[ 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!" ]
[ While the woman's effusiveness would have been regarded as an improvement over the distant disdain the two had to weather back at Flotsam, Iorveth can tell that they're both far too exhausted to entertain this woman and her wink-wink-nudging. At least, Iorveth is. He thinks he might actually vomit if he has to force a pint of ale down his throat right now.
So. ] How much is the wizard worth, woman?
[ In other words: "let's call a bribe a bribe." Iorveth reaches into his trouser pockets and fishes out his remaining coin, which isn't much― a paltry few silvers that clink sadly onto the nearest tabletop. Enough for two drinks and a bowl of peanuts. Gale would be so fucking angry if he knew that this was the starting price. ]
We haven't time nor the patience to barter.
[ She's lucky Iorveth isn't threatening her with bodily harm, really. He's too tired for it, not to mention that they really don't need more reasons to be casually reviled by strangers. ]
[ "Oh, don't be like that," Janess says, unoffended by Iorveth's attitude. As a barkeep, she's dealt with far worse, and a surly one-eyed wood elf is hardly notable. She fishes a scrap of paper out from her pocket—although not before pocketing Iorveth's silver—and scribbles down an address before holding it out for Iorveth to take.
"It's at the border of the Castle and Dock Wards," she says. "Some flashy wizard used to live there, but we stopped seeing him out and about a year or so ago." ]
Yes, that does sound like our Gale.
[ Surreptitiously, he glances outside the window, where the dark night sky is slowly brightening. ]
—Lovely conversation, really, but we should be going. We'd hate to be late.
[ Flashy wizard. Iorveth isn't sure if "flashy" is the right descriptor for Gale and his soft cow eyes, but he can appreciate that that's what people would think about him if the only thing they knew about him was his previous status as Mystra's chosen.
A few more words exchanged (mostly about which direction they need to head in to get to "Castle Ward"), and they return back to the quickly brightening streets, taking the darkest alleys to cut across the rest of the sprawling, fish-scented half-squalor of Dock Ward. Sure enough, there's something that looks like a tower overlooking the water in the near distance; Iorveth points it out with a nudge to Astarion's elbow. ]
You should speak to the wizard, not me. [ As they approach the front of the white-stoned building and the double wooden doors that lead inside. The windows stretching up the front and sides of the tower are dark― there's really no reason for Gale to be awake― but there's a little switch by the entrance with a note that reads "please press, for urgent inquiries".
(A second note beside it "and, by urgent, I do mean urgent".)
And, well. Iorveth gives Astarion the floor for now, craning over for a brief second to brush his lips against Astarion's temple. ]
You look beautiful, by the way. [ A little facetious; they're both a mess. But they're meant to be words of encouragement regardless. ]
Of course I do, [ he says, chin pointed up haughtily. In actuality, he's not so certain he even looks halfway decent, but hopefully his disheveled state will appeal to Gale's sense of compassion.
He presses the switch, and the melodious sound of chimes comes from inside the tower. Another impatient press, and another, and soon it's less melodious and more cacophonous. Astarion can hear the faint sound of Gale's grumbling from inside, and although he can't quite make out the words, the tone of them suggests curse words. After a long moment, the double doors open to reveal the familiar form of Gale, dressed in silk nightclothes and rubbing sleep from his eyes. Astarion takes private pleasure in the fact that his hair looks a mess.
Gale does a double-take upon seeing the unexpected elves at his door. "—Astarion?" he croaks out, voice scratchy from sleep. "Iorveth? What in blazes are you two doing at my doorstep at" —he squints— "what appears to be the crack of dawn?" ]
Excellent question, really, and I'd love to discuss it inside, if you'd be so kind as to invite us in—
[ Gale, perpetually not getting the memo, tilts his head at Iorveth. "What happened to your shirt?" ]
The sun is coming up. Make no mistake― if any part of him burns while we dally by your doorstep, I'll burn your books in retaliation.
[ Again: Iorveth Be Normal About Astarion Challenge (Impossible). He notes the look of surprise on Gale's face overtaking his general early-morning fatigue, and interprets it a bit uncharitably as Gale's judgment of what following Iorveth has done to Astarion since the party disbanded; then again, it might be Iorveth's fever brain stimulating his overactive paranoia.
"Gods, there's no need for all of that", Gale mutters. "Come in, then, and try to be as quiet as you can manage― ah, and mind the rug, I just got it cleaned yesterday."
Why put it near the entrance, then, Iorveth would usually say, but is demonstrably too tired to. He gestures for Astarion to go inside first, eager to get him away from the threat of the sun and into the cozy, velvet-lined interior of Gale's one-man (and tressym) tower. Clearly, Gale's been doing well. ]
[ Astarion steps into the tower and immediately glances around to survey his surroundings. Gale has spoken of his tower enough, but words don't paint the same picture as actually seeing it in real life. The interior is relatively dark, likely owing to the time of day, but flickering sconces cast the foyer in a soft, warm glow; if Astarion had to guess, he'd guess they've been enchanted with a Continual Flame spell. Just as Gale had said, there's an intricately patterned rug spread across the hall, covering the chestnut-colored wood floors. On a table near the front door is a decorative vase that seems to glow faintly with magical energy; as he reaches out to touch it, Gale says, "Oh! Careful, now. That was a gift from Althazar the Arcanist."
Astarion withdraws his hand. ]
Of course. Who doesn't know Altair the— [ "Althazar," Gale corrects. ] Althazar the Arcane.
[ It looks like it physically hurts Gale not to correct Astarion a second time, but he valiantly resists. Instead, he says, "As much of a pleasure it is to see you two, I have to ask what brings you to my city at such an hour."
The sound of fluttering wings precedes the appearance of Tara, who lands on Gale's shoulder. "Mr. Dekarios! I'm certain that your mother didn't teach you to be so inhospitable."
Gale sputters at the chiding. "Inhospitable— I assure you, I'm no such thing! I was simply curious—"
Tara scoffs. "And you still have your visitors standing in the doorway like common rabble! Honestly, dear, I'm afraid your year in exile may have had more impact on your manners than we thought. Perhaps I'll pay Mrs. Dekarios a visit and inform her you require re-education on matters of etiquette."
"No such need," Gale assures her, before gesturing for Astarion and Iorveth to follow him deeper into the tower. "Allow me to welcome you to my humble abode. Might I offer you some tea?" ]
[ Ah yes, the universal threat of a mother's wrath. Iorveth smiles despite himself as he follows the still-chattering Gale and Tara into what he assumes is one of the tower's many sitting rooms, allowing himself, in increments, to relinquish some of the tension he's been holding in his shoulders. All of his hemming and hawwing about Gale and his idiosyncracies doesn't take away from the simple fact that he does, in fact, feel safe around the people he'd spent the past few months journeying with. ]
A bath and a bed will suffice. [ And, because he realizes that Gale was under no obligation to entertain a rude visit, even if they are what Iorveth would categorize as friends: ] ...Thank you.
[ A subtle touch to the small of Astarion's back, and Iorveth moves away from him to shove a few books off of a plush reading chair (more pained half-sounds from Gale following the flutter of pages falling onto the floor); he sinks onto its velvet cushions, letting tired limbs go limp. ]
...We ran afoul of some bigots on our way to the northern forests. We would be grateful if you were to lend us temporary shelter while the dust settles.
[ A moment here, as Iorveth considers the wisdom of saying something to the extent of "and letting Astarion stay here for longer if necessary," but he also doesn't want to make Astarion angry right now. He leaves it at that, and valiantly tries not to pass out where he's ragdolled on the armchair. ]
[ Gale's eyebrows raise at the word bigots, but he doesn't ask for further clarification, savvy enough to understand that Iorveth likely doesn't wish to talk about it. If he really wants the details, though, Astarion has no problem sharing them with him over a glass of wine. For now, though, Gale simply says, "Of course! A friend in need is a friend indeed, hm?"
That's the too earnest, slightly annoying, but unmistakably good Gale that Astarion knows. He perches on the armrest next to Iorveth, taking in the decor of the sitting room. A small table with a candle whose light Gale must read by, shelves with enough assorted books to fill a library, and a landscape painting that Astarion could swear is moving.
"But," Gale adds, "I do have to ask — should I be expecting a knock at my door from the City Watch?" ]
Mmm, [ Astarion hums, noncommittal, as he waves his hand. ] It could go either way, really.
Entirely possible. [ Depending on how chatty the woman at the tavern-inn is, and whether the two wizards sitting at the table near them were paying any attention to their conversation. Eye still closed, Iorveth sinks into the cushion of his chair, voice starting to slur somewhat from exhaustion. ]
If you find that you're being scrutinized, speak up. If it gets to be too much for you, I'll leave.
[ Implied: "I don't want to get you into too much trouble". With that promise out of the way, he sighs and lists a little to the side. ]
...Find yourself a bed, [ is a low murmur, aimed towards Astarion. ] Fresh clothes, too. [ He's far too tired to move, himself― the chair is fine for now. ] And potions for your bruises...
[ His voice trails off, cut short by his body's need to shut down for a while. A little comical, that he conks out mid-fussing: Tara glances at him with a mild "oh dear," perhaps a little weirded out by the whole affair. ]
[ It's evening before Iorveth is bothered again, the light outside slowly dimming. (Not that Iorveth would be able to tell, what with every drape in the tower now shut.) Perhaps he's woken out of his reverie by the smell of spices wafting from the dining room, or the sound of conversation as Astarion regales their host with tales of their travels so far, albeit quite idealized tales. ]
And, of course, I knew it was a sleeping draught. That was part of my plan all along, you see—
[ If not, though, Iorveth is woken by the nudge of a small but insistent paw.
"Mr. Iorveth," comes Tara's prim voice. No more pretending she can't speak Common, at least not in Gale's home. "I must insist you try to eat something. Messrs. Dekarios and Ancunín are quite worried about you."
As if to serve as proof, a vial of shimmering ruby liquid has been placed on the armchair's side table, alongside a note written in impeccable penmanship: For your... everything. —G ]
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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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So. ] How much is the wizard worth, woman?
[ In other words: "let's call a bribe a bribe." Iorveth reaches into his trouser pockets and fishes out his remaining coin, which isn't much― a paltry few silvers that clink sadly onto the nearest tabletop. Enough for two drinks and a bowl of peanuts. Gale would be so fucking angry if he knew that this was the starting price. ]
We haven't time nor the patience to barter.
[ She's lucky Iorveth isn't threatening her with bodily harm, really. He's too tired for it, not to mention that they really don't need more reasons to be casually reviled by strangers. ]
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"It's at the border of the Castle and Dock Wards," she says. "Some flashy wizard used to live there, but we stopped seeing him out and about a year or so ago." ]
Yes, that does sound like our Gale.
[ Surreptitiously, he glances outside the window, where the dark night sky is slowly brightening. ]
—Lovely conversation, really, but we should be going. We'd hate to be late.
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A few more words exchanged (mostly about which direction they need to head in to get to "Castle Ward"), and they return back to the quickly brightening streets, taking the darkest alleys to cut across the rest of the sprawling, fish-scented half-squalor of Dock Ward. Sure enough, there's something that looks like a tower overlooking the water in the near distance; Iorveth points it out with a nudge to Astarion's elbow. ]
You should speak to the wizard, not me. [ As they approach the front of the white-stoned building and the double wooden doors that lead inside. The windows stretching up the front and sides of the tower are dark― there's really no reason for Gale to be awake― but there's a little switch by the entrance with a note that reads "please press, for urgent inquiries".
(A second note beside it "and, by urgent, I do mean urgent".)
And, well. Iorveth gives Astarion the floor for now, craning over for a brief second to brush his lips against Astarion's temple. ]
You look beautiful, by the way. [ A little facetious; they're both a mess. But they're meant to be words of encouragement regardless. ]
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He presses the switch, and the melodious sound of chimes comes from inside the tower. Another impatient press, and another, and soon it's less melodious and more cacophonous. Astarion can hear the faint sound of Gale's grumbling from inside, and although he can't quite make out the words, the tone of them suggests curse words. After a long moment, the double doors open to reveal the familiar form of Gale, dressed in silk nightclothes and rubbing sleep from his eyes. Astarion takes private pleasure in the fact that his hair looks a mess.
Gale does a double-take upon seeing the unexpected elves at his door. "—Astarion?" he croaks out, voice scratchy from sleep. "Iorveth? What in blazes are you two doing at my doorstep at" —he squints— "what appears to be the crack of dawn?" ]
Excellent question, really, and I'd love to discuss it inside, if you'd be so kind as to invite us in—
[ Gale, perpetually not getting the memo, tilts his head at Iorveth. "What happened to your shirt?" ]
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It's gone where your manners have, I expect.
The sun is coming up. Make no mistake― if any part of him burns while we dally by your doorstep, I'll burn your books in retaliation.
[ Again: Iorveth Be Normal About Astarion Challenge (Impossible). He notes the look of surprise on Gale's face overtaking his general early-morning fatigue, and interprets it a bit uncharitably as Gale's judgment of what following Iorveth has done to Astarion since the party disbanded; then again, it might be Iorveth's fever brain stimulating his overactive paranoia.
"Gods, there's no need for all of that", Gale mutters. "Come in, then, and try to be as quiet as you can manage― ah, and mind the rug, I just got it cleaned yesterday."
Why put it near the entrance, then, Iorveth would usually say, but is demonstrably too tired to. He gestures for Astarion to go inside first, eager to get him away from the threat of the sun and into the cozy, velvet-lined interior of Gale's one-man (and tressym) tower. Clearly, Gale's been doing well. ]
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Astarion withdraws his hand. ]
Of course. Who doesn't know Altair the— [ "Althazar," Gale corrects. ] Althazar the Arcane.
[ It looks like it physically hurts Gale not to correct Astarion a second time, but he valiantly resists. Instead, he says, "As much of a pleasure it is to see you two, I have to ask what brings you to my city at such an hour."
The sound of fluttering wings precedes the appearance of Tara, who lands on Gale's shoulder. "Mr. Dekarios! I'm certain that your mother didn't teach you to be so inhospitable."
Gale sputters at the chiding. "Inhospitable— I assure you, I'm no such thing! I was simply curious—"
Tara scoffs. "And you still have your visitors standing in the doorway like common rabble! Honestly, dear, I'm afraid your year in exile may have had more impact on your manners than we thought. Perhaps I'll pay Mrs. Dekarios a visit and inform her you require re-education on matters of etiquette."
"No such need," Gale assures her, before gesturing for Astarion and Iorveth to follow him deeper into the tower. "Allow me to welcome you to my humble abode. Might I offer you some tea?" ]
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A bath and a bed will suffice. [ And, because he realizes that Gale was under no obligation to entertain a rude visit, even if they are what Iorveth would categorize as friends: ] ...Thank you.
[ A subtle touch to the small of Astarion's back, and Iorveth moves away from him to shove a few books off of a plush reading chair (more pained half-sounds from Gale following the flutter of pages falling onto the floor); he sinks onto its velvet cushions, letting tired limbs go limp. ]
...We ran afoul of some bigots on our way to the northern forests. We would be grateful if you were to lend us temporary shelter while the dust settles.
[ A moment here, as Iorveth considers the wisdom of saying something to the extent of "and letting Astarion stay here for longer if necessary," but he also doesn't want to make Astarion angry right now. He leaves it at that, and valiantly tries not to pass out where he's ragdolled on the armchair. ]
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That's the too earnest, slightly annoying, but unmistakably good Gale that Astarion knows. He perches on the armrest next to Iorveth, taking in the decor of the sitting room. A small table with a candle whose light Gale must read by, shelves with enough assorted books to fill a library, and a landscape painting that Astarion could swear is moving.
"But," Gale adds, "I do have to ask — should I be expecting a knock at my door from the City Watch?" ]
Mmm, [ Astarion hums, noncommittal, as he waves his hand. ] It could go either way, really.
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If you find that you're being scrutinized, speak up. If it gets to be too much for you, I'll leave.
[ Implied: "I don't want to get you into too much trouble". With that promise out of the way, he sighs and lists a little to the side. ]
...Find yourself a bed, [ is a low murmur, aimed towards Astarion. ] Fresh clothes, too. [ He's far too tired to move, himself― the chair is fine for now. ] And potions for your bruises...
[ His voice trails off, cut short by his body's need to shut down for a while. A little comical, that he conks out mid-fussing: Tara glances at him with a mild "oh dear," perhaps a little weirded out by the whole affair. ]
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And, of course, I knew it was a sleeping draught. That was part of my plan all along, you see—
[ If not, though, Iorveth is woken by the nudge of a small but insistent paw.
"Mr. Iorveth," comes Tara's prim voice. No more pretending she can't speak Common, at least not in Gale's home. "I must insist you try to eat something. Messrs. Dekarios and Ancunín are quite worried about you."
As if to serve as proof, a vial of shimmering ruby liquid has been placed on the armchair's side table, alongside a note written in impeccable penmanship: For your... everything. —G ]
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