fighter.
[ He turns on his heels, taking care not to let Astarion collide into him as a result of the sudden stop, and presses his fever-warm lips to the corner of said pretty mouth. The sparrow sees this as a grave insult, apparently ("in front of my salad???"), and flies off in a feathery huff. ]
I prefer the truth of things: that you learned to tolerate me.
[ An arduous, meaningful process. Iorveth pinches the bridge of Astarion's nose, and resumes their half-trot across the forest. The trees are beginning to thin, giving way to flatter, easier terrain that will lead them straight to the gates of Waterdeep. He thinks he remembers someone they passed on Trade Way mentioning that they might make it to the City of Splendors just in time for Fey Day, which is fortuitous timing; Iorveth hopes that he and Astarion will be able to slip through the incoming rush of visitors relatively unnoticed. ]
Let's see if you can tolerate me telling you to walk faster. Come.
[ Before this journey, Astarion had struggled to tolerate other people, full stop, with little of his difficulty to do with anything about Iorveth's person. (Iorveth had been particularly vexing, true, but it's that vexingness that made him interesting in the first place.) He far more than tolerates Iorveth now, and he considers saying so just to eliminate any doubt that Iorveth is more than merely a tolerable person, but then Iorveth tells him to pick up the pace, and suddenly he doesn't feel quite as affectionate.
He groans, trudging behind Iorveth at roughly the same pace he's been walking, but now with more melodrama. Iorveth might be used to trekking through the forest, but he isn't, and by the time they're approaching the gates of Waterdeep, he looks nearly as exhausted as Iorveth has since they woke up. He's complained numerous times that his feet hurt, probably because one's favorite shoes are not necessarily one's best traveling boots.
The Crown of the North, Waterdeep is a glorious contrast to the gritty, seedy Baldur's Gate. Outside the tall, imposing gates stand members of the City Watch, dressed in shiny steel armor and wielding shiny steel swords. The Flaming Fists never wore anything quite so... gleaming. Two men—a human and a dwarf—flank the gate, and as they approach, the human raises a gauntlet-clad hand, golden hair flowing behind him like a knight of yore.
[ Fussy cat. Iorveth doesn't coddle Astarion about their brisk journey ("if you've energy enough to whine, you've energy enough to walk"), but his patience is worn thin by the time they get to the impressive double-door gates leading into a city even bigger than the one they left. By default, Iorveth finds urban landscapes less impressive than the enduring grandeur of nature, but the prospect of walls and a roof is, admittedly, appealing at this particular moment in time.
Very inconvenient for him, then, that they're not immediately being granted entry. Even worse, that they're being told to wait until the sun goes up, because they can't afford being blasted by morning light. Iorveth stares blankly at the human for a lingering moment, taking that time to contemplate all the ways in which he could kill the guy and be done with these tiresome negotiations. This budding fever has him feeling truly unwise.
Iorveth frowns. Just shy of a scowl, which is his attempt at being diplomatic. ]
Can't you see, [ he half-snaps, ] that my beloved is exhausted.
[ So says the elf who was telling Astarion to suck it up and jog not more than thirty minutes ago. ]
[ The human squints at Astarion's deathly pallor. "He does look a little... peaky."
"Lots of people are tired," the dwarf replies, unsympathetic. "They sleep outside the gates till morning."
"Elves don't sleep," says the human. "They meditate or something."
Astarion stares for a moment, then sighs before coughing dramatically, doubled over as he hacks. He covers his mouth as he does so, then glances at his palm before staring up at the guards with wide eyes. With all the melodrama he's known for: ]
Oh, gods. Is it normal to cough up blood?
[ "Um," says the human, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm not a healer..." ]
Oh, I knew I shouldn't have eaten those strange berries. I feel so cold... don't I feel cold, dear?
[ Iorveth: Try to Act Normal About Astarion Challenge (Impossible). On one hand, he's aware that the world is indifferent about their wants and needs, but on the other: has it considered that Astarion is his most important person??? He said no pickles, etc. These guards don't owe them anything, but they are still required by Iorveth's law to listen to Astarion anyway.
Falling into step with the melodrama, albeit stiffly: ] Like death.
[ A private joke. He hides his half-smirk by turning his back on the guards to press his palm against Astarion's forehead, feigning inspection. The picture of a concerned lover, which is likely not in-line with any warning that the two men may have heard about two dangerous elves who caused a ruckus in Flotsam.
Still, the dwarf seems to remain skeptical.
"If we make an exception for them, others are also going to want exceptions made." Sound, practical logic, even if he does look a little nervous about Astarion potentially throwing up near their feet. "Besides, there probably aren't any healers awake at this hour..." ]
[ The problem with Waterdeep is that their guards actually give a fuck. If this were Baldur's Gate, he'd be certain he could slip a bribe their way and be on with his day. These guards, though, seem determined to make their city a nice and safe place to be. Ugh, so annoying. ]
Please, if you've any mercy—
[ He stumbles, holding a hand to his head as if he might be about to faint. Iorveth is a mean jock, but Astarion is so much worse: a catty theatre kid. ]
I don't want to die without seeing the City of Splendors.
[ For his grand finale, Astarion begins to gag, looking as if he's about to retch all over their newly-shined boots.
"Gods," says the human, eyes wide. He looks a little sick himself. "Fine, just go!"
"—Adrik!" the dwarf scolds. "You're too much of a bleeding heart." ]
[ Diametrically opposing opinions: Iorveth is grateful that Adrik folds so quickly, but also feels a minor amount of contempt for him for not adhering to his duties (humans and their nonexistent backbones, ugh).
While the two guards have a whispered back-and-forth ("it can't hurt, Gunnar－ I mean, one of them isn't even wearing a shirt, they must be in dire straits"), Iorveth bites back his own wave of nausea and tries not to think about how he doesn't even know where Gale's stupid tower is located in the city. Leaning towards Astarion, he murmurs: ]
Did you pay any attention to the wizard when he prattled on and on about this city?
[ Something something Kiana's Mystericum's wonderful selection of rare books, something something going to the The Jade Jug once in a blue moon for a stiff drink, et cetera, ad infinitum. Maybe Gale mentioned living near some stupidly-named establishment at some point (Iorveth was definitely not paying any attention), and Astarion managed to retain it.
Probably not. The dwarf gives the two of them one last once-over, and sighs at Adrik. "They do look too sickly to cause trouble." ]
[ The two men step aside to allow them through the gate, and Astarion is suitably effusive for a sick, humble traveler as they do so — oh, thank you, kind sirs. Once they're through, though, he rolls his eyes. ]
Fools.
[ The streets of Waterdeep's Southern Ward are less glittering than he expected, although it's still cleaner than Baldur's Gate. It quickly becomes clear that this is the part of the city reserved for the less socioeconomically fortunate, like the Lower City. All places are the same, in the end; even here, the rich prefer to be separated from the common rabble. The streets are lined with businesses for one thing or another, many of them stacked one on top of the other in tall multistory buildings, although the windows are dark at this time of night. They pass by a wooden sign reading What Ales You, and it doesn't take a natural 20 on perception to know what goods they're proffering. ]
Ugh, [ he groans, eyes roaming over the unfamiliar landscape. ] Maybe I shouldn't have tuned Gale out quite so much.
[ He still should have tuned him out, of course, just less. One can only take so much Gale. ]
[ The scenery is－ well, not disconcerting, per se, but Iorveth isn't a fan of all of all of these densely-packed man-made constructs taking up the majority of his field of vision. Gale had called Waterdeep a feat of civilization and culture, but all Iorveth thinks when he sees the city open up to him in shades of night-dark sandstone and brick is "ugly". ]
By the water, [ he echoes, nose wrinkling. The area near the docks is awash with the stench of fish, fresh and rotted; floating above that already-unpleasant musk, the unmistakably acrid sharpness of unwashed sailors. ] He made this city sound like a paradise. Truly deluded.
[ Maybe his opinion will change once they venture a little further north, but walking the seam between the South Ward and the Dock Ward is a lesson in profound disappointment. They pass a few drunk dockworkers who have apparently given up trying to get to their inns, and Iorveth supposes he can give the city credit where it's due that no one has stolen the wallets off of their prone forms (yet).
He squints, looking up towards the slowly-brightening sky in search of something towerlike. ]
We may have to resume our search tomorrow. We haven't much time.
[ Astarion's gaze follows Iorveth's, up into the night sky that's quickly beginning to turn to the early morning sky. This sunlight sensitivity is really putting a wrench in all of his plans. He frowns, glancing from one side of the cobblestoned street to the other. ]
Have we enough coin for an inn?
[ He points to another large, multistory building. This one, however, appears to house only one business: The Spouting Fish, presumably an inn and tavern of some kind. Unlike most of the buildings on the street, The Spouting Fish has light filtering out of the windows and the faint sound of conversation within. ]
If we're lucky, perhaps the proprietor will have heard of the esteemed Wizard of Waterdeep.
[ Point. They don't have enough coin for an inn, unless Astarion wants to part with his trinkets, which Iorveth has kept strapped to his hip (some of them ruined, no doubt, thanks to Iorveth's dip in the river the previous night). ]
More and more, I'm beginning to doubt the veracity of anything that came out of Gale's mouth.
[ Obviously Gale is a very capable wizard, but is he really renowned as such, or did Tara say those things to spare him his feelings??? A Mystery.
At any rate, asking for directions is a good idea, so into The Spouting Fish they go: an establishment that is made, it seems, entirely out of wood, and should really discourage its visitors from smoking inside. Two tired-looking wizards (Iorveth assumes, from the robes they're wearing) is sat near a table of rowdy halflings, accompanied by a water elemental swaying gently on amorphous feet.
The wizards (again, Iorveth assumes) look their way, then go back to reading as the proprietress of the place bustles towards them, energetic despite how obscenely early in the morning it is.
"A pint before work, gentlemen?", she booms. Iorveth winces. ]
[ The proprietress of this particular establishment is Janess Imristar, an outgoing and perpetually bubbly human. She grins at them with a vibrant smile despite their disheveled appearances — travelers are common at The Spouting Fish, given its opportune location so close to the gates, so a little bit of blood and bruising doesn't faze her. Astarion stares back blankly, too exhausted from having to (gasp!) jog that he no longer has the energy to return her smile with one of her own. ]
Oh, we aren't working, [ he replies, uttering the word 'work' with the sort of disgust usually reserved for less banal things. ]
But perhaps there is something you might be able to provide us. We're searching for a man called, ah. [ Ugh. This is embarrassing. Flatly: ] The 'Wizard of Waterdeep'. [ Janess stares back just as blankly. ] Awful beard, yea tall, hair dangerously approaching a mullet?
[ "That could be nearly anyone in this town, I'm afraid," Janess replies. ]
He has a wizard tower of some sort. I assume it's an eyesore.
[ A moment of thought, then— "Oh!" she says, recognition entering her expression. "I may know the building you're referring to." A pause, then she adds, slyly, "...But that sort of information is for customers only!" ]
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[ Astarion raises an eyebrow, huffing out a dry laugh. ]
My love, I thought we both knew. You haven't any sanity left to dwindle.
[ He hasn't for as long as Astarion has known him, but somehow he's become even more insane than the perpetually angry-looking wood elf with an ugly headscarf that Astarion met on the beach. Astarion doesn't mind, of course. Insane is hot. If not for Iorveth's insanity, he would never have helped Astarion free himself of Cazador, he never would have let a vampire drink his blood, and he definitely wouldn't have asked an undead being with no prospects to travel with him. Insanity works in Astarion's favor.
They're in no condition to cuddle, but Astarion reaches out to touch the tips of their fingers together. ]
You do look handsome, [ he says, because Iorveth always looks handsome in his eyes, ] but you also look as if you've been trampled by a horse. [ Handsomely. ] Rest. I'll keep watch until nightfall.
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He's a mess. Sweating lightly from the promise of a fever, mottled bruises obscuring some of the finer patterns of the tattoo snaking down his torso, cut and scraped and matted. He doesn't protest rest, even though he'd like to. ]
...We're farther from Waterdeep than I would've liked to be, [ is a soft murmur, single eye closing as he lists against the nearest flat surface. He curls his fingers where they're touching Astarion's, turning it into a proper handhold. ] It'll be a full night of travel. Less if we had a boat or a horse.
[ The boat option is out; the horse one too, unless they get really lucky. Of course Iorveth is trying to calculate routes even when he's told to rest, though－ terminally unable to keep his overactive mind from planning and plotting. His voice starts to slur. ]
I'll send the wizard a message, [ he murmurs, and it's the last thing he manages before he conks out, limp and unguarded with the rays of morning sunlight starting to warm his back. ]
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Low. Gale isn't cruel. If he had the means to ease a friend's burdens, he would.
The sun sets, and he presses the back of his cold hand against Iorveth's forehead. It feels warm, but he always feels warm in comparison to Astarion, so it's difficult to say whether he's caught an infection or not. Gently, he nudges Iorveth's foot with his own. ]
How do you feel?
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Groggy, Iorveth lifts his head and nuzzles into the cold palm, grateful for the difference in temperature. ]
Unwell.
[ Bluntly, with his tired tinge of exasperation aimed inwards. Annoyed by his body not cooperating with him when he needs it to the most. ] But I can still walk, and we should be on our way.
[ He can collapse when they have a roof over their heads, not before then. He drags himself upright, slinging his bow across his bare back. ]
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But he also knows Iorveth, and he knows that nothing he can say will stop Iorveth from pushing himself when he shouldn't, so he crawls out from under the stone bridge into the chilly night. ]
If you say so, [ sounds distinctly disbelieving. ]
If you collapse, I'm not carrying you on my back. [ Not because he doesn't love Iorveth, but because, well, he's very weak. ] One does wish they had a Karlach at a time like this. Hells, I'd even settle for a Halsin.
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Quiet. You'll invoke him.
[ As if he might come striding out from behind one of the broken marble columns littering this elven mausoleum. Iorveth glances towards Astarion and takes a moment to fuss with him, combing dirt and dust from his hair, patting dried flakes of blood from his collar. Satisfied with the results, Iorveth takes stock of their surroundings and makes the executive decision to head vaguely towards where he believes Waterdeep to be－ he'll course correct along the way.
As he starts walking: ] If only I knew how to Wild Shape.
[ Not a real desire, but an invitation for Astarion to imagine him as a sullen, one-eyed creature capable of carrying Astarion on his back. An owlbear? Not a regular bear, Halsin has the monopoly on that. ]
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He falls into step with Iorveth, following blindly. A testament to the trust Iorveth has earned. Like a lost puppy, Astarion would trail behind him into the hells (with some reluctance). ]
And here I thought you already knew. How else would I have a little fox curled up at my feet every night?
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He spares another breath to laugh again, though. ]
I'm hardly "little".
[ And he definitely doesn't curl by Astarion's feet. Very cute and very delusional of Astarion to think that he's not the small spoon between the two of them. Iorveth says as much. ]
And, the way I see it― [ Reaching back to take Astarion's forearm, he guides the both of them away from a boggy pit. ] ―I'm the one holding an oversized cat to my chest every night.
[ He considers himself very lucky. He'll be even luckier if they can survive the night and wind up in a bed where they can actually huddle without feeling absolutely disgusting; the thought spurs him to press on, weaving and occasionally stopping whenever he thinks he hears something larger than a bird or squirrel in their vicinity, mindful of humans who may or may not still be pursuing them. He's sure that they have their hands full trying to regroup after having half of their village burned down, but he can never be too certain.
On they go. Along the way, Iorveth uses Animal Friendship to coax a sparrow onto his shoulder, but finds that he really has no more energy left to cast Speak to Animals. He winds up not being able to send Gale the message of their arrival, and is left to contend with a very affectionate bird that keeps nipping at his ear for attention. Life is hell. ]
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Don't expend your energy, darling.
[ He reaches out to touch Iorveth's back, but the sparrow looks at him sideways and he recoils. Eugh, nature. Perhaps it knows that there's something deeply unnatural about him, or perhaps it can tell that he'd sink his teeth into it if it weren't perched on Iorveth right now. ]
It's not as if Gale will turn us away.
[ Probably. Maybe. In fact, he very much could. It's hardly been any time at all since he returned to Waterdeep, but maybe he's already resumed his life there as an illustrious wizard. Maybe two bedraggled elves at his doorstep would be too much trouble.
No, Astarion thinks, shaking his head. Gale is nauseatingly loyal. He might balk at their travel-worn appearances, but he won't make them leave. (Still, there's a nagging little doubt in the back of his head: what in the world will they do if he does?) ]
He'll be overjoyed to see us, I'm sure, [ he adds in a voice that suggests he's convincing himself as much as Iorveth. ] Life must be so dull without us around.
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So: ] He'd not turn you away. [ Iorveth assumes. Gale likes Astarion, this much he knows for certain. As for Gale liking him, well.
...That's a tossup. Again, Iorveth assumes. He's fond of the wizard in his own way, but he wasn't exactly always kind to Gale in casual situations. ]
You could inject some much-needed excitement back into his life. [ Is a corroboration of Astarion's assertion. ] He never said so, but I suspect he enjoyed it when you pulled on his metaphorical pigtails.
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None of this needs to be said, though, because Gale won't turn either of them away. It's a requirement for their plans that he doesn't, so Astarion won't entertain another possibility. (Oh, gods, he really hopes Gale hasn't gone on a post-adventure vacation. Then again, maybe Tara would be willing to let them inside in his stead.) ]
Yes, I did always suspect that he carried a torch for me.
[ Conceited until the bitter end. ]
Along with Wyll, of course, and Shadowheart, and Karlach— [ He rattles off the names of all the people he's convinced are obsessed with him, which is pretty much everyone. Minsc, at least, is spared. ] Oh, and I once caught Jaheira giving me a very saucy look.
[ Well, it might have been indigestion. ]
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Anyway. The sparrow on his shoulder titters for attention, and he scoops it onto his hand for idle petting and a little peck. He's going to have to ditch it before they get to Waterdeep－ he's seen Tara's capacity for avian cruelty. ]
Hm. You and Jaheira. Interesting.
[ Thinking About It. Logistically difficult, he thinks－ Jaheira doesn't seem the sort to stay on her back for anyone. (To be fair, he's pretty sure that everyone thinks that about him, too.) ]
Certainly, you would have looked pretty with any of them clinging to your elbow. [ Kind of wack, that Iorveth was travelling with a bunch of impossibly hot people. What the fuck was that about, actually. ] Or, in Karlach's case, with you dangling off of hers.
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[ No elbow-clingers required. Still, Iorveth is right: their companions were all ridiculously attractive. Despite that, not a single one of their pretty faces stirred him nearly as much as the sight of Iorveth killing a man, and not even in the realm of as much as Iorveth's hand brushing against his. Strange how that works. Astarion thinks Iorveth is wonderful-looking, but he finds he wouldn't particularly care if he didn't. Iorveth could be a hideous beast, and he fears he'd still swoon for him. ]
But you're right. We did make a good-looking group. Their charms were wasted on me, though.
[ Except superficially. He did very much enjoy being surrounded by beautiful people. ]
After all, I was instantly [ —ha— ] smitten with this rugged wood elf freedom fighter.
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Pretty lies from a pretty mouth.
[ He turns on his heels, taking care not to let Astarion collide into him as a result of the sudden stop, and presses his fever-warm lips to the corner of said pretty mouth. The sparrow sees this as a grave insult, apparently ("in front of my salad???"), and flies off in a feathery huff. ]
I prefer the truth of things: that you learned to tolerate me.
[ An arduous, meaningful process. Iorveth pinches the bridge of Astarion's nose, and resumes their half-trot across the forest. The trees are beginning to thin, giving way to flatter, easier terrain that will lead them straight to the gates of Waterdeep. He thinks he remembers someone they passed on Trade Way mentioning that they might make it to the City of Splendors just in time for Fey Day, which is fortuitous timing; Iorveth hopes that he and Astarion will be able to slip through the incoming rush of visitors relatively unnoticed. ]
Let's see if you can tolerate me telling you to walk faster. Come.
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He groans, trudging behind Iorveth at roughly the same pace he's been walking, but now with more melodrama. Iorveth might be used to trekking through the forest, but he isn't, and by the time they're approaching the gates of Waterdeep, he looks nearly as exhausted as Iorveth has since they woke up. He's complained numerous times that his feet hurt, probably because one's favorite shoes are not necessarily one's best traveling boots.
The Crown of the North, Waterdeep is a glorious contrast to the gritty, seedy Baldur's Gate. Outside the tall, imposing gates stand members of the City Watch, dressed in shiny steel armor and wielding shiny steel swords. The Flaming Fists never wore anything quite so... gleaming. Two men—a human and a dwarf—flank the gate, and as they approach, the human raises a gauntlet-clad hand, golden hair flowing behind him like a knight of yore.
"No entrance until morning, I'm afraid." ]
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Very inconvenient for him, then, that they're not immediately being granted entry. Even worse, that they're being told to wait until the sun goes up, because they can't afford being blasted by morning light. Iorveth stares blankly at the human for a lingering moment, taking that time to contemplate all the ways in which he could kill the guy and be done with these tiresome negotiations. This budding fever has him feeling truly unwise.
Iorveth frowns. Just shy of a scowl, which is his attempt at being diplomatic. ]
Can't you see, [ he half-snaps, ] that my beloved is exhausted.
[ So says the elf who was telling Astarion to suck it up and jog not more than thirty minutes ago. ]
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"Lots of people are tired," the dwarf replies, unsympathetic. "They sleep outside the gates till morning."
"Elves don't sleep," says the human. "They meditate or something."
Astarion stares for a moment, then sighs before coughing dramatically, doubled over as he hacks. He covers his mouth as he does so, then glances at his palm before staring up at the guards with wide eyes. With all the melodrama he's known for: ]
Oh, gods. Is it normal to cough up blood?
[ "Um," says the human, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm not a healer..." ]
Oh, I knew I shouldn't have eaten those strange berries. I feel so cold... don't I feel cold, dear?
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Falling into step with the melodrama, albeit stiffly: ] Like death.
[ A private joke. He hides his half-smirk by turning his back on the guards to press his palm against Astarion's forehead, feigning inspection. The picture of a concerned lover, which is likely not in-line with any warning that the two men may have heard about two dangerous elves who caused a ruckus in Flotsam.
Still, the dwarf seems to remain skeptical.
"If we make an exception for them, others are also going to want exceptions made." Sound, practical logic, even if he does look a little nervous about Astarion potentially throwing up near their feet. "Besides, there probably aren't any healers awake at this hour..." ]
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Please, if you've any mercy—
[ He stumbles, holding a hand to his head as if he might be about to faint. Iorveth is a mean jock, but Astarion is so much worse: a catty theatre kid. ]
I don't want to die without seeing the City of Splendors.
[ For his grand finale, Astarion begins to gag, looking as if he's about to retch all over their newly-shined boots.
"Gods," says the human, eyes wide. He looks a little sick himself. "Fine, just go!"
"—Adrik!" the dwarf scolds. "You're too much of a bleeding heart." ]
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While the two guards have a whispered back-and-forth ("it can't hurt, Gunnar－ I mean, one of them isn't even wearing a shirt, they must be in dire straits"), Iorveth bites back his own wave of nausea and tries not to think about how he doesn't even know where Gale's stupid tower is located in the city. Leaning towards Astarion, he murmurs: ]
Did you pay any attention to the wizard when he prattled on and on about this city?
[ Something something Kiana's Mystericum's wonderful selection of rare books, something something going to the The Jade Jug once in a blue moon for a stiff drink, et cetera, ad infinitum. Maybe Gale mentioned living near some stupidly-named establishment at some point (Iorveth was definitely not paying any attention), and Astarion managed to retain it.
Probably not. The dwarf gives the two of them one last once-over, and sighs at Adrik. "They do look too sickly to cause trouble." ]
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Fools.
[ The streets of Waterdeep's Southern Ward are less glittering than he expected, although it's still cleaner than Baldur's Gate. It quickly becomes clear that this is the part of the city reserved for the less socioeconomically fortunate, like the Lower City. All places are the same, in the end; even here, the rich prefer to be separated from the common rabble. The streets are lined with businesses for one thing or another, many of them stacked one on top of the other in tall multistory buildings, although the windows are dark at this time of night. They pass by a wooden sign reading What Ales You, and it doesn't take a natural 20 on perception to know what goods they're proffering. ]
Ugh, [ he groans, eyes roaming over the unfamiliar landscape. ] Maybe I shouldn't have tuned Gale out quite so much.
[ He still should have tuned him out, of course, just less. One can only take so much Gale. ]
—He mentioned living by the water, I think.
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By the water, [ he echoes, nose wrinkling. The area near the docks is awash with the stench of fish, fresh and rotted; floating above that already-unpleasant musk, the unmistakably acrid sharpness of unwashed sailors. ] He made this city sound like a paradise. Truly deluded.
[ Maybe his opinion will change once they venture a little further north, but walking the seam between the South Ward and the Dock Ward is a lesson in profound disappointment. They pass a few drunk dockworkers who have apparently given up trying to get to their inns, and Iorveth supposes he can give the city credit where it's due that no one has stolen the wallets off of their prone forms (yet).
He squints, looking up towards the slowly-brightening sky in search of something towerlike. ]
We may have to resume our search tomorrow. We haven't much time.
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Have we enough coin for an inn?
[ He points to another large, multistory building. This one, however, appears to house only one business: The Spouting Fish, presumably an inn and tavern of some kind. Unlike most of the buildings on the street, The Spouting Fish has light filtering out of the windows and the faint sound of conversation within. ]
If we're lucky, perhaps the proprietor will have heard of the esteemed Wizard of Waterdeep.
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More and more, I'm beginning to doubt the veracity of anything that came out of Gale's mouth.
[ Obviously Gale is a very capable wizard, but is he really renowned as such, or did Tara say those things to spare him his feelings??? A Mystery.
At any rate, asking for directions is a good idea, so into The Spouting Fish they go: an establishment that is made, it seems, entirely out of wood, and should really discourage its visitors from smoking inside. Two tired-looking wizards (Iorveth assumes, from the robes they're wearing) is sat near a table of rowdy halflings, accompanied by a water elemental swaying gently on amorphous feet.
The wizards (again, Iorveth assumes) look their way, then go back to reading as the proprietress of the place bustles towards them, energetic despite how obscenely early in the morning it is.
"A pint before work, gentlemen?", she booms. Iorveth winces. ]
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Oh, we aren't working, [ he replies, uttering the word 'work' with the sort of disgust usually reserved for less banal things. ]
But perhaps there is something you might be able to provide us. We're searching for a man called, ah. [ Ugh. This is embarrassing. Flatly: ] The 'Wizard of Waterdeep'. [ Janess stares back just as blankly. ] Awful beard, yea tall, hair dangerously approaching a mullet?
[ "That could be nearly anyone in this town, I'm afraid," Janess replies. ]
He has a wizard tower of some sort. I assume it's an eyesore.
[ A moment of thought, then— "Oh!" she says, recognition entering her expression. "I may know the building you're referring to." A pause, then she adds, slyly, "...But that sort of information is for customers only!" ]
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