essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ 'Not be unhappy'. That double-negative isn't the hallmark of excitement, but Iorveth seems determined not to stop him from indulging in all that life has to offer, so Astarion doesn't argue. He lets his fingers play with the strands of hair at the nape of Iorveth's neck for a moment, surveying the street.

A young woman in an ornate Fey Day costume rushing down the street, heels clicking against the cobblestone, clearly late for a party. Two halflings leaning against the brick wall of one of the establishments, calling out to revelers that they recognize as they gnaw on kebabs from a nearby street vendor. A couple, arguing about the woman's former beau being present at the party they just left. ]

Who shall I taste, then?

[ His free hand presses to Iorveth's chest, and he adds, sincerely, ] Or would you prefer not to watch?

[ A moment to consider, then: ]

I'd prefer not to watch.

[ Without apology. He knows that Astarion wouldn't want one, and he doesn't want to give one. His pulse is slow and steady under that palm on his chest, alive and strong and relaxed. ]

It'd make me want you too much, I think.

[ Without provocation or pretention: it's just a fact. He said that Astarion would ruin him, and Astarion has. Some weird part of Iorveth has been irrevocably twisted and changed into Astarion's shape, and Iorveth has become more aware of it than he really cared to.

A half-quirk of his lips, and he pulls away after plucking the flower from Astarion's hair. ]

Edited 2025-02-27 04:23 (UTC)

[ 'Too much'. ] No such thing.

[ But Iorveth doesn't want to bear witness to his meal, and Astarion won't make him. Pity. It's so much easier (and cleaner) when he has an extra pair of hands. Oh, well — Astarion has spent much of his life making do, and he'll do the same now.

He reaches up to thumb affectionately at Iorveth's chin. ]

But if you're concerned you won't be able to control your wild lust, I won't force you to watch.

[ A pat on the cheek. ]

Hurry along, then. And wait up for me.

[ Iorveth loves Astarion very much (too much!!!), and would grudgingly help dispose corpses for him. Maybe not right now, though, on this specific night. He's bolstered by the fight they had in the morning (weirdly enough), but not enough to actively want to see someone else on Astarion's mouth.

Still, giving Astarion his space is healthy. Very normal, very natural. They could even pass for something conventional if it weren't for the fact that Astarion is a vampire and Iorveth is a crazy person. Tucking the bloodroot behind his own ear, Iorveth sifts his fingers over Astarion's bangs before slipping away to leave his cat to kill his mouse.

While that happens, Iorveth's intermission consists of minor participation in Fey Day activities: in a nearby square, he spots a high elf child playing (which is a charitable way of saying "butchering) a familiar tune on a wooden flute, and confiscates the instrument to demonstrate a more proper rendition. Unfortunately for Iorveth, his demonstration attracts a small group of elf children, who he then has to grudgingly entertain with more songs and, eventually, piggyback rides on his broad shoulders.

He doesn't hate children, as much as humans would have other humans believe that Iorveth the Butcher subsists on the blood of innocents. It's been an age since he's seen an Aen Seidhe child, since he's met an Aen Seidhe woman comfortable with rearing children in the current state of things, and it's nice, in a bittersweet way, to see elf children thrive in peacetime. Even if they are high elves, and not his own. He sits down with a pocket-sized girl, and starts braiding her long hair. ]

Edited 2025-02-27 05:00 (UTC)

[ Meanwhile, Astarion slinks off to find suitable prey. It should be easy; he's done it a million times over, even if the outcome wasn't the same. Find someone on their own, someone who looks like their judgment might be impaired, and lure them away to their doom. He finds a very drunk tiefling girl with garlands of flowers hanging off of her horns, the perfect victim. As he sidles up to her, she giggles and asks where his costume is. A moment later, she's stringing some garlands around his neck, and he can't find it in himself to sink his teeth into her.

A nearby man wolf-whistles at her, his face red with drink as he shouts out obscenities. The tiefling girl's blue skin turns purple and she responds with a crude hand gesture. "Bitch," the man grumbles under his (undoubtedly smelly) breath.

Not filet mignon, but it's a cow he wouldn't mind slaughtering. He claps a hand on the man's back, leaning in to say, ] Women, am I right?

[ It's not long after that he emerges from an alley, decidedly more disheveled than he was when he went into it. He's sweating a bit, both from the adrenaline of attacking a man where anyone could see and from the exertion of it all. His chosen victim hadn't exactly been small, and he'd put up a decent fight both before and after his untimely death. Trying to drag his corpse around had been a challenge. Finally, Astarion had to give up and hide him under some trash. If he's lucky, it'll take a few days before the corpse smell starts to attract anyone.

Bedraggled but not injured, he makes his way back Iorveth's direction, a spring in his step as he wipes remnants of blood from the corner of his mouth. (He'd been very careful not to stain Gale's shirt with it. The less he does to make motormouth Gale an accomplice, the better.) The world always seems a little brighter with fresh blood in his mouth, the sounds a little sweeter. Perhaps this is how it always is for the living.

Iorveth braiding a little girl's hair is possibly the most twee thing he's ever seen, but he surprisingly doesn't feel disgusted. It's sweet, really. Makes him think about who Iorveth would be if not for his misery. Maybe he really would have a little brat running around, like Astarion had snarked about.

The elven girl startles as he approaches. "Are you all right, mister?" she asks, genuine concern in her voice. "You look pale... and, um, sweaty." ]

Dewy, [ he corrects, annoyed, as he wipes at his brow with the back of his hand. To Iorveth, he says, pointedly, ] I had no idea you were so keen on children.

[ Iorveth is mid-plait when Astarion turns the corner towards the miniature gathering of miniature elves; a precursory once-over to make sure that there are no obvious injuries on Astarion's person later, and Iorveth goes back to weaving soft platinum-blond hair into neat patterns. It would be impolite to leave a lady only half-styled. ]

I don't often interact with them.

[ "So this is a novelty thing", is implied. His single eye flits back to that pointed look on Astarion's face (slightly flushed? a warmer sort of pale, maybe), trying to read if that slight edge is because Astarion didn't particularly like the blood he just drank, or if it's just a general distaste for pocket-sized elves.

Taking the two braids he's made on either side of the little girl's face, Iorveth pulls them back and weaves them into one bigger, slightly more intricate braid, which he ties together with a silk ribbon. The bloodroot from before gets tucked into one of the pleats, and once that's done, he coaxes the child off of his knee and back towards her group of friends.

"Me next, Isengrim!", a little boy with long black hair pipes up. Iorveth shakes his head, and gets back up onto his feet. ]

I've kept my dewy companion waiting too long, [ he explains, to which the gaggle of children all turn towards Astarion in perfect sync. ]

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