essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Juggling Astarion's new boots and Gale's own sandals, Iorveth swerves into the alley, sways, leans－

－and laughs, forehead pressed against Astarion's shoulder, shoulders hunched and shaking in time to his hiked breathing. Genuinely amused by how often Astarion can incite him into－ to use familiar terms－ "acting a fool". ]

There are other shoemakers, [ he finally manages, still chuckling. ] And I have my imagination.

[ Dark leather on pale skin. That image will live rent-free in Iorveth's head for a while, harmlessly beguiling in inopportune moments. What a luxury, to have enough space in his brain for things other than anger or hate. ]

[ Iorveth's laugh is the most wonderful sound ever. He wants to bottle it, keep it for a day when he's feeling glum. There's no possible way he could be upset while listening to the lovely noise of Iorveth's joy. He wraps his arms around Iorveth's shoulders, squeezing tight for a moment, overcome with affection. ]

You naughty, naughty boy.

[ As if Astarion cares. He much prefers the idea of Iorveth's mindspace being taken up with thoughts of him as opposed to memories of genocide and suffering. After a good long crushing embrace, he relinquishes his hold on Iorveth. ]

I'm sure other boutiques may still be open. Or, of course, we could hunt down some tattoo ink.

[ Being held in Astarion's STR 8 embrace is more comfortable than painful; Iorveth marinates in it even after the arms relent, and presses a quick kiss to the jut of Astarion's jaw to reciprocate affection. Easy by now, almost instinctual. ]

I've a few other purchases in mind before we buy ink, [ he admits, though he doesn't want to specify yet. Despite his love language having been primarily focused around killing people for Astarion's benefit, he's a wood elf at heart: giving feels meaningful, ephemeral as material items may be. ]

If you want me to surprise you, we could separate and reconvene.

[ If Astarion is amenable. If not, Iorveth doesn't have to be a drama king, and he'll enjoy sticking to Astarion's side like a scrunkly fox that'll hiss at anyone who comes too close. ]

[ Astarion cocks his head for a moment, surprised by the idea that Iorveth has anything at all planned. He shouldn't be, of course. Iorveth seems to be a pathological planner. On the one hand, it's charming, and probably the only reason they're both still alive and walking around. On the other hand, Astarion does wonder if the cogs in his mind ever stop whirring. ]

Mm. Admittedly, I've not been one for surprises in the past.

[ Mostly because they were usually bad. He thinks for a moment, then: ]

But if you're at the helm, I can't imagine being anything less than thrilled.

[ And, besides, surprises are romantic. Or so he's heard. ]

All right. I can entertain myself until you return. [ Whether or not he can do so without getting himself into trouble is another story, but Iorveth's the one who's trusting him unsupervised. ] Where shall we rendezvous?

[ Surely Astarion can survive an hour or two without burning Waterdeep to the ground... surely. Many would say (rightfully) that Iorveth, a chronic and paranoid planner, has blinders on when it comes to Astarion and Astarion only; in that sense, the cogs in Iorveth's mind do stop whirring, relatively, when he's around Astarion.

Case in point. Brain activities boil down to "make favorite person happy", which is stupidly simple by Iorveth's exacting standards. ]

The Yawning Portal. If you still remember where it is.

[ It seems enough of a landmark location to be easy to find, even if Astarion doesn't remember. Someone is bound to know where it is, if one asks. Shifting the new footwear (and old sandals) into his pack, the long boots sticking awkwardly out from the top of it, Iorveth delegates himself to holding Astarion's things again. ]

Buy yourself a drink or two, if you get there before I do.

Purchase a drink for myself? Perish the thought.

[ After all, it's so easy to scam others into paying for it. But perhaps he should be on his best behavior if he doesn't want to end up run out before Iorveth can return. Look at him, thinking ahead! Gods, his brain feels as big as Gale's.

(Somewhere, back in the tower, Gale is reading a book by candlelight, Tara in his lap. An unexplained shiver goes up his spine.)

He steps forward, pressing a kiss to Iorveth's mouth. Casual affection, light and chaste, close for the sake of it. Such innocent gestures still give him butterflies, although he'd die a second time before admitting as much. ]

Don't take too long, or I might get bored, and... well, who knows what I'll do then?

[ One last lingering look at Iorveth, a sight that will have to sate him for the next few hours, and he's off. He remembers where the Yawning Portal is, of course. Waterdeep might be new to him, but navigating the city streets isn't. ]

[ Actually, Iorveth has no idea what Astarion will get up to when he's completely alone and left to his own devices. Before this, they'd traveled in a group with semi-restricted privacy, and before that, Astarion had still been beholden to Cazador's control. What would someone with newfound freedom do in all this din and clamor?

Iorveth keeps that thought tucked into the back of his mind while he prepares for Astarion's surprise: a parfumerie first, where he buys two small bottles of fragrance, followed by a last-minute dip into an apothecary for some self-care products that he thinks Astarion might enjoy.

Smitten, he thinks to himself as he makes his purchases. He can't help it; after all the curveballs he's let life bruise him with, he finally caught one that he wants to keep.

It's a handful of hours later when Iorveth wanders back to the Yawning Portal, past the sleepy-looking bouncer and the still-teeming throng of late-night drinkers, a tall, lithe shadow threading through bleary-eyed customers. He hikes his chin, trying to look past a group of rowdy tieflings gathered around a table where two dwarves are arm wrestling, looking for a flash of familiar silver. ]

[ It doesn't take long to find him. He's seated at a table with three adventurers—if one can call them that; they look terribly green—and an excessive amount of ale (for them, of course; Astarion is drinking wine). He talks animatedly to his audience, who look on with wide eyes while they sway drunkenly. Upon spotting Iorveth, he calls, ] Darling! Over here!

[ Then, to the adventurers at his table: ] This is who I was telling you about.

[ A tiefling woman looks up at Iorveth with big eyes. "Did you really singlehandedly slay a Netherbrain and save the world?" ]

—Well, not singlehandedly. I was there, too, you know.

[ A little offended. He's happy to erase the entire city of Baldur's Gate's contributions, but not his own! ]

My new friends here would like to make a donation to our heroic cause. You know, travelling around, saving lives, that sort of thing.

[ There he is, and surrounded by a group of wide-eyed young people, no less. It kind of tracks― Iorveth can imagine Magistrate Ancunín delivering verdicts and deliberations with dramatic flair to a crowd full of attentive onlookers. A man who commands attention wherever he goes.

Charming. Iorveth slides into the seat next to Astarion and flags a member of tavern staff for a pint of his own ale, which he assumes he won't be paying for. Astarion says as much.

To the claims of heroism: ]

I'd say that our hero's journey ended with the destruction of the Netherbrain.

[ Again: killjoy. Honest, though. The tiefling woman, too drunk to focus on the first half of Iorveth's statement, murmurs "so you did slay a Netherbrain!" The more exciting half of what Iorveth said, to be sure.

It's a little endearing. Iorveth lost this kind of bright-eyed view of the world ages ago; a part of him warms, and another part of him feels inclined to tease a little. So he leans forward, elbow to the lacquered wood of the table with his chin in his palm, getting into the young adventurer's space. ]

Mm. If my partner hasn't told you, I'm both violent and deranged.

[ Self-awareness is key. ]

[ The tiefling woman squeaks in surprise, and her friends gasp a little. It's easy to believe someone without an eye is 'violent and deranged'. You don't lose an eye from sitting around knitting, after all.

"That's not what Astarion— er—" ]

Mr. Ancunín, thank you.

[ No one in the world calls him Mr. Ancunín, but it is fun to bully her a little.

"—Right, um, Mr. Ancunín said you were a gallant hero. He said you freed a whole forest of elves, too!" ]

And what else did I say?

[ "Um," the woman says, scratching her chin. Luckily, her halfling friend chimes in:

"You said he was handsome!" ]

Oh, good job. A gold star for you.

[ Ah. A wry quirk of his lips, and Iorveth swallows a mouthful of alcohol. ]

As you can see, [ gesturing to himself, at the general state of his face, ] "Mr. Ancunín" is talented at embellishment.

[ Wild that Astarion would lie about something so easily debunkable, honestly. Iorveth can accept that Astarion is fine with the way he looks, but that's different from trying to convince objective third parties that he's anything beyond "scarred and weird".

It's sweet, though. The mental image of Astarion having sat here extolling Iorveth's nonexistent virtues to a gaggle of young people is equal parts boggling and endearing: it's not what Iorveth expected, which prompts him to surreptitiously reach sideways and put his palm over one of Astarion's hands. Under the table, sneakily. ]

―Talented in other respects, too. Did he tell you about the time he took down a hook horror in the Underdark?

[ And, well. Iorveth will tell them, simply and truthfully, with smatterings of personal bias thrown in here and there. Again, it's impossible for him to be completely objective about Astarion anymore, and if he says something about Astarion being very beautiful while wedging a knife into the ugly creature's carapace, well. It is what it is. The youths look back and forth between Iorveth and Astarion with clear awe, murmuring about how they've only ever heard of warriors like Drizzt being able to slay a hook horror singlehandedly, how amazing it is that they've been in the Underdark at all. ]

[ Astarion, of course, preens. How could he not? There's nothing he loves more than praise, save perhaps for praise from his most beloved person. (Made all the better by all the scolding and chiding Iorveth has done in the past. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.) It's not entirely true, obviously, or maybe even sort of true; he definitely had help with the hook horror, and if not for Karlach swinging that axe of hers, he might have perished in the miserable Underdark. But, you know, Karlach isn't here to take the credit, so it doesn't hurt anyone to claim it all for himself. ]

Drizzt Do'Urden? Well, yes, I suppose we are on the same level. Practically colleagues, really.

[ Better not let too many people hear him say that.

"You met Drizzt Do'Urden?" exclaims the tiefling excitedly. ]

Ah. Not exactly. But I'm sure if we ever did, he would welcome us with open arms.

[ She deflates. "Oh." ]

—Anyway. We've lots of important heroic things to discuss, don't we, darling? So. [ A rude little sweeping gesture. ] Make yourselves scarce, why don't you?

[ "Makes yourselves sparse" is a hilariously rude thing to say to a bunch of kids who just want to fawn over an adventurer's illustrious history. It's also very effective, apparently, seeing as how the halfling (the most sober of the bunch) takes the hint and corrals their companions over to the arm wrestling table, where they debate over which red-faced dwarf will break the stalemate.

Charming. Iorveth downs more of his ale, his noticeably-full pack resting on his lap. ]

You wear the hero's mantle surprisingly well, "Mr. Ancunín".

[ Pressing a palm to Astarion's cheek, trying to feel if Astarion's glass(es?) of wine has elevated his temperature any. ]

Were you waiting long?

Edited 2025-04-05 13:41 (UTC)

[ He's a little hotter — lukewarm, perhaps. It isn't his first glass of wine. He needed to fleece these foolish adventurers for as much as he could, of course. His skin warms more under Iorveth's touch, and he leans into the palm, grinning. ]

Oh, yes. It was abject agony.

[ A joke. He can last a couple hours without Iorveth; it's days where he'd start getting cranky. ]

I had to content myself with pretending to be a folk hero while you were away.

[ Because, really, it is pretending. He might have been tangentially associated with heroism, but he certainly didn't participate in any himself. His only real motivation for slaying the Netherbrain was because he didn't want to be enslaved again, and because a world full of nothing but mind flayers sounds incredibly boring. ]

Where did you go?

[ "Pretending" prompts a bit of a browraise, but Iorveth doesn't push the point― not here, anyway. Too many eyes, too many ears.

Speaking of. One more idle smoothing of his palm over Astarion's slightly-warmer skin, and Iorveth lets his hand fall back onto his belongings. Lumpier, heavier. ]

Here and there. [ Purposefully vague. ] Surely you don't want me to reveal my gifts to you in a tavern.

[ Or maybe Astarion might, who knows. They're his gifts, after all, and he can choose where and when he wants to receive them. ]

[ Astarion beams, perhaps embarrassingly. No one, save for Iorveth, has ever given him gifts before. (At least, not gifts that he actually wanted; he can still hear Cazador ranting about the priceless gift of eternal life.) To be given something for no reason other than affection feels special.

He knocks their knees together, coy. ]

Have you a suitably romantic location in mind for you to lavish me with luxuries?

[ After everything Iorveth has heard from Astarion about gifts in the form of half-desiccated rats, he's sure most things would be an improvement. Which isn't to say that Iorveth is thinking of gifting Astarion with non-desiccated rats, obviously: he's still figuring out what Astarion likes, what Astarion responds most favorably to. It's the sort of low-stakes challenge that most people tackle on a day-to-day basis, Iorveth figures. A sliver of normalcy for two very abnormal people. ]

I considered taking you waterside, but you might not love the smell.

[ The stench, more like. A sigh-laugh, and Iorveth knocks Astarion's knee right back. ]

And the bell tower would require you to climb.

[ "Too hard", Iorveth imagines Astarion saying. The mental image makes him sigh-laugh again, more the latter than the former. ]

[ Ugh. Astarion wrinkles his nose at the mention of the waterside and its stench. Even without the smell of fish, the waterside is no place for a vampire (and especially not a vampire named Astarion). What if he fell in? Gods, he'd be so embarrassed if he died like that, acid burns all over his body. Hideous! ]

The least you could do is take me to the Castle Ward.

[ Where the rich people live, obviously. ]

You know, I've heard there's a fine dining experience in the head of a hawk man statue.

[ After a moment, he deflates a little. ]

—But, well, I suppose there's not much use in me going to a restaurant.

[ Dining in a hawk man statue??? Iorveth tries to wrap his mind around this as Astarion deflates, wondering what in the hells that experience would even be like. A quick moment of idle curiosity, there and gone again. ]

There may not be much use, [ he agrees, after that beat, ] but the better question is whether you want to.

[ Maybe it'll make him feel miserable, sitting at a table only ordering drinks while Iorveth pokes at whatever extravagant dish is laid out in front of him. But the fact of the matter is that he won't know until he tries. ]

We may be traveling to Athkatla tomorrow. Tonight, you can do with Waterdeep as you see fit.

[ To a certain degree, of course. That goes without saying. ]

[ As he sees fit. In truth, Astarion still has little idea the sort of thing he actually likes to do. He enjoys spending time with Iorveth, and he enjoyed going to the opera, although it's unclear how much of that was actually attending the opera and how much was criticizing the performers in Gale's ear. The things that he thought he would like—fancy parties with important people, for example—have turned out to be... disappointing.

He's silent for a moment, thoughtful. Then: ]

Mm, not the restaurant.

[ While he would enjoy a luxurious experience, he fears it would serve as a reminder of the things that have been taken from him. Not a pleasant space in which to receive gifts. ]

There is a courtyard near here, if you can stomach listening to the bards there croon.

[ Troubadours are an epidemic. ]

Edited 2025-04-07 03:17 (UTC)

[ If asked, Iorveth would offer his professional (?) opinion regarding why Astarion might not enjoy being in a party full of rich people, and it would be this: "because rich people are boring and they suck". Biased, certainly. So it's a bit of a relief that Astarion ditches the restaurant idea, and not because Iorveth doesn't know how to use the silverware. ]

I've survived bards before. [ As he starts to get up, corking the half-empty bottle of wine (that is hopefully on the young adventurers' tab) and slipping it into his already-full pack. ] There was one named Dandelion that I knew－ as insufferable as he was moderately talented.

[ A beat, as he considers whether or not to continue with that train of thought. He gets up onto his feet, brushing dust off of his trousers. ]

You reminded me a bit of him, when we first met. An indefatigable flirt and chronic windbag.

[ Mean!!!!!!!!!!!!! ]

[ Very mean. Astarion gets up, too, downing what's left in his glass and setting it back on the table with a scowl. Mercurial as always, but he staunchly believes that at least some of his capriciousness is Iorveth's fault. It's amazing, really, how quickly Iorveth can take him from a smile to a frown (and then back again). Indefatigible flirt! Chronic windbag. He isn't sure who Iorveth is describing, but it cannot be him. A flirt, perhaps, but a charming one, and hardly a windbag — he had plenty to say, yes, but it was all of value! Like the time he told Gale that, honestly, purple isn't even really his color. Someone had to.

He stares Iorveth down, obviously displeased. How can someone who says such sweet things to him also describe him in such an unflattering way? ]

He sounds handsome.

[ If they have anything in common, it's probably that. ]

[ Iorveth actually has to think about the "handsome" thing. For the past few years of his life, he's been a gremlin 3 in a sea of objective 10s (in his opinion); he's become desensitized to hot people, essentially.

Finally: ] Passable. [ Poor Dandelion, who probably feels Iorveth's rude aura from leagues away. Iorveth, on the other hand, thinks this is a very fair assessment for an annoying human who never knew when to shut up. ] Not nearly on your level.

[ Again: an objective 10. Iorveth loves Astarion, sure, but Iorveth also acknowledged that Astarion was hot even before he ever actually liked him. Some truths are disappointingly self-evident.

Iorveth extends a hand for Astarion to hold so they can get out of there and to the courtyard, despite the fact that he's potentially ruined his romantic gift by being a jackass about it. Horrible elf. It's a wonder Astarion hasn't broken up with him yet. ]

[ Astarion looks at Iorveth's hand for a moment as if he might turn it down, but unfortunately, he adores holding Iorveth's wonderful, callused hands with his long, nimble fingers. He snatches it up, still frowning but unable to properly punish Iorveth for his transgression. How dare he say mean things while having such a holdable hand.

As they make their way toward the exit of the tavern, the group of adventurers Astarion spent the last couple of hours regaling with (mostly) false tales spots them leaving and waves excitedly. He can hear one saying to the arm-wrestling dwarves, "Those are the heroes who killed the Netherbrain in Baldur's Gate!"

One of the dwarves replies, "Those two? You numbskull." ]

Well, I don't know why you even bothered with me if I'm so—

[ What had Iorveth said? Oh, right: ]

Indefatigable.

[ The heroes of Baldur's Gate, quibbling over rude comments. No one tries to flag them down for payment, which is nice, and they're able to meander out of the tavern unscathed, hand still in hand.

Iorveth glances at Astarion as they walk, noting the puffed-up offense that's in sharp contrast to the firm lacing of their fingers. A little cute, admittedly, though Iorveth doesn't like to see Astarion pouting for too long. ]

That was before I saw you properly. I used to think you were all style, no substance.

[ Perhaps not what Astarion wants to hear. Iorveth turns them in the direction of the courtyard, treading on thin ice. ]

―Now I can admit that I was wrong.

[ A slight squeeze of their linked hands. ]

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