[ Two wolves inside Iorveth: one wolf is pleased that Astarion might be feeling something that isn't abject disgust at the feeling of a dick in his hand, the other is rolling around and kicking its feet and yipping and yapping.
Outwardly, Iorveth is a combination of those two wolves. Watchful, but strained. The fingers scraping at the headboard turn into little claws, blunted nails tracing the carvings in the wood with more restless fervor; tipping his chin up, he swallows the tail end of a sigh-moan when Astarion idly pets at his (now-slick) head. It always feels a little obscene, making Astarion's clever fingers touch his cock. ]
Gods, you're unbearable. [ Deeply affectionate. ] I want to kiss you.
[ He forgets to ask, which is the point. Honk, goes his clown nose. ]
Astarion. [ Slightly choked, on a broken breath. ] Your mouth. [ Not a sentence. Also not a request. Loving Astarion has truly made him unwise. ]
[ Oh, Astarion loves Iorveth. He gazes down at him, visibly restless but still obeying, and feels a swell of affection in his chest. Iorveth lets him deny him the things he wants, which is exactly why Astarion wants to give Iorveth everything he wants. In his mind, he draws cartoon hearts around Iorveth, lovebirds flying around his head. The strength of his feeling would have frightened him once upon a time; caring for someone was a weakness to be exploited during his time in the bowels of Cazador's palace. It doesn't frighten him anymore. In fact, he finds he rather likes adoring someone.
He spreads slickness over the head of Iorveth's cock with his thumb and finally begins to stroke him in earnest, long, slow tugs so as not to distract from the most important thing, the psychological warfare he's waging on the person he loves most in the world. ]
[ Psychological warfare with his dick in Astarion's hand. It's all very ridiculous. Iorveth tries to recall what the point of all this was－ something about atoning for putting Astarion through temporary hell, wanting Astarion to feel more in control－ but his brain feels a little fried, and honestly, the actual point is just to be close to Astarion in whatever way possible.
That said, the sound of the mess he's making on Astarion's palm is almost as unbearable as not being able to touch him or kiss him. Iorveth has heard of people being content to just sit back and let someone else get them off, but can't wrap his mind around what the possible appeal of that could even be.
Another shift, an insistent attempt to bump foreheads that winds up looking like he's tossing and turning on his pillow. Iorveth makes a half-strangled sound, frustrated, and tries again. ]
I can't come if I can't kiss you. [ A near-growl, his throat bobbing with the effort. ] Fuck, if you haven't actually ruined me.
[ Sex is sport, but Iorveth doubts sleeping with anyone else will even come close to the feeling he gets just being pressed against Astarion. He shifts (squirms) again, one knee bending as his hips turn towards Astarion's hand. ]
[ Iorveth said not to kiss him even if he asked, but Astarion is only a man. There's quite possibly nothing in the world that could excite him more than the sound of Iorveth saying please while squirming on a pillow, so he crawls atop Iorveth again, pressing one palm to his linked wrists again while the other keeps up its steady work between his legs. It feels wet, sounds obscenely wet. He's never felt so powerful as he does now, knowing that he has this effect on Iorveth.
Brushing their noses together, he says, ] You're so very good.
[ He isn't sure if this sort of praise affects Iorveth at all, but it's genuine and needs to be said regardless. Iorveth is good. He tolerates Astarion's neuroses, encourages his idiosyncrasies. He lets Astarion feel in control after feeling entirely out of control. Sometimes, Astarion is afraid that he'll wake up in the kennels and find that Iorveth was just a vivid dream. ]
You're perfect. [ Praise again, but genuine again. He brushes his lips against Iorveth's, light and gentle, just a whisper of a touch. ]
[ Every nerve in Iorveth's body lights up when Astarion crawls on top of him, and his fingers instinctively curl towards the hand holding his wrists in place like flowers bending towards the sun. Agonizing over even that small point of contact, alternating between finally and more.
That agony crescendos at the featherlight flutter of Astarion's lips against his own, at being called "perfect". He bucks against the hand still wound torturously around his oversensitive erection, its steady, languid strokes pushing him closer and closer to an edge that he can't quite seem to tip over.
He huffs, shivers. "Good" and "perfect" are sweet, but not a "you can kiss me"; iron discipline and obstinate love keep him from surging up and claiming Astarion's mouth. Right now, his partner holds all his cards. ]
Beloved, [ he groans, lips parted like an offering. ] Please, fuck.
[ Affection aggression. He wants Astarion so much, he thinks he'll vibrate out of his skin. ]
Please. I want you, only you, you. [ Half-snarled, desperate. ]
[ 'Beloved', his most favorite word. Happy butterflies flutter in his stomach, warm affection radiating out of him. How could Iorveth ever consider himself undesirable when Astarion could probably get off to the mere sound of his voice calling him sweet names? He thinks he could stay here forever, listening to Iorveth's desperate groans and savoring the jerks of his hips, but even he isn't so cruel as to deny Iorveth for that long.
A gentle squeeze to Iorveth's erection during his downward stroke, and: ] Only because you beg so sweetly.
[ He can't believe that anyone ever ignored Iorveth's pleas. Rotten, wretched creatures. Iorveth will never beg again, he thinks, without getting what he asked for. Astarion licks into his open mouth, tongue sliding against Iorveth's as he considers that it's been a tenday or perhaps more since they last kissed in this way. The inside of Iorveth's mouth feels hot in a stirring way, just enough on the side of 'too much', and he sighs into it, soft and pleased. ]
[ Again: finally. The part of Iorveth that should be embarrassed by obvious displays of desperate affection are effectively silenced, and all that's left of him is the animal hindbrain that makes him lick up into Astarion's mouth to taste the remnants of his own blood still left between Astarion's teeth. The feeling is intimate and immediate; it's also filthy and messy, all desire and no finesse. Feral, hungry, unhinged.
It's also the thing Iorveth needed, to fall over the precipice he'd been flirting with. No doubt most people would find it strange that kissing, of all things, is what finally makes Iorveth's already sex-stupid mind go completely blank, but it's what does it for him: a choked moan mid-kiss is Astarion's only warning before Iorveth spills all over Astarion's hand, hands still linked over his head and hips lifted an inch from the soft cushioning of their now-wrinkled sheets. He shudders a few times, stubbornly refusing to pull away from where their mouths are still pressed together, obstinate even mid-orgasm and after it, when his limbs go limp and his knee falls down from where it'd hiked up.
Ruined. Iorveth tips his head to the side to breathe, single green eye glazed and foggy from exertion. ]
Fuck, [ for the millionth time. Very articulate. ] You feel so good.
[ Belatedly. Also, just in general. The handjob was amazing, of course, but the sentiment is more all-inclusive: "being with you is so good". ]
[ Iorveth has to come down from his orgasm, and Astarion has to come down from the overwhelming feeling of power. His hand slows then stops entirely before he lifts it to lick up the mess Iorveth made on his palm. The taste of spend typically disgusts him, but something that comes from Iorveth could never repulse him; it's different somehow, like how everything is different with Iorveth. ]
Who knew my little fox could be so obedient?
[ Not him, that's for sure. He takes each of Iorveth's wrists in his hands, grip gentle and loose as he brings them down. One of them gets brought to his mouth, and his lips graze each knuckle before he turns it over and presses his mouth to Iorveth's palm, fangs scraping lightly. It's reverent, appreciative. ]
The memory of that will certainly sustain me through our travels.
[ Translation: oh yeah, that's going in the spank bank. ]
[ A little dizzy, very much affectionate. Iorveth watches with dazed awe at Astarion kissing his hand, blinking hearts out of his single eye; all of the restrictions and denials later, this is still the safest Iorveth has felt around any being, living or otherwise.
He turns his palm over in Astarion's grip, and cradles his face. Reciprocal reverence. ]
Let it get to your head.
[ The common saying starts with "don't", but Iorveth modifies it: Astarion should absolutely be confident that Iorveth is obsessed with him. Thumbing over Astarion's cheek, Iorveth leans in with a soft: ] You didn't drink much.
[ More mental warfare, less feeding. Iorveth would be fine with fangs in his neck post-sex, but also－
－from downstairs, Gale's voice floats over, muffled and distant: "Ah! I think I've found a compelling lead into improving your condition, Astarion!" ]
He isn't ungrateful to Gale for helping—quite the opposite—but he, as expected, has the second worst timing known to man. (The only timing worse would be if he called up while Astarion's hand was still on Iorveth's prick.) He was hoping to roll around in bed a little more, be kissed a lot more, maybe sink his fangs into Iorveth another time—
But there's Gale's nasally and excited voice, and Astarion can't very well ignore it like he normally does. He sits up, unsure whether to scowl or grin given the circumstances. As irritated as he is to have the first real affection he's gotten from Iorveth in a tenday interrupted, the thought of a 'compelling lead' is, well, compelling.
He snatches Iorveth's borrowed pants up off of the floor, holding them out for him to take. There isn't much to be done about the shirt situation, nor is there anything that will change the fact that Iorveth looks like he had a run-in with a rabid bat. Gale will probably find what they've been doing up here to be very impolite, and he won't be wrong. Too bad Astarion doesn't care. ]
Coming! [ he calls back, if only so Gale doesn't try to come up here before Iorveth can get dressed. ]
[ If it were for any other reason, Iorveth might have told Gale to fuck off; unfortunately for him, it's about the matter of Astarion's condition, and that's more important than anything Iorveth could be doing right now.
So. On goes the pants. A quick combthrough of his hair and a halfhearted attempt to drape the ruined shirt more artfully over his torso, and Iorveth nods at Astarion to indicate that he's ready to brave Gale and his enthusiasm once more.
Down the stairs, back into the sitting room. Gale looks up from where he's sifting his fingers over a particular shelf, a book enchanted and hovering, open, next to him; he's grinning ear to ear until he sees the state Iorveth is in, and wilts like a five-day-old bouquet.
"Well, I certainly hope I'm not interrupting anything," is more than a little exasperated. ]
[ If Astarion had any shame, he'd feel embarrassed right now. No two people have ever looked so obviously like they were just having sex (that was consensual, but not particularly safe or sane). He doesn't, though, so he stands there with his nose in the air like Iorveth isn't wearing a shirt that he got carried away with and sliced down the front. ]
I said I was hungry.
[ As if that's an excuse for getting freaky in Gale's abode less than twenty four hours after being allowed in. ]
You're a wizard. Mend that shirt, will you? I happen to like it.
[ The audacity. Iorveth will allow it (back to "he said no pickles"). Gale, obviously put-upon, splutters for a second－ "you do realize that it's my shirt"－ but, unable to resist a demonstration of magic or the chance to talk about his findings, doesn't tell Astarion and Iorveth to fuck off, and instead...
...does as he's told. Again: a dog that wants to be a good boy. A flick of Gale's wrist and a quick murmur of the cantrip's verbal component later, the shirt slowly starts to stitch itself back together as if it'd never been sliced open in the first place.
While that's happening, Gale turns his attention back to the book still hovering by his side, and gestures to it with some impatience. "May I?" (Iorveth, ignoring most of that spellcasting demonstration, reaches up to comb his fingers through Astarion's hair and flick a stray piece of fuzz from his bangs.) ]
[ This might be all he needs in life: a Gale to irritate, an Iorveth to groom him. It's funny how a couple days can make all the difference. Not long ago, he was staring at a damp spot on the ceiling of the Commandant's basement, feeling the lowest he's felt in a long time. Now, in the safety of Gale's tower, he allows himself to feel— hope? The habitual urge to suppress it is strong; for much of his existence, hope only meant that he felt even more dismayed when he was inevitably let down. Better not to hope at all and cushion the fall.
It's strong enough now not to be extinguished, though, which is a little intimidating in itself. Astarion would be lying if he said he weren't nervous that this will eventually end in disappointment, but for the first time, he allows himself the possibility that it won't. He clasps his hands behind his back, smiling. ]
[ Gale sighs, world-weary, and gestures for the pair to sit wherever they want for their incoming lecture. Making the executive decision to settle on a two-seater, Iorveth wraps one arm around Astarion's waist and holds him close by his side, the affection and need from before still vibrating thinly under his skin.
Politely, Gale clears his throat and launches into his pitch: "I wonder if either of you have heard of the warlord Dragomir the Red." A pause for dramatic effect, and when he doesn't get the reaction he'd been looking for (recognition of the name, mostly), he continues. "Well, suffice it to say that he was a rather nasty vampire, as vampires are wont to be." Quickly: "Excluding our own Astarion, of course."
Of course. "Anyway, without delving too deeply into the historical aspect of Dragomir's reign of terror, we can move swiftly on to his demise: a timely one, almost two centuries ago. After the heroes felled the man, they found, in his tomb, a rather interesting cloak－ one that allowed those forsaken by the sun to walk under it again."
The meat and potatoes. Iorveth sits up, more attentive now. ]
[ Astarion sits up alongside Iorveth, the two of them like identical meerkats standing up. ]
Oh, Gale. Very well done.
[ His tone is warm, genuine. Praise from him is rare—at least, if one's name isn't Iorveth—but in this case it's more than warranted. Gods, he could throw his arms around Gale and squeeze until his big, sad cow eyes pop out of their sockets.
His excitement is somewhat tempered, though, by the realization that just because such an item theoretically existed at one time doesn't mean that it still does. If it does still exist, that also doesn't mean that it's anywhere he can get his greedy little hands on it. Also, what if it's an ugly cloak? ]
[ Also the meat and potatoes, the question of "where is it now". Gale looks heartened by the genuine praise, though, and beams at his two oversized meerkats with his symbolic tail wagging furiously behind him.
"The cloak itself was found in Athkatla, down in Amn, but it's said to have traveled hands a few times since its discovery. I can certainly see if any of my colleagues know of its whereabouts－ the location of such a rare and precious artefact is sure to have been catalogued extensively by our community."
Wizard flex. For once, Iorveth doesn't feel the impulse to roll his eye, given that this is incredibly valuable information. The first step towards Astarion repairing his relationship with daylight.
Gale continues: "The magic imbued into the cloak itself is apparently powerful undead magic. If we were to look into how the enchantment works, we could potentially replicate it and apply it to other objects that are less cumbersome to carry! A bracelet, perhaps, or a ring..."
Now Gale's just getting ambitious. But, again, it's the good kind of ambitious (old habits, dying hard, etc.), and Iorveth lets Gale chatter on for a bit.
"Perhaps we could even update the enchantment! Seek ways to lessen its limitations..." ]
[ For possibly the first time ever, Astarion hasn't tuned Gale out once during this lecture. He nods along as Gale talks, eyes wide and shiny with excitement. ]
Gale, you brilliant man, you.
[ He breaks out in a wide smile, expression brighter than it's been since... ever, maybe. Usually, he's careful to maintain a sort of nonchalant detachment around most others, accustomed to seeing the act of showing genuine emotion as a danger, but he can't help himself now. Happiness beams out of him. ]
It could be in Kara-Tur for all I care. Wherever it is, I'll go.
[ He speaks only for himself. If it's still anywhere near Amn, that's the exact opposite of the direction Iorveth is supposed to be going. ]
[ It's lovely to see Astarion so happy, and for good reason: this is probably the best piece of news he's heard post-Netherbrain, after he'd had to spend a day huddled between crates mourning his loss of the sun. Astarion hasn't had much to celebrate since leaving Baldur's Gate, and Iorveth wants this development for him, wants something that gives him hope for his future.
It does, however, throw a wrench into Iorveth's plans to go north. If the cloak is still in Amn, that is. The thought makes him go quiet for a moment, though he chooses not to vocalize that little snag in the back of his throat; instead, he rubs the small of Astarion's back and lets his lips quirk into a half-smile, as soft as he'll allow himself to be in Gale's presence. ]
A promising development.
[ Because it is. Gale puffs gleefully at the waterfall of compliments being showered on him, and snaps the floating books next to him shut with artful decisiveness.
"Well, that settles things! I'll make my way to the Academy tomorrow to consult with my colleagues on the matter. It shouldn't take a tenday to pinpoint the general area that the cloak may be, but that should be plenty of time for you two to enjoy the city and all that it has to offer!"
Preening. Gale might split in two from how hard he's smiling.
"You've nothing to fear, friends― the Wizard of Waterdeep is on the case!" ]
[ Gale is so embarrassing, and Astarion would have found it worthy of mockery once. He still does, a little bit, but he finds it more endearing than anything else, which is a horrific discovery. He'd thought he was only growing soft toward Iorveth, but to grow soft toward Gale? Who's next, Halsin? The thought is too horrible to bear. ]
My hero, [ he drawls, sardonic, although there's an undercurrent of truth to it. No one else would be able to accomplish something like this for him. Only Gale and his annoyingly big brain.
Hand over his heart, he adds, ] We'll be sure to obey the Code Legal to the letter. Won't we, darling?
[ A soft mm, and Iorveth gets up from where he's sitting, a hand waving in the air. ]
Even if we don't, "The Wizard of Waterdeep" will post our bail.
[ Translation: "we're in your care, Gale". Prickly, but warm. Iorveth appreciates Gale's quickness and candor, his willingness to put everything aside for them immediately despite the fact that they haven't offered anything in return. A good man, despite his foibles― probably a great man, because of them. ]
...I may also need to take care of some personal business, while we wait for a verdict. [ A glance towards the window, considering. ] No doubt Gale will be able to keep you busy if I'm away.
[ Turning towards Astarion, petting through silver hair again. ]
[ Gale brightens at the idea of entertaining, a natural-born host who'd been forced into seclusion for far too long. "Oh! There's a new performance on at the opera house, and word on the street is that the new coloratura soprano is an exquisite talent. If you would be interested in joining me, Astarion—"
Astarion rudely ignores Gale's offer, instead turning to look up at Iorveth, brow furrowed. ]
[ Iorveth doesn't want to say something to the extent of "making sure I remain informed of events if anything goes drastically wrong in the north while I'm away", because he feels that that would rain on Astarion's sunny parade. The perils of being horrifically in love with someone who should finally learn how to live his own life and find out what he wants from it, while also feeling deeply obligated to an entire group of pointy-eared people.
So. ] Elf politics. [ A soft huff, dry and amused. He cradles Astarion's face again, and leans over to press lips to his forehead. ] Far less interesting to you than a performance at an opera house, I expect.
[ "More of the usual", is what Iorveth means. He has no idea if there are any Aen Seidhe in the area that he can speak to, but there may be one or two in hiding.
Meanwhile, just as importantly: ]
After the last tenday, you deserve to indulge and unwind.
[ Elf politics is likely nondescriptive for the sake of not boring Astarion, who really doesn't care for elf politics, but it also feels a bit like being brushed off. He might not care about the politics of it, but he does care about Iorveth and the things on his mind. His brow stays furrowed for a moment longer, but he has no intention of arguing with Iorveth in front of Gale—embarrassing!—so he shakes it off soon after, shrugging. ]
I suppose you're right.
[ To Gale: ] I'll need a proper outfit, of course.
[ Gale, who's still a bit miffed over the incident with Iorveth's shirt, says, "Willing as I am to lend you my clothing, I do think perhaps we should discuss some ground rules for the treatment of it..." ]
[ Of course Astarion is going to need an outfit for every occasion. Iorveth softens somewhat, brushing his knuckles over Astarion's jaw one more time before pulling away, brushing by Gale to pluck the now-closed but still-floating book beside him. He doesn't doubt that Gale told them most of what they need to know (and most of what they'd be able to understand), but it pays to be informed. ]
We're in your debt, [ Iorveth says to the poor wizard, who looks a little surprised by that particular combination of words coming out of the prickly terrorist's mouth.
"Hm? Oh come now, Iorveth. After all we've been through together― and we have been through quite a lot―" Sensing a long speech about friendship, which Iorveth is thankful for but doesn't think he can sit through, he interrupts: ] If ever you encounter a rival that needs killing, say the word.
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Outwardly, Iorveth is a combination of those two wolves. Watchful, but strained. The fingers scraping at the headboard turn into little claws, blunted nails tracing the carvings in the wood with more restless fervor; tipping his chin up, he swallows the tail end of a sigh-moan when Astarion idly pets at his (now-slick) head. It always feels a little obscene, making Astarion's clever fingers touch his cock. ]
Gods, you're unbearable. [ Deeply affectionate. ] I want to kiss you.
[ He forgets to ask, which is the point. Honk, goes his clown nose. ]
Astarion. [ Slightly choked, on a broken breath. ] Your mouth. [ Not a sentence. Also not a request. Loving Astarion has truly made him unwise. ]
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He spreads slickness over the head of Iorveth's cock with his thumb and finally begins to stroke him in earnest, long, slow tugs so as not to distract from the most important thing, the psychological warfare he's waging on the person he loves most in the world. ]
What about it? Use your words, darling.
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That said, the sound of the mess he's making on Astarion's palm is almost as unbearable as not being able to touch him or kiss him. Iorveth has heard of people being content to just sit back and let someone else get them off, but can't wrap his mind around what the possible appeal of that could even be.
Another shift, an insistent attempt to bump foreheads that winds up looking like he's tossing and turning on his pillow. Iorveth makes a half-strangled sound, frustrated, and tries again. ]
I can't come if I can't kiss you. [ A near-growl, his throat bobbing with the effort. ] Fuck, if you haven't actually ruined me.
[ Sex is sport, but Iorveth doubts sleeping with anyone else will even come close to the feeling he gets just being pressed against Astarion. He shifts (squirms) again, one knee bending as his hips turn towards Astarion's hand. ]
Please. Your mouth.
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Brushing their noses together, he says, ] You're so very good.
[ He isn't sure if this sort of praise affects Iorveth at all, but it's genuine and needs to be said regardless. Iorveth is good. He tolerates Astarion's neuroses, encourages his idiosyncrasies. He lets Astarion feel in control after feeling entirely out of control. Sometimes, Astarion is afraid that he'll wake up in the kennels and find that Iorveth was just a vivid dream. ]
You're perfect. [ Praise again, but genuine again. He brushes his lips against Iorveth's, light and gentle, just a whisper of a touch. ]
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That agony crescendos at the featherlight flutter of Astarion's lips against his own, at being called "perfect". He bucks against the hand still wound torturously around his oversensitive erection, its steady, languid strokes pushing him closer and closer to an edge that he can't quite seem to tip over.
He huffs, shivers. "Good" and "perfect" are sweet, but not a "you can kiss me"; iron discipline and obstinate love keep him from surging up and claiming Astarion's mouth. Right now, his partner holds all his cards. ]
Beloved, [ he groans, lips parted like an offering. ] Please, fuck.
[ Affection aggression. He wants Astarion so much, he thinks he'll vibrate out of his skin. ]
Please. I want you, only you, you. [ Half-snarled, desperate. ]
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A gentle squeeze to Iorveth's erection during his downward stroke, and: ] Only because you beg so sweetly.
[ He can't believe that anyone ever ignored Iorveth's pleas. Rotten, wretched creatures. Iorveth will never beg again, he thinks, without getting what he asked for. Astarion licks into his open mouth, tongue sliding against Iorveth's as he considers that it's been a tenday or perhaps more since they last kissed in this way. The inside of Iorveth's mouth feels hot in a stirring way, just enough on the side of 'too much', and he sighs into it, soft and pleased. ]
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It's also the thing Iorveth needed, to fall over the precipice he'd been flirting with. No doubt most people would find it strange that kissing, of all things, is what finally makes Iorveth's already sex-stupid mind go completely blank, but it's what does it for him: a choked moan mid-kiss is Astarion's only warning before Iorveth spills all over Astarion's hand, hands still linked over his head and hips lifted an inch from the soft cushioning of their now-wrinkled sheets. He shudders a few times, stubbornly refusing to pull away from where their mouths are still pressed together, obstinate even mid-orgasm and after it, when his limbs go limp and his knee falls down from where it'd hiked up.
Ruined. Iorveth tips his head to the side to breathe, single green eye glazed and foggy from exertion. ]
Fuck, [ for the millionth time. Very articulate. ] You feel so good.
[ Belatedly. Also, just in general. The handjob was amazing, of course, but the sentiment is more all-inclusive: "being with you is so good". ]
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Who knew my little fox could be so obedient?
[ Not him, that's for sure. He takes each of Iorveth's wrists in his hands, grip gentle and loose as he brings them down. One of them gets brought to his mouth, and his lips graze each knuckle before he turns it over and presses his mouth to Iorveth's palm, fangs scraping lightly. It's reverent, appreciative. ]
The memory of that will certainly sustain me through our travels.
[ Translation: oh yeah, that's going in the spank bank. ]
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He turns his palm over in Astarion's grip, and cradles his face. Reciprocal reverence. ]
Let it get to your head.
[ The common saying starts with "don't", but Iorveth modifies it: Astarion should absolutely be confident that Iorveth is obsessed with him. Thumbing over Astarion's cheek, Iorveth leans in with a soft: ] You didn't drink much.
[ More mental warfare, less feeding. Iorveth would be fine with fangs in his neck post-sex, but also－
－from downstairs, Gale's voice floats over, muffled and distant: "Ah! I think I've found a compelling lead into improving your condition, Astarion!" ]
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He isn't ungrateful to Gale for helping—quite the opposite—but he, as expected, has the second worst timing known to man. (The only timing worse would be if he called up while Astarion's hand was still on Iorveth's prick.) He was hoping to roll around in bed a little more, be kissed a lot more, maybe sink his fangs into Iorveth another time—
But there's Gale's nasally and excited voice, and Astarion can't very well ignore it like he normally does. He sits up, unsure whether to scowl or grin given the circumstances. As irritated as he is to have the first real affection he's gotten from Iorveth in a tenday interrupted, the thought of a 'compelling lead' is, well, compelling.
He snatches Iorveth's borrowed pants up off of the floor, holding them out for him to take. There isn't much to be done about the shirt situation, nor is there anything that will change the fact that Iorveth looks like he had a run-in with a rabid bat. Gale will probably find what they've been doing up here to be very impolite, and he won't be wrong. Too bad Astarion doesn't care. ]
Coming! [ he calls back, if only so Gale doesn't try to come up here before Iorveth can get dressed. ]
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So. On goes the pants. A quick combthrough of his hair and a halfhearted attempt to drape the ruined shirt more artfully over his torso, and Iorveth nods at Astarion to indicate that he's ready to brave Gale and his enthusiasm once more.
Down the stairs, back into the sitting room. Gale looks up from where he's sifting his fingers over a particular shelf, a book enchanted and hovering, open, next to him; he's grinning ear to ear until he sees the state Iorveth is in, and wilts like a five-day-old bouquet.
"Well, I certainly hope I'm not interrupting anything," is more than a little exasperated. ]
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I said I was hungry.
[ As if that's an excuse for getting freaky in Gale's abode less than twenty four hours after being allowed in. ]
You're a wizard. Mend that shirt, will you? I happen to like it.
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...does as he's told. Again: a dog that wants to be a good boy. A flick of Gale's wrist and a quick murmur of the cantrip's verbal component later, the shirt slowly starts to stitch itself back together as if it'd never been sliced open in the first place.
While that's happening, Gale turns his attention back to the book still hovering by his side, and gestures to it with some impatience. "May I?" (Iorveth, ignoring most of that spellcasting demonstration, reaches up to comb his fingers through Astarion's hair and flick a stray piece of fuzz from his bangs.) ]
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It's strong enough now not to be extinguished, though, which is a little intimidating in itself. Astarion would be lying if he said he weren't nervous that this will eventually end in disappointment, but for the first time, he allows himself the possibility that it won't. He clasps his hands behind his back, smiling. ]
You may.
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Politely, Gale clears his throat and launches into his pitch: "I wonder if either of you have heard of the warlord Dragomir the Red." A pause for dramatic effect, and when he doesn't get the reaction he'd been looking for (recognition of the name, mostly), he continues. "Well, suffice it to say that he was a rather nasty vampire, as vampires are wont to be." Quickly: "Excluding our own Astarion, of course."
Of course. "Anyway, without delving too deeply into the historical aspect of Dragomir's reign of terror, we can move swiftly on to his demise: a timely one, almost two centuries ago. After the heroes felled the man, they found, in his tomb, a rather interesting cloak－ one that allowed those forsaken by the sun to walk under it again."
The meat and potatoes. Iorveth sits up, more attentive now. ]
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Oh, Gale. Very well done.
[ His tone is warm, genuine. Praise from him is rare—at least, if one's name isn't Iorveth—but in this case it's more than warranted. Gods, he could throw his arms around Gale and squeeze until his big, sad cow eyes pop out of their sockets.
His excitement is somewhat tempered, though, by the realization that just because such an item theoretically existed at one time doesn't mean that it still does. If it does still exist, that also doesn't mean that it's anywhere he can get his greedy little hands on it. Also, what if it's an ugly cloak? ]
Where might one find this cloak now?
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"The cloak itself was found in Athkatla, down in Amn, but it's said to have traveled hands a few times since its discovery. I can certainly see if any of my colleagues know of its whereabouts－ the location of such a rare and precious artefact is sure to have been catalogued extensively by our community."
Wizard flex. For once, Iorveth doesn't feel the impulse to roll his eye, given that this is incredibly valuable information. The first step towards Astarion repairing his relationship with daylight.
Gale continues: "The magic imbued into the cloak itself is apparently powerful undead magic. If we were to look into how the enchantment works, we could potentially replicate it and apply it to other objects that are less cumbersome to carry! A bracelet, perhaps, or a ring..."
Now Gale's just getting ambitious. But, again, it's the good kind of ambitious (old habits, dying hard, etc.), and Iorveth lets Gale chatter on for a bit.
"Perhaps we could even update the enchantment! Seek ways to lessen its limitations..." ]
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Gale, you brilliant man, you.
[ He breaks out in a wide smile, expression brighter than it's been since... ever, maybe. Usually, he's careful to maintain a sort of nonchalant detachment around most others, accustomed to seeing the act of showing genuine emotion as a danger, but he can't help himself now. Happiness beams out of him. ]
It could be in Kara-Tur for all I care. Wherever it is, I'll go.
[ He speaks only for himself. If it's still anywhere near Amn, that's the exact opposite of the direction Iorveth is supposed to be going. ]
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It does, however, throw a wrench into Iorveth's plans to go north. If the cloak is still in Amn, that is. The thought makes him go quiet for a moment, though he chooses not to vocalize that little snag in the back of his throat; instead, he rubs the small of Astarion's back and lets his lips quirk into a half-smile, as soft as he'll allow himself to be in Gale's presence. ]
A promising development.
[ Because it is. Gale puffs gleefully at the waterfall of compliments being showered on him, and snaps the floating books next to him shut with artful decisiveness.
"Well, that settles things! I'll make my way to the Academy tomorrow to consult with my colleagues on the matter. It shouldn't take a tenday to pinpoint the general area that the cloak may be, but that should be plenty of time for you two to enjoy the city and all that it has to offer!"
Preening. Gale might split in two from how hard he's smiling.
"You've nothing to fear, friends― the Wizard of Waterdeep is on the case!" ]
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My hero, [ he drawls, sardonic, although there's an undercurrent of truth to it. No one else would be able to accomplish something like this for him. Only Gale and his annoyingly big brain.
Hand over his heart, he adds, ] We'll be sure to obey the Code Legal to the letter. Won't we, darling?
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Even if we don't, "The Wizard of Waterdeep" will post our bail.
[ Translation: "we're in your care, Gale". Prickly, but warm. Iorveth appreciates Gale's quickness and candor, his willingness to put everything aside for them immediately despite the fact that they haven't offered anything in return. A good man, despite his foibles― probably a great man, because of them. ]
...I may also need to take care of some personal business, while we wait for a verdict. [ A glance towards the window, considering. ] No doubt Gale will be able to keep you busy if I'm away.
[ Turning towards Astarion, petting through silver hair again. ]
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Astarion rudely ignores Gale's offer, instead turning to look up at Iorveth, brow furrowed. ]
What personal business?
[ Su business es mi business, essentially. ]
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So. ] Elf politics. [ A soft huff, dry and amused. He cradles Astarion's face again, and leans over to press lips to his forehead. ] Far less interesting to you than a performance at an opera house, I expect.
[ "More of the usual", is what Iorveth means. He has no idea if there are any Aen Seidhe in the area that he can speak to, but there may be one or two in hiding.
Meanwhile, just as importantly: ]
After the last tenday, you deserve to indulge and unwind.
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I suppose you're right.
[ To Gale: ] I'll need a proper outfit, of course.
[ Gale, who's still a bit miffed over the incident with Iorveth's shirt, says, "Willing as I am to lend you my clothing, I do think perhaps we should discuss some ground rules for the treatment of it..." ]
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We're in your debt, [ Iorveth says to the poor wizard, who looks a little surprised by that particular combination of words coming out of the prickly terrorist's mouth.
"Hm? Oh come now, Iorveth. After all we've been through together― and we have been through quite a lot―" Sensing a long speech about friendship, which Iorveth is thankful for but doesn't think he can sit through, he interrupts: ] If ever you encounter a rival that needs killing, say the word.
[ Gale, exasperated: "Iorveth!" ]
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