essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ Ugh. Iorveth had fully intended to go back and give Lae'zel the hand so she could deliver the entire putrid package herself, but there's that plan out the window. He scowls a bit, narrowing his eye at Astarion to telegraph his mild displeasure as he reaches into his pack and― ugh, the thing feels weirdly gelatinous― fishes out the hand to toss at the nearest flat surface. ]

Consider it a down payment, [ he says, blithely. Lucretious presses a palm to her chest in theatrical distress, the emotion never reaching her heavily made-up eyes.

"Gods, they really did a number on the poor thing, didn't they? Awful, awful cultists. They should know how hard it is to find good people nowadays." As if the offense is the reduction of her employee count, instead of the horrific murder of an individual. Then again, Iorveth has no moral high ground to stand on, so he only snorts at the dramatics. ]

Surely there's no shortage of humans who would dress and act a fool for profit. [ He says, waving in the direction of the city. Lucretious sighs.

"You would think! But there's a difference between a common idiot and a talented idiot, I'm afraid." Turning towards Astarion now: "Anyway, thank you so much, darlings. As a reward for being so thoughtful, do feel free to take one item from Akabi's stall. Just one, mind!" ]

[ There wasn't the slightest chance Astarion would let Iorveth walk back to the Elfsong with that nasty thing still in his pack, so Iorveth's annoyed frown rolls right off of his back (as many of Iorveth's annoyed frowns do). He's glad to see the clown's floppy hand go. ]

I wouldn't dream of taking more than my fair share, [ Astarion says sweetly. Even Lucretious, who barely knows him, looks skeptical. Ah, well — he takes Iorveth by the crook of the arm and steers him away. The circus is better at night, when the loud children have gone home and the troubadours have stopped their incessant strumming, but the sooner they're clear of this place the better.

As they walk away, Lucretious calls, "Ta-ta, sweetlings!"

It's only a hop, skip, and a jump to the djinni, who holds out his hand as they approach, bellowing, "HALT, POINTY-EARED STRAGGLERS! THE WHEEL IS CLOSED FOR THE NIGHT." ]

Honestly, where's the customer service? We were promised a prize from your stall in exchange for rounding up the dregs of that clown.

[ It's clear that Akabi isn't a fan of the ringmistress' decision to dole out rewards from his stall, but what she says, goes. He steps (floats) aside, glowing balefully in the moonlight.

"SO IT SHALL BE, THEN. CHOOSE CAREFULLY!", he booms. ]

Must he shout, [ Iorveth mutters as he makes his way to the display rack full of knickknacks, gesturing for Astarion to take a look at the wares with him. He doubts that any of the trinkets available are suited to Astarion's tastes (definitely nothing silk or velvet here), but he's keen on letting Astarion choose as a return gift for the pilfered ring still sitting prettily on his own finger.

Unfortunately, the items on offer are all absolutely worthless. There's a drink coupon that's a year expired sitting next to a grubby mirror sitting next to a stray boot; Iorveth makes a soft sound of disgust as he picks up a somewhat-elegant cloak that, when held against his body, soaks him from head to toe in water. ]

Ugh― [ Dropping the thing onto the ground, he snarls. ] At least the kobold was well-intentioned in its idiocy.

[ Astarion grins, taking a step to the side to avoid being dripped on. It is, of course, an incredibly idiotic 'prize', but he does enjoy seeing Iorveth sopping and scowling like a wet cat.

He picks up the hand mirror, although he discards it just as quickly when, like always, it shows him nothing. His fingers trail over a wooden quarterstaff, thoughts running through his mind of concocting a story so that he can trade it to Gale for something more valuable, and then over a pair of gloves. As he slips them on, he holds out a hand in front of him to judge their appearance. They don't exactly go with his outfit, but they're still probably the most fashionable thing here. Then again, that's not saying much. ]

It's all a bunch of useless junk.

[ With a frown, he adds, ] Whatever happened to cash rewards?

[ Standing right behind Astarion, Akabi shouts: "CHOOSE AN ITEM, OR GET NOTHING AT ALL!" Obviously, the djinni is aware that the consolation prizes are all garbage, but that won't stop him from trying to peddle them off. It's the principle of the thing.

Iorveth, still dripping, combs his sodden bangs away from his face. ] Gods, I can feel my sanity leaving my body.

Take the gloves― I'm liable to burn this place to the ground if we stay any longer.

[ He wouldn't, but saying so allays a portion of his irritation. He sniffs his collar, and cringes at the scent of stale water; he refrains from touching Astarion with his boggy hands, and swiftly turns from the djinni to leave the premises, preferably for good...

...but not before kicking over one of the display tables to send some of the junk flying everywhere. Hmph, the gesture seems to say. ]

[ A stale-smelling bag flies off of the table Iorveth had kicked and lands on Astarion's boot. He kicks it away, wrinkling his nose, as he follows behind Iorveth. Although Akabi's garbage doesn't bother him overmuch, he's happy to be rid of the circus regardless. The streets of Baldur's Gate are dimly lit by lanterns, and the crowds out on the streets are largely more peaceful than those in the daytime, save for the unruly citizens loitering around the taverns. ]

You're lovely when you're surly, but you needn't be too sour.

[ He reaches over, running through Iorveth's damp hair with his fingers. ]

The slicked-back look quite suits you.

[ Half-tease, half-compliment. He does enjoy Iorveth's hair out of his face. ]

[ He tips his head back, not keen on getting bogwater on Astarion's hand. It feels like he's just gotten the worst part of the Chionthar dumped on his head. ]

There's little to improve, [ he quips back, instinctive. Still hard-pressed to believe that Astarion finds him attractive, but learning not to be quite as defensive; mostly, he just thinks it's strange.

He doesn't want to be brittle about it, though. No one else is ever going to be so kind about his looks, so he relaxes and appends: ] ...Unlike you, I've no particular preference for how I wear my hair. You can dictate how I style it as you please.

[ A wave of his hand to punctuate, a casual acquiescence despite the fact that most Aen Seidhe are very protective of their hair― it's not like Astarion knows that, though.

Iorveth plods over to the nearest Waypoint, deciding to use it instead of plodding all the way back to Elfsong looking like a wet rag. It would've been nice to spend a bit more time just walking with Astarion beside him, but he really should bathe. ]

[ Portals are always a little disconcerting; the stark feeling of nothingness for a brief moment followed by a sudden pop back into reality has Astarion blinking away the dizziness. It's probably for the best that they don't take their time walking tonight. Petras already confronted them, so who's to say the rest of his siblings aren't close behind? He's already too worn out from one family reunion. Another would be overkill.

He opens the front door to the Elfsong for Iorveth, playing at being gentlemanly. It's the sort of thing he never does, which makes it the sort of thing that's kind of fun to do. ]

In that memory, you wore it long and braided. Very rustic.

[ Very wood elf-y, he means. ]

You don't prefer it that way?

[ A nod, in return for the opening of the door. It's a small gesture, but it's the sort of small gesture that Iorveth takes note of.

As they walk upstairs: ] That was for when I had two eyes and less responsibilities.

[ The low puff of air that follows is a laugh, dry and humorless. ]

Humans sought to break my spirit by ruining my face. In defiance of that notion, I obscured my features and cut my hair. [ He scoffs at the memory; still a bitter pill to swallow. ] It turns out that an ugly elf can still be a dangerous elf. Since then, I've given my hair no thought.

[ He hooks his fingers around the doorknob leading to their floor-sized room, and glances sideways at Astarion. "You can be depressing" comes to mind again, and he realizes that he's probably validating that notion. ]

[ Depressing, indeed. In Astarion's misery, he at least had control over his appearance, something he could wear like armor. Iorveth didn't even have that. To dwell on it might be unpleasant, he considers, so he keeps his voice light and airy as they enter their rented room. ]

Then I'll style it however pleases me best, when I trim it for you.

[ He'd be lying if he said the idea of giving Iorveth a fashionable cut doesn't appeal to him. Something rugged—a wood elf who lives in the forest doesn't fit a more cosmopolitan style—but still more flattering than the overgrown, uncared for thing currently on his head.

Inside the room, Karlach is locked in an enthusiastic conversation with Jaheira, but she turns her head upon their entrance — then does a double-take when she sees Iorveth. "Oi!" she calls. "What gives, did you fall in the harbor?" ]

[ Iorveth will be happy with whatever Astarion chooses as long as he doesn't shave him bald, in which case Iorveth might actually have to break up with him. A touch of a smile, and Iorveth steps into the room and braces against Karlach's very loud scrutiny. ]

Worse, [ he grouses offhandedly. ] We went to the circus.

[ "Aw, what?! Come on, you grump. The circus is great!" She pauses, and rephrases: "I mean, I've only been there once, and it's the only one I've ever been to, but it was great!"

Karlach, consistently the best of them. Iorveth can't even be angry about her effusiveness this time around, and sidesteps her question about whether or not the Last Days added a new attraction that has to do with water to make a beeline for what passes as a bathing area in the corner of their room. Karlach tags along, clearly having no problem with watching Iorveth peel himself out of his wet clothes as she plies him with questions about his day.

So. Astarion is left to fend for himself as the sharks descend upon him: Lae'zel, her posture authoritarian, makes her way over towards him with long, officious strides.

"You're late," she sniffs. "Did you complete the task?"

Less a question, and more a 'you-better-have-gotten-it-done'. ]

Yes, yes. Honestly! It's like you don't trust us.

[ "I trust you, or I wouldn't have allowed you to complete a task without my supervision," Lae'zel says, as if being her gofer is a privilege. "However, I also know you."

That's fair. He can't argue with that, so instead he fills Lae'zel in on their encounter with Lucretious and the hand that might as well have dropped into their laps. She seems pleased, or at least as pleased as Lae'zel ever seems; she nods and says, "A fortuitous discovery. Vla—" Vlaakith smiles on us this day, she sounds like she's about to say before she stops herself and settles on, "Hrm."

When he glances over toward Iorveth, he sees that Karlach is still chattering away. Rather than interrupt their (rather one-sided) conversation, he settles into bed with a book. Iorveth has had a day full of him, after all. Distance makes the heart grow fonder; some time looking at someone who isn't Astarion will do him some good, he thinks. ]

[ Iorveth gets in the water (with help from Gale, who has resigned himself to the role of bath-filler), and lets Karlach linger while he washes with her hand in the tub, keeping it heated for him. She asks him about the Elder Speech, and he teaches her a few choice phrases that he thinks she may use in the future: "a d'yaebl aép arse!", she laughs gleefully, vowing to say it to Gortash the next time she sees him.

He washes, he dries off, he pulls himself into fresh clothes. Wyll offers to take Iorveth's wet clothes out for laundry, promising that he was going to go get his outfits pressed and mended anyway, and that it wouldn't be any trouble. It's a bit adorable how Wyll seems to think Iorveth would get offended by the offer (for good reason, perhaps), so Iorveth decides not to give him trouble; he obliges the favor, and also brings Wyll over to where Astarion is lounging to have him extend the same offer to the fussiest of their group.

"Anything you'd like laundered, Astarion?" he asks, beaming. If Astarion ever fantasized about someone whisking him away, Iorveth thinks, said someone must have looked exactly like Wyll.

Taking a perch on the edge of the bed while Wyll is tending to Astarion, Iorveth beckons the owlbear cub over to pluck out a few half-molted feathers from its downy coat. A friend, not food. ]

[ Unfortunately for poor Wyll, Astarion finds it more charming that Iorveth has led him over to ask than that Wyll is offering in the first place. Certifiably down bad, he finds most everything Iorveth does to be the most romantic thing he's ever experienced, partially because he's never experienced anything romantic before in his (un)life. Still, his lack of appreciation doesn't mean that he isn't willing to take Wyll up on the offer. ]

Oh, only a few things—

[ Moments later, Astarion's entire wardrobe is in Wyll's muscled arms. From the Blade of Frontiers to laundryman. "Is that all?" he asks, eyebrow raised and mouth quirking humorously. ]

Mm, you're right. [ Astarion peels off the shirt he's currently wearing, too, tossing it in the pile. ] Do be gentle with them, will you?

[ Wyll, good-natured fool that he is, just shakes his head and laughs before tottering off, clutching the clothes to his chest.

Book set aside, Astarion swings his legs over the bed and scoots beside Iorveth. The owlbear cub looks at him with those big eyes, and he makes a show of rolling his eyes and scoffing before scratching under its chin. Can't have anyone thinking he's gone soft. ]

You smell delicious, [ he says, which is actually probably the same thing the owlbear cub is thinking. ]

[ Iorveth doesn't bother with Speak with Animals; honestly, animals are easy enough to read without language, and gods know that the world needs less talking in general. He watches as the cub happily wiggles and chirps at being scratched, and uncharitably compares it to when Astarion nuzzles up to a palm in his hair. Certifiably down bad, the sequel.

Pulling another old feather from the owlbear's neck, Iorveth tips his head. ]

Does it actually smell any good?

[ Slightly curious. Especially with memories of Petras looking at him like a prime cut of steak fresh on his mind. ]

I've never given the scent of blood much thought. [ He says, as if this is something that anyone but a vampire would ever consider in their entire lives. A freak. He hums, thoughtful. ] Could you identify all of us by smell?

[ Is this a weird thing to ask? Probably. Is Iorveth weird? Definitely. ]

[ Iorveth ridding the cub of his molted feathers is charming. It brings to mind the way he'd fixed Astarion's hair and clothing after their encounter with that Fist. Grooming as a way of showing care. He runs his hand over the soft feathers on the owlbear's head, enjoying the feeling of something entirely without prickles, something smooth and pleasant. ]

I suppose so. I've certainly smelled all of your blood enough.

[ His mouth had watered ceaselessly at the beginning. A lopsided smile breaks out across his face, and he scritches the owlbear cub behind the ears. They're not too dissimilar. Both of them started out alone and hungry, surrounded by people that they had to remember were friends and not food. ]

I'd know your lovely fragrance with my eyes closed.

[ Not just by blood, although that would surely help. It's the smell of his skin, his hair, his clothing. Comforting, woody. ]

[ The grooming isn't entirely altruistic, as Iorveth is keeping the feathers for fletching for his arrows, but he has enough affection for the owlbear cub to give it a scratch of his own, pads of his fingers rubbing the crown of its fuzzy head. Utterly spoiled by all the attention, it chitters dreamily and rests its chin on Astarion's lap, eyes half-shuttered. If they're not careful, the cub might just fall asleep there, heavy and hard to dislodge.

Iorveth smiles, both at the sleepy not-so-little creature and at the comment about his scent. ]

Blade oil and sandalwood, I imagine. [ Maybe a little bit of amber, soft wax. He spends a lot of time tending to his bow, and expects that the scent of it must have diffused into his own flesh by now. ] I must taste like moss.

[ Craning over, Iorveth nudges his nose near Astarion, right where his earlobe meets his jaw. An unruly fox. ]

ーMm. I'm also partial to your scent. [ Something fresh and full-bodied over the scent of earth, he thinks. ]

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