essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ Maybe not in those sandals, though. ]

[ A mild snort. ]

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). ]

I'd have burnt the whole wretched place down.

[ 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.

[ "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." ]

Well, that doesn't sound like me.

Edited 2025-02-20 09:48 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

Something amiss?

[ 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." ]

Missing? How awful. My condolences.

[ 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.) ]

What?

[ 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?" ]

[ 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." ]

Edited 2025-02-21 04:43 (UTC)

[ 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.

[ They're just acting, Iorveth knows― this isn't an actual argument they're having, and Astarion has not actually had hidden trysts with nameless people. Still, his kneejerk emotional reaction to the thought of Astarion sleeping with faceless third parties without letting him know in advance is...

...surprisingly stronger than he'd anticipated it would be. A visceral no that kicks him in the gut and manifests as a sort-of stunned, sincere silence. "Wow, I dislike that far more than I ever thought I would," concentrated into a hiked brow and a slight displacement of balance. ]

Hm, [ is all he manages for one moment, and the woman sees it as a way to finally get a word in.

"Hells! Have some self-respect." Aimed at Iorveth, obviously. "Leave him with me, and go find someone else to enjoy yourself with tonight. I still want to talk to him about my missing friend." ]

[ Astarion can tell that he misstepped, but he's not sure where. After all, Iorveth was the one who started this ruse in the first place. He finds himself feeling a pinch of irritation at being forced to endure Iorveth's hurt look when he was only playing along, and a greater slap of irritation that this woman still won't go away. So her friend disappeared (and it's probably his fault)! It was, like, a year ago. Get over it! Find a new friend! ]

—Oh, just get lost already.

[ The woman widens her eyes, taken aback by the brusqueness. ]

Can't you see we have a relationship to repair? For the sake of, erm, our daughter?

[ Probably the most laughable thing he's said all night. Astarion can't even take care of himself, much less a child, and his paternal instincts are next to none. ]

Or would you prefer to leave little Cressida in a broken home?

[ Iorveth snaps back from his unsettling revelation just in time to watch the woman snap back at Astarion, face red, ready to reach sideways for a drink to throw at him. "I don't care about your home life― which you ruined yourself, by the way― because all I care about is getting an answer about my friend!"

A few strip Talis players glance towards the three of them, keen ears sensing the beginnings of potential large-scale drama; not great. Iorveth steps forward to intervene before the rabble can get wind of what's going on, and places his palm to the crest of the distressed woman's shoulder. ]

Tell us what your friend's name is. We'll be returning to Baldur's Gate soon [ a lie ], so we may have the opportunity to seek her out.

[ Maybe they can send Petras a letter and ask if anyone by that name is still hanging around. Maybe not. Either way, it's better to offer something and not cause a scene. ]

[ The woman stiffens at Iorveth's touch, prepared for him to tell her off; she's pleasantly surprised when he offers to help, relaxing bit by bit. "Really?" she asks, before grabbing both of Iorveth's hands in hers. "Thank you. There are still good people in the world."

Astarion doesn't miss the side-eye she gives him when she makes that comment, but he doesn't argue. His years of dealing with Cazador have taught him when it's more advantageous just to stay silent. Her attention turns back to Iorveth after that, and she says, "Her name is Naspira. She's a tiefling, yea high, black hair—"

She goes on like that for a bit, giving the minute details of Naspira's appearance and behavior. Finally, she adds, "She also has terrible taste in men." Another side-eye. Astarion scoffs.

"Thank you," she repeats, before leaning in. "Really, you deserve so much better." ]

[ The description of the woman's friend puts things into a bit more perspective, and helps Iorveth cultivate the patience he needs to not jerk his hands out of the woman's grip and say something dry and scathing about how she should watch her tongue. It's a bit like listening to Sebastian talk about what Astarion took from him: immediate and tragic, but not enough to make Iorveth hate someone he's come to care for.

The leaning in, though, Iorveth can do without. Politely, he dislodges herself from her grip, as graceful as one would expect from someone with his long limbs and tall stature. ]

Unfortunately for me, there's no such thing.

[ There is no "better", he means: Astarion is it. The woman looks surprised by the response and Iorveth's calm delivery of it, and shakes her head. "Well, I hope you don't go missing tomorrow, that's all I can say." ]

Oh, don't be so dramatic. I'm sure your friend will turn up eventually.

[ He's not, actually. Even if this friend of hers still lives—in the loosest sense of the term—it doesn't mean she's even possible to locate. Those spawn are in the Underdark, yes, but who knows where? And that's if she chose to follow the rest of them; maybe she struck out on her own, doing the gods know what. Hopefully not eating too many innocent bystanders, but eh.

Astarion grabs Iorveth by the forearm, tugging. ]

But until then, we have a conversation to have, obviously. [ Pointedly: ] In private.

[ The woman seems to give up for now. Hands thrown up, she turns away with an exasperated "fine" before she walks off, muttering something under her breath about next-times as she beelines for the bar to get herself several stiff drinks.

Probably for the best if they go a different way. Iorveth maneuvers them towards the wall nearest the exit, where he stops for a second to sign between his teeth. ]

Our daughter.

[ Poor little hypothetical Cressida. She doesn't exist, and yet she deserves better than this. Iorveth pinches the bridge of Astarion's nose between his thumb and forefinger. ]

I didn't know you were so keen on children. [ Dryly. ]

[ Astarion laughs, derisive of the idea. ]

Oh, yes, [ is his reply, dripping with sarcasm. ] Haven't you heard? It's my dream to have a little brat running around.

[ Which is to say no, he isn't keen on children. They're all right enough, he supposes—Arabella and Yenna were tolerable, at least—but he has no interest in rearing a living being. That's so much responsibility. It sounds awful.

A second of silence passes, during which he thinks about Iorveth's stunned look. ]

—You know I was only pretending. About all of it.

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