[ Slowly, lazily, Astarion forces himself up and out of bed, following behind Iorveth. It is, perhaps, good for him that Iorveth is so full of dogged determination. If not, they'd never get anything done. He rests his chin on Iorveth's shoulder as he peers over it out into the hall, eyes scanning Gale's letter. ]
'Responsibly'.
[ A scoff. When have they ever done anything responsibly? He doesn't intend to start now — responsibility is boring.
Astarion peels himself away from Iorveth to pick up the coin purse, feeling its weight and shaking it a little before opening it to peek inside. ]
[ A lot of gold and silver, with a few twinkles of what could probably be platinum. Iorveth has no idea what "market value" entails, or what common luxuries are worth (he can definitely haggle and call bullshit on the value of weapons and armor), but the contents of the purse seem to be enough to feed someone comfortably for, say, at least a tenday. ]
I'll hold the purse, then.
[ He says, plucking it from Astarion's hand and patting at his pant leg for pockets that, unfortunately, he doesn't have; all of this done with austere solemnity, as if Iorveth isn't immune to Astarion asking him for things with big sad cat eyes. It's all over for him if and when he feels a tug on his sleeve. ]
We'll leave in half a bell's time. Go get changed.
[ Unfortunately for Gale, the fact that he hasn't designated clothes for them to borrow means that he's given Astarion carte blanche to rifle through his things. Iorveth, on the other hand, finds a suitably green shirt (ill-fitting) to slip on, and jams himself into ugly brown trousers that he chose specifically because the pockets are deep enough― the worst addition to the already tragic outfit is a heinous slip-on sandal that Iorveth has stuck his feet into, mostly because none of Gale's shoes fit him. A Criminal. ]
[ It's cute that Iorveth pretends he can say 'no' to Astarion, but he allows him to continue on with that delusion. It'll make it all the more satisfying when Iorveth crumbles because of a well-timed pout. Instead of arguing about who gets to hold the purse, Astarion carries on and gets to searching through Gale's clothing. He, of course, takes his time, unwilling to wear anything that might be—gasp—unflattering.
He returns to Iorveth dressed in what's probably one of Gale's more expensive outfits; a silky purple (of course) shirt with silver embroidery, tucked in to hide how ill-fitting it is, and a pair of dark trousers cinched with a belt to keep them from falling off of his elfin frame. It's all a bit too baggy to be truly flattering, but at least it isn't ugly.
The same can't be said for Iorveth. When he returns to their room, Gale's loafers padding softly against the floor as he walks, he regards Iorveth's outfit with wide, horrified eyes. ]
Oh, my sweet. [ Said with the same intonation as bless your heart. ] Not sandals!
[ Iorveth has blinders on; to him, Astarion is basically the prettiest person not-alive, no matter what he's wearing. On the flipside, he's working his way up from less than zero, so his concern is more "stay covered" instead of "look good".
Case in point: the sandals. Waterdhavian Crocs, in the worst shade of custard-beige possible. The only nice thing he's wearing is the eyepatch that Astarion got for him, and the little ring on a chain he finally took out of his traveling pack to slip back around his neck. ]
They fit, [ he says, as if that solves the problem of them being, well. Extremely ugly. He'd been looking all over for his traveling boots, but it's very likely that Gale took them out back and burned them for being hopelessly waterlogged and muddy.
Iorveth has no idea how close to getting dumped he is, so he extends a hand and motions towards the general direction of the tower exit. ] Come. You'll have to lead the way, I've no idea where this tavern of yours is.
[ Astarion resists the urge to gag at Iorveth's horrible outfit choice. He just doesn't know any better, he reminds himself. That's why he needs you to guide him... But, gods, it's a challenge loving someone with such abysmal fashion sense. Actual tweet by him.
He does somehow still love Iorveth despite everything, so he averts his eyes from the fashion crime happening (hopefully that's not part of the Code Legal) and takes his hand to lead him down the stairs and out of the tower into the crisp Waterdhavian night. The Yawning Portal is close by, and it takes little time before they're standing before a four-story building made of stone, the colors of each floor mismatched due to reconstruction. The tavern is flanked by Mother Salinka's House of Pleasure and Lankathla Dree's Bakery, the former of which has more business at this hour. A weathered old sign hangs from a pole set into the wall, reading The Yawning Portal in carved script.
The tavern is bustling, as one can hear from the outside. One can hear the sound of a bard playing the lute and singing jauntily, and below that, the muffled sound of many voices holding conversation. A red-faced dwarf stumbles out through the swinging double doors that serve as the entrance to the lobby, pushed by one of the housejacks on duty, a tall, muscled tiefling who reminds him terribly of Karlach.
"Fuckin'..." the dwarf slurs, unsteady on his feet. He lurches directly into Iorveth, pauses, and says, "Who built this pole here?" before wandering away, muttering drunkly and incoherently under his breath. ]
[ Clearly, it's an establishment that's stood the test of time and serves strong drinks, if the piss-drunk dwarf is any indication. Iorveth looks up at the crooked slant of the angled roof and its many, many chimneys, before snapping his attention back towards Astarion, head tipped inquisitively. ]
What about it enticed you?
[ Expensive wine? Pretty women? Iorveth lets go of Astarion's hand, giving him more space to lead and direct (or pretend not to know the weird elf with his ugly shoes); he can see the housejack at the entrance appraising them both, though her scrutiny seems less to be about wanting to throw them out and more about seeing if they have any coats that need to be checked.
"If you two wanted to watch the party heading down to Undermountain, you just missed it," she calls out to them. When all she gets is a blank look from Iorveth in return, she laughs and waves them inside. "Or not. We've got drinks too, if you're looking for them." ]
Oh, yes, [ Astarion pipes up, like he just realized he forgot to mention something. ] They lower people to their possible dooms here, I hear. Very entertaining.
[ So, there's that. He grins, making his way past the lobby and into the taproom. The walls and floors are made of well-worn wood, which is perhaps not the best idea, considering the whole place is lit by numerous chandeliers and table-set candles. The whole place is covered in a thin layer of pipe smoke from its customers, who are scattered among sturdy wooden tables on the ground floor and the balcony above. This floor, at least, seems inhabited mostly by adventurers, if their clothing and weapons are any indication.
And, of course, taking up the lion's share of the space is a well leading down to the Undermountain, easily 40 feet wide and encircled by a waist-high stone ridge to keep the average customer from falling down it in a drunken stupor. Two tieflings stand beside it, whooping with excitement and downing flagons of ale before the proprietor fastens them each to a blood-stained rope, lowering them down one by one with a pulley system. ]
They say the dungeons below were built by some insane wizard, or something of the sort.
[ Well, that's different. The proprietor, a rather sullen-looking human who seems to be the only person in the room who views the ceremony for what it might be (a funeral), spends a good minute lowering the rope until it goes slack, then abandons the cheering adventurers to take his post back behind the bar counter. ]
Just a normal wizard, then.
[ Translation: "all wizards are insane." He tries to approach the outer perimeter of the tavern's namesake out of sheer curiosity, but stops once a pair of drunk dwarves (possibly friends of the one that he bumped into outside) try to slur at him about they braved the well and came back alive That One Time.
Nope. Iorveth sidesteps them gracefully, and tries to maneuver Astarion towards one of the many tables lining the far end of the room. ]
A tavern built on top of a dungeon－ now I've seen everything. [ A glance upwards, to a second floor balcony overlooking the taproom. A few groups of adventurers are watching the well with obvious interest, alongside a smattering of lone visitors, some with their heads down and hoods up. ] Though I expected you to choose something less...
[ Astarion perches on a wooden chair, slinging an arm over the back while he glances out at the patrons acting, as Iorveth would say, a fool. Plenty of drunks, some of them imbibing in order to muster up the courage to be dropped down into the well, others enjoying watching said fools as a form of entertainment.
Waving a hand, he says, ] It's hardly my first time in a sweaty bar.
[ Or his second, or his third. Hells, he's more accustomed to being someplace like this than someplace Iorveth might imagine him in. That isn't a good thing, necessarily, but it is A Thing. ]
...And, well, when I'd mentioned it last night. [ A little squirming, now. ] —I suppose I'd hoped you'd be jealous of all the sweaty drunkards I'd catch the attention of.
[ Embarrassing!!! But also true, because at the time he'd mentioned it, he'd still been angry with Iorveth. ]
[ Oh. Iorveth is swapping a grimy chair in favor of one that looks less liable to stick to his trousers, when Astarion confesses his true intentions for having chosen such a rowdy establishment; it makes him pause, his unobscured brow hiked in perfect scrutiny, and scrape his seat a polite distance away from Astarion instead of right beside him. ]
You would've put me in a foul mood, to be sure. [ Maybe not jealousy. Probably something worse. Likely, he would've left, and it would've been a shitshow. Iorveth leans back in his perch, watching Astarion squirm in dim tavern lighting.
Exasperating. Immature. Very sweet. Iorveth's lips curl as he settles into his seat, his expression just shy of sly. ]
And you think I'd be less inclined to be jealous now, after I promised my life to you this morning?
[ Trick question: Iorveth might covet Astarion, but he would rather claw out his remaining eye than be the kind of person who dictates who Astarion can and cannot speak to. Still, he gets the feeling that his foolish cat likes the thought of him seething with rage if Astarion so much as smiles at someone else, so.
A sigh, mock-disappointed. ] You think so little of me.
[ Drama king. Very unserious. Iorveth is very secure in his adoration of Astarion, and he's also very secure in his own knowledge that, if Astarion ever got unasked-for and unwanted attention from an ill-intentioned third party, he would gut the source of that unwanted attention in witness of any of the Gods milling about this mortal plane. ]
[ Oh, yes. He can't stand the idea of Iorveth being possessive enough to try to actually set limits on who he can speak with, but he adores the thought of Iorveth seething. Maybe punching someone or two for the sake of his honor. You know, regular romantic things. ]
It's not like I'm going to talk to any sweaty drunkards now.
[ He only wanted them to use in his psychological warfare, and maybe to make himself feel better, too. Remind himself that Iorveth isn't the only fish in the sea. Except, well, he probably would have felt even worse afterward, because Iorveth is the only fish in the sea that he has any inclination toward. ]
I'd much rather talk to you.
[ A shrug, and: ]
Besides, I only hoped you'd hit a few people. You look so very handsome when you're committing acts of violence.
I would only have hit them if it looked like you were only tolerating the attention. Otherwise, in the mood that I'd been― [ No reason to lie. ] ―likely, I would have left.
[ Articulating the exact thought he'd had before, which he hazards is not something particularly pleasant to hear. To soften the blow somewhat, he reaches out and tucks a stray curl behind Astarion's ear, relishing that small point of contact. ]
Imagine what you would've done if I'd invited you outside for the express purpose of making you jealous.
[ Another trick rhetorical question: Iorveth wouldn't. Nothing interests him less than the thought of letting some stranger inside his well-kept personal bubble; Iorveth isn't a prude by any stretch of the imagination, but his intimacy well is dry for everyone except Astarion (overflowing to the point of disaster). ]
It isn't pleasant, though, to hear that Iorveth would have just left rather than seeing the error of his ways and begging on his knees for Astarion's forgiveness. So he's a little delusional! That doesn't mean he doesn't deserve for his delusions to come true. ]
—And that wasn't the only reason I invited you.
[ Just the main one. ]
I did think you might find someone who could update you on elven politics here. I do, [ he corrects. ] And I know that's... important to you.
[ "Don't reward Astarion for doing the bare minimum", some people would say, and Iorveth would be inclined to agree if not for the fact that Astarion is his weakness, and any drop of consideration Astarion shows for elven politics, which Iorveth knows that Astarion could give less than a shit about, feels commendable.
So. Here he is, rewarding Astarion for the bare minimum. The hair-fixing turns into a gentle combing, a deranged terrorist petting his favorite vampire. ]
Mm. This would be the place to look. [ A den of adventurers and vagrants. There are one or two people in the balcony overlooking the first floor who seem to be specifically watching him; whether that be because they've heard of a one-eyed elf terrorizing the area or because they've heard of a one-eyed elf trying to liberate other elves is, as of yet, unknown.
He hums in consideration. ] If you've no patience for politics tonight, you can have your carousing while I go speak to the rabble.
[ Reaching into his pocket, he takes out their shared budget and deposits way more coin than strictly necessary for drinks onto Astarion's palm. ]
[ Not even an hour after Iorveth said he'd keep the coin so that Astarion doesn't spend it all, he gives Astarion money to spend. Good; he'd be annoyed if Iorveth were stingy with it. He breaks into a grin, pleased at the offering as much as he's pleased at being rewarded for doing the bare minimum. ]
Carousing isn't quite the word, but--
[ He's less interested in hedonism than he might imply. Sure, he could supply the tavern with drinks and have a wild, unrestrained night, but somehow, debauchery is far less appealing than curling up in front of the steadily burning fireplace in the corner. ]
I do expect I can return home with twice as much coin as this, if I play my cards right.
[ Literally. ]
Don't be gone too long. Too much talk of politics turns the stomach.
[ Or maybe that's only if you're Astarion, who cares nothing for politics that don't involve him. ]
[ Clever cat. Iorveth smiles despite himself as he gets up, setting his sights on the wooden stairs leading up to the second-story balcony.
Before he leaves: ] Guard your face.
[ A tease. Every time Iorveth takes his eye off of Astarion for even a second, it seems like he up and gets himself slugged in the face. Likely to happen again, really, if Astarion decides to cheat himself into a small fortune.
Still, it should be noted that Iorveth doesn't tell his clever cat to play fair. One last ruffle of silver curls, and Iorveth slinks his way through the chatter and din of the half-drunk crowd, ignoring a few slurred invitations to drink at tables to talk shop with some of the hooded individuals who, as it turns out, are wood elves, albeit not Aen Seidhe. Sympathetic, recently displaced from the forests near Flotsam. Good riddance, they say about Loredo's murder, and offer what they know of recent whisperings from the north.
Meanwhile, the carousers on the first floor, bored now that the most reckless of the visiting adventurers have already disappeared down the yawning portal, start looking for people to conscript into their idle fun. A human bard sidles up to Astarion, asking if he'd like to be inspiration for his next song. ]
[ He had said he wouldn't carouse, but he does chat up the bard for long enough to insist on which descriptors one should use for him, if one were to write lyrics about him. 'Pale' is a no-go; 'alabaster' is preferable. By the time their conversation ends, Astarion has offered his own lyrical suggestions, which are as terrible as they are inappropriate.
Afterward, he sets out to do what he said he would: fleece drunk idiots out of their money. It's easy to join an ongoing game of cards and hustle a bit, making a show of how he's really not used to playing anything like this, much less betting money on anything. It goes on swimmingly, Astarion raking in coin and sparing Iorveth glances every now and then to make sure the hooded wood elves haven't done anything untoward; an hour or so later, he stands from the table, pockets jingling with extra coin. ]
What can I say? I guess some people are just favored by Tymora.
[ Ha. He's hardly an acolyte of Lady Luck. Then again, his fortune has changed recently. It isn't enough to make him devote himself to any deity, but maybe it's worth considering that not every god has completely betrayed him.
That's what he's thinking as he walks away from the table with his pocketed spoils just in time for a human to stop him with a hand on the shoulder. "Don't I know you?" she asks as he turns to face her, brow furrowed. ]
I'm sure you don't, [ he replies, because it's true. There's no one that he really knows that he didn't meet on this journey. His social life was nonexistent beforehand.
"No, I could swear I've seen you before..." she says, then raises her eyebrows in recognition. "You're from Baldur's Gate. We met at the Flophouse last year, remember? You were flirting with my friend. You kept trying to get her to go home with you." ]
[ Nothing untoward happens on the second floor: information is exchanged, and there are promises made to send word to certain individuals in certain places. The usual game of telephone that Iorveth plays, albeit with a much higher success and accuracy rate than most people would assume.
With that done, Iorveth is now free to notice that Astarion is being... spoken to? Accosted? He can't read what the exact expression on the woman's face is from where he's leaning against the railing of the upstairs balcony, so―
―up he goes, then down he goes. A leap up onto the banister, followed by another graceful leap down onto the edge of the stone perimeter surrounding the well, followed by yet another hop onto a nearby table, another hop off, and three quick strides that take him right by Astarion's side.
(Drama king.)
Iorveth only catches the tail end of Astarion's statement― something about not sounding like him― so he can't comment. Instead, he tips his chin up imperiously, giving the stranger a once-over from the crown of her head down to her neatly polished shoes. His scrutiny is less polite than it could be, given recent memory of sabotage. ]
[ The woman looks surprised (and confused) at Iorveth's dramatic entrance. Astarion barely bats an eye, accustomed now to Iorveth's ways. Besides, as a drama king himself, it would be hypocritical to judge. ]
Just a case of mistaken identity, [ is his answer, and he takes Iorveth's arm by the crook of his elbow, attempting to turn away and get out of the conversation.
The woman either doesn't notice or doesn't care. She reaches out for his shoulder again, and he turns back with some irritation. "No, I'd definitely remember the last person who saw my friend before she went missing." ]
[ Oh. Context snaps neatly into place and completes the puzzle, but Iorveth doesn't have the space to sympathize with the woman's plight beyond "I understand why she would be distressed".
What he does have space for: thinking about how Astarion probably doesn't at all remember the encounter this woman is talking about. A drop in an awful ocean. He glances sideways at Astarion's perfect profile, at that impeccable mask of guileless charm, but can't bring himself to see the monster that some people might. ]
A subject ill-suited for a place like this.
[ Iorveth gestures to the merrymakers around them. The bard who'd spoken to Astarion earlier is sitting on a table, warbling drunkenly with lute in hand to a band of half-naked half-orcs and tieflings who are playing a round of strip Talis. ]
[ The woman scowls, (rightfully) angry at the brush-off. "I haven't seen my friend in a year! I left her at the tavern with him" —she points to Astarion, accusatory— "and she never showed again." ]
Honestly! I just have one of those generic faces.
[ She scoffs. "Right. White hair and red eyes aren't distinctive or anything." Her eyes grow big, then, and her scowl turns into more of a pathetic frown. "I'm not saying you're guilty of anything," she says, although it sort of sounds like she is. "But you have to know something."
When Astarion responds only with a frown of his own and crossed arms, she adds, "Fine! Maybe you are guilty, and I should call the Watch." ]
[ "Generic" as a term for Astarion's appearance is actually hilarious, but the situation unfolding is decidedly far from funny despite the woman having no legitimate proof of any past wrongdoing. Being brought to the Watch would not be ideal (Gale might have an aneurysm), but it seems impossible to please the woman without admitting to some measure of fault or culpability.
Difficult. Maybe they can subsume this ugly situation with another one, so: ]
Beloved. [ Flatly. ] Were you speaking to others while you were with me?
[ Playacting (badly) as a jilted lover. Never mind that he didn't know Astarion when this happened, let alone liked him enough to give half a shit about him talking to women, but. It seems preferable to upsetting this woman further.
(The success rate of this tactic is debatable. The woman looks annoyed that this is somehow being thrown into the equation.) ]
[ Astarion's head swivels on its axis and he stares at Iorveth, head cocked, brow furrowed. Of course he wouldn't be unfaithful; he's never even felt an inclination to infidelity unless one counts drinking the blood of another living person—and Iorveth is a bit of a freak, so perhaps he does—and even then, he'd rather his fangs in Iorveth's neck over anyone else's any day.
It takes a moment for his brain to parse Iorveth's flat tone, his impassive expression. As much as Iorveth claims that Astarion is free to do what he wishes, he likes to think Iorveth would at least be a little upset with him if he were sleeping with strangers from taverns (again). ]
—Oh.
[ He flips on the theatre kid dramatics, rolling his eyes and scoffing. ]
Well, I had to get my needs met somehow. You've been so frigid after your whole family died in that gelatinous cube attack.
[ Of all the things to blame for the hypothetical death of his fake family, it had to be a gelatinous cube. Thankfully, looking offended is appropriate for the conversation they're having right now, so the furrow between his brows and the slight wrinkling of his nose fit the mood. ]
You said you would be patient.
[ Which is, again, a hilarious (affectionate) thing to expect from Astarion. Iorveth displaces himself from Astarion's side, unraveling their arms so he can fold his own across his chest. A familiar defensive stance, to be sure. ]
Which night was it? Unbelievable, that you had the nerve to come back into my bed afterwards.
[ "Oh Gods, I really don't need this right now." ]
[ This poor girl only wants to find her missing friend (who's likely a pale, fanged creature in the Underdark right now, if she was lucky enough to survive Cazador), but they've exposed her against her will to the worst thing of all: relationship discord. It's funny; they could just reenact their argument from earlier and probably get a similar result. He doesn't want to relive that, though, so Astarion narrow his eyes, shooting Iorveth a condescending look. ]
How adorable, that you think it was only one night.
[ "Oh, wow," says their unwilling eavesdropper. ]
Remember all of those nights I told you I was going to book club? Well, the book was the Quarta Sune.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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'Responsibly'.
[ A scoff. When have they ever done anything responsibly? He doesn't intend to start now — responsibility is boring.
Astarion peels himself away from Iorveth to pick up the coin purse, feeling its weight and shaking it a little before opening it to peek inside. ]
Hmm. I could spend this all in one night.
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I'll hold the purse, then.
[ He says, plucking it from Astarion's hand and patting at his pant leg for pockets that, unfortunately, he doesn't have; all of this done with austere solemnity, as if Iorveth isn't immune to Astarion asking him for things with big sad cat eyes. It's all over for him if and when he feels a tug on his sleeve. ]
We'll leave in half a bell's time. Go get changed.
[ Unfortunately for Gale, the fact that he hasn't designated clothes for them to borrow means that he's given Astarion carte blanche to rifle through his things. Iorveth, on the other hand, finds a suitably green shirt (ill-fitting) to slip on, and jams himself into ugly brown trousers that he chose specifically because the pockets are deep enough― the worst addition to the already tragic outfit is a heinous slip-on sandal that Iorveth has stuck his feet into, mostly because none of Gale's shoes fit him. A Criminal. ]
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He returns to Iorveth dressed in what's probably one of Gale's more expensive outfits; a silky purple (of course) shirt with silver embroidery, tucked in to hide how ill-fitting it is, and a pair of dark trousers cinched with a belt to keep them from falling off of his elfin frame. It's all a bit too baggy to be truly flattering, but at least it isn't ugly.
The same can't be said for Iorveth. When he returns to their room, Gale's loafers padding softly against the floor as he walks, he regards Iorveth's outfit with wide, horrified eyes. ]
Oh, my sweet. [ Said with the same intonation as bless your heart. ] Not sandals!
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Case in point: the sandals. Waterdhavian Crocs, in the worst shade of custard-beige possible. The only nice thing he's wearing is the eyepatch that Astarion got for him, and the little ring on a chain he finally took out of his traveling pack to slip back around his neck. ]
They fit, [ he says, as if that solves the problem of them being, well. Extremely ugly. He'd been looking all over for his traveling boots, but it's very likely that Gale took them out back and burned them for being hopelessly waterlogged and muddy.
Iorveth has no idea how close to getting dumped he is, so he extends a hand and motions towards the general direction of the tower exit. ] Come. You'll have to lead the way, I've no idea where this tavern of yours is.
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He does somehow still love Iorveth despite everything, so he averts his eyes from the fashion crime happening (hopefully that's not part of the Code Legal) and takes his hand to lead him down the stairs and out of the tower into the crisp Waterdhavian night. The Yawning Portal is close by, and it takes little time before they're standing before a four-story building made of stone, the colors of each floor mismatched due to reconstruction. The tavern is flanked by Mother Salinka's House of Pleasure and Lankathla Dree's Bakery, the former of which has more business at this hour. A weathered old sign hangs from a pole set into the wall, reading The Yawning Portal in carved script.
The tavern is bustling, as one can hear from the outside. One can hear the sound of a bard playing the lute and singing jauntily, and below that, the muffled sound of many voices holding conversation. A red-faced dwarf stumbles out through the swinging double doors that serve as the entrance to the lobby, pushed by one of the housejacks on duty, a tall, muscled tiefling who reminds him terribly of Karlach.
"Fuckin'..." the dwarf slurs, unsteady on his feet. He lurches directly into Iorveth, pauses, and says, "Who built this pole here?" before wandering away, muttering drunkly and incoherently under his breath. ]
Well, what do you think?
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[ Clearly, it's an establishment that's stood the test of time and serves strong drinks, if the piss-drunk dwarf is any indication. Iorveth looks up at the crooked slant of the angled roof and its many, many chimneys, before snapping his attention back towards Astarion, head tipped inquisitively. ]
What about it enticed you?
[ Expensive wine? Pretty women? Iorveth lets go of Astarion's hand, giving him more space to lead and direct (or pretend not to know the weird elf with his ugly shoes); he can see the housejack at the entrance appraising them both, though her scrutiny seems less to be about wanting to throw them out and more about seeing if they have any coats that need to be checked.
"If you two wanted to watch the party heading down to Undermountain, you just missed it," she calls out to them. When all she gets is a blank look from Iorveth in return, she laughs and waves them inside. "Or not. We've got drinks too, if you're looking for them." ]
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[ So, there's that. He grins, making his way past the lobby and into the taproom. The walls and floors are made of well-worn wood, which is perhaps not the best idea, considering the whole place is lit by numerous chandeliers and table-set candles. The whole place is covered in a thin layer of pipe smoke from its customers, who are scattered among sturdy wooden tables on the ground floor and the balcony above. This floor, at least, seems inhabited mostly by adventurers, if their clothing and weapons are any indication.
And, of course, taking up the lion's share of the space is a well leading down to the Undermountain, easily 40 feet wide and encircled by a waist-high stone ridge to keep the average customer from falling down it in a drunken stupor. Two tieflings stand beside it, whooping with excitement and downing flagons of ale before the proprietor fastens them each to a blood-stained rope, lowering them down one by one with a pulley system. ]
They say the dungeons below were built by some insane wizard, or something of the sort.
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Just a normal wizard, then.
[ Translation: "all wizards are insane." He tries to approach the outer perimeter of the tavern's namesake out of sheer curiosity, but stops once a pair of drunk dwarves (possibly friends of the one that he bumped into outside) try to slur at him about they braved the well and came back alive That One Time.
Nope. Iorveth sidesteps them gracefully, and tries to maneuver Astarion towards one of the many tables lining the far end of the room. ]
A tavern built on top of a dungeon－ now I've seen everything. [ A glance upwards, to a second floor balcony overlooking the taproom. A few groups of adventurers are watching the well with obvious interest, alongside a smattering of lone visitors, some with their heads down and hoods up. ] Though I expected you to choose something less...
[ Waving a hand. ] ...Sweaty.
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Waving a hand, he says, ] It's hardly my first time in a sweaty bar.
[ Or his second, or his third. Hells, he's more accustomed to being someplace like this than someplace Iorveth might imagine him in. That isn't a good thing, necessarily, but it is A Thing. ]
...And, well, when I'd mentioned it last night. [ A little squirming, now. ] —I suppose I'd hoped you'd be jealous of all the sweaty drunkards I'd catch the attention of.
[ Embarrassing!!! But also true, because at the time he'd mentioned it, he'd still been angry with Iorveth. ]
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You would've put me in a foul mood, to be sure. [ Maybe not jealousy. Probably something worse. Likely, he would've left, and it would've been a shitshow. Iorveth leans back in his perch, watching Astarion squirm in dim tavern lighting.
Exasperating. Immature. Very sweet. Iorveth's lips curl as he settles into his seat, his expression just shy of sly. ]
And you think I'd be less inclined to be jealous now, after I promised my life to you this morning?
[ Trick question: Iorveth might covet Astarion, but he would rather claw out his remaining eye than be the kind of person who dictates who Astarion can and cannot speak to. Still, he gets the feeling that his foolish cat likes the thought of him seething with rage if Astarion so much as smiles at someone else, so.
A sigh, mock-disappointed. ] You think so little of me.
[ Drama king. Very unserious. Iorveth is very secure in his adoration of Astarion, and he's also very secure in his own knowledge that, if Astarion ever got unasked-for and unwanted attention from an ill-intentioned third party, he would gut the source of that unwanted attention in witness of any of the Gods milling about this mortal plane. ]
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It's not like I'm going to talk to any sweaty drunkards now.
[ He only wanted them to use in his psychological warfare, and maybe to make himself feel better, too. Remind himself that Iorveth isn't the only fish in the sea. Except, well, he probably would have felt even worse afterward, because Iorveth is the only fish in the sea that he has any inclination toward. ]
I'd much rather talk to you.
[ A shrug, and: ]
Besides, I only hoped you'd hit a few people. You look so very handsome when you're committing acts of violence.
[ Maybe not in those sandals, though. ]
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I would only have hit them if it looked like you were only tolerating the attention. Otherwise, in the mood that I'd been― [ No reason to lie. ] ―likely, I would have left.
[ Articulating the exact thought he'd had before, which he hazards is not something particularly pleasant to hear. To soften the blow somewhat, he reaches out and tucks a stray curl behind Astarion's ear, relishing that small point of contact. ]
Imagine what you would've done if I'd invited you outside for the express purpose of making you jealous.
[ Another trick rhetorical question: Iorveth wouldn't. Nothing interests him less than the thought of letting some stranger inside his well-kept personal bubble; Iorveth isn't a prude by any stretch of the imagination, but his intimacy well is dry for everyone except Astarion (overflowing to the point of disaster). ]
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[ Or, like, run off and cried. Either/or.
It isn't pleasant, though, to hear that Iorveth would have just left rather than seeing the error of his ways and begging on his knees for Astarion's forgiveness. So he's a little delusional! That doesn't mean he doesn't deserve for his delusions to come true. ]
—And that wasn't the only reason I invited you.
[ Just the main one. ]
I did think you might find someone who could update you on elven politics here. I do, [ he corrects. ] And I know that's... important to you.
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So. Here he is, rewarding Astarion for the bare minimum. The hair-fixing turns into a gentle combing, a deranged terrorist petting his favorite vampire. ]
Mm. This would be the place to look. [ A den of adventurers and vagrants. There are one or two people in the balcony overlooking the first floor who seem to be specifically watching him; whether that be because they've heard of a one-eyed elf terrorizing the area or because they've heard of a one-eyed elf trying to liberate other elves is, as of yet, unknown.
He hums in consideration. ] If you've no patience for politics tonight, you can have your carousing while I go speak to the rabble.
[ Reaching into his pocket, he takes out their shared budget and deposits way more coin than strictly necessary for drinks onto Astarion's palm. ]
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Carousing isn't quite the word, but--
[ He's less interested in hedonism than he might imply. Sure, he could supply the tavern with drinks and have a wild, unrestrained night, but somehow, debauchery is far less appealing than curling up in front of the steadily burning fireplace in the corner. ]
I do expect I can return home with twice as much coin as this, if I play my cards right.
[ Literally. ]
Don't be gone too long. Too much talk of politics turns the stomach.
[ Or maybe that's only if you're Astarion, who cares nothing for politics that don't involve him. ]
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Before he leaves: ] Guard your face.
[ A tease. Every time Iorveth takes his eye off of Astarion for even a second, it seems like he up and gets himself slugged in the face. Likely to happen again, really, if Astarion decides to cheat himself into a small fortune.
Still, it should be noted that Iorveth doesn't tell his clever cat to play fair. One last ruffle of silver curls, and Iorveth slinks his way through the chatter and din of the half-drunk crowd, ignoring a few slurred invitations to drink at tables to talk shop with some of the hooded individuals who, as it turns out, are wood elves, albeit not Aen Seidhe. Sympathetic, recently displaced from the forests near Flotsam. Good riddance, they say about Loredo's murder, and offer what they know of recent whisperings from the north.
Meanwhile, the carousers on the first floor, bored now that the most reckless of the visiting adventurers have already disappeared down the yawning portal, start looking for people to conscript into their idle fun. A human bard sidles up to Astarion, asking if he'd like to be inspiration for his next song. ]
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Afterward, he sets out to do what he said he would: fleece drunk idiots out of their money. It's easy to join an ongoing game of cards and hustle a bit, making a show of how he's really not used to playing anything like this, much less betting money on anything. It goes on swimmingly, Astarion raking in coin and sparing Iorveth glances every now and then to make sure the hooded wood elves haven't done anything untoward; an hour or so later, he stands from the table, pockets jingling with extra coin. ]
What can I say? I guess some people are just favored by Tymora.
[ Ha. He's hardly an acolyte of Lady Luck. Then again, his fortune has changed recently. It isn't enough to make him devote himself to any deity, but maybe it's worth considering that not every god has completely betrayed him.
That's what he's thinking as he walks away from the table with his pocketed spoils just in time for a human to stop him with a hand on the shoulder. "Don't I know you?" she asks as he turns to face her, brow furrowed. ]
I'm sure you don't, [ he replies, because it's true. There's no one that he really knows that he didn't meet on this journey. His social life was nonexistent beforehand.
"No, I could swear I've seen you before..." she says, then raises her eyebrows in recognition. "You're from Baldur's Gate. We met at the Flophouse last year, remember? You were flirting with my friend. You kept trying to get her to go home with you." ]
Well, that doesn't sound like me.
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With that done, Iorveth is now free to notice that Astarion is being... spoken to? Accosted? He can't read what the exact expression on the woman's face is from where he's leaning against the railing of the upstairs balcony, so―
―up he goes, then down he goes. A leap up onto the banister, followed by another graceful leap down onto the edge of the stone perimeter surrounding the well, followed by yet another hop onto a nearby table, another hop off, and three quick strides that take him right by Astarion's side.
(Drama king.)
Iorveth only catches the tail end of Astarion's statement― something about not sounding like him― so he can't comment. Instead, he tips his chin up imperiously, giving the stranger a once-over from the crown of her head down to her neatly polished shoes. His scrutiny is less polite than it could be, given recent memory of sabotage. ]
Something amiss?
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Just a case of mistaken identity, [ is his answer, and he takes Iorveth's arm by the crook of his elbow, attempting to turn away and get out of the conversation.
The woman either doesn't notice or doesn't care. She reaches out for his shoulder again, and he turns back with some irritation. "No, I'd definitely remember the last person who saw my friend before she went missing." ]
Missing? How awful. My condolences.
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What he does have space for: thinking about how Astarion probably doesn't at all remember the encounter this woman is talking about. A drop in an awful ocean. He glances sideways at Astarion's perfect profile, at that impeccable mask of guileless charm, but can't bring himself to see the monster that some people might. ]
A subject ill-suited for a place like this.
[ Iorveth gestures to the merrymakers around them. The bard who'd spoken to Astarion earlier is sitting on a table, warbling drunkenly with lute in hand to a band of half-naked half-orcs and tieflings who are playing a round of strip Talis. ]
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Honestly! I just have one of those generic faces.
[ She scoffs. "Right. White hair and red eyes aren't distinctive or anything." Her eyes grow big, then, and her scowl turns into more of a pathetic frown. "I'm not saying you're guilty of anything," she says, although it sort of sounds like she is. "But you have to know something."
When Astarion responds only with a frown of his own and crossed arms, she adds, "Fine! Maybe you are guilty, and I should call the Watch." ]
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Difficult. Maybe they can subsume this ugly situation with another one, so: ]
Beloved. [ Flatly. ] Were you speaking to others while you were with me?
[ Playacting (badly) as a jilted lover. Never mind that he didn't know Astarion when this happened, let alone liked him enough to give half a shit about him talking to women, but. It seems preferable to upsetting this woman further.
(The success rate of this tactic is debatable. The woman looks annoyed that this is somehow being thrown into the equation.) ]
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[ Astarion's head swivels on its axis and he stares at Iorveth, head cocked, brow furrowed. Of course he wouldn't be unfaithful; he's never even felt an inclination to infidelity unless one counts drinking the blood of another living person—and Iorveth is a bit of a freak, so perhaps he does—and even then, he'd rather his fangs in Iorveth's neck over anyone else's any day.
It takes a moment for his brain to parse Iorveth's flat tone, his impassive expression. As much as Iorveth claims that Astarion is free to do what he wishes, he likes to think Iorveth would at least be a little upset with him if he were sleeping with strangers from taverns (again). ]
—Oh.
[ He flips on the theatre kid dramatics, rolling his eyes and scoffing. ]
Well, I had to get my needs met somehow. You've been so frigid after your whole family died in that gelatinous cube attack.
[ "Wait, what?" ]
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You said you would be patient.
[ Which is, again, a hilarious (affectionate) thing to expect from Astarion. Iorveth displaces himself from Astarion's side, unraveling their arms so he can fold his own across his chest. A familiar defensive stance, to be sure. ]
Which night was it? Unbelievable, that you had the nerve to come back into my bed afterwards.
[ "Oh Gods, I really don't need this right now." ]
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How adorable, that you think it was only one night.
[ "Oh, wow," says their unwilling eavesdropper. ]
Remember all of those nights I told you I was going to book club? Well, the book was the Quarta Sune.
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