essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ It's true. Astarion detests the reminder of his bite mark, a glaring blemish on otherwise flawless skin, a symbol of all the ways that Cazador irreversibly changed him. Iorveth's warm lips feel good against his neck in the cool breeze, though—and tickle a little, although he tries not to let it show—so he responds by grasping Iorveth's collar with a hand and leaning in. Their noses brush, and Astarion can feel the heat of Iorveth's breath against his face; his eyes start to slip shut, and then—

Out of the corner of his eye, something red and very familiar. ]

I smell a rat rooting around in the dark.

[ After relinquishing Iorveth's collar, Astarion stands and takes a few steps toward the periphery of the circus, where the light is dimmer. Eyes narrowed and mouth dragged down into a scowl, he peers out into the darkness. Two blood-red eyes. The silhouette of an ugly haircut. The soft squeak of cheap leather.

He clenches his fists and stomps, looking every inch the petulant sibling whose little brother has come to ruin his day. ]

You just can't help going where you aren't wanted, can you? Stop skulking around and bring that hideous outfit into the light.

[ Under the glow of the lamplight emerges a figure, too broad to be an elf. Chin-length blond hair curled up at the ends, pale skin, and a high, frilly collar that brushes against two puncture marks.

"Affable as ever, brother," snarks Petras, his bright eyes flicking over to Iorveth. Astarion watches the bob of his throat as he swallows. He's hungry. No, he's ravenous — of course he is, after the lifetime of starvation he's had.

With an emphatic snap of his fingers in front of Petras's face, he snaps, ] Don't look at him like he's a leg of mutton. Find someone else to eat. [ Which he can, now that Cazador is dead. Does he know, or is he still expecting Cazador to appear any minute and punish his ill-behaved spawn? ] You're welcome for that, by the way.

[ It's a beautiful transition, from relaxed to coiled. For all the things that Iorveth found repellent about Astarion in the beginning, Astarion's ability to spring to action was never one of them: it was the first thing Iorveth'd noticed about him that felt real and unmasked. A raw nerve.

What Iorveth finds less appealing is the way that the other spawn looks at him, with a hunger made mindless by decades of deprivation. Not quite as gaunt and wraithlike as the captives held in cages under Cazador's palace, but adjacent. He feels those blood-red eyes fix on the two red marks that he'd earned himself in Sharess' Caress, and feels compelled to draw his collar up to hide them better.

"You're welcome?", Petras whispers in disbelief. "You betrayed us. We were promised our freedom, an eternity of indulgence. And you destroyed it for..." A wave in Iorveth's direction. "...For a petty blood-bag!"

That statement speaks volumes. Even at his hungriest, at his most desperate, Astarion had never struck Iorveth as the sort of vampire who saw his campmates as food. Petras, obviously, is made of weaker stuff. ]

I could concede to being a blood-bag. But in all certainty, my blood is far from petty.

[ A wry joke, delivered on the edge of a sharp glare. Very rude of Petras to assume that Aen Seidhe blood isn't incredibly precious. He could take Petras' head for that kind of insult. ]

[ The wave of irritation hits Astarion so heavily that he doesn't even have it in him to quip about how Iorveth is actually a rather exquisite blood bag. He throws his hands up, huffing. ]

Oh, please.

[ Wound down for the evening, the circus has thinned out, but there are still enough customers milling about to shoot raised eyebrows in their direction. It must look like some sort of familial quarrel to them, and in a way it is. Astarion lowers his voice to a hiss. ]

You should be thanking me! It's only because of me that you're still alive to complain.

[ "Stop telling lies," Petras says. "The master's Black Mass would have elevated us all, but you had to go and ruin it. Selfish, like always." Astarion can't argue against selfishness, but it rankles all the same. Sourly, he turns to Iorveth and scoffs. ]

Unfortunately, brains don't run in the family. [ His own red eyes slide back to Petras. ] And neither do looks.

[ Iorveth can only hope that there are no eavesdroppers around, but then again, an entire clown was killed and dismembered in this circus without anyone raising so much as an alarm for, presumably, days. He has his doubts about how attentive anyone here is of their surroundings, let alone a bunch of guests who seem to be bickering.

So. Bluntly, without much in the way of consideration: ] We could kill him. [ Iorveth ignores how Petras boggles; the spawn might have had an opportunity to be good-looking if he had more taste or self-control, not that Iorveth cares in the least. ] But that would leave us with hundreds more of your siblings and non-siblings to get rid of. A troublesome precedent to set.

[ As if they're talking politics. Iorveth is practical as anything, arms folded and head tipped in that slightly commanding way he assumes when he's trying to decide something.

Petras, with his mouth still agape: "you realize that I'm right here." Again, Iorveth pays him little mind, and levels his focus on Astarion with the same half-deference he'd showed him back at the manor. A silent "what say you?" ]

[ Ugh. The hundreds—maybe thousands—of spawn still rotting underneath the palace. Astarion's expression turns dark for a split second, the memory of their pale, gaunt faces flashing in his mind. Then, just as quickly, he perks up, regarding Petras appraisingly. ]

Mmm. [ A thoughtful hum. ] Perhaps I should kill you. It's the least I deserve after having to keep your company for so long.

[ "You always were a brat," Petras shoots back, and that's something Astarion really can't argue. ]

We could tie you up and leave you in the sun.

[ Petras scowls. "We would have all been able to walk in the sun if not for you." Another hungry look Iorveth's way, then, "Both of you. You've condemned us to the dark with what you did to the master." ]

Ugh! [ Astarion crosses his arms, frustration pouring out of him. ] He was lying, obviously! Are you really so dense?

[ Hesitation flashes in those incandescent eyes, if only for a moment. "I— no, he promised. He said that it would be what we've been waiting for all these years." ]

Oh, well, if he promised. We all know he's never broken one of those.

[ Family business. Iorveth probably has no business weighing in, but he offers his unwanted opinion anyway. ]

Cazador was a depraved creature, from the sound of it. The kind that would have relished in your despair as he took all hope from you, one final time.

[ Too on-the-nose, probably. Petras whirls on Iorveth and bares his teeth, visibly distressed by the reality closing in on him. It's a different sort of tragedy from Astarion's, like watching someone find out that what they believed to be gold was just yellow-painted rocks.

"What would you know?!" Petras hisses. "You're just food."

Iorveth bears the hungry eyes on his jugular again, and frowns as Petras turns back to Astarion.

"Even if what you're saying is true, it doesn't change the fact that you got what you wanted, and the rest of us got nothing." Red eyes narrow threateningly, sliding back and forth from Astarion to Iorveth. "Let me drain your blood bag, and then we can be even." ]

[ 'Just food'. Astarion grinds his teeth, every inch bristling like a puffed-up cat. ]

Nothing? Don't be stupid.

[ Were Astarion in Petras's place, the only thing that would have upset him about Cazador's death would be that he didn't get to do it himself. Petras is younger, though, impressionable. He hasn't had his will systematically broken down over centuries. Whatever Cazador told him, he foolishly believed. It makes sense that he's heartbroken over losing the future he was promised, even if it was never going to come to fruition. Unfortunately, Astarion has already used up all of his finite empathy.

He takes a step closer to Petras, his voice soft but brimming with barely concealed disdain. ]

You're free, brother. Thanks to me. [ He glances at Iorveth. 'Just food'. ] Thanks to us.

[ "Free to indulge in thinking creatures, like you've been doing—" Petras starts, gesturing toward Iorveth. ]

Yes. Free to kill and consume whoever you want. [ A shadow passes over his face. The thought of Petras's fangs in Iorveth's throat—even worse, Iorveth's blood in Petras's mouth—makes his stomach churn. ] Just not him, or I really will roast you.

[ Petras takes a step back, his handsome features pinched into a decidedly unattractive expression of displeasure. "You never did share well with others." ]

Mm, no. And if I find out you've been trying to play with my toys, you'll long for Godey's gentle touch.

[ For a long moment, they stare at each other, blood-red to blood-red. Silent communication between two people with years of unpleasant history behind them. Astarion livens up, then, clasping his hands behind his back. ]

Don't look so glum. We left a gift for you underneath the palace. Thousands of new friends.

[ It rankles somewhat, being referred to as food or toys, but Iorveth lets Astarion handle the brunt of the conversation after his input is summarily shut down by Petras. Astarion seems to have the matter under control, and more importantly, Petras is his sibling to chide and decide the fate of. He'd know how to speak to him better than Iorveth does.

So, when Iorveth finally opens his mouth again, it's to address Astarion. Situated beside him in the dim of this mostly-unlighted spot of circus, he tries to read his companion's expression. ]

Thousands of starving new friends. [ Gaunt and haunted, ready to sink their teeth into the nearest living creature with a pulse. ] I have no love for this city, but it would be calamitous if Cazador's victims found their freedom here.

[ Petras twists his expression into what looks like a contemptuous sneer, but it's obvious that the idea of freedom is finally sinking in: he glances over his shoulder in the direction of the prison he'd been confined to for all these decades, and his face falls. The sneer fades, replaced by prolonged and involuntary confusion. Like he's at a complete loss as to what to do with all of this information.

"I'll... have to find our other brothers and sisters," he mutters. ]

An excellent idea.

[ There's just an edge of condescension to his voice. Astarion has never been popular among his siblings, but out of them all, it's he and Petras who get on the worst. The fact that if not for Astarion he'd have already tried to rip out Iorveth's throat with his teeth doesn't help matters. ]

Run along and find the others. One of them will know what to do with those feral creatures Cazador created.

[ Maybe. Astarion certainly doesn't know what to do with them, and he'd much rather pawn off the responsibility onto Dalyria or perhaps Leon. How could he look those wretched things in the face, knowing that he put them there? Worse, he'd have to tell them that they aren't allowed to eat anyone in the Gate after years, decades, centuries of starvation.

No. Let that be someone else's problem. Petras opens his mouth to speak, and Astarion cuts him off with an emphatic, ] I said run along.

[ Petras turns with a scowl, shoulders hunched in annoyance. Just as quickly as he'd shooed him away, Astarion calls out, ] Wait. [ Petras doesn't turn to face them again, but he does pause. It's good enough. ] Do clean up after your meal. It would be embarrassing if a monster hunter followed a trail of blood right to you.

[ Cazador had played them against each other. He'd had them tattle on each other like children, made them torture each other in horrendous ways. After all of that, Astarion still can't help but feel a small kinship with the other spawn. Siblings not by heredity, but siblings all the same.

Petras doesn't reply, but that also means that he doesn't argue. As he stalks off into the night to find a poor, unsuspecting victim, Astarion turns away and collapses onto the stone perch again, shoulders sagging in exhaustion. Seeing his siblings always makes him feel like his old self again, peevish and tense. ]

The gall to think I'd let his filthy fangs anywhere near you.

[ Hm. Iorveth watches Petras scurry away into the night, his desperation far more graceless than Astarion's had been, all those tendays ago near the Emerald Grove.

And, well. Maybe this is the wrong takeaway to have, but seeing Astarion interacting with his siblings casts him in a new light. It gives slight context to his interactions with the younger members of the party, the way he heckles and jibes with Shadowheart or Wyll. Some may argue that Astarion has the spoiled air of a youngest child, but this conversation with Petras has re-contextualized things for Iorveth.

Still standing, Iorveth places his palm on Astarion's head. Soothing invisible headaches through touch. ]

Mm. [ Nothing needs to be said about how his blood is for Astarion and Astarion only. Too obvious. ] I didn't enjoy being called food, but I did enjoy watching you be the elder sibling.

[ The spawn problem still persists, but seeing Astarion say "I said run along" wrapped the interaction in a nice bow. Iorveth is a crazy person. ]

[ Wildly, Iorveth's touch does soothe his headache, the lines between his brows softening and every rigid muscle melting under the warmth of Iorveth's palm. Although he'd called Iorveth one of his toys, it's Iorveth who has the power to play with him. Like that bow of his, Iorveth can pull all of his strings like it's second nature. ]

Well, those pipsqueaks need a firm hand from someone older and wiser.

[ Of which Astarion is only one, but beggars can't be choosers. He sighs, reaching up to grab Iorveth's hand with his own. ]

I can hardly blame him. Gods, I was ravenous when I first joined up with our motley crew.

[ It feels so long ago, but in the grand scheme of his life, it was hardly any time at all. He's spent more time hungry than not. He remembers gorging himself on increasingly large woodland creatures in the hopes of sating the endless gnawing inside of him, but even that hadn't stopped his hunger. A vampire needs the blood of something thinking. Cazador created their most base need and then denied it; just another way of controlling them through cruelty. ]

I could barely think straight at first. Honestly, he can probably think of nothing but your delectable neck.

[ More new insight to add to the pile. Lifting his hand from Astarion's hair to hold hands with him, Iorveth lets his mind wander backwards in time again to their first encounter with Astarion by the ravaged beach. ]

For what it's worth, you didn't come across as such.

[ A ravenous creature looking for necks to bite, Iorveth means. Especially not his own. ]

Your nonchalance seemed feigned, but― [ Hm. He gestures with one hand, a physical manifestation of what his mind is trying to do, which is clearing the fog of what feels like distant memories. ] ―What I felt from you was detachment, not the intent to do harm.

[ Thus, Iorveth's past (and fairly constant) accusation that Astarion took nothing seriously. He was less worried about having fangs in his throat and more worried about Astarion dipping out or doing something stupid at the eleventh hour. ] Then again, even after finding out that you were a vampire, I assumed my neck was the last one you'd want to bite.

I'd even have burnt my mouth on Karlach's neck if she gave me the chance.

[ Desire and attraction hadn't played into it. It's different now that he has a steady source of blood, but back then, he'd been desperate. A vampire bereft of blood has a yawning chasm in their very soul. Two centuries of deprivation had left him muddy-headed, weak. Cazador's intention, he's sure. Someone who can barely form thoughts is easier to manipulate. ]

I didn't want to hurt any of you. I was just... hungry.

[ It sounds a rather weak excuse now. He frowns. ]

But the last thing I needed was for you all to decide I was an insatiable monster and throw me out.

[ They'd have been within their rights to. Most people wouldn't sleep soundly knowing there was a bloodsucking creature of the night the next tent over. He shrugs, then presses his mouth to Iorveth's wrist. ]

It hardly matters now. There's no one else I'd rather sink my teeth into.

[ And there it is again, the matter of Astarion's heart. Two hundred years of enduring every form of torture possible, and he still has the ability to say things like "I didn't want to hurt any of you". Iorveth doesn't know if he could've said the same of himself, if he'd woken after the Nautiloid crash and had hands extended to him by humans he'd recognized as being from the North; even if he needed the strength in numbers, he might have killed them all and taken his chances alone.

Cool lips touch at his pulse, and Iorveth gentles. He motions for Astarion to make space so that he can sit beside him again. Closer, for more visibility. ]

It matters― to know you. I'd not known then what I do now.

[ Obviously. But Iorveth always feels too much, and wants too much: he wouldn't be who he is if he didn't, against everyone's wishes or warnings. ]

It helps to make me see you more clearly.

[ Astarion scoots aside, making room for Iorveth's long limbs. Not too much room; he makes sure their knees touch. For so long, touch has felt like a punishment, but it's addictive now that it feels good. Happiness on demand, little jolts of joy shooting through him from their point of contact. ]

Yes, you had no idea then how charming I can be.

[ On one hand, it's irritating that Iorveth never once seemed enticed by Astarion's wiles. On the other, it's ridiculously appealing that Iorveth was so resistant to him. A hard-won indulgence. Someone who really sees him and not only tolerates it but likes it. Maybe even loves it, if he allows himself to think such things.

He laughs under his breath. ]

You know, I used to fantasize about meeting someone like you. [ Not exactly like Iorveth, obviously. His fantasies vexed him far less. ] —A long time ago, of course.

[ Back when he still had fantasies. Even those died, after a while. ]

[ Knee against knee, shoulder to shoulder. Iorveth has never fancied himself touch-starved, but he does relish how secure he feels in the presence of someone who definitively wants him to be there. It's not duty or purpose or even wisdom that's keeping him with Astarion. His affection is without plan, rootless: it's everything he thought he would never be, and it's thrilling in its own way.

Pressed close to the cool body next to him, Iorveth watches the last of the young children leave the circus grounds. Yawning little faces, tired from a day of overexcitement. Iorveth makes eye contact with one of them by happenstance, and the little tiefling girl who's caught his notice smiles a sleepy smile at him before shuffling over to a sister or a friend, eager to find her own hand to hold.

Iorveth, again, is glad that Astarion didn't go through with the rite. He doesn't imagine that the Vampire Ascendant would have come here with him. ]

What else did you fantasize about?

[ On the topic of wanting to know. Everything that'd been denied to Astarion, big or small, Iorveth wants to grant over time. ]

Naughty boy, [ he teases. ] Some of them aren't appropriate to talk about in public.

[ A lie. Not a single one of his fantasies back then had anything to do with sex, save for maybe the daydream of cutting off the hands of whoever dared to touch him. His true fantasies are embarrassing enough, though, that he slips into deflection and provocation easily.

He peers at Iorveth's face, watching the way the lanterns' light dances on his skin, his eye shining. Even more embarrassing than his fantasies then is his desires now. He wants Iorveth to know his mortifying secrets, he realizes. Just as Iorveth wants to see him, he wants to be seen. ]

I suppose... [ The words stick in the back of his throat, difficult to get out. It's against his every survival instinct to share something personal so freely. He half-expects to be laughed at and derided, even when the rational part of his brain knows that Iorveth would never be so cruel. ] I suppose I imagined that someone like you would whisk me away from there.

[ There's nothing more humiliating than the desire to be rescued. He'd felt so helpless then that even the fantasy of saving himself was too farfetched to consider. ]

And I'd drink fresh blood from a jewel-encrusted goblet and wear only silk for the rest of my eternal life, [ is a frivolous addition. A way of sanding down the edges on his vulnerability. All the same, it's true. Astarion is nothing if not vain, and even on his darkest days he longed for nice things. ]

A probing question from the man who wouldn't tell me his greatest desire.

[ Iorveth shifts on his portion of the ledge, reaching to haul Astarion's legs up over his knees and turn him sideways, curled and tilted against Iorveth's chest. One arm loops around Astarion's waist, but leaves enough room for him to wriggle away if the position disagrees with him.

A soft touch, for a bittersweet confession. The fact of the matter is that Astarion would have still been left in shackles if not for the Illithid abduction; he might even have been dead by now, consumed by the ritual that they'd interrupted only a handful of hours ago. No one was ever going to come to whisk Astarion away, and the thought of that turns Iorveth's stomach, makes him feel more protective than he has any right feeling.

The world is so senseless. It allows elves to die by the hundreds, and for people like Astarion to suffer needlessly for centuries. It makes him so virulently angry, so acerbic, that sometimes that he thinks he'll turn to ash from all the rage he carries in his heart.

Speaking of anger, though. It segues nicely into what he desires, which he relays with quiet conviction. ]

The death of my enemies. Peace for my people. [ Obviously. The addendum is what's new. ] And your happiness, by whatever means necessary.

[ A dangerous promise, delivered by a very dangerous elf. ]

[ Astarion glances behind them to make sure Petras is well and fully gone; he'd die if he got caught canoodling. Once he's satisfied that the coast is clear, he slings an arm around Iorveth's shoulders, hand snaking around to fiddle idly with the fabric of Iorveth's collar. ]

And what of your happiness?

[ It doesn't matter, he expects Iorveth to say. He's said as much before. A ridiculous notion, in Astarion's opinion. He scoffs before Iorveth can even get a word out. ]

Be a little selfish, darling.

[ Even the death of his enemies isn't indulgent. Astarion remembers back to Henselt's assassination, the cold efficiency of it a stark contrast to the cathartic mutilation of Cazador. It had irritated him how little joy Iorveth took in the death; a man who'd taken everything from him, who'd mangled him just to be cruel, and he'd died without fanfare. ]

[ Iorveth raises a brow at the question and the subsequent accusation; after digesting both properly, he breathes a sigh-laugh. ]

What would you call this?

[ Jostling Astarion in his arms, at this. Physical punctuation. ]

A selfless man wouldn't have demanded that you give up your life in this city to stay with him. [ Which is why he'd tried not to ask, but he really didn't account for how attached he'd become. A stupid miscalculation. ] You've made me selfish, with all this wanting.

[ Nothing new. All of the stupid things he's done in the past tendays have been attributable, in one way or another, to a desire to linger by Astarion's side. Fight clubs, manacles, near-death experiences.

His expression settles to warm neutral again. His fingers drum against Astarion's waist. ]

What life in the city?

[ Astarion rolls his eyes. ]

Doing errands for Jaheira and visiting Shadowheart and Lae'zel on their, ugh, farm?

[ He's intolerably fond of them, unfortunately, but no amount of fondness will ever make Astarion want to go to a farm. What if there's farm animals there? The thought is too horrible to bear. ]

There's nothing left here for me.

[ Not now that he's given up ascension. What life would it be, scurrying around in alleyways in the dark of night? It would be just as it was before the Nautiloid came into his life, and that really is too horrible to bear. He isn't excited by the prospect of going to a forest and being surrounded by Iorveth's kin, exactly, but Iorveth will be there. With Iorveth by his side, he could do most anything, he thinks.

A pat to Iorveth's cheek precedes, ] As much as I'm enjoying this, I can smell the dismembered clown hand in your pack.

[ Astarion says farm like it's the worst thing imaginable, but the forest is fairly farm-adjacent. Maybe less cows. Iorveth frowns a bit, tempted to say something about Astarion's pretty little empty head, but decides not to― there's still time between now and whatever the standoff against the Netherbrain is going to look like. Astarion can consider his options as the dust settles.

Arms unfurl, and Iorveth relinquishes his hold. ] I'd nearly forgotten, [ he says about the literal severed hand in his pack, his voice carrying above the fading sounds of the circus and the djinni booming "COME BACK TOMORROW TO TEST YOUR LUCK AGAIN, UGLY ONES!", at the leaving guests.

No thanks. Getting back up onto his feet, Iorveth peers into his pack to make sure that the rotting limb isn't leaking all over his supplies. ]

Do you think your siblings will demand another reunion?

[ The spawn problem hasn't been resolved, exactly. Then again, it doesn't seem like the others would be so keen on getting Astarion's input on the matter. ]

[ As he follows Iorveth's suit, standing up and dusting off his trousers, Astarion says, ] I'm not sure.

[ He's far from anyone's favorite sibling. Under normal circumstances, he doubts any of them would seek him out just to talk. Cazador's death is monumental, though, and the discovery of thousands of victims in a crypt underneath the palace even more so.

The idea of recounting all of that all over again makes bile rise in his throat. He glances down, picking a piece of imaginary lint off of his pants. ]

I imagine they'll have questions.

[ Fingers wrapped around Iorveth's forearm, he guides him toward their original destination: the necromancer. Lae'zel was right to only give them a small task. Even this took all day. ]

And they've spent decades—centuries, some of them—under someone else's control. They won't know what to do with themselves.

[ He knows from experience. ]

[ The kobold from earlier scuttles by them, carrying a handful of coin to put into its coffer: it seems not to remember them, possibly because its brain is too small to retain long-term memories. "Circus is closing for the nights!", it chitters without sparing the two of them a second glance. An enviable lack of object permanence. ]

Well. You best think of something to say, then, if they return to their eldest brother for counsel.

[ Said counsel could be anything from "not my problem anymore" to "let's go back to the mansion and look at what we have to deal with". Either way, Iorveth is prepared to be involved unless his presence is expressly denied.

For now: no more red eyes watching from the shadows. Instead, there's Lucretious in her corner of the grounds, clapping her hands and motioning for her reanimated skeletons to store their daily earnings in their respective crates. She looks mildly annoyed when she notes that there are still stragglers about, but brightens somewhat when she recognizes them as the two sour-faced elves that'd been trailing behind the similarly sour-faced githyanki that'd promised her the return of her clown.

"Well, well! My brave souls, come back for another audience with yours truly. I hope you're here with a good word or two about our lovely, departed Dribbles?"

Iorveth stifles the urge to say something about having found the clown's hand in the possession of her braindead kobold, but can't resist snorting in vague amusement. ]

[ Gods. No one should ever come to him for counsel. The look on his face says as much, from the curl of his lip to the wrinkle between his eyebrows. Astarion still barely knows what to do with himself, save for following Iorveth around like a stray puppy. All of his siblings will need to find their own Iorveths, because Astarion has no intention of sharing.

When they make it to Lucretious, Astarion resists the inclination to roll his eyes. Hard to breathe a good word about a dead, dismembered clown. ]

Our illustrious leader [ —said with the utmost of sarcasm— ] would like you to know we've been hard at work scraping up bits of Dribbles.

[ Lucretious opens her mouth to speak, but Astarion cuts her off, turning to Iorveth instead. ]

And we come bearing smelly, rotted gifts.

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