essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ Mercurial as always. Iorveth loves that about Astarion, actually－ much prefers it over the smooth mask of theatrical unflappability that he used to wear when they first met. ]

Difficult to argue with that logic.

[ He does like keeping reminders of Astarion around, and Astarion does seem to derive some joy from shoving Iorveth in fancy outfits. Mutually beneficial. He thumbs over the knuckles of the hand playing with the chain around his neck, maintaining little points of contact. ]

Though I wear shoes down to nothing fairly quickly. [ This is where Astarion might argue that city life might extend the longevity of his footwear; he'd have a point. ] If you're to give me anything, I'd have it be something that lasts.

[ Gesturing to his eyepatch. Still the one that Astarion chose for him, the one that's starting to see a little wear and tear. ]

[ Mm. It would be impractical, he supposes, for someone like Iorveth to wear fancy shoes. (Impractical, but still hot.) Still, there's surely something he could purchase for Iorveth that serves both of their purposes. A nice pair of leather boots, maybe; something that can survive all of Iorveth's trodding and look attractive. Like the eyepatch: covering Iorveth's eye is of no importance to Astarion, but it does look very rugged and handsome, he thinks.

Humming in thought, he unearths the ring from beneath Iorveth's collar. ]

Perhaps I'll get you a ring that actually fits you next time.

[ He is obsessed with Iorveth's hands, after all, and they'd look very nice decked out in shiny jewelry. ]

[ The poor stolen ring from Sharess' Caress. It sits pretty on his tan skin, jade-green stone fortuitously in theme with the wood elf aesthetic, its purpose as an engagement offer forgotten over time. That said, while rings aren't an indication of commitment in Aen Seidhe society, Iorveth is peripherally aware of the practice.

He won't assume, though. A quick upwards quirk of his brow, and he lets his expression settle back into warm neutral. ]

And I'll get you one to match it.

[ Equal, in all things. Iorveth wiggles his fingers, lightly teasing. ]

I briefly considered the idea of you putting ink to my skin, but you might find that a bit, [ hm, ] much.

[ The original recipient of the ring didn't even want it, so there's nothing wrong with his thievery of such an intimate object, Astarion thinks. She won't even miss it! (And he's sure it looks much better against Iorveth's lovely complexion than on some courtesan's finger, anyway.) He would, however, like to pick one out that's specifically for Iorveth rather than something stolen in a moment of opportunity. Something special, picked out with love and adoration.

The thought of him finding anything about Iorveth a bit much at this point makes him smile, an amused, crooked thing. He's only mentioned his desire to mark Iorveth (and actually done it) several times. To think he'd be in any way scandalized is, quite frankly, ridiculous. ]

What would you have me ink into you, hm?

[ A light snort, fond. ]

Oh? No ideas of your own? I'd thought you might want to write your name on my ass.

[ He pauses to give Astarion time to marinate on that ridiculous mental image. The real question, actually, is whether Astarion would write his name in Common or ask him how to write it in Aen Seidhe... actually, that isn't the real question, because this simply Will Not Happen.

Iorveth clears his throat. Tries not to grin. ]

―That said, tracing around puncture marks you've left may be too on-the-nose.

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