essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

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.

[ Astarion happens to think Iorveth looks hot handling sharp objects! Then again, he always thinks Iorveth looks hot. He may think of himself as disfigured and ugly, but that couldn't be farther from the way Astarion sees him. Infinitely handsome, endlessly desirable. Even in those hideous sandals. ]

Oh, yes.

[ He slips his hands around Iorveth's middle, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt in a way that a snooty nobleman probably wouldn't do to his savage trophy elf. Oh, well. Astarion loves a good roleplay, but he also loves a good Iorveth; he couldn't possibly deny himself the joy of showering Iorveth in affection. ]

Right next to you, holding your hand, rewarding you when you do well.

[ A savage trophy elf would shove a snooty nobleman away if he were corralled like this and told that he would be rewarded like a well-behaved dog, but alas. Iorveth retracts his claws and sways into the loop of Astarion's arms, finding it irresistibly welcome despite all the ways in which the world should have hardened him against affection. ]

You and your rewards. [ He laughs briefly under his breath, more a whispered promise of a chuckle than anything fully formed, but warm nevertheless. ] How unfortunate for me that you now know what I like.

[ This stupid (affectionate) vampire has him by the fucking throat, Iorveth swears. The price of being smitten is having to endure the knowledge that one person can be his undoing.

Settling one hand on the back of Astarion's neck, fingers playing with the trimmed ends of soft curls at his nape, Iorveth hums again. ]

...The rumors are just that. Rumors. I don't expect Saskia to marry me off for the sake of the north, and even if she proposed it－

[ A beat, as he has another revelation. Fuck. ] －I'd refuse.

[ Even for the sake of his people. Fuck, Part 2. Before Astarion, he thinks he might have done anything, including loveless allegiances for the sake of political peace; now, he is entirely uncertain if he could manage it. ]

[ Honestly, Astarion wouldn't have been surprised if Iorveth had said he'd be willing to be married off to barter peace in the north. Sex is sport, Iorveth thinks, so it doesn't seem too far-fetched to think that Iorveth would also find marriage to be nothing but a legal tie to another person. It's a relief to hear that he doesn't, or at least that he does but still wouldn't offer himself up as a groom to save his people.

He doesn't verbalize that. Astarion is beginning to grow used to the strange feeling of caring about things, but part of him still feels embarrassed to. Admitting that he wouldn't like if Iorveth were to secure an allegiance in such a way means admitting yet another thing that Iorveth could do to hurt him, and he's been taught to be ashamed of such weaknesses.

Instead: ]

Oh, I don't know. That silver-haired nobleman did sound rakishly handsome.

[ That half-formed laugh from before gets fuller, warmer. ]

Mm. All things considered, I wouldn't be opposed to a strategic alliance with him.

[ Tickling behind one ear, in time to "strategic". There's nothing very wise or smart about what they've been doing thus far, but the point of it is that Iorveth has chosen Astarion anyway. Probably to the surprise of everyone up north－ he's not entirely certain what the others will make of it all, but he doesn't intend to make it a debate.

Expression relaxing, he sways forward again, chest to chest. ]

I'll have to ask him what he thinks of the whole affair.

[ A tug to Astarion's earlobe, affectionate. ]

[ From across the tavern, the poor woman who'd accosted Astarion earlier gapes, hissing, "He's taking him back???"

Meanwhile, Astarion basks in the attention. Again, probably not the most accurate to whatever character he's meant to play, but it would be impossible to pretend that he doesn't enjoy it. A cat getting scratched behind the ear, temperamental but docile. ]

Mmm, he's a very popular man, but I imagine he could be persuaded.

[ It wouldn't take much. Astarion glances over Iorveth's shoulder at the table of men he'd hustled, who are now talking excitedly and pointing his way. Hmm. ]

I've had enough of this place, I think. Let's leave before another witness appears to implicate me in a crime.

[ Troublemaker. Astarion, as always, is a mess of contradictions, an extrovert-introvert, fussy without knowing what he wants, greedy but waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him. Iorveth leans in to nuzzle against the side of his head (earning another incredulous-frustrated groan from the other side of the room), then gestures to the cloak room leading out into the entrance-exit of the tavern. ]

Off with us and our ill-gotten gains, then.

[ Iorveth can always check in again with his new contacts later, preferably when Astarion is busy doing something with Gale. Back out into the night they go, the streets still full of revelers and travelers getting ready for Fey Day. Iorveth almost bumps into a group of women decorated from head to toe in flowers (emulating Titania, no doubt), and fields their irritation ("he almost crushed my azaleas!") as he swerves Astarion away from the rabble―

―but not before plucking a white flower from one of the womens' bouquet. He tucks it behind Astarion's ear, nestling it against a well-placed curl. ]

Bloodroot, [ he explains. ]

A little on the nose, no?

[ And yet he's still charmed. The pitfalls of being in love: you start to like things that you would have thought unbearably cringe-worthy before. He throws an arm around Iorveth's shoulder, casually possessive. ]

But it does suit me.

[ A delicate white flower for a delicate white flower. He sighs, looking out at the busy streets before them. A couple of men clink bottles, laughing. ]

You know, I'd usually be out hunting on a night like this.

[ It's the ideal circumstances. Costumes, drunk idiots, enough people out on the street that no one will notice if one appears or disappears. ]

[ Astarion would find wood elf culture so twee, with its flowers and braiding and leather crafting in the forest. A band of people bonded together in communalism, confluence, and coexistence－ all things that Astarion truly had no reason to believe in or want. He really would be miserable up north.

That said, he still looks very pretty with a flower in his hair. Iorveth wraps an arm around Astarion's waist, and follows his gaze to the drinking men. ]

You could still hunt, if you wish to.

[ For himself, Iorveth means. Without being beholden to Cazador, he could go and sate his hunger on his own terms. Granted, someone will probably die in the process (unless Astarion decides to exercise restraint at his own safety's expense), but that door is now open to him. No more rules, no more "do not drink of the blood of sentient creatures", or whatever that worm enforced against Astarion's autonomy. ]

Are you hungry?

Darling. [ He shoots Iorveth a look, raised eyebrow asking are you kidding?] I'm always hungry.

[ There are varying degrees of it, yes, from an undercurrent hum to a blaring siren, but it's always there, like a cruel master who can only be appeased for so long (a concept he's intimately familiar with). His appetite is better satisfied than it ever was lurking the halls of the Szarr palace, but make no mistake, a vampire is a vampire, well-fed or not.

He shrugs. ] Such is the curse of the vampire.

[ The two men lean on each other, obviously heavily intoxicated, as they pass. You're my best friend, man, one slurs. No, you're my best friend, says the other. ]

But I imagine Gale wouldn't view me too kindly if I started picking off his fellow citizens. [ And, while he usually damns the consequences of any of his ill-conceived actions, he does need to stay in Gale's good graces right now. ] Besides, I thought you disliked when I engaged in... extracurricular activities.

[ One can only hope that those two drunk men will be best friends in the morning, when they're both hung over and halfway to the Hells. A few feet away from them, a pack of young tieflings taking turns fixing each other's horn jewelry complain loudly about the annoying tourists taking up space in their neighborhood. "Fey Day is so passé", one of them groans as they glance at Astarion and the flower in his hair. Kids these days. ]

You need to eat.

[ Is Iorveth's simple answer, as he glances at a sign reading "Meiroth's Fine Silks". ]

My attachment to your mouth has nothing to do with your need to feed. [ "I'm an adult and can acknowledge when my petty discomforts are just that: petty." ] I won't tell you that my blood is the only blood you're permitted to drink.

[ That would be ridiculous. (Someone with a slightly more moral bent may insist that Astarion not drink from anyone else for the simple fact that Astarion should not be out here murdering people with his teeth left and right, but whatever. Iorveth is deranged.) ]

Oh, let me be clear—

[ A tug at the point of Iorveth's ear. ]

I'm not avoiding strange blood because I think I'm not allowed.

[ There's no part of him that lets anyone tell him what he's not allowed to do anymore, even Iorveth. It's why he's still here with Iorveth instead of having run off when he was told to; no one makes decisions for him, not anymore.

His hand slides down to brush against Iorveth's neck. ]

I was doing it as a courtesy to you.

[ A blink, and Iorveth laughs; he has a lot of these tonight. ]

Sparing me my feelings, were you. [ A terrible thing, then, that Iorveth ever made Astarion say that he was awful. Reaching with his free hand to tip Astarion's chin, Iorveth leans in and plants a featherlight, brief kiss to the corner of his mouth. ] You are more noble than you know.

[ "Thank you", essentially. It's the sort of consideration that he wouldn't have cared to receive from anyone else, but it's the kind of consideration that matters coming from someone he's foolish enough to trust with his life. ]

I'll not be unhappy.

[ His verdict on what he'd feel about Astarion feeding from someone else. One more stroke to his cheek, and Iorveth relents. ] Seeing you content is rewarding.

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