essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ The both of them might as well be pushing up their respective pairs of imaginary spectacles, as far as Iorveth is concerned. A bit novel, really― like this, he can see how Astarion could have been a magistrate in his past life. Sitting at a table with someone, arguing semantics while reading pamphlets. He remembers the ridiculous pair of glasses that he'd made Astarion wear in that basement so long ago, and has to make a conscious effort to wave away the imaginary hearts that he's finding himself drawing around Astarion in this moment. ]

Keep arguing with him about loopholes, [ Iorveth half-laughs, sitting up from the table and bringing the now mostly-empty bread basket with him. ] I need to clean myself up.

[ A quick kiss to the crown of Astarion's head, which invites a raised brow from Gale. Iorveth doesn't know why Gale is acting brand new about this, but he also doesn't really care.

"Ah― I expect you'll need to borrow some of my clothes as well," Gale ventures, to which Iorveth waves a hand and brushes him aside. ] Keep Astarion company. I can make do.

[ Maybe he'll just lounge around in his smallclothes if all of Gale's clothes are that ghastly shade of purple. ]

[ Astarion had hoped to pick out Iorveth's new clothes as some of Gale's fashion certainly won't suit him, but he likes the look on Iorveth's face and the humor in his voice so much that he can't possibly deny him when he tells him to keep arguing. (Besides, arguing is one of his favorite things to do, especially when it's with Gale, who gets a big vein on his forehead when Astarion says something patently ridiculous with his full chest.) ]

Pick yourself out something fetching. Red, perhaps.

[ Gale looks a little put out that they're divvying up his clothes right in front of him, but he's too polite to say so. "There's a bath down the hall," he says, pointing. "The washtub is enchanted — by yours truly — with a Create Water spell, but do give it a moment to heat up."

As Iorveth walks away, Astarion does as requested, pointing out, ] You know, if assaulting a Lord and murdering one carry the same charge, it hardly incentivizes you not to finish the job. Besides, dead men can't tell the City Watch...

[ Someone should draw a portrait of this scene, Iorveth thinks: "The Wizard of Waterdeep, Bullied By Two Cats". Very picturesque. It warms something in Iorveth's chest, and he carries that feeling with him to the bath, where he scrubs off the last of the Flotsam mud and peels the dirty bandages off of his sore wrists (now mostly healed, thanks to the potion's effects); even puzzling through Gale's variety of self-grooming items is a peaceful conundrum, one that ends with Iorveth using what he hopes is a hairbrush (not for facial hair) to tidy his hair, and slipping into a pair of black trousers paired with a dark-burgundy shirt that'd been sitting in the very corner of Gale's wardrobe.

Gale, sitting with a book on one of the many comfortable benches strewn about in the tower, comments on Iorveth's attire once he rejoins the pair in Gale's salon: "ah! Wherever did you find that shirt? It was a gift from one of my acquaintances back in Blackstaff, but I never wore it because I didn't think the color suited me."

Iorveth observes Gale's good-natured smile. If Astarion is a fussy cat, Gale is a neurotic but very affectionate dog: happy to be told "good boy", eager to share anything about himself in the hope that someone will find the anecdote interesting. The past few days have been a lesson in refamiliarizing himself with how much he really fucking hates humans, but Iorveth will make an exception for Gale.

So. ] Don't assume. It would suit you. [ Iorveth's way of saying "good boy". He even walks over to where the wizard is sitting, and ruffles his hair with a distinct air of affectionate patronization. ("Wh― hey!") ]

[ When Iorveth enters, Astarion glances away from the bookshelf he'd been rifling through, hoping to find something of interest. (The next volume of Nicholas and Edgar's adventures, perhaps.) Iorveth is of greater interest, though: clean, healed, groomed. He smells like fancy soap, and his damp hair drips onto his fresh, soft clothes. Best of all, he's in a good mood, the walls he'd constructed to protect himself in Flotsam lowered. Astarion wants their tongues to make friends immediately. ]

Hello, handsome, [ he croons, and Gale clears his throat to remind him of his presence. It's suddenly very annoying that Gale has the gall to hang around here, in his own tower, and Astarion shoots daggers his way.

"...The Waterdhavian style does suit you," Gale offers, fixing his hair after Iorveth so rudely mussed it. ]

[ Iorveth's first instinct to being crooned at is to ignore the advances entirely, but Astarion is not only The Exception, he is The Rule: Iorveth gravitates towards him without hesitation, every bit the fox curling by Astarion's feet that he was accused of being. Not a single soul in Flotsam would believe that this is the same man that killed half the village guard population in one night. ]

It's a shirt, [ is his controversial opinion about whether Waterdhavian style suits him: a shirt is a shirt is a shirt. At least one (or both) other person in this room could probably argue with him about the veracity of that statement, but Iorveth doesn't care to have that debate, so he wraps one arm around Astarion's waist and rubs foreheads with him, reciprocally pleased to see him clean and relaxed. ]

You should eat, [ he murmurs, eliciting another harrumph from Gale. He ignores it, and appends: ] Did you speak to Gale about...?

[ Leaving the tail end of that vague, just in case Astarion wants time to build to consulting the wizard about The Sun Problem. Gale visibly perks up in the background, curiosity piqued. ]

Edited 2025-02-02 12:00 (UTC)

[ Astarion tenses a little, suddenly nervous. It's quite a lot to ask Gale for help with a seemingly insurmountable problem, isn't it? Especially after barging in and taking refuge in his home without warning. He's never cared about politeness, but he does care about being refused. Gale surely wouldn't deny him assistance with something so deeply important if he had the resources to help, he tells himself, but then again, what if he did? ]

Ah, not exactly.

[ Gale clears his throat a third time, tired of being treated like he isn't in the room. "Well, now would be an excellent time, seeing as we're all here, don't you think?"

Astarion wants to snap at him not to be so impatient, but that really wouldn't help his cause. He hems and haws, eyes on the spines of books lined up on the shelf rather than Gale. ]

It's just... a tiny thing, really. A favor— hardly even a favor!

[ Something Iorveth notes: Astarion is good at making demands, but not so good at making requests. Iorveth watches him flounder, endearingly graceless, and takes one step away to lean against the nearest bookshelf (bolted to the wall) with his arms folded across his chest. ]

It's your request to make.

[ Unhelpful!!! For once, Iorveth doesn't throw Astarion a bone, preferring that Astarion come out and say what he needs himself.

Meanwhile, Gale sets his book aside and fixes his attention on Astarion, looking skeptical.

"Well. If it's coin you need, I'll be happy to loan you some on the condition that you don't use it to bribe anybody."

An uncharitable guess, but not an unreasonable one. Iorveth rolls his eye. ]

[ Iorveth chooses now, of all times, not to say that Astarion said no pickles. He huffs, exasperated. ]

It isn't coin. [ A beat. ] Although—

[ He shakes his head. Not the priority (although it's worth coming back to, he thinks). Finally turning to face Gale, he takes an unnecessary breath in. ]

Seeing as you're such a famed practitioner of the arcane arts, [ he says, buttering Gale up for his request, ] I thought it would only be right to ask you to... share some of your magical knowhow.

[ A whole lot of words to say a whole lot of nothing. Gale furrows his brow in confusion.

Frustrated, he blurts out, ] —The sun, Gale. I want you to help me with the sun.

[ "Oh!" Gale says, perking up at the thought of a magical problem to solve. "That's quite the challenge to tackle, isn't it? No wizard that I know of has ever thought to lessen the effects of vampirism, but then again, I doubt most wizards that I know of have ever come face-to-face with a vampire and lived." He's boasting a little. The idea of doing something that 'no wizard that I know of' has ever done clearly appeals, though, and he scratches his chin in thought. "I could ask my colleagues at the Academy — I've been asked to return there as a professor, you know."

Gale beams, waiting for his next 'good boy'. ]

[ A blank stare, here. Is it really an accomplishment for Gale to be asked to teach, if the result was already written in the stars? (Yes.) Iorveth can't imagine why Gale would want a "good boy" from Iorveth, a less-than-mediocre spellcaster at best, but he offers one just to be diplomatic. ]

Congratulations.

[ If it sounds a tinge sarcastic, well. Iorveth will be Iorveth. It's accompanied by a nod of his head, to soften the edges. ]

My only point of contention is whether your colleagues will demand to gawk and gather around Astarion, should you consult them. Whether he'll tolerate their curiosity is entirely up for him to decide－ [ a gesture towards Astarion, here, ] －but we needn't encourage it.

[ As a response, Gale raises his hands in the universal sign for "oh no", and shakes his head. "I'd be very discreet about it, of course! Strictly need-to-know basis. Besides, photosensitivity isn't exclusive to vampires－ drow and duergar experience it to some extent, and there's been extensive research done on how to aid their transition to the surface. I'm sure..."

Ah. Iorveth's gotten Gale started, and now he's inclined to start tuning him out. ]

[ Astarion is somewhere between irritated (at Gale's long-windedness) and pleased (at Gale's selflessness). He settles on crossing his arms and rolling his eyes as if Gale is an embarrassing younger sibling, but there's a twinge of a smile hidden beneath his put-out expression. Thank the gods. There are benefits to being friendly with intellectuals after all. ]

Yes, well, [ he says to cut Gale off, ] I'm sure you have much to think about on the subject.

[ "Oh, plenty," Gale agrees. "I wonder, is a vampire's sensitivity to sunlight a physiological response, or is there a more arcane aspect to it? I—"

Cutting him off again: ] A fascinating quandary, I know. I'd be happy to discuss it further over a bottle of your most expensive wine, but for now— [ A pointed look. ] I'm afraid I'm really quite hungry after my journey.

[ Gale lifts a brow. "I do hope you aren't suggesting that I remedy that." ]

[ A cat and dog, getting along. Iorveth finds it sweet despite all the ways in which the past few days have served to harden him again, and pushes off the bookshelf with a vague smile of his own, plucking a random tome from a pile to keep himself busy with later. ]

You are free of all that Netherese bile now.

[ Breezily, as he makes his way towards the stairs leading up to the guest bedroom. ]

If Astarion wishes to know what wizard tastes like, I'll not stop him.

[ As if Gale has no say in the matter. Awful. Iorveth is just tugging his metaphorical pigtails, though－ Astarion has always been exceedingly polite about not sinking his fangs into the members of their motley crew without their express permission, and Iorveth is fairly certain that Astarion will continue to extend that courtesy even though they've temporarily gone their separate ways. ]

[ Astarion has no intention of actually gnawing on Gale, but he does let him think that he's considering it for a few minutes, like a cat toying with an anxious mouse. He doesn't doubt that Gale would offer his blood if the situation were truly dire, but he has no need for a reluctant donation when he has a willing meal all to himself. After making Gale sweat just enough to be entertaining, he follows Iorveth up the stairs, Gale's too-big slippers pitter-pattering against the wood.

He leans against the doorway of the guest bedroom, eyeing Iorveth discerningly. ]

How do you feel?

[ If he's still unwell, Astarion will go without, or maybe he really will go hunting for pigeons like he'd teased Tara about. ]

You look better. One might venture to say 'good enough to eat'.

[ The guest bedroom is as cozy as the rest of the place, with velvet curtains pulled over large windows (Iorveth hasn't peered out of them yet for the view) and well-dusted wooden furniture laden with various knickknacks, both tasteful and not. There are books all over the place, even here, piled on chests and floor-to-ceiling shelves, with the occasional artefacts displayed in glass cases in between. Iorveth runs his fingers over one such case, though he suspects the wooden toy ship inside it is less magical and more sentimental. ]

I suspect I am.

[ Good enough to eat, he means. He turns away from the shelf he'd been inspecting and gestures for Astarion to come closer, his expression markedly less burdened by exhaustion than the morning prior. ]

I've done you a disservice, withholding blood for the past tenday or so. [ Maybe longer－ he's lost all sense of time. The grueling journey interrupted by the kidnappings didn't give Iorveth much space or energy to let Astarion feed, and though he realizes that, despite what the other spawn had said about him being a convenient bloodbag for Astarion, he isn't one, still. He prefers seeing Astarion sated and happy, curled up next to him with blood on his lips like a cat with a mouse in its mouth. ]

[ As he gravitates toward Iorveth, hands clasped innocently behind his back, he says, playfully, ] If you wanted to service me, you should have said so. [ Ha.

At the beginning of his freedom, being denied blood after having free access to it would have been intolerable. Now, it's still unpleasant, but more like an irritating itch that won't go away. He knows now that he'll have a next meal, and so he doesn't worry nearly as much about when it will be. The worse part of the past tenday was traveling so steadily that he had to forgo things like casual affection and sharing a bedroll, although he'll never admit such a thing. ]

I made do.

[ And he'd make do again if Iorveth decided to withhold his blood indefinitely or eternally. There's always some ne'er-do-well that no one would miss skulking around. ]

But I'll allow you to atone for your transgressions, beneficent magistrate that I am.

[ Again: ha. ]

[ Beneficent. Iorveth has the audacity to laugh. ]

Such magnanimity. [ He doesn't bow, but does a bare-boned alternative: a sweep of one arm, palm up and offered. ] What were the punishments for transgressing against a noble? One thousand silver shards and a public flogging?

[ Waterdeep is ridiculous. Gale is delusional if he thinks Iorveth will adhere to any of the city's codes of conduct to the letter; the most Iorveth will do is make fun of it in the bedroom with Astarion, and find ways to circumvent them if they hinder his ability to do what needs to be done. Clever, sly fox. ]

I wonder if the Honorable Magistrate Ancunín will spare me the rod.

[ Oh, he loves the sound of Iorveth's laughter. An unpracticed thing, like he hasn't much experience in things like joy or carelessness, but a wonderful thing nonetheless. Astarion would do terrible things just to see Iorveth throw his head back and laugh.

He tugs Iorveth closer by the collar of his borrowed shirt, the texture of it velvety-soft against his fingers. 'Borrowed' may quickly turn to 'stolen'; Astarion likes the feel of Iorveth in nice things almost as much as he likes the feel of himself in them. Just a shirt, Iorveth had said, but it's more than that, he thinks. The sort of creature comfort that they've both been denied and deserve now more than ever. ]

Oh, I can think of a few punishments to dole out for this misbehavior.

[ Downstairs, Gale feels a disturbance in the Weave and tries not to think about it. ]

[ Joy left Iorveth when he realized that he was born only to be decimated; carelessness left him when he decided to reject victimhood. Since then, it's only been protectiveness and anger and cycles of love and grief that whittled him down to bone and blood, interrupted only by an Illithid kidnapping and the strange journey that happened thereafter. Against all odds, his new comrades have given him new reasons to smile－ against even greater odds, the vampire of the group has given him a reason to laugh.

Tugged by the collar, Iorveth allows himself to be pulled into Astarion's space. It's a welcome sort of stumble, one that makes him realize that it's been a while since both of them have been clean and safe enough for this sort of harmless fooling around.

Another huff, amused, and Iorveth links his hands behind his own back. A criminal!!! ]

Name your price. I submit myself to you willingly.

[ A thing Iorveth wouldn't even think of saying in front of anyone else. He would snarl and bite and kick and scream in front of an actual judge and jury; in contrast, Astarion just gets a little bump to his jaw with Iorveth's nose. ]

[ Iorveth has no idea how dangerous those words are, or worse, he does and he's insane enough not to care. It's a happy little zing up Astarion's spine to hear, brain lighting up in satisfaction as he crowds Iorveth back toward the bed. It's plush, blankets of a deep mauve thrown over the cloudlike featherbed, so soft one could sink right into it. (A little too soft for most, probably, but Astarion likes it that way.) Gale, he realizes, has money. Being an archwizard pays off, it seems. ]

I think you'll need to be restrained while I deliberate. A safety precaution, you see.

[ He finds himself cursing the fact that he didn't think to stop by a store and buy some sort of rope or, like, fuzzy handcuffs. Oh, well. He's nothing if not a master of improvisation. ]

What do you think?

[ Signs of privilege and prestige all around them; Iorveth, for now, doesn't wonder if Astarion would prefer a life like this instead of the one they'd been living the past few days. He's too busy sinking back onto a could-soft duvet with Astarion above him, shushing animal instinct to indulge in the impossible certainty that Astarion won't actually hurt him in any meaningful way.

Most people who have been recently restrained in a horrific way would say "too soon" to being tied up, even in a playful manner. Iorveth, not a normal or reasonable person, slowly links his wrists above his head, letting a frisson of thrill run up his spine at the thought of being able to trust someone the way he trusts Astarion. Iorveth has fought all his life for the semblance of control, so it feels nice, in a way, to not feel threatened when he gives up said control to someone else.

"I think I'm more in love with you than strictly necessary," is a candidate for an answer, but Iorveth settles on: ]

If needs must.

[ Long, lean, and stretched on a bed. Iorveth remembers how miserable Astarion'd been, curled under that bridge in the middle of a forest, and wants to make up for making him feel so small. ]

Deliberate to your heart's content.

Aren't you docile? [ is a tease, because if there's anything in this world that Iorveth will never be described as, it's docile. That's fine. Astarion likes his feral woodland animal.

He especially likes that his feral woodland animal is docile just for him, though. He crawls up over Iorveth's long, lean body, letting his weight rest again his thighs as he takes in the visual. A disservice, Iorveth had said. Ridiculous, when Iorveth's entire existence feels like a favor to him.

His head tilts, contemplative. ]

I wonder. Should I tie you up or hold you down?

[ Not that he could ever really hold Iorveth down if he decided to fight back, not with these weak arms, but— the appeal is in Iorveth letting him. ]

[ "With what strength", Iorveth doesn't say. He'll let Astarion have this one. ]

It'll have to be your hands, if you haven't any rope.

[ That, or Astarion could use any number of Gale's robe belts to lash Iorveth to the bed, but Iorveth will let Astarion innovate however he wants. He wiggles his fingers where they're resting above him, on a pillow pressed against the headboard. ]

I'll not struggle. Whatever punishment you mete out, I'll accept with dignity.

[ Famous last words. ]

[ Astarion might like if he struggled a little, but this is undernegotiated as it is, and Astarion has never heard of a safe word before in his life, so he doesn't say so. Instead, he closes his palm over Iorveth's linked wrists, leaning his weight into his hand in lieu of actual strength. Iorveth's hands sink a little lower into that soft pillow, the silky pillowcase crinkling.

Iorveth is treading dangerously, allowing a crazed vampire the freedom to mete out 'whatever punishment'. Then again, he's been treading dangerously since the first moment he let Astarion kiss him, or perhaps even before that, when he first let Astarion bite him. Hells, he started treading dangerously when he decided not to sneak into Astarion's tent at night and stake him in the heart.

Astarion laughs, an amused exhale under his breath. ]

You struggle so little that one might think you want the rod.

[ He wouldn't mind. You don't become involved with a freak without expecting some freakiness. ]

Or was it the blade you wanted?

[ Iorveth can allow Astarion whatever, because of his deranged certainty that Astarion will stop if anything gets too close to the realm of uncomfortable or unsavory. That, coupled with the fact that Iorveth doesn't mind a bit of pain edging into his fooling around; makes things more exciting, in his (un)professional opinion.

He lifts his chin, mock-haughty; his tone verges on challenging, taunting. Theatre. ]

Don't tell me you've never wanted to threaten me with something sharp.

[ Testing the pressure pressing down onto his wrists, enjoying that weight. It'll be an easy thing to rear up and headbutt Astarion in his impossibly pretty face, but that isn't the point of this exercise. ]

A mouthy wood elf with a penchant for rubbing you the wrong way. [ The corner of his scarred lips curls, amused. ] This is your chance to shut him up.

[ 'Don't tell me you've never wanted to threaten me with something sharp' — ha. If only Iorveth knew how many times Astarion had wished to brandish his dagger when Iorveth said something smug or disapproving. Those fantasies have died down now, but they've only been replaced with more intense desires.

He'd had to remove his dagger when shedding his old, dirty travel clothes. It sits on the nightstand now, and he reaches over Iorveth to grab it, fingers just barely grazing it until he can finally finagle it into his hand, unwilling to give up his advantageous position. His fingers wrap around the handle, feeling the weight of it in his palm before he lightly presses the cold, flat edge of it against the notch between Iorveth's collarbones. Gentle, testing. ]

Since you've been so terribly withholding, perhaps a little bloodletting is in order.

[ It's playacting, but it's also a question. He has no idea what the limits are; if it were him on the other end of Iorveth's blade, he'd be viscerally distressed. ]

[ A stray feeling, here, that Astarion has never negotiated any sort of arrangement before. It makes sense－ Astarion's spent two hundred years living with ultimatums－ and reflecting on it makes Iorveth want to break the hold and pull Astarion into an embrace, but.

They're still playing. Also, Astarion has a dagger in his hand. The best Iorveth can do is communicate with his body language, let the tension bleed completely from his body so that he's a relaxed lump on pillowy down. A wild thing to be doing when, again, the man on top of him is brandishing a very sharp object dangerously close to his vital organs, but it's still all green for Iorveth. ]

Hardly a punishment.

[ Turning his head, lifting his chin to stretch his neck and expose more collarbone. ]

As long as you put your mouth on me, I'm content.

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