essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Morning comes, consistent and merciful― the same can't be said for Lae'zel, a force of nature more powerful than the changing of the tides. Iorveth wakes to the sound of curtains being drawn and the militaristic chk of a tongue popping against teeth, to the outline of a small, sturdy frame backlit by the oppressive brightness of sunbeams.

"Still here," their de facto leader quips. "Good. Present and accounted for, for once."

There's a point to the rude awakening: as much as she understands that her two insubordinate elves have been out doing possibly meaningful things, she wants at least one of them to contribute something today. A "minor errand", she promises in a tone of voice that many would find threatening. "Frankly, one should find it insulting to be entrusted with a task as minor as this."

Iorveth, who is still in bed, tucked around Astarion like a wood-elf shaped pillow, grunts. ]

Don't insult us, then.

[ Lae'zel folds her arms imperiously across her chest. "The task only requires one of you," is her sharp retort, even as her eyes dart towards Astarion. Iorveth can see it for what it is: asserting authority over her misbehaving elves while also giving Astarion a bit of wiggle room to rest. She's always been far softer than she allows herself to admit. ]

[ For all of his big talk about doing scandalous things to Iorveth in public, Astarion finds himself a little embarrassed at being caught cuddling — by Lae'zel, of all people. It's one thing to be seen sticking his tongue down Iorveth's throat and quite another to be seen curled up and holding Iorveth's arm around him. Tired though he is, he scoots up against the headboard, trying to look like he hasn't been doing an entirely unrespectable amount of, gods, snuggling.

He sticks his nose up, entirely haughty, nothing of the docile creature from last night left in his demeanor. They're just three proud, stubborn people tipping their chins at each other. Although he has no real interest in doing tasks for Lae'zel, minor or otherwise, he is a bit curious. Perhaps she intends for them to follow up on those murderous shapeshifters. Or, less exciting, perhaps she plans to have them search for those missing pigeons the postmaster was complaining about. ]

Well, go on. Don't leave us in suspense.

[ Sweeping hair out of his remaining eye, Iorveth sways sideways and reaches for his discarded scarf to tie it diagonally across the gnarled side of his face. It serves the double purpose of giving Astarion space to posture and hiding his scars from Lae'zel, despite the fact that she seems not to care at all about cuddling or missing eyes.

What she does care about: "One of you will go to the Circus to report to the necromancer that most of the dismembered clown has been found. Only its hand remains missing."

Gods, the clown. Iorveth grunts again, rolling stiff shoulders. ]

And why would that be worth reporting? We could simply deliver the thing when we've found all its parts.

[ Lae'zel huffs again. "Progress has been slow. The necromancer may doubt my ability to see this through, which is an idea I greatly dislike."

Hard-pressed to be underestimated about anything. Iorveth scoffs about it, and grins when she scowls at him. ]

[ There's that awful headscarf again. Astarion will have to get Iorveth an eyepatch for every day of the tenday. Maybe, he thinks, he can sew one himself while Iorveth practices his embroidery. (Gods, they've turned into two old women.)

At the mention of the circus, Astarion wrinkles his nose. Horrible place. Too loud; he so hates to hear the sound of children's laughter. ]

We've our own things to do, you know.

[ It doesn't sound particularly convincing coming from two people who've been lying in bed up until now, but it's true, to an extent. His siblings are still out there, potentially angry, and he'd rather nip that issue in the bud before it becomes more problematic than it already is.

"You can take care of your own agenda after you've pulled your weight," replies Lae'zel, arms crossed, clearly taking it as the attempt to wriggle out of contributing that it only sort of is. ]

Edited (not me forgetting they're quirky and don't have weeks) 2024-09-07 05:56 (UTC)

[ Pulling his weight isn't actually a burden for Iorveth, who hates being idle on principle― he's reluctant mostly because his gut instinct at the moment is to prioritize Astarion's loose ends, and his indifference towards the plight of the dead clown.

Still, the errand is easy enough. Better than whatever Wyll's been doing with the hag victims (meaningful, but exhausting). ]

Fine. We'll do it. [ Dismissively, with a wave of his hand. ] If that's all, leave us. All this talk of clowns will spoil his morning appetite.

[ Reaching sideways again, this time to tangle his fingers in Astarion's hair to draw him close again. An implicit coaxing for Astarion to nestle his face against Iorveth's neck, and by proxy, his jugular.

Lae'zel rolls her eyes. "He needs discipline, not indulgence. You're straying from the practical path." ]

Edited 2024-09-07 13:06 (UTC)

[ Now this is something he's not shy about; Astarion nudges against Iorveth's neck, mouth at his pulse point. He doesn't, however, bite, only grazes with his teeth. He isn't sure if it's a true invitation, after all, or just an attempt to scandalize Lae'zel. If it is, it certainly doesn't work. The gith is unflappable.

He turns his head to look at her, resting his temple against Iorveth's neck. ]

Mm, yes. I'm sure you've never indulged yourself with sweet Shadowheart.

[ "I've tasted my love more times than I can count," Lae'zel concedes, in the grossest possible way. Astarion scrunches up his nose while she tips up her tiny little bat snout. "But I've earned my warrior's feast."

As he rolls his eyes, Lae'zel absconds, drapes swishing behind her. Astarion flops back down against his pillow, lip curling. ]

Eugh. Some people have no couth.

[ Says the hypocrite who has no qualms with terrorizing the group with PDA. ]

[ Conversely, Iorveth sits upright on the edge of the bed, brow hiked and lips curled slightly in obvious amusement, watching the still-swaying curtains as if he can see Lae'zel through them. ]

I'm impressed that she used the words "my love".

[ That's growth. Their baby githyanki leader, learning how to think with her heart instead of just her blade― the thought makes Iorveth feel a little fond, the way he'd always felt himself soften when any member of his clan found solace in another Aen Seidhe's arms.

A laugh-sigh, and he shakes his head. ] Also impressed by "more times than I can count", too. Perhaps I've underestimated the two of them.

[ And Gale warned them about being family-friendly. Ridiculous. ]

[ Astarion raises an eyebrow. Where is the meanest elf in the world when you need him to bitch about your militaristic githyanki leader? Iorveth picked the worst time to turn over a new leaf. ]

Perhaps gith don't know how to count very high.

[ Considering how unreasonably randy those two are, he imagines it's more likely that they've just been canoodling that much. How far they've all come since the days when Shadowheart woke Lae'zel with a blade at her throat.

If Iorveth—his elven heater—is getting up, there's really no point in continuing to laze around. Astarion pushes himself up with a melodramatic whine, as if being forced to get up is the cruelest punishment he's ever endured. ]

You were all too happy to volunteer us to visit that necromancer.

[ Iorveth really has lost his entire mind, since all he sees when he watches Astarion whine and pull himself upright is a melodramatic white cat kneading the mattress with its claws. The word "cute" knocks against the glass door of his consciousness, and Iorveth grudgingly lets it in to acknowledge it. Sometimes he still wants to throw himself out of a window whenever he feels too smitten.

Instead of defenestrating himself, he chooses to treat Astarion like the oversized feline that he is; palm to Astarion's jaw, Iorveth caresses lightly behind his ear. ]

I know better than to bargain with a githyanki when I'm unarmed.

[ Wry, still amused. ] There were worse things she could've threatened us with. Playing messenger is a non-errand: her way of officially saying "take the day off", I suppose.

[ He thumbs against Astarion's jaw, and lets go. ] Come with me. I wish to see you in daylight.

[ And just like a cat, Astarion leans into the touch, eyes slipping closed. He pays little attention to what Iorveth actually says, because there's no chance it's more interesting than Iorveth's calloused fingers stroking the tender skin behind his ear. It's only when Iorveth pulls away that he opens his eyes again, pouting at the withdrawal of affection before he swings his legs off the mattress and onto the floor. ]

I am even more stunning in the light, aren't I?

[ Something he tries not to think too deeply about, given that if he does, he'll soon start thinking about how scarce the time he has left in the daylight really is. He leans over, reaching to rummage through their bags for the other outfit Iorveth had purchased for him yesterday. ]

Rid yourself of that awful scarf already. You look better in the eyepatch.

[ He makes a sound that's chuckle-adjacent at "awful scarf", and obliges the request with theatrical over-exaggeration. "I'm only doing this because it's you asking" is telegraphed in the wide sweep of his hands as he tugs the fabric off and tosses it aside, waiting patiently for his turn with their things before fishing out the eyepatch in question to fix it over the worst of his mangled right side. ]

My hair needs trimming, [ he notes, sweeping his bangs aside. Any inclination to keep it long and braided faded when he took up arms (impractical), and died completely when he lost his eye. No point in being vain anymore. ] I'll need a knife and a mirror soon.

[ A foolish thing to say to Astarion, who doesn't have a reflection with which to appraise his immortal beauty. Iorveth still remembers what he'd said about how he hasn't changed from the day he'd died; it makes a little part of his slowly-unwinding heart clench again as he changes into his daytime gear, leather armor and all. ]

[ The silky lounge pants come off, and he's sorry to see them go. He's rarely had something so incredibly impractical and entirely luxurious; one can't wear lounge pants to kill Ketheric Thorm, but that makes them all the better. Besides, he's made some delicious memories in (and out of) these pants. Perhaps for the best, though, that he's not thinking about that at the circus. He'd told Iorveth he'd permit almost anything, but his ego would never fully recover from getting frisky at a circus.

As he pulls on his new trousers, he gives Iorveth an appraising glance. It does sting a little to be reminded that he'll never need a mirror, nor a blade with which to cut his hair. Cazador still steals things from him from beyond the grave. Still, it's hardly Iorveth's fault that Astarion allowed himself to be bitten by a vampire instead of bleeding to death in an alley. He wipes the sour look on his face off as quickly as he can before he starts slipping his robe down his arms. ]

I think you look fetching wearing it long. [ A pause, and then a tilt of his head, as if conceding a point he's arguing to himself. ] Mm, but you'd look fetching wearing it short, too.

[ However fetching it might be, though, it's not exactly high fashion, so he adds, ] You know, if you want a more stylish coif, I'd be willing to lend my services.

[ Is he in any way trained to be a barber? No. But is he opinionated enough about hair that he thinks he might as well be? Yes. ]

Threatening me with a good time.

[ A laugh, and Iorveth finishes buckling the last of his belts around his body, securing his bow cradle to his back with a gentle tug. ] Any excuse for you to point a sharp object at me, I'll take.

[ It's a joke, but not really. Iorveth smiles, though his mind flits towards a question that he wisely decides to keep to himself: if someone cut Astarion's hair, would it simply not grow back, or would it grow back just to the length that it used to be before it was cut? A horrific thing to consider, if the former is true. Iorveth vows to protect Astarion's curls with his life; he's too fond of them now.

With that unspoken promise made, Iorveth hesitates for a moment before concentrating on the parasite living in his skull; he feels the faint discomfort of it pushing against his consciousness, a writhing that he'll never get used to, but he channels it and pushes its power outward, sending invisible feelers out to tap Astarion's tadpole with. A silent let me show you something. ]

[ He pulls on the shirt Iorveth picked out for him with a grin, pleased. Iorveth would bite the head off of anyone who got too close to him with a sharp object, but he likes Astarion enough to let him. It's a bit ridiculous; the idea of holding a blade near Iorveth's most vulnerable parts shouldn't make him feel warm and affectionate — and yet. Smile spreading, he flattens a palm against his torso to smooth out any wayward wrinkles in the shirt, running his hand over the delicate embroidery.

The nudge of Iorveth's tadpole against his own is unexpected, but not unpleasant. It should be, reminder of their precarious predicament that it is, but it isn't. He wants to make his mark all over every part of Iorveth, his mind included.

In the past, his mind had felt like a vault. Endless locks, a cadre of guards standing watch to keep out intruders. Now, it's more like a chest, willing to open for whoever might have the key. His tadpole reaches out in turn, psychically coiling around its kin. ]

[ Astarion allows the link, and Iorveth, in turn, offers a bit of himself for Astarion's scrutiny: a memory from decades ago, slightly foggy with age, of sitting in front of a wall-length mirror in a sun-lit room. The polished glass shows the reflection of a young elf braiding the sides of his long black hair, a hairtie held between his intact lips as he swiftly winds strands together.

Two eyes, no scar, expression still a little sharper than it should be on youthful features. "Iorveth!", someone calls from outside, and the elf turns in his seat, his profile smooth and unmarred as he looks towards the window.

The memory ends there; just a sliver of Iorveth's past for Astarion's scrutiny. The psychic link lingers, the tadpole feeding off of its host's willingness to connect: it pulses willfully in Iorveth's skull, and sends a flood of other, more recent musings related to hair, most of it sense-memory about touching Astarion's. A psychic collage of all the times Iorveth'd run his fingers through Astarion's curls, accompanied by the rush of serotonin that'd accompanied the gesture. All the casual "I like you"-s Iorveth'd kept inside his head, drip-fed through the tadpole connection.

It's a bleedover he wasn't expecting; his attempt to sever the link stutters a few times before it finally succeeds, almost with a grumble from his parasite. ]

[ It feels strange, looking in on this private memory. Almost like he's walked into a room without knocking and seen someone with their clothes off. Iorveth's face in the memory is without flaw, the beautiful features common to elvenkind on full display. He's gorgeous, of course, in that wood elf sort of way. Long, shiny hair, that same strong nose, lips lacking their signature scowl.

He wonders what it's like to remember before so vividly. A blessing and a curse, he supposes. If he had memories of his face before growing fangs and vampiric red eyes, he'd do nothing but reminisce. Does Iorveth feel resentment at the innocent person he used to be before someone hurt him, he wonders? Jealousy? Or does he only feel grief?

The other flashes of memory make him smile, chest glowing with warm fondness at the borrowed sense-memory of soft hair and happiness. He runs his own fingers over Iorveth's hair for a change, smoothing it away and out of his face. ]

What a handsome boy, [ he coos, complimentary. He won't lie and say Iorveth wasn't good-looking. ] But I like the handsome man before me.

－I'd meant to make you laugh, [ is almost a protest: "I wasn't fishing for compliments." ] Something about having looked the part of the stereotypical wood elf, hair and all.

[ The terrifying revelation that he would've matched Halsin in terms of hairstyle. Hells. Still, the compliment coupled with the touch makes his pulse skip, and Iorveth is glad that Astarion doesn't have his hand against his chest the way he did when he'd called him beautiful, of all things.

It doesn't pay to be brittle towards Astarion, though. Iorveth relaxes, bleeding potential tension through his fingers as he flexes them open and closed. He nudges their foreheads together for a beat, holding the point of contact for a second, then pulls back. ]

Unbelievable, that I've grown so attached to you. [ Offhandedly, as if he didn't just let Astarion into his serotonin-soaked brain. ] Get ready quickly, before I decide that the circus can wait.

[ Astarion frowns, his bristling only partially assuaged by the forehead touch. ]

I'm not so cruel.

[ Is that what Iorveth thinks entertains him? Laughter at someone else's expense? Well— he's not wrong, admittedly, but not at Iorveth's expense. He'd seethe and despair if he showed Iorveth a memory from his past, no matter how small, and received a laugh in return.

He perches on the edge of the bed, pulling his boots on. A little haughty: ] You forgot to say that I'm handsome, too.

[ Iorveth, still a weirdo, has no idea why Astarion is bristling when Iorveth is the one that was fishing for the laugh: sometimes you want to show someone your semi-cringe teenage self (you have to laugh or be furious about bygone days if you have no more tears left to shed), just to put that truth in their hands.

He watches Astarion tug his boots on like someone slighted, and wonders if he should laugh or sigh. Both would probably be catastrophic, he thinks, and contents himself with keeping his expression warmly neutral, chin tipped to regard the furrow between Astarion's perfect brows with possibly rude fondness. ]

Yes, yes. [ A wave of his hand. ] Handsome, beautiful, ethereal.

[ Moving behind Astarion to find the bruise sitting above his collar, thumbing against it to make sure that it's properly visible. ]

Sweet. [ Just to let Astarion know that yes, Iorveth knows he's not needlessly cruel. Not to him, anyway. He cranes forward, and kisses that patch of discolored skin as punctuation. ]

[ If Iorveth thinks that a little praise and affection is going to be enough to soothe his offense, he's

Well, he's absolutely right. Astarion fights the smile creeping onto his face to no avail, the expression as insuppressible as it is unbidden. Maybe one day he'll be used to all this, and he won't melt like putty in Iorveth's hands at receiving a little kindness. Today isn't that day. ]

—Mm, three out of four isn't bad.

[ He's not so certain he's sweet. He's a bad person who's done awful things without blinking an eye. The only things sweet about him are his lies. ]

Come, [ he says, turning around to tug Iorveth by the forearm, ] let's get this necromancer business over with.

That's a no to "ethereal", then.

[ Iorveth can live with that－ Astarion does have a commanding presence. He would have made a great vampire ascendant, which is why Iorveth is glad that it didn't happen.

(If Astarion is going to be kind about him despite him being a heinous terrorist who would still slaughter a village full of humans without hesitation just to make them feel what he felt, well. He's not going to accept Astarion's refusal of sweet. It has to go both ways.)

Teeth in pale skin again to make sure that the point is made, and Iorveth finally concedes; they do have to go, and they've already missed the morning lull before the midday rush. By the time they travel from the city to Rivington, the place is certain to be packed with visitors and tired-looking refugees looking for any sort of escape from the uncertainty of their displaced lives－ Iorveth doesn't even hate the circus as much as the others seem to, but the clamor and chaos, he can do without.

Lae'zel narrows her eyes at the both of them as they leave: a silent "you two better fucking behave". Iorveth, hefting his bow and his pack of anti-vampire items, looks at her with the sort of imperious half-smile that says "I am going to do precisely what I want to do". Incorrigible as always. No wonder why everyone up north wants him dead.

Out they go, into daylight and towards the Circus of The Last Days. Gortash's Steel Watch clang around as they pass from Baldur's Gate to Wyrm's Rock, down the oppressive stone walkway where the Fists regard them with casual disdain. ]

[ Even the clanking of those ugly constructs doesn't mar the experience of warm sunlight on his face, and Astarion winds a hand around the crook of Iorveth's arm, eyes closing to bask in the feeling. It's heaven, strolling these streets with the sun shining down on them and Iorveth beside him. Absolutely nothing could temper his good mood— Well, except for the fact that they're going to the circus. He does hate the circus as much as the others — well, perhaps except Wyll. He was far too entertained by that clown. ]

You know, [ he starts, cajoling, leaning into Iorveth. ] It's not like Lae'zel will really know if we actually did what she asked.

[ She might really kick them out of the group if she finds out they didn't even do such a minor task, but that's only if she finds out. ]

[ Iorveth is aware of eyes on them as they meander past the first line of guards stopping refugees from entering the city proper: bitter glares from asylum-seekers who clearly don't love seeing two well-dressed elves, and the hungry glint of merchants who see an opportunity in the shape of two well-dressed elves. A few scantly-covered individuals milling near Sharess' Caress smile at them meaningfully, but Iorveth pays them no mind. ]

She won't. But I've already given her my word.

[ He may be a monster, a terrorist, a criminal, but let no one ever say that he doesn't keep his promises. A sideways glance at Astarion (who is tucked against his left, on his good side, where he can look at him with impunity), and he curls his lips upwards just a fraction of a centimeter. ]

Color me curious, though. What other mischief were you planning on getting us into?

[ Conspiratorial, against Astarion's ear. ]

[ Iorveth's breath tickles his ear, and his lips curl upward far more than a fraction of a centimeter. He imagines the Iorveth of a few tendays ago might have dismissed his 'mischief' as pointless frivolity at best and abject stupidity at worst, so it's a pleasure that he at least humors Astarion now. It's one of the small things about Iorveth that fills him with a narcissistic satisfaction; he likes to be special. ]

I hadn't decided yet.

[ Iorveth should have known better. Expecting Astarion to have a plan is like expecting a pig to fly. ]

I suppose we could go see what deals those brothel workers are offering.

[ Only a joke. He has next to no desire for any strangers to see him naked ever again. ]

Or we could go, ah. What do normal people do? [ He wrinkles his nose. ] Sit in the park and feed the pigeons?

[ Notably, he doesn't mention freeing the spawn from their underground prison. As sick as he feels when he thinks about them down there, he feels even sicker at the prospect of seeing their gaunt faces and dead eyes again. ]

[ A dry, obviously amused exhale-laugh later: ] You're asking me what normal people do.

[ No inflection at the end to indicate that it's a question. He's mostly just repeating "normal people" because he thinks it's hilarious, not because he wants an answer to a query that doesn't need one. Lae'zel is a githyanki, and she's probably more normal than Iorveth is.

Gods, he likes Astarion so much. Enough to spend foolish hours doing indulgent nonsense instead of hurrying on his way to destroying the Netherbrain. ]

We could play cards at the brothel. [ A casual suggestion, decidedly not normal. ] Or find the Sharran who gave Shadowheart trouble. [ Ferg Drogher, or whatever his name was. Iorveth would love to bully him for sport― also not normal. ] Or, yes, we could sit by the Chionthar and I could teach you how to hold a bird in your hand, I suppose.

no subject

the image is so accurate... it really always is Something

when will the elves know rest, i say, as i heap problems on top of them

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject