essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Astarion watches as Iorveth gets up to leave, eyes on his lovely muscles moving in his lovely back that's covered by all those lovely scratches. Positively lovely, in every possible way. He would almost think that Iorveth was the gods' gift to him after centuries of suffering, but he knows better than to think that they care. No — Iorveth was a happy accident. He shudders to think of what his life might be like if not for the perfect alignment of their respective circumstances. ]

I— yes.

[ Although he's trying on maturity, he really would like to sulk and brood and kick things in the privacy of his own (temporary) room. Still, Iorveth doesn't need to see that. ]

A few moments alone would be... for the best, I think.

[ Just a few. Long enough to compose himself. ]

Run along downstairs. I'll join you soon.

[ Iorveth is convinced that no one in any plane of existence has any right to tell Astarion how to deal with two hundred years of being tormented by Cazador, which means that he wouldn't mind if Astarion tore their (Gale's) bedroom apart out of pent-up rage. Still, he can't help but reach for Astarion before he leaves, pressing a light kiss to the corner of that pouting mouth. Not out of any desire to discourage him from brooding, but simply because he wants to.

With that, he turns and slinks downstairs to demolish whatever food is left on the dining room table. As always, Gale has outdone himself― Iorveth can't tell if the guy usually spends so much time cooking for himself, or if he's been doing Gale a disservice by sleeping through dinners that Gale might have wanted him to join― and Iorveth is content to clear the plates in record time, fueling his overactive metabolism with stews and breads and casseroles. Phew.

He's mostly done with everything by the time Astarion comes down to join him, munching thoughtfully on the last of his dessert (a batch of very tasty and buttery biscuits) as he considers how best to barter with an old collector who may be loath to part with her things. People like that usually say that they can't be persuaded by coin; Iorveth has no clue what else he could barter with, which is a bit of a pain.

Anyway. He looks up, and motions for Astarion to sit next to him if he'd like. ]

I left you some wine.

[ Astarion isn't in a good mood, exactly, but the time alone seems to have done him some good. It's hard to feel quite as stressed once you've done some guttural screaming into a pillow. He only hopes that it didn't disturb Tara. ]

Sweet of you.

[ It is. He likes the way that Iorveth thinks of him even when they're apart. It makes him feel all warm inside, pleased at the way Iorveth fits him into his life in even the most minuscule of ways.

It's his morning, technically, but he pours himself a glass anyhow. If there's any justification for day-drinking, it's the specter of his old master being conjured. ]

—We'll need to stock up on supplies for our adventure tonight.

[ 'Adventure'. Probably more of a misadventure, but— ]

I suppose it could be fun. I hear Athkatla is quite scandalous.

The city of coin.

[ He recites. Information that he only recently learned, given he's never had cause to do any research into cities so far south. If not for the human invasion, Iorveth would never have had much cause to look beyond the forests of the north and its surrounding territories― even Baldur's Gate would have remained a relative mystery to him, let alone any location in Amn. ]

Admittedly not the sort of place I have any frame of reference for. [ Not a thing Iorveth really likes to say. The clever fox of the north doesn't love being out of his depth, but he can and will be honest about it with Astarion, at the very least.

Munching slowly on a biscuit: ] ...You may have to guide me. These cities tend to be...

[ Ugh. ] ...Overwhelming.

[ Astarion is cosmopolitan; Iorveth, demonstrably, isn't. It's likely Iorveth will stick out like a sore thumb in the midst of all that commercial, mercantile chaos. ]

[ The city of coin earns a nod from him, pleased that Iorveth knows, well, anything at all about a city. He would expect Iorveth to show little interest in anything urban, considering his general distaste for anything that isn't his precious forest. (He does, admittedly, take this as a sign that there's still hope for Iorveth to change his mind about cities, no matter how delusional that might be.) ]

Do they?

[ The forest is far more overwhelming in his opinion. All those trees and bugs and wild animals. Everything looks the same, shades of green and brown. Who can even tell what direction they're going? Meanwhile, the city is second nature to him; he could have navigated Baldur's Gate with his eyes closed. ]

Mmm. Don't worry. [ He reaches out, stroking the back of Iorveth's hand. ] I'm happy to hold your hand and lead you through the city.

[ A thoughtful pause, then— ]

But first, perhaps we should look into procuring something an old woman might want to haggle for. Crocheting supplies, perhaps?

[ The touch is nice― it makes Iorveth wonder about Astarion's current state and if he's feeling slightly better, but bringing it up will probably muddy those waters again. Best just to be mindful without walking on eggshells. ]

Presumably, she'll want to trade one old artefact for another.

[ So no, no crocheting supplies. (Killjoy.) A slight frown, and Iorveth sits back in his chair, licking crumbs off his thumb as he considers. ]

We could defer to Gale on what he would consider a good exchange for a magical cloak, but it does boil down to a matter of taste. We could offer the woman a pot that boils water into gold, but be rejected if she doesn't find it interesting.

[ Ugh. Iorveth loathes uncertainties; it shows. ]

[ Iorveth is a killjoy. Astarion frowns, just slightly, at the unpredictability of their circumstances. How is he to know what an old lady would find interesting? (Crocheting supplies!) He retracts his hand and picks up his glass, swirling it and staring contemplatively into the dark pool of liquid. ]

What could be more interesting than a gift from a vampire? [ he asks, petulantly. Whatever he tries to trade should be eccentric enough given that it's coming from a creature of the night. Then again, their opponent in this bidding war happens to be a member of the undead, too. Thinking of that vampire lord and his letters to Cazador again drops his mood, and he shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. ]

Ugh. Worst case scenario, we kill her and rob her corpse.

[ Worst worst case scenario, Mrel Alkam does that before they get the chance to. ]

What bothers me is that the other bidders haven't done so already.

[ Killjoy, part 2. It seems simple enough a thing, if not to kill the old woman outright, to rob one cloak from her. The fact that it hasn't been done yet is troubling, but it might just be Iorveth's paranoia speaking.

Finishing the last of his sweets, Iorveth starts stacking plates to wash. Not quite fidgety, but restless; a habit of his, when his mind is turning a mile a minute. His hands follow suit, looking for something to do. ]

...Mm. But you're more persuasive than most. We might have more luck.

[ "More persuasive than most", Iorveth says, without realizing that this really just boils down to "you can persuade me to do a lot of things". Astarion remains the one thing he can't be completely objective about, apparently. ]

[ Iorveth is always thinking ten steps ahead. He and Gale would have quite the lanceboard match, Astarion thinks. He hadn't even considered the fact that an old woman with a magical antique collection would be an easy target, especially in such an unruly city, and that perhaps there's a reason why she hasn't had all of her treasures misappropriated.

Oh, it's all too complicated, and it's going to be so hard. Astarion feels the urge to give up before they've even started, but he knows that Iorveth would find such a proposal ridiculous. ]

Right, well. I suppose we won't know until we're in the thick of it.

[ How annoying. ]

For now, we can focus our energy on more important things. Like finding you a good pair of shoes.

[ Oh. Iorveth stops stacking plates to swivel his attention back towards Astarion with the sort of expression that says "you realize we're planning all this for your sake, right?" ]

You realize we're planning all of this for your sake.

[ His words agree with his face. Forget his fucking shoes!!!! This is the cloak that is going to let Astarion walk in the sun!!!!!!! ]

Getting you back in sunlight is the priority, you fool. I'll wear Gale's ugly sandals to my grave if that's what it takes.

[ A threat. ]

You will not, [ is his first, immediate comment, definitive and lordly. He loves Iorveth, but gods, they must have standards! Besides, doesn't Iorveth know that Astarion is trying to make it so that he doesn't have a grave?

A moment later: ]

It's just... [ He hangs his head, sighing. ] It's going to be hard.

[ Perhaps Iorveth did have a point when he mentioned Astarion needing to accomplish something for himself. He hates hard work and perseverance, and his instinct when faced with any sort of difficulty is to forfeit. Iorveth might believe in him, but he certainly doesn't believe in himself. ]

—And besides, maybe I was just trying to get you alone in a dressing room again.

[ Oh no, Iorveth thinks. Not this time. Astarion can't complain about difficult challenges being hard, especially if these difficult challenges will benefit him in the long run. Astarion doesn't get to sigh and moan about procuring a cloak that he said he'd go to the ends of Toril for. He has to participate in the heavy lifting and the planning if he wants this so badly―

―is what Iorveth thinks, as he bats away memories of Astarion sinking onto pillows and looking genuinely distressed at the mentioning of certain unmentionables. A war happens in Iorveth's head in real time: be firm fistfights with indulge him.

Gods. He can't. He can't fold every time Astarion looks at him with big, pretty doe eyes and pouts and says something cute. He can't!!! He cannot!!! ]

...We can find an artefact, [ Iorveth finally manages, ] and then we can buy the new shoes.

[ Stand firm, he tells himself. As long as Astarion stops looking up at him through his pretty lashes, he can stand firm. ]

[ He would go to the ends of Toril for the cloak. Just, you know, not if it's in any way challenging. He wants to walk in the sun again so badly that it aches, but he has very little faith in his own ability to accomplish something so difficult, especially when his competition happens to be the very sort of creature that kept him feeling small and worthless for the vast majority of his life.

But if there's anyone in the world who holds sway over him, it's Iorveth. If Iorveth says they're going to find an artefact, well. He guesses that's just what's going to happen. ]

Fine.

[ He does pout a little. ]

But I hardly know where to begin. I imagine Gale ate the lion's share of his magical trinkets.

[ If the way they had to go searching for Gale-snacks every so often is any indication. ]

And I doubt he'd part easily with the ones that he does have.

[ Iorveth's unwarranted (?) confidence in himself extends, of course, to Astarion. He's seen Astarion maneuver through an admittedly clumsy regicide, has seen him bludgeon Cazador to death, has seen him guide Petras and the other spawn to freedom. Astarion can, and Iorveth will do everything in his power to make sure that Astarion will.

So. He takes the "fine", and lets it fuel him. Getting up with his stack of plates, Iorveth makes his way over to the sink to scrub at porcelain while he thinks out loud. Again, always moving. ]

I suppose we could ask the staff at Blackstaff for a loan.

[ Humming, as he rinses a bowl. ]

We simply won't mention that the loan is indefinite.

[ It's underhanded, yeah, but between making a bunch of nerds mad and making Astarion happy, Iorveth knows which one he'd choose. ]

[ It's absolutely underhanded. Gale would be scandalized, and Astarion can practically hear him say that the artefacts at Blackstaff Academy are not toys for one to play with as they wish, but important pieces of magical history— Whatever. He'll get over it.

Astarion rests his elbows on the table, chin in his hands. ]

I expect they'll want some sort of collateral.

[ If they're as brainy as they claim to be, anyway. ]

Something we won't be getting back.

[ Ugh. Iorveth rocks backwards in his chair, the opposite of Astarion's forward lean, with the chair's front legs lifting. Displacing weight and balancing, gracefully but precariously. ]

Bartering in order to barter. A sorry state of affairs.

[ He gestures to the breadth of himself with very little ceremony. ]

What do you think an elf like me has to offer?

[ His bow is the closest thing he has to something important, but not only is he reticent to part with it, he needs it if he wants something to fight with. Not exactly good collateral material. ]

Plenty, [ he says, sincerely, ] but you won't be offering anything.

[ It's his cloak, his problem. Iorveth doesn't need to give up anything for him; Astarion couldn't bear if Iorveth grew to resent him because he had to make sacrifices. No — the bartering is on him.

Unfortunately, Astarion doesn't really have anything that the wizards at Blackstaff Academy would find worth bartering for. Pretty little trinkets, the kind that he enjoys collecting like a magpie, are worthless to a school for the arcane. He frowns. ]

Perhaps the loan will have to be more of a theft.

[ Very criminal activities being discussed under a goody-two-shoes' roof. Gale would probably faint if he heard any of this, and Iorveth is more than a bit aware of possibly jeopardizing their friend's good station at the Academy if word got out that he was consorting with bad elves who steal important things. Hm. Not much worse than borrowing for keeps, but still. At least they could justify the loan to Blackstaff if they brought back an artefact in return that they could sink their nerd teeth into, but stealing might be a bit much.

So: ]

That would depend on how much we like Gale, I suppose.

[ Iorveth, continuing to be the worst elf in the world. He says this matter-of-factly, as if he doesn't care at all, but he obviously does. It's hard not to like Gale, despite all the ways in which Iorveth has tried to dislike him. ]

And if there are other places we could steal from.

[ Uuuughhh. Astarion copies Iorveth, leaning back in his chair now, limbs limp as he throws his head back and groans. Unfortunately, he does like Gale, and he'd rather dislike it if their friendship were to end over a tiff with the Academy. ]

I told you that this is too hard.

[ He can't do it! And yet he must, lest Iorveth become disappointed in him. A long moment passes, the gears in his head dusting off their cobwebs and turning. ]

I've read that Amn—Athkatla included—is presided over by some cadre of fancy wizards. [ The Cowled Wizards, to be specific, the arbiters of magic use in Amn. ] Perhaps one of them might have a collection for us to... appropriate.

"Cadre of fancy wizards." [ Repeated slowly, with more than a bit of disdain. ] They sound insufferable enough to steal from, yes.

[ Ask Iorveth about why he dislikes wizards and their propensity towards doing whatever serves their ambitions instead of the general good. Or don't. As ever, Iorveth has strong opinions based on personal biases, and some of these opinions are very difficult to negotiate around.

A sigh, and Iorveth gets back up again. ]

It seems our best course of action is to go to Athkatla, speak to the woman, see what she wants, and steal something that roughly corresponds to her desires. While avoiding other vampires, obviously.

[ Condensing their trials into something that sounds vaguely doable, despite it being, yes, hard. But this is about Astarion and what he wants, so instead of deciding unilaterally: ]

Does that agree with you?

[ One of the things Astarion loves most about Iorveth is how positively disdainful he is of most people — it's a trait they share, and he enjoys nothing more than listening to Iorveth say absolutely withering things about fancy, insufferable wizards. (Sounds a lot like Gale, actually, but—)

What he enjoys less is how many steps this plan seems to have. For Iorveth, who's always firmly situated in the future, mind running a million miles a minute to consider every possibility, perhaps it isn't much. For Astarion, whose plans usually boil down to I don't know, I'll just wing it, it's a lot. ]

I can't say it agrees with me.

[ It sounds difficult! And complex! And like there's many opportunities for failure! All of which he detests, but there seems to be little other choice if he wants to procure that cloak. ]

—But I will do it, if you're with me. I suppose that nearly anything feels possible with you by my side.

[ Moving over to where Astarion is still sitting, Iorveth reaches for him with both hands, palms cupping that perfect face. ]

Not a matter of if. I will be with you.

[ They had the (unnecessary) row about it, and Iorveth has already committed himself completely to Astarion's cause; there's no tearing him from it now, unless Astarion put his foot down about not wanting Iorveth anywhere near him.

(Even then, Iorveth might hover around to make sure Astarion gets by. Sneaky fox.)

A kiss to a smooth forehead, and Iorveth pulls away. ]

...We'll manage, gracefully or no. You're more capable than you give yourself credit for, beloved.

...When you say so, I do feel inclined to believe it.

[ Mostly. He's not sure he'll ever be entirely rid of self-doubt, but Iorveth does manage to make him feel better about himself than anyone else ever has. If Iorveth sees potential in him, then it must be there.

Astarion reaches for Iorveth's hand, tangling their fingers, keeping them connected. This sort of innocent affection doesn't feel nearly as scandalous as it used to, but he must admit that it affects him more strongly than anything more passionate. He's had to relearn touch, and this gentle intimacy is his favorite, safe and reassuring. ]

I guess there's nothing more to be done but acquire passage to Athkatla.

[ Preferably via a portal. He's had enough roughing it, thanks. ]

And, [ he adds pointedly, ] acquire new shoes.

[ A glance down at their linked fingers prompts a touch of a smile to soften the edges of Iorveth's face again. He's no stranger to affectionate gestures, having been raised, however briefly, in a community that held (in all definitions of the word) its members; still, he thought he'd given softness up when he chose his bow and sword. A part of him wonders if he deserves to relearn it after he'd discarded it.

The fact remains, though, that he can't unlearn all of this anymore. He knows what Astarion's temperature feels like against his skin, knows the gentle strength of Astarion's handhold. It'd probably ruin Iorveth to give it all up, even if he had to.

In contrast to all that affectionate internal musing: ]

I'm growing rather fond of the ugly sandals.

[ Tugging on Astarion's pigtails. Fondly. ]

[ How rude! He's the one who's supposed to pull pigtails here. Astarion squeezes Iorveth's hand threateningly, scowling. ]

Well, I'm not.

[ He cannot believe he slept with Iorveth after he walked around all night wearing those. Clearly, love has severely compromised his judgment. He tugs Iorveth closer all the same, wanting to be near to him. When they'd first woken and Gale had dropped that awful news about the vampire lord, he hadn't wanted to be touched at all, but now—as long as he doesn't think about it, which is his strategy for all unpleasant things—he craves Iorveth's closeness again. ]

A good-looking man should have good-looking shoes. Besides, you said that you enjoyed my gifts.

[ Relinquishing his hand, Astarion reaches over to fiddle with the chain around Iorveth's neck. ]

And I rather enjoy dressing you up.

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

no subject

no subject

no subject