essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ His edges round as Iorveth stands up, although his hackles raise just slightly as all of the children turn to look at him like some horrific hivemind. Ugh. Children. Why is it that when they get together in a group, they're always creepy? ]

—Yes, Isengrim, [ he says, breaking his gaze away from the probing eyes of the elven children. He wraps a hand around Iorveth's arm, tugging gently. ] Come along. You know I don't like to share.

[ "Bye, Isengrim!" calls one of the little voices. "Thank you!" says the platinum-haired girl, running a hand down one of her delicately-done plaits. It's cute, he supposes. A little too cute to bear. He turns away, guiding Iorveth down the street and away from the throng of children. ]

Animals and children, [ he says under his breath, laughing. ] Aren't you a princess?

[ Cute. Iorveth looks over his shoulder to see the kid with the flute resume his playing (slightly less poorly), then slides his focus back to Astarion, who still has a few beads of sweat clinging to his temple. Iorveth wipes at them with his sleeve. ]

Communalism and coexistence are core tenets of my people, [ he explains, vocalizing what he'd been thinking earlier, back in the tavern. ] Thus, children may be brats, but they're our brats.

[ The sort of concept that Astarion might not relate to, but the sum total of Iorveth's world up until now. The reason why he's so angry all the time about the pain being inflicted upon his own, and the reason why he cares so little about pain being inflicted upon himself.

That said, "princess" is still offensive. It earns Astarion a flick to his perfectly-shaped nose. ]

Did your food give you any trouble?

[ Communalism and coexistence. Astarion rolls that idea over in his head, musing about how he can love Iorveth so much yet be diametrically opposed to what he claims are 'core tenets'. He never belonged to anyone's community, and the family he did belong to never did anything for him except teach him that this world is everyone for themselves. Communalism is a joke, and coexistence is a laugh.

He wonders if that'll be an issue once they make it to Iorveth's northern forest. This quest for the cloak has put it off momentarily, but eventually, he will have to face the music. ]

A little.

[ He straightens his collar, smoothing down the worst of his out-of-place curls. ]

Long enough with a willing donor, and one can forget how much effort the... un-willing can be.

[ It would be wiser, he thinks, to just stab them first, but that's such a waste of blood. Even he has too much pride to lick it up off the ground like an animal. ]

I thought you wouldn't want to hear about it.

[ A glance downwards, peering down the sliver of space under Astarion's collar to check for finger-shaped bruises from where a victim might have grabbed or hit while being bitten. Nothing that he can spot immediately.

To that last bit, though: ]

You really do think me a delicate princess.

[ Offended. Slightly exasperated, as he pulls away from Astarion's side to make distance. ]

Have I given you the impression that I bruise so easily?

[ Astarion frowns, offended at Iorveth's offense. This is what you get when you try to consider someone's feelings! You get told that you're coddling. Honestly, sometimes he thinks he should just go back to being cruel. ]

Oh, gods forbid I think you have some sort of attachment to me. Very presumptuous, I know.

[ He crosses his arms, blood-high ruined. ]

What a relief now that I know you don't care. I can tell you all about the beautiful woman I sunk my teeth into.

[ A not-so-beautiful man, but Iorveth doesn't need to know that. ]

[ The dumbest quibble ever, and yet. Iorveth sighs through his teeth, irritation mounting, and rocks back onto his heels with his chin tipped up for a better vantage point despite their mostly-negligible difference in height. ]

I asked you if the ordeal gave you trouble, not to wax poetic about it.

[ But now he's thinking about Astarion with a pretty woman, and while it doesn't make him curdle the way a lead of a trash romance story might be expected to, it makes his shoulders set somewhat defensively. Annoyed, mostly because he feels like he's playing right into Astarion's hand. ]

But next time you come back with a bruised face, I could feign ignorance. Since you assume I "don't care".

[ Again, literally the dumbest quibble in the world. ]

[ It's been a day since their last argument, and they've already started another. If Astarion were rational, he'd be the bigger person and let it slide off of his back. Unfortunately, he's incapable of being the bigger person. Like a cornered animal, whenever he feels threatened, he'll do anything to lash out. ]

If that's what you want, then fine.

[ Said with the haughty tone of someone who couldn't care less, although he actually cares a lot. He shrugs. ]

I'd hate to bore you with something that doesn't matter to you. My outings will just be my little secret, then.

[ Gods, Iorveth could grab Astarion and shake him into pieces. A part of Iorveth whispers "don't fold" this time around, irritated by the accusation that he doesn't care on the heels of their prior argument (they're racking these up), which should have proved to Astarion that, unequivocally, Iorveth fucking cares.

So: ]

Fine.

[ Using Astarion's tactic against him, probably unfairly. ] Do as you please. I'll not comment or interfere.

[ If Astarion wants to feel what it's like for Iorveth to not care, this is it: he turns and starts to walk in a different direction, without humoring the haughtiness. Iorveth from way back in the early stages of his recruitment into Lae'zel's ranks, when he slept on the outskirts of camp instead of by the campfire with all the others.

(Honk, goes his clown nose: this feels bad, actually.) ]

[ Blink, blink. Astarion stares at Iorveth's back as he walks away, feeling very cold without Iorveth's sun shining on him and dumbfounded that he wasn't able to manipulate Iorveth into giving him the reassurance he wanted. Part of him wants to stomp his feet and turn his back like Iorveth; that would be winning, in this situation. Another part of him, much bigger, feels terrified at the image of Iorveth walking away from him, like he didn't realize until this moment that Iorveth could walk away from him. ]

—Darling, [ he says as he humiliates himself by trailing after Iorveth. ]

Don't be so dramatic. I was only... [ Well. He wasn't 'only' anything. Astarion searches the empty void for an excuse. This one comes out unconvincingly: ] ...Joking.

[ If Iorveth wanted to teach Astarion a lesson about not tossing around accusations of not caring so lightly, this is where he could up the ante: he considers it for a fraction of a millisecond, of lengthening his strides and keeping his focus in front of him, of being even more annoyed that Astarion could even joke about how serious Iorveth is about caring.

He could. Maybe if Astarion were anyone else, Iorveth would. But context whispers to him that it's monstrous to take things away from Astarion once he's given them, and sentiment grabs him by the throat and says that it really doesn't feel good to have someone he cares about chase him like this.

So he stops, and when he turns this time, it's back towards Astarion. The only time anyone will ever catch him being weak-willed. That said, when he finally opens his mouth, he sounds flat. Dry. ]

Joking about my lack of caring. [ "I didn't like that." ]

[ Astarion shrinks a little, chastened. It's like all of the fight left his body when Iorveth turned away, and he was transported back to being the pathetic spawn he used to be, internally composing his apology for fear of what his master's consequences for misbehavior will be. That isn't what Iorveth is to him, but he fears the consequences all the same.

He shifts, glancing down at his—well, Gale's—shoes. ]

Well, I guess it wasn't a joke, exactly.

[ It was sharp sarcasm, but not a joke. He'd felt offended, and he'd attacked. A bad habit of his. ]

Really, I didn't care that you didn't care who I stuck my fangs into. [ He didn't! What could be wrong with some guilt-free snacking? ] At least, until you said that you didn't.

[ It never really feels great to make humans feel contrite about their offenses (mostly because it's too little too late), but it still feels a lot better than seeing Astarion lower his eyes and make himself smaller. If Astarion stamped his feet and stormed off, it would have been easier for Iorveth to stay angry, but－

－well. He steps forward, insinuating his (Gale's) ugly sandals into Astarion's line of sight. ]

I don't feel indifferent, [ he concedes, after a beat. Something he's not proud of. ] But I dislike the thought of making you tiptoe around your vampirism far more.

[ He appreciates that Astarion has given thought to his feelings, but it's not like Astarion can help needing blood. It's part and parcel of who he is, what he is. ]

If you bedded them every time, though, I expect I'd feel differently. Therein lies the difference.

[ He doesn't want Iorveth to seethe with jealousy every time he drinks from someone else, because he doesn't ever want Iorveth to be unhappy in this relationship—and because there's really no reason to be jealous in the first place when these meals mean next to nothing to him—but he can't deny that it would be nice if Iorveth, you know. Showed a little more concern. Enough to make him feel like Iorveth cares to lose him.

Maybe he was right, when he said that Astarion thinks of him as someone who'd easily discard him, but only because he thinks of himself as someone easily discardable. ]

...Well, I suppose I should admit that it wasn't a beautiful woman.

[ Because he couldn't bear to snuff out a kind soul. What has become of him? ]

[ His hand finds the underside of Astarion's chin, attempting a tip-up. There are some things that Iorveth can't bear, and seeing Astarion droop is, sadly, one of those things.

"Gods forbid I think you have some sort of attachment to me," Iorveth rolls over in his mind again. The stupidest accusation ever, in his opinion― he has never been so emotionally whipped by someone in his life. Still, the thought of Astarion feeling like he isn't coveted doesn't sit well with Iorveth, despite the fact that Iorveth is doing his level best not to smother Astarion under a frankly unhinged level of delusional devotion.

Another sigh, and he thumbs under the perfect swell of Astarion's lower lip. ]

I'll be displeased if you tell me it was another one-eyed elf with a poor attitude.

[ He wants to mope and feel bad, because wallowing in his unhappiness is a learned habit by now, but it's very difficult to do so with Iorveth's touch on his face. Astarion glances up, red eyes easy to mistake for a simple warm brown in this light. ]

I like your attitude.

[ Astarion likes everything about Iorveth — except for the things that he doesn't, which eventually become the topic of whichever blow-up argument they're having at any given time. No two people on Toril are less compatible in their base ideologies. It's a miracle, really, that they didn't kill each other before they ever got the chance to like each other. ]

It was a man, [ he admits. ] He catcalled a woman on the street. [ Astarion makes a face, lip curling. He can't quite verbalize why, but he'd felt viscerally disgusted. ] I thought the world might be better off without him, anyway.

[ Ugh, Iorveth likes Astarion so much. He wouldn't have, if the tadpole hadn't forcibly made him wear the get-along sweater with Astarion, he knows that much. Without the Illithid threat binding their goals together, Iorveth would have had no reason or inclination to know anything about Astarion at all; the only reason he'd wanted to see Astarion more clearly was to affirm that he wouldn't wake up with a knife to his throat, if and when things went south.

Now look at Iorveth, enamored by the smallest things about Astarion. The subtle glance upwards, the admission that he killed a rude catcaller because he wanted one less pig making women feel uncomfortable roaming the streets. Iorveth, famously able to Stay Mad about something for centuries at a time, can't find it in himself to stay angry at Astarion for more than a few minutes, apparently.

He doesn't use the word "noble", because he knows it won't be received well. Instead, he strokes Astarion's cheek and drains the austerity from his expression, letting warmth slide back onto his sharp features. ]

A meaningful meal, then, if not the sweetest-tasting one. [ Look at Astarion, showing growth. Obviously, Iorveth doesn't say that. ] ...Did it make you feel good?

[ He'd nearly gotten frostbite cut off from Iorveth's warmth, but now it shines on him again, and the tension drains from his shoulders. It's just as sweet as the sun. Instantly, unconsciously, he leans his cheek into Iorveth's palm, a welcome heat against his face. ]

Yes.

[ Without apology for what kind of person that makes him. Although he'll admit it contributed to his mood, in the end, it wasn't the feeding that really made him feel good. It was seeing someone who treated others like objects for their own amusement and snuffing their light out for good. ]

I think he was afraid of me, in his last moments.

[ It felt good to be the one making someone afraid rather than the one paralyzed in fear. ]

[ Don't fold, Iorveth'd told himself, but he's paper when Astarion leans. His thumb brushes along the jut of Astarion's cheekbone, tracing the rise of it up to his temple to draw circles there, massaging out tension. ]

Hm. [ Light, airy. Not the kind of tone one would normally use when discussing the brutal slaughtering of a faceless stranger, but Iorveth will be Iorveth. ] He was correct to be.

[ As much as he treats Astarion like an oversized cat who deserves his cute aggression, he doesn't think him weak or powerless; the opposite, really. A shrewd, fickle thing who would kill rather than be harmed: it's always the ones who know what it feels like to have been backed into corners who are the most dangerous in a pinch. Not something to be lauded, perhaps, but Iorveth is in love with that tenacity. The thing he'd been drawn to most, initially. ]

...I had no reason to be precious about your feeding, then. [ Another slow drag of his thumb across Astarion's cheek. ]

Well. [ Conceding, albeit somewhat unwillingly: ] I suppose not.

[ There's nothing about his meal that was worth Iorveth being jealous of, unless he longs to be killed and thrown in the trash. He knows this, rationally. It wasn't a special experience in any way, hardly romantic or, gods forbid, sensual. In fact, he would never dare to treat Iorveth in such a way. ]

...But you could be a little precious about it, if you wanted.

[ He would hate any attempts to actually control what he does, but he likes when Iorveth is precious about him. It makes him feel, well, precious. A rare feeling. ]

I would allow it.

[ Confluence and coexistence. Iorveth hasn't been raised on principles of jealousy, but he does find that he has a streak of (strong) possessiveness when it comes to Astarion. One that he's been trying to temper, finding it unflattering at best and monstrous at worst considering what Astarion's been through, and yet.

It's wild that Astarion is encouraging it. He's lucky, Iorveth thinks, that Iorveth would rather stab himself in his remaining eye than take undue advantage of that encouragement. But "I would allow it" has been offered, at least for now, and he can anticipate some seriously offended puffing-up if he brushed it aside like so much of Astarion's other ridiculous statements, so.

Iorveth taps into a sliver of that unhinged, freak possessiveness that he's been trying not to act on. Just a little. ]

―I want you for myself for the rest of the night, then. [ Mild, he hopes. ] Close to me, and in my arms.

[ Again, mild. (He hopes.) ]

Gale will have to peel me from you to take you to his ridiculous opera tomorrow. [ Maybe a little less mild. ] ―And by the time you have to leave, I want my scent on your collar and my blood in your mouth. [ Maybe a little unhinged. ]

[ Astarion, meanwhile, has existed on principles of individualism and possessiveness as long as he can remember. With so few belongings, possessiveness is less a desire and more a necessity. He can't help it if he sees it as a measure of something's worth.

He'd thought the whole point of this was to spare Iorveth from undue blood loss, but drinking from him is certainly more pleasant than some piggish catcaller, so he refuses to look a gift horse in the mouth. His mouth stays firmly shut, at least on that topic. Instead, he reaches his hands out to curl his thin fingers into Iorveth's shirt collar, pulling him in. ]

Mm, that can be arranged.

[ Although Gale won't enjoy having to peel anyone away from anyone else. Jealous, probably! It must be hard not having a love as glorious as theirs. He almost feels bad for the poor sod. ]

I fear I'd give you everything you wanted, as long as you asked me so sweetly.

[ A funny little dance: Iorveth, trying to figure out how much this finicky cat likes being held, and how much holding he can tolerate before feeling like he's being trapped and has to squirm away.

For now, though, Iorveth has been given permission. His arms loop around Astarion's waist, a loose sort of hold since they're still in public, and "all to myself" is impossible when passers-by keep glancing their way. It's very hard to be discreet when one's partner is a 15 out of 10. ]

I only want you, [ he reminds Astarion with blunt honesty, tacitly cycling back to the accusation that Iorveth may or may not care as much as he should. Affirming and reaffirming, since that was the reason for the row in the first place. ] Everything else is an afterthought.

[ Astarion, and other nice things. Speaking of, there's a bookstore nearby that is still miraculously open at this time of night, which might be a nice place to stop by before they return to the tower. He can buy something for Astarion to read while Iorveth sticks to him like glue.

A slight coaxing, and Iorveth takes a step, bringing Astarion with him. ] ...I didn't relish walking away from you. I'll not do it again.

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