essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ Iorveth relinquishes his hold on Astarion's nose to digest the implication behind "I was only pretending", because, yes, he's aware. The only reason why Astarion would bring this up again, he figures, is for a reason that is highly embarrassing, which is that dumbfounded moment of unwanted revelation that he had that he should probably be furious at Astarion for for bringing it up.

He is a little mad about it. Mostly at himself. The way he clears his throat and contemplates death for a second is where that anger begins and ends. ]

I know. [ This first. His arms fold instinctively, posture straightening in an attempt to―

―what, brace himself against his own admission? Ugh. ] But you'd be pleased to know, I expect, that you did make my blood boil.

[ Not a jealous person by nature, but shook by the reality that he would actually be deeply unhappy about Astarion actively pursuing other people. Who would've thought. ]

[ 'Pleased' isn't the right word. It does feel good to be coveted, but it's displeasing, actually, to hear that he upset Iorveth without meaning to. (If he's going to upset Iorveth, he wants it to be intentional.) And for such a ridiculous reason; it goes without saying that Astarion has no interest in sleeping with drunkards from taverns, and in fact, that he wouldn't even be able to without the whole situation being unenjoyable at best and traumatizing at worst. Doesn't Iorveth know that he's one of the only people Astarion can even tolerate breathing air in his space, much less touching him? ]

Ugh. How come you only seethe with jealousy when I don't want you to?

[ Such a difficult man! Only yesterday, he was telling Astarion how he was free to leave after they procure the cloak like he didn't even care, but now that they have an imaginary daughter and Astarion has cheated on him with a horde of imaginary taverngoers, he's affected by it? Again: ridiculous. ]

I didn't have the slightest interest in those nameless, faceless strangers in taverns then, and I certainly don't now.

[ A frown. ]

I do think about them from time to time, though. How miserable their existences must be now, after a run-in with me.

[ Affected, in the sense that he's realizing that he would be affected. But he doesn't make that correction, and instead, watches Astarion's expression cloud before the admission.

Iorveth can relate to it, to a certain extent. He has likely spread more misery than he ever has joy, but by choice: Astarion did so under threat of oblivion and torture. A very different sort of beast.

Unfolding his arms, Iorveth reaches to take one of Astarion's hands to idly smooth his thumb over the rise and fall of well-shaped knuckles. ]

They, of all people, should know what would have happened to you had you not complied with Cazador's orders.

[ Indignity of the highest order. Iorveth is unsure of how many times the man had ever gone down into the crypts to speak to any of those corralled creatures, but it's likely that once was enough for all of them. ]

If you ever wished it, we could venture back into the Underdark to see how they're faring. The one called Sebastian, perhaps.

Sebastian.

[ Astarion's expression darkens further. Innocent, sweet Sebastian (and then angry, sad Sebastian). If there's anyone in this world who didn't deserve what Astarion did to them, it's him. He can excuse away some of his misdoing with claims that the world was better off without his victims—drunks and criminals no one would miss—but Sebastian would have had a future had Astarion not ripped it from him. He'd have met someone, perhaps had children, grown old like a human is supposed to instead of outliving everyone he ever knew. ]

I don't know.

[ Truly. Part of him does want to see what has become of them. Every inch of their current lives has been determined by him: their vampirism, their captivity, their freedom. He feels responsible for them in some strange way, which is ridiculous, because he's never wanted to be responsible for anything. ]

Cazador may have turned them, but it was me who sentenced them to their fates. [ A significant role. Who wouldn't resent the judge who signed their death warrant? ] I wouldn't be surprised if they tried to behead me on sight.

It's likely.

[ The "trying to behead him" bit. Iorveth adores Astarion and understands that he had no choice, but Iorveth is also not a victim of Astarion's crimes; what he can give in terms of leniency, he's aware that most others wouldn't. ]

But you chose to let them live. [ For a given value of living, undead as they all are. Iorveth turns Astarion's hand over in his palm one more time before relinquishing the touch, settling back against the wall with his arms folded once more. ] You chose freedom over fodder.

[ Too little too late, some might say, but Iorveth still remembers the enormity of that decision, and how Astarion had worn it in that blue-green antechamber under Cazador's palace. ]

―If we told that woman what became of her friend, [ gesturing towards the bar, where the woman in question is ordering another glass of red, ] do you think she would stop searching for her?

I don't know.

[ Maybe. Maybe she'd be horrified at the thought that her friend has become a monster. Maybe she'd no longer care, having had some sort of resolution. Or maybe she'd search the whole of the Underdark trying to find her friend despite knowing that she's become a bloodsucking creature of the night.

It's hard to say. He can hardly remember any loved ones from before his vampirism, the days of mortality fuzzy at best, but if he did have them, they had the luxury of closure seeing him dead and buried. This woman can't say the same. ]

—I wouldn't stop searching for you.

[ Although that doesn't say much. Obviously, no one else's love for another person could compare to his undying affection for Iorveth; he's convinced they're the two most special people in the world. ]

[ An unexpected response, and one that spawns (ha) complicated emotions. On one hand, it's terribly sweet that Astarion would. On the other, Iorveth hates the thought of Astarion aimlessly wandering around looking for him, lonely and unhappy.

(He makes a mental note to actually remember Naspira; maybe there is something that can be done here.) ]

...A good thing, then, that you'll never have need to. [ A wan smile, followed by a nudge with his elbow. ] My mother taught me never to follow strangers into the dark.

[ Joking. But all this talk of spawn and vampires remind him that their quest for Astarion's cloak may lead them straight into the jaws of yet another Cazador-esque monster, which is something they should probably prepare a little better for this time around. It also makes Iorveth think about worst-case scenarios (as he's wont to do, paranoid as he is), so he ventures: ]

I'd always believed that, were I ever attacked by a vampire, I would choose death over being turned. ...But admittedly, thinking of leaving you behind complicates things.

[ Astarion has shifted the needle of Iorveth's preternatural need to find the right place and time to die; what a terrible thing, to find someone he'd want to live for, and live with. ]

[ The idea of Iorveth being turned is a complicated one. Astarion hates the idea of Iorveth being subjected to the sort of misery he experienced—Iorveth has experienced enough misery for twenty lifetimes—and he, of course, doesn't want Iorveth to suffer vampirism's drawbacks. Honestly, despite being one, he doesn't even like vampires. Still, a selfish part of himself thinks that it would be nice to have Iorveth for eternity.

He can't say that, so he says, ] Death is usually part of it, actually.

[ A big part of it. You can't become undead without becoming, well, dead. A horrid thing to imagine happening to Iorveth. ]

Don't worry. I'll happily drive a stake through the heart of any monster that tries to keep you for its own.

[ A rather glum topic of conversation. Iorveth still remembers Astarion's accusations about him being depressing, so he sets the lingering concerns about monsters with sharp teeth aside to ponder on his own time.

Now: ] Chivalrous of you. [ Another thing Iorveth remembers Astarion saying: that Astarion wants to protect him. He could scoff at the notion of it and brush it aside as nonsense― "do I look like a man that needs protecting"― but far be it for him to invalidate Astarion's feelings on the matter, or to imply that he doesn't trust Astarion to be able to protect him if push came to shove.

A soft exhale, and Iorveth cranes his neck to press his lips to Astarion's hair. ]

I've already been ensnared by one red-eyed beauty― doubtful, that I'd let another come close enough to bite.

[ He thinks about asking Iorveth if he thinks that Astarion was foolish to let Cazador bite him, and if he thinks that Astarion should have chosen death over vampirism instead. Iorveth seems to have spent his whole life waiting for the right reason to end it, but Astarion has never wanted to do anything but live. He'd begged Cazador not to let him die, and he hadn't cared about the consequences. Although he likes to think he'd rather die than be a slave again, if push came to shove, he's not sure what decision he'd make. Death seems its own kind of prison.

That is far too depressing a topic of conversation for the Yawning Portal, so he simply says, ] Just stay cautious. Vampires are conniving creatures.

[ His only experience is with Cazador and his brood—including himself—but that's enough for him to paint all vampires with the same brush, he thinks. ]

A problem for another time. [ He waves a hand. ] Were you able to talk politics with your new friends?

[ Conniving creatures. Some more than others, Iorveth would say, but he keeps that to himself.

On the subject of politics, though: ] A bit. I wanted to find more Aen Seidhe, but it might take a bit of coaxing to get them to show themselves. [ Leaning back against the wall, waving an idle hand. ] I've left messages with the local wood elves who've been displaced from their forests by Loredo and his ilk.

[ So, at the very least, Saskia will know why her ill-behaved fox isn't slinking back into familiar territory. Iorveth huffs a short laugh, and tips his head. ]

Do you want to hear an amusing rumor that's spreading in the north?

[ "Amusing" is probably not the right word. Iorveth has a terrible sense of humor. ]

[ A night of discussing politics with wood elves sounds terribly tedious, but that's why he went off and did something that's actually fun (like cheating at cards). He knows that sort of thing is important to Iorveth, so by association, he supposes it's important to him. And it is, insofar as he wants Iorveth to be happy, and elven freedom would make him happy — it's just also really, really boring. ]

Oh, I'm really not one for gossip—

[ A joke, of course. What isn't boring: the tea. ]

But I can make an exception for you. Do tell.

[ Iorveth hikes a brow, then straightens his posture in a distinct "get a load of this bullshit" sort of way. ]

The rumor has two heads. The first: [ He extends an index in the universal gesture for "one". ] That there are talks of marrying me off to some northern lord or lady as a gesture of goodwill and peace, and that the true reason for my prolonged absence from the north－ my assassination of Henselt and my actions against the Absolutist cult notwithstanding－ was largely to learn manners from Baldurian nobles.

[ A rumor that would be incredibly offensive if not for the fact that maybe like, only one or two people in Saskia's retinue who haven't personally met Iorveth believe it. (Hopefully. Gods.)

He raises his middle finger to accompany his index. ] The second: some believe that I've already been married off to a northern lord. They know nothing about him save that he has silver hair.

[ The corner of Iorveth's lips curl. ] A human with silver hair, naturally. [ To add insult to injury. The absolute horror. ]

[ Astarion raises an eyebrow. Being mistaken for a human isn't nearly as insulting to him, who sees pretty much everyone as beneath him regardless of race, as it is to Iorveth, who hates one race in particular. Still, it is a little offensive. Does he not have the svelte figure of an elf, rather than the stocky one so common to humans? Is he not so ethereally beautiful that he must have descended from the fey?

Honestly, what's worse is that they know nothing about him. He has so many interesting qualities besides his glorious hair. ]

A real life Nicholas and Edgar, [ he drawls, voice dry. A notorious hater of humans being married off to a human noble is exactly out of one of his embarrassing romance paperbacks. ]

Should I teach you some manners, then?

[ Nicholas and Edgar will follow them everywhere. (If Astarion cares to look closely at the halfling sitting three tables away, he'd notice that said halfling is just about to finish up the second instalment of the saga, with a brand-new copy of the third book sitting next to his mug of mulled wine.) Iorveth rolls his eye, but in a way that suggests that he's entertaining this farce, not tolerating it. ]

You find me lacking in manners, do you.

[ Trick question (the millionth over the past few hours): Iorveth, rudest elf, et cetera. He hikes his chin up in a characteristically haughty way, every bit the untamed wood elf that disdains high society conventions. ]

What would you deign to teach me?

[ Deign isn't the word, but if he's to play Iorveth's highborn forced-consort, perhaps it's fitting. (Mmm, how sexy. They'd be at each other's throats until the simmering tension between them boiled over and they made vigorous love. At least, that's how it would work if this were a romance novel with a shirtless man on the front. In reality, being at each other's throats is often a lot more distressing and a lot less arousing.)

He tips his chin up to mirror Iorveth, eyes glinting playfully. ]

How not to eat like an animal, for one.

[ There is some truth in this. Iorveth eats like a man starved, which Astarion happens to find charming but very feral. ]

You'll need to know which fork and knife to use if you're going to come live with me in my castle.

[ They can play at being the savage terrorist and his equally dangerous highborn consort, but Iorveth fancies that Astarion wouldn't actually appreciate it if Iorveth shoved him up against a wall with a knife to his throat and spoke to him harshly. In fact, Iorveth is pretty sure that Astarion would hate Edgar if Edgar were real and they ever met―

―but then again, it's not like he and Astarion started out magnetically drawn to each other, so. Who knows. (Gods, was it more exciting for Astarion when Iorveth was mean to him? Food for thought.) ]

Brave of you to consider teaching me how to handle sharp objects.

[ He's very good at using forks and knives, thank you very much. Perhaps not in the ways that most people would find appropriate, but still. Iorveth's brow hikes, amused. ]

I expect you'd be sitting next to me and holding my hands throughout these lessons.

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