essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Inwardly, Astarion cringes that this strange dryad knows anything about their shared peace. It is, however, a terribly sweet sentiment from Iorveth. If he weren't saying it in public, Astarion would have kissed him all over as a reward.

'Elven freedom', Astarion would have said for Iorveth. But he's already achieved that, so what's left? ]

Silk and velvet, actually.

[ Though the intent is to round off the edges of Iorveth's unwavering honesty, it isn't entirely a falsehood. After centuries of going without, having nice things is more than just shallow materialism. I matter, it says to the world. I deserve this.

Once again, Iorveth is embarrassingly truthful, although the answer isn't quite as mortifying as it could have been. The value of strength is in the safety it provides. A flash of Astarion imploring him to stay in Baldur's Gate with him after ascension flits across his mind; they'd be safe, he'd said, and no one would ever hurt them again. Now that's mortifying. ]

—But I suppose strength is up there. Somewhere.

[ Light seeming to beam out of her through her luminescent eyes, the dryad smiles. "The greatest strength comes from our sweetest bonds," she says, and Astarion suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. ]

[ Another few steps, until he's nearly at the edge of the log separating them. Iorveth has no idea how he's doing, actually, and if any of this is resonating with Astarion at all, or just making him feel put on the spot.

Still, the dryad presses on, having saved the most difficult question for last. "Where there's desire, there's also dread. The heart fears as much as the heart wants: tell me, what is your love most afraid of?"

Iorveth's kneejerk temptation is to say something along the lines of "no, I won't tell you". Astarion is afraid of a myriad of things, he thinks, and somewhere near the top of that extensive list, possibly, is people knowing that he's afraid of things.

Iorveth's brows furrow, and he stays silent for a stretch of time. Suddenly, he just wants to cross the bridge and take Astarion's hand and demand that they be released from the spell, but what he knows of fey magic is that it's conditional: the strength of its power lies in the fulfillment of certain requirements. As much as Iorveth doesn't want to answer the question, he doesn't want to be stuck in this place either.

A huff of breath, and a wave of his hand later: ] Getting mud in his hair.

[ Not actually a facetious answer. Iorveth acknowledges, now, that Astarion's vanity is also a form of self-preservation. ]

[ The silence stretches on for too long. Astarion crosses his arms, worrying his lip with a fang and trying not to look like he's worried Iorveth is about to spill his deepest, darkest fears to some tree-hugging nymph. Because Iorveth knows, of course he does. He'd once said that Astarion was afraid of everything. He wasn't wrong then, and he wouldn't be wrong to say so now. Astarion swallows, his stomach uneasy at the thought.

But he doesn't, and Astarion's every muscle relaxes. The beaming smile that cuts across his face is genuine, born of relief and gratitude that Iorveth has decided to protect his secrets. ]

Oh, yes. Excellent answer. My hair is my best quality.

[ The dryad seems unconvinced, tilting her head and saying, "In love, there is no place for hiding our true—"

Astarion ignores her, striding over to teeter on the log and snatching up Iorveth's hand in the process. He squeezes it affectionately, Iorveth's palm a pleasant warmth against his. ]

I had my doubts about this little test, but it seems you do know me. [ He hums thoughtfully, looking off to the side, where the waterfall cascades over the craggy cliff. ] Better than anyone ever has.

[ A small measure of relief floods through Iorveth when Astarion bridges the gap and presses their palms together, a warmth that smooths over some of the jaggedness that came with answering personal questions about someone who's still ostensibly figuring things out.

Novel, to care so much about someone else's comfort. Or, well. To spare a non-Seidhe's feelings. He wouldn't have thought twice about hanging Astarion out to dry three tendays ago, but after seeing him scream with the entire breadth of his soul in an underground tomb of his former tormentor's making－

－things change. Iorveth softens, lowering the first few layer of his stubborn emotional walls. ]

Because you've allowed it. [ Bringing their held hands up, pressing his lips to the back of Astarion's. ] A foolish move, on your part.

[ Iorveth likes to know, and to know as much as he can. He lowers their hands again, looking over and behind Astarion's shoulder at the now-silent dryad, her expression pinched inwards just slightly in a sign of contemplation. Trying to make a verdict, which eventually boils down to:

"A strange bond binds the two of you. As fragile as it is powerful, as contentious as it is unshakeable. At odds, but in harmony."

Iorveth wrinkles his nose at the assessment. ] All that, and you call us "strange".

[ Rude, honestly. They didn't need to tightrope-walk across a log for her to come to this conclusion. ]

[ Before Astarion had even dreamed of allowing him in, Iorveth had seen him. Not in a flattering light, but he'd been seen nonetheless. Iorveth, blunt and honest to a fault, had sniffed out his untruths like a scent hound. It hadn't felt good for Iorveth to pin him so accurately with his observations—and in fact he'd been overcome with shame and irritation—but part of him had longed for it.

No matter how harsh his assessment, Astarion's true self had been invisible for centuries, and someone had finally thought to look at him. He can hardly be blamed for wanting Iorveth to keep looking, to see more.

With an annoyed look over his shoulder, he snaps, ] Jealousy is ugly, you know.

[ Envy is obviously the only reason the creature would describe their relationship in such a manner. She should be cooing over how perfect they are for each other, dammit. "Fragility can be beautiful," she says, which sounds a bit like a cop-out, but Astarion doesn't argue the point. "And every rose has its thorn."

Astarion glances back at Iorveth, canting his head to concede the point. ]

Perhaps, at times, we can be a little bit thorny. [ He shakes his head. ] But life would be so boring without a few pricks to the fingers.

[ Sagely, the dryad adds, "Handle each other with care, lest you get hurt." Astarion really does roll his eyes this time, although the warning rings a little truer than he'd like. "Now— close your eyes..." ]

[ Everything is fragile. This world, its balance, the things living inside it. It stands to reason that affection can be just as fragile, but Iorveth can't help but claw and bite and fight to keep the things that he wants to preserve. Even if they're doomed. Especially if they're doomed.

"Thorny", Astarion says, and Iorveth thinks that he doesn't know the half of it. But he closes his eye anyway, acquiescing to the dryad's request, waiting for the swell and flow of old, old magic－

－until he hears the clamoring of the circus materializing around them again, the music and the footsteps and the laughter, the djinni's booming voice echoing over the din. There they are, either back where they started or settled back into their bodies, he has no idea. He feels more present now, more alert, as if the last of the alcohol buzzing in his system has been flushed out thanks to the spiritual (corporeal?) displacement; he flexes his free hand instinctively, making sure that he still has control over it.

Once he finishes readjusting, he glances over to the glowing dryad and her knowing scrutiny. She smiles at him, and, as if sensing his suspicions, offers a soft addendum. "You're convinced of so much," she warns. "But you still know so little."

Iorveth doesn't like that. He frowns, slightly disconcerted. ]

Interesting, [ has an edge to it. ] ...If that's all, then.

[ His turn to tug Astarion this time, away from those calm eyes and the growing shadow of the tree. ]

[ Astarion isn't one to let himself be tugged around easily, but he allows it this time, trailing after Iorveth without a fight. As they make their way back to the hustle and bustle of the circus, he sighs, shaking off the last remnants of that strange magic and blinking to reorient himself to his surroundings. ]

Well. That was certainly interesting.

[ A beat of silence passes, save for the roar of the crowd and the vendors hawking their wares. ]

And personal.

[ Where does that dryad get off, asking such private questions? She might as well have asked his favorite sex position. In fact, he would have preferred that. He waves a hand, batting away an imaginary dryad. ]

Thought-provoking, too. [ He doesn't say that he's sure Iorveth is surprised to hear he's had a thought, although he does think it. ] I wonder, what is your greatest desire?

[ He does spare a huff-laugh at "thought-provoking". Half the time, Iorveth assumes that Astarion reacts to things with instinct, not intellect. An unflattering assessment, probably, but then again, Iorveth has resigned himself to the torturous knowledge that he perceives this as something cute about Astarion instead of something he actively wants to strangle out of him. (Most of the time, anyway.)

Meandering through the crowd, past the muffled mummy, Iorveth finds a bit of raised pavement near the exit of the circus for them to sit on. High-strung pennants wave in the breeze above them, casting funny little triangular shadows. ]

Would you accept anything less than "you"?

[ Settling on the stone perch, his tone slightly breezy. Deflecting, just a bit. He thinks back to what he'd said post-regicide, that it doesn't matter what he wants as long as the plight of his clan is still in question; the matter of the Aen Seidhe's survival is more than just a personal desire. It's the only thing that's kept him together, that's given his aching chasm of anger and hurt and despair any measure of purpose at all.

Sure, he wants peace. He wants to sit in a room and eat food and feel utterly convinced that nothing and no one will endanger him; in all of the dreams he's ever had about this, he'd been sitting in this peace, alone.

Now, he thinks he might have the same dream, but with Astarion curled up next to him. A cozy room, a table laden with dishes, and silver hair in his periphery.

Iorveth leans back where he's sitting, watching the sun slowly make its descent towards the horizon. Trying not to look too much like this question still trips him up. ] I can list my fears more readily than I can list my desires.

[ Astarion sits beside Iorveth on the perch, legs spread out in front of him so that passersby have to avoid them if they'd like to walk by. He plants his palms on the edge of the stone, their pinky fingers touching. In the orange glow of the setting sun, Iorveth's severe features look uncharacteristically soft and welcoming. All versions of Iorveth have their charm, even the scowling ones that shoot more daggers with one eye than most people can with two, but this is the version Astarion likes the most. A killer and a radical, gentle and indulgent for him only.

A scoff. ] I adore you, my sweet, but you can be terribly depressing.

[ Surely he'd rather talk of how he desires to rid the world of every human that ever wronged him, or how he'd like to see his home again, or yes, how embarrassingly down bad he is for Astarion. Deep down, though, Astarion can understand the hesitance. To desire is to hope, and to hope sets oneself up for disappointment. Wanting makes you vulnerable in a different way than fearing, but it makes you vulnerable all the same.

If it's his fears he'd rather discuss, then fine. Iorveth gave him the privilege of being seen. He supposes he should do the same. ]

All right. Tell me your fears, then.

[ It's excruciatingly endearing, every time Astarion establishes the smallest point of contact possible. The initial curling of little finger around little finger as they walked, now this tiny overlap of that same digit. Iorveth turns his head to make eye contact, taking in how the sunset bleeds over Astarion's hair and skin. Sometimes, just looking at him feels like an ache between Iorveth's ribs. ]

Helplessness. [ Not a hard thing to admit. This, he knows he has in common with Astarion. ] I don't fear dying, but I do fear death that isn't on my own terms.

[ Again: kicking and screaming and fighting. But these are obvious things, he thinks－ it's likely that even Lae'zel or Shadowheart would understand this about him, if they cared to ruminate on it. Iorveth smiles for a fraction of a breath, the expression distant and wry before it smooths over.

And, well. Because Astarion accused him of being depressing: ]

I fear for the day you dress me in brocade and drag me to a soiree.

[ To lighten the mood. A few yards away, the circus bard strums a softer song for a couples' sunset dance; Iorveth glances towards the direction of the music, catches glimpses of bodies twirling between rows of hedges. ]

[ Iorveth's fears take the same shape as Astarion's own. Helplessness is the worst feeling in the world, his constant state for two centuries. The only difference is that Astarion is afraid to die. Their impending confrontation with the Netherbrain weighs on him. His life can't meet its end now when it's only just begun.

He laughs as he watches one woman spin another around to the music, her long braid twirling with her, the both of them giggling like schoolgirls. Carefree and in love. This journey must be making him soft, because he doesn't feel his usual disdain at watching someone else's happiness. ]

You'd look ravishing in brocade. [ Playful: ] And out of it, after. Mm, or maybe during.

[ Oh, but he's getting carried away fantasizing about a soiree that isn't even happening. ]

I do think I'd like to attend a soiree as a guest for once.

[ Cazador held his fair share, but if they were allowed to show their faces, his spawn were the help at best and entertainment at worst. He has a vague recollection of the sort of events he used to go to as a magistrate, but he remembers little, save that he enjoyed himself. ]

And, of course, I'd need you there to gossip with and stand beside looking handsome.

[ Iorveth hums, trying to imagine it. ]

I've never been to a soiree.

[ Gatherings, sure. During solstices and the turn of seasons, when they could still afford to sing and dance. But those weren't staged in grand ballrooms lined with food-laden tables, or however it is that soirees are set up; again, Iorveth tries to stitch together what he's seen and learned of Baldurian culture, and attempts to slot himself into this hypothetical scenario.

He huffs, laugh-adjacent. ] I imagine I'd be a nuisance to all the guests who'd want to dance with you. Or whatever it is that you do at these functions. [ Do members of the Baldurian nobility dance? They all seem so stiff and joyless, from the little he's observed of them. ]

...You'd be the prettiest thing in a room full of pretty things. [ Reaching sideways with his free hand to comb through Astarion's hair, Iorveth wonders if that isn't the future that Astarion should have. Cosmopolitan and glamorous, with people that would kill to speak three words to him. ]

[ A flower turning toward the sun, Astarion leans into Iorveth's hand surreptitiously, embarrassed to show such obvious docility in public but unable to resist the urge altogether. ]

I'd turn them all down, of course. Brutally.

[ In this fantasy, Astarion may be faithful, but he's still breaking hearts left and right. What's the fun in being good-looking if you can't use it for ill? He grins, the picture of Iorveth stuffed into some stiff ensemble in his head. Slicked back hair, maybe. A bejeweled eye patch? The possibilities are endless. ]

I'd tell them that the only one I want to dance with is my dashing and mysterious companion.

[ Who'd probably be standing around looking miserable, at least until Astarion plied him with enough wine. ]

[ So endearing, it's almost unbearable. Like having a cat that's been wary of touch finally open up enough to curl near his side. Iorveth brushes Astarion's bangs to the side, following its natural waves. Enamored, as always, by how soft it all feels; the pointed ears peeking from the sea of silver is just another detail among the many that he likes.

Gods, he's really lost it. Mooning over someone sitting right next to him as if he hasn't seen them in half an age, when they've spent the entire day together. Iorveth keeps stroking Astarion's hair, aware that the gesture is as self-indulgent as it is affectionate. ]

You'd make me the most hated elf in the city.

[ "Who's that sullen-looking asshole, and why him", the hypothetical nobility would murmur amongst themselves. The thought makes Iorveth laugh, brief but loud enough to sound like a proper ha instead of his usual soft huffs. ]

You'd also be picking everyone's pockets while they're busy glaring daggers at me, I expect.

[ Fondly. If he's being honest, he doesn't entirely hate it when Astarion misbehaves. ]

[ Not daggers, he doesn't think. Perhaps a few furrowed brows, like the passersby now who glance over their way with expressions of confusion, trying to work out how in the world this scary-looking elf ever ended up petting what looks like a spoiled aristocrat in public. Sometimes Astarion wonders the same; how did he ever charm Iorveth into liking him? And, gods, how did Iorveth ever ensorcell him into such pathetic adoration? ]

Don't worry. I'd share the haul, of course.

[ The smile on his face turns impish, as it always does when the subject of trickery and underhandedness arises. As the sun begins to disappear behind the skyline, its last rays glint mischievously off of Astarion's fangs. ]

That's my greatest desire, you know. You, me, and a pile of, ah, liberated coin.

[ It should feel slightly more ignoble to be slotted alongside base desires like silk and velvet and coin, but Iorveth still can't believe that Astarion actually wants him for the long haul. Surreal. He'll need as much time to process being desired as Astarion will need to process being loved, Iorveth figures.

Day gives its place to night, and shadows stretch over the defined features of Astarion's face. His eyes seem to glow in lowlight, striking but unnatural: a sign of his turning, as obvious as the two fang-shaped indents in his neck.

Iorveth cranes forward to press his lips over that old scar. Astarion probably won't like it, but Iorveth still wants to put his mouth on every part of Astarion's body. ]

An eminently fulfillable desire. [ He murmurs. ] You'll have to think of another to replace it, once it's indulged.

[ "I want to make you happy", in vaguer terms. It's wild that Iorveth means it, and it's even wilder that he's willing to dress up to go to some stupid soiree if that'll give Astarion something to smile about. He tucks that idea in the back of his mind, as he wonders if the two red lights peering at them from behind a row of hedges is lanternlight or something entirely more sinister. ]

Edited 2024-09-21 01:27 (UTC)

[ It's true. Astarion detests the reminder of his bite mark, a glaring blemish on otherwise flawless skin, a symbol of all the ways that Cazador irreversibly changed him. Iorveth's warm lips feel good against his neck in the cool breeze, though—and tickle a little, although he tries not to let it show—so he responds by grasping Iorveth's collar with a hand and leaning in. Their noses brush, and Astarion can feel the heat of Iorveth's breath against his face; his eyes start to slip shut, and then—

Out of the corner of his eye, something red and very familiar. ]

I smell a rat rooting around in the dark.

[ After relinquishing Iorveth's collar, Astarion stands and takes a few steps toward the periphery of the circus, where the light is dimmer. Eyes narrowed and mouth dragged down into a scowl, he peers out into the darkness. Two blood-red eyes. The silhouette of an ugly haircut. The soft squeak of cheap leather.

He clenches his fists and stomps, looking every inch the petulant sibling whose little brother has come to ruin his day. ]

You just can't help going where you aren't wanted, can you? Stop skulking around and bring that hideous outfit into the light.

[ Under the glow of the lamplight emerges a figure, too broad to be an elf. Chin-length blond hair curled up at the ends, pale skin, and a high, frilly collar that brushes against two puncture marks.

"Affable as ever, brother," snarks Petras, his bright eyes flicking over to Iorveth. Astarion watches the bob of his throat as he swallows. He's hungry. No, he's ravenous — of course he is, after the lifetime of starvation he's had.

With an emphatic snap of his fingers in front of Petras's face, he snaps, ] Don't look at him like he's a leg of mutton. Find someone else to eat. [ Which he can, now that Cazador is dead. Does he know, or is he still expecting Cazador to appear any minute and punish his ill-behaved spawn? ] You're welcome for that, by the way.

[ It's a beautiful transition, from relaxed to coiled. For all the things that Iorveth found repellent about Astarion in the beginning, Astarion's ability to spring to action was never one of them: it was the first thing Iorveth'd noticed about him that felt real and unmasked. A raw nerve.

What Iorveth finds less appealing is the way that the other spawn looks at him, with a hunger made mindless by decades of deprivation. Not quite as gaunt and wraithlike as the captives held in cages under Cazador's palace, but adjacent. He feels those blood-red eyes fix on the two red marks that he'd earned himself in Sharess' Caress, and feels compelled to draw his collar up to hide them better.

"You're welcome?", Petras whispers in disbelief. "You betrayed us. We were promised our freedom, an eternity of indulgence. And you destroyed it for..." A wave in Iorveth's direction. "...For a petty blood-bag!"

That statement speaks volumes. Even at his hungriest, at his most desperate, Astarion had never struck Iorveth as the sort of vampire who saw his campmates as food. Petras, obviously, is made of weaker stuff. ]

I could concede to being a blood-bag. But in all certainty, my blood is far from petty.

[ A wry joke, delivered on the edge of a sharp glare. Very rude of Petras to assume that Aen Seidhe blood isn't incredibly precious. He could take Petras' head for that kind of insult. ]

[ The wave of irritation hits Astarion so heavily that he doesn't even have it in him to quip about how Iorveth is actually a rather exquisite blood bag. He throws his hands up, huffing. ]

Oh, please.

[ Wound down for the evening, the circus has thinned out, but there are still enough customers milling about to shoot raised eyebrows in their direction. It must look like some sort of familial quarrel to them, and in a way it is. Astarion lowers his voice to a hiss. ]

You should be thanking me! It's only because of me that you're still alive to complain.

[ "Stop telling lies," Petras says. "The master's Black Mass would have elevated us all, but you had to go and ruin it. Selfish, like always." Astarion can't argue against selfishness, but it rankles all the same. Sourly, he turns to Iorveth and scoffs. ]

Unfortunately, brains don't run in the family. [ His own red eyes slide back to Petras. ] And neither do looks.

[ Iorveth can only hope that there are no eavesdroppers around, but then again, an entire clown was killed and dismembered in this circus without anyone raising so much as an alarm for, presumably, days. He has his doubts about how attentive anyone here is of their surroundings, let alone a bunch of guests who seem to be bickering.

So. Bluntly, without much in the way of consideration: ] We could kill him. [ Iorveth ignores how Petras boggles; the spawn might have had an opportunity to be good-looking if he had more taste or self-control, not that Iorveth cares in the least. ] But that would leave us with hundreds more of your siblings and non-siblings to get rid of. A troublesome precedent to set.

[ As if they're talking politics. Iorveth is practical as anything, arms folded and head tipped in that slightly commanding way he assumes when he's trying to decide something.

Petras, with his mouth still agape: "you realize that I'm right here." Again, Iorveth pays him little mind, and levels his focus on Astarion with the same half-deference he'd showed him back at the manor. A silent "what say you?" ]

[ Ugh. The hundreds—maybe thousands—of spawn still rotting underneath the palace. Astarion's expression turns dark for a split second, the memory of their pale, gaunt faces flashing in his mind. Then, just as quickly, he perks up, regarding Petras appraisingly. ]

Mmm. [ A thoughtful hum. ] Perhaps I should kill you. It's the least I deserve after having to keep your company for so long.

[ "You always were a brat," Petras shoots back, and that's something Astarion really can't argue. ]

We could tie you up and leave you in the sun.

[ Petras scowls. "We would have all been able to walk in the sun if not for you." Another hungry look Iorveth's way, then, "Both of you. You've condemned us to the dark with what you did to the master." ]

Ugh! [ Astarion crosses his arms, frustration pouring out of him. ] He was lying, obviously! Are you really so dense?

[ Hesitation flashes in those incandescent eyes, if only for a moment. "I— no, he promised. He said that it would be what we've been waiting for all these years." ]

Oh, well, if he promised. We all know he's never broken one of those.

[ Family business. Iorveth probably has no business weighing in, but he offers his unwanted opinion anyway. ]

Cazador was a depraved creature, from the sound of it. The kind that would have relished in your despair as he took all hope from you, one final time.

[ Too on-the-nose, probably. Petras whirls on Iorveth and bares his teeth, visibly distressed by the reality closing in on him. It's a different sort of tragedy from Astarion's, like watching someone find out that what they believed to be gold was just yellow-painted rocks.

"What would you know?!" Petras hisses. "You're just food."

Iorveth bears the hungry eyes on his jugular again, and frowns as Petras turns back to Astarion.

"Even if what you're saying is true, it doesn't change the fact that you got what you wanted, and the rest of us got nothing." Red eyes narrow threateningly, sliding back and forth from Astarion to Iorveth. "Let me drain your blood bag, and then we can be even." ]

[ 'Just food'. Astarion grinds his teeth, every inch bristling like a puffed-up cat. ]

Nothing? Don't be stupid.

[ Were Astarion in Petras's place, the only thing that would have upset him about Cazador's death would be that he didn't get to do it himself. Petras is younger, though, impressionable. He hasn't had his will systematically broken down over centuries. Whatever Cazador told him, he foolishly believed. It makes sense that he's heartbroken over losing the future he was promised, even if it was never going to come to fruition. Unfortunately, Astarion has already used up all of his finite empathy.

He takes a step closer to Petras, his voice soft but brimming with barely concealed disdain. ]

You're free, brother. Thanks to me. [ He glances at Iorveth. 'Just food'. ] Thanks to us.

[ "Free to indulge in thinking creatures, like you've been doing—" Petras starts, gesturing toward Iorveth. ]

Yes. Free to kill and consume whoever you want. [ A shadow passes over his face. The thought of Petras's fangs in Iorveth's throat—even worse, Iorveth's blood in Petras's mouth—makes his stomach churn. ] Just not him, or I really will roast you.

[ Petras takes a step back, his handsome features pinched into a decidedly unattractive expression of displeasure. "You never did share well with others." ]

Mm, no. And if I find out you've been trying to play with my toys, you'll long for Godey's gentle touch.

[ For a long moment, they stare at each other, blood-red to blood-red. Silent communication between two people with years of unpleasant history behind them. Astarion livens up, then, clasping his hands behind his back. ]

Don't look so glum. We left a gift for you underneath the palace. Thousands of new friends.

[ It rankles somewhat, being referred to as food or toys, but Iorveth lets Astarion handle the brunt of the conversation after his input is summarily shut down by Petras. Astarion seems to have the matter under control, and more importantly, Petras is his sibling to chide and decide the fate of. He'd know how to speak to him better than Iorveth does.

So, when Iorveth finally opens his mouth again, it's to address Astarion. Situated beside him in the dim of this mostly-unlighted spot of circus, he tries to read his companion's expression. ]

Thousands of starving new friends. [ Gaunt and haunted, ready to sink their teeth into the nearest living creature with a pulse. ] I have no love for this city, but it would be calamitous if Cazador's victims found their freedom here.

[ Petras twists his expression into what looks like a contemptuous sneer, but it's obvious that the idea of freedom is finally sinking in: he glances over his shoulder in the direction of the prison he'd been confined to for all these decades, and his face falls. The sneer fades, replaced by prolonged and involuntary confusion. Like he's at a complete loss as to what to do with all of this information.

"I'll... have to find our other brothers and sisters," he mutters. ]

An excellent idea.

[ There's just an edge of condescension to his voice. Astarion has never been popular among his siblings, but out of them all, it's he and Petras who get on the worst. The fact that if not for Astarion he'd have already tried to rip out Iorveth's throat with his teeth doesn't help matters. ]

Run along and find the others. One of them will know what to do with those feral creatures Cazador created.

[ Maybe. Astarion certainly doesn't know what to do with them, and he'd much rather pawn off the responsibility onto Dalyria or perhaps Leon. How could he look those wretched things in the face, knowing that he put them there? Worse, he'd have to tell them that they aren't allowed to eat anyone in the Gate after years, decades, centuries of starvation.

No. Let that be someone else's problem. Petras opens his mouth to speak, and Astarion cuts him off with an emphatic, ] I said run along.

[ Petras turns with a scowl, shoulders hunched in annoyance. Just as quickly as he'd shooed him away, Astarion calls out, ] Wait. [ Petras doesn't turn to face them again, but he does pause. It's good enough. ] Do clean up after your meal. It would be embarrassing if a monster hunter followed a trail of blood right to you.

[ Cazador had played them against each other. He'd had them tattle on each other like children, made them torture each other in horrendous ways. After all of that, Astarion still can't help but feel a small kinship with the other spawn. Siblings not by heredity, but siblings all the same.

Petras doesn't reply, but that also means that he doesn't argue. As he stalks off into the night to find a poor, unsuspecting victim, Astarion turns away and collapses onto the stone perch again, shoulders sagging in exhaustion. Seeing his siblings always makes him feel like his old self again, peevish and tense. ]

The gall to think I'd let his filthy fangs anywhere near you.

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