essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ Before he 'saw Astarion properly'. That's one of his favorite complaints, isn't it? That Astarion doesn't see things properly. He wants to puff up more, be more annoyed with Iorveth, but it's difficult to be too irritated when Iorveth squeezes his hand like that. Again, how dare he. ]

Can't you just lie like everyone else does and say that you were infatuated from the beginning?

[ Astarion would hate if Iorveth were the type to lie like that, of course. He adores the way that Iorveth always tells it like it is, the consequences be damned. Except for when he tells it like it is in a way that's unflattering to Astarion, and then he doesn't adore it quite so much. ]

It's my understanding that telling lies is an integral part of romance.

[ "Like everyone else does". Iorveth steers Astarion out of the way of an incoming drunk lurching on unsteady feet, and uses that moment of proximity to elbow him gently, ever-so-gently. ]

If you want me to be like everyone else, you'll have to find someone like everyone else.

[ Iorveth, who can't refuse Astarion (most) anything, refuses Astarion this one point. He knows it's not that deep－ he knows his fussy cat just wants to be adored instead of be given blunt truths－ but still. Here's another blunt truth to add to the pile.

To soften the blow, though (again, because he doesn't want to be broken up with, and he doesn't want to suggest that he wants to be broken up with), he squeezes Astarion's hand again and leads him up the street towards the courtyard. He can tell where it is because he can, in fact, hear the troubadours singing. ]

If you want me to compliment you, I need only tell you the truth about how I feel now.

[ Astarion doesn't want someone like everyone else, and so it is a bit of a blow, but the squeeze to his hand certainly helps, and so does the sound of strumming lutes and crooning bards.

Fetlock Court is a lovely patch of pavement, glittering just like everything else in Waterdeep. In Baldur's Gate, this place would've been dirty, smelly, and inhabited by murder cultists. In Waterdeep, it's clean, fragrant, with a few well-to-do Waterdhavians milling about. A trio of bards play music in the corner, with a hat in front of them filled with coins. ]

Mm.

[ He knows about how Iorveth feels now, mostly because he's fished for enough compliments to know. What he doesn't know: ]

Did you really think I looked beautiful covered in hook horror guts?

[ The hat half-full of coin is less of a testament to the bards' talents (though they're surprisingly pleasant to listen to), and more an indication of how peaceful Waterdeep is for the most part.

Letting the mood music wash over them, Iorveth finds a relatively quieter section of the courtyard to settle into, away from the stables and the smell of horses. ]

Very.

[ Freak elf with a freak answer to the freak question. ]

Somehow, you make blood and viscera look decorative. The effect was ruined only by the smell.

[ Turns out that hook horror guts stink. Who would've guessed? ]

[ Astarion preens. He hadn't felt beautiful, of course—he'd felt disgusting, and complained all the way back to camp—but to know that Iorveth had thought so, well. It's flattering.

Damn Iorveth for making it so easy to get mad at him yet so difficult to stay mad. ]

You sweet thing, you should have said so. I'd have eaten you up.

[ In reality, he'd probably have taken it as sarcasm, or found a way to twist it into an insult. Iorveth hadn't been particularly complimentary up to that point. Even once he had started saying nice things to Astarion, he'd been so paranoid that he'd combed through every little thing Iorveth said to look for a reason to be upset about it rather than letting it make him happy.

Oh, well. He can let it make him happy now. He settles on a nearby bench, a bespoke thing with floral carvings in its chestnut wood. ]

You're allowed to gift me things now.

[ Slow to trust, but easy to go all in after the first agonizing hurdle. Iorveth hadn't felt like complimenting Astarion at all in the past, too preoccupied with the glaring reality of Astarion's insincerity; now that he's earned Astarion's vulnerability, all he wants to do is praise him for his humanity.

Elf-anity? Someone should really modify that word to take "human" out of it.

Anyway. Iorveth perches next to Astarion, a polite space between them not out of any desire to distance, but out of a need to put his pack there and rifle through it. ]

Allowed, [ he snorts. (Warmly.) ] You do me an honor, milord.

[ Slightly sarcastic, but more along the lines of someone speaking to a flighty cat that's deigned to flop over and show its stomach. With that said, Iorveth fishes out the first part of his three-tiered gifts: a sleek ebony hairbrush, simple but expensive-looking and, upon closer inspection, embossed with vineline details around the handle. It's accompanied by a small bottle of hair oil, which Iorveth hopes is a personal grooming item that Astarion might be able to incorporate into his daily routine. ]

Because I'm partial to your hair, [ Iorveth says, kicking himself mentally for how stupid it sounds. ]

[ Astarion doesn't have the time to think about how stupid Iorveth sounds, because he's too busy worrying about how stupid he looks. His eyes go wide as he reaches out for the handle of the hairbrush, holding it up and rotating it in the twinkling streetlamps of the courtyard, watching the soft, warm light reflect off of its dark surface.

Iorveth saw this and thought of him. He thought that it was something nice, and that Astarion should have something nice. Two centuries of torture and loneliness, but what nearly brings him to his knees is a godsdamned hairbrush. His heart feels like it's being squeezed — no, throttled. He'll never get over the feeling of having someone who cares for him.

He holds both the brush and the little vial of oil to his chest, trying very hard not to look as moved as he feels. ]

I adore it.

[ And he does. Astarion always used to think 'sentimental value' was nonsense, but he's going to cherish this until the end of eternity. ]

—I hope you spent Gale's coin, and not your own.

[ The coin he got working that mercenary job was hard-earned, after all. ]

[ Beautiful when covered in blood and viscera, beautiful when overcome by emotion. Iorveth remains where he is, hesitant to distract Astarion from his reaction by calling attention to it. He hovers, angled with their knees almost touching, one hand blindly reaching into his pack for the next gift. ]

I wouldn't be caught dead relying on a wizard's coin to buy my beloved his gifts.

[ There's no way in all the hells that Iorveth would ever allow anyone to say "actually, I funded that purchase" about something he bought for Astarion. Not only is he far too prideful for that, it simply doesn't sit well with him. ]

Gale can fund our war effort. This is from me to you.

[ Chin hiked, expression gentle. Iorveth can't keep up the posturing, especially not while he offers Astarion the second part of his three gifts: a blown-glass, deep-purple bottle of cologne, unlabeled. If Astarion cares to uncork it, the scent is a blend of citrus that fades to rich vanilla and a hint of nutmeg-like spice, which, in Iorveth's opinion, slightly mirrors Astarion's personality. Crisp and acidic at first, warming to something sweet and full that still has fangs. ]

[ Astarion has grown accustomed to Iorveth carrying all of his thing, but he shrugs off his comparatively much lighter pack to place the hairbrush and oil inside before reaching out to take the bottle in hand. Even shinier than the brush, a gorgeous dark purple that would make Gale seethe with envy. He can't help but beam, the tips of his ears flushing pink with pleasure against the silver of his hair. ]

Oh, darling.

[ It's just so ridiculously sweet. A gift for the sake of a gift; he's done nothing worth rewarding in, well, probably ever, but Iorveth spoils him regardless.

Astarion uncorks the bottle, giving it a cursory sniff before spritzing it onto his wrist. The scent is perhaps a little sweeter than his usual, but he finds he doesn't mind. ]

I do hope this isn't a veiled suggestion that I smell.

[ If present Iorveth told past Iorveth that he's come to revel in giving a vampire-shaped magpie shiny things, past Iorveth would probably try to slit his throat for reasons of putting an insane elf out of his misery. Look closely enough, though, and Astarion would probably be able to see the hearts floating over Iorveth's eyepatched head. ]

It's an unveiled suggestion that I've become deranged enough to want to smell you.

[ Again, at least he's self-aware about the deranged bit. Weird scarred fox, pushing himself up against his favorite elf to sniff him for a hit of serotonin. It occurs to Iorveth for a second that this might be very Halsin-coded, but oh well. He'll live with that dishonor (?).

More than a hint of a smile curling the corner of his lips, he finally drops the last of the three gifts onto Astarion's lap: this one is delivered a little more brusquely, as if he wants it to be an afterthought instead of something properly considered. A glass bottle, green this time, similarly unlabeled－ the contents, if Astarion checks, will smell like amber and sandalwood. A callback to when Astarion said that he wanted to bottle Iorveth.

Iorveth doesn't bother trying to explain this one. It's a little embarrassing, actually. ]

[ A little surprised at the curt dropping of a bottle into his lap, Astarion gingerly places the purple bottle into his pack—because it's fragile and precious and should be treated as such—before examining the new, green bottle. He cocks his head as he uncorks it, giving it a sniff. For a moment, the scent confuses him; it isn't bad by any means, but it's nothing like his usual fragrance, and he can't quite figure out why Iorveth would pick something so earthy.

It is pleasant, though, and the scent feels familiar, safe, like home, if he has such a thing. As the soothing sensation of relaxation washes over him, he realizes what this scent is, and the pink at the tips of his ears deepens. ]

This is my favorite one, I think.

[ He's not certain if Iorveth intends for him to wear the scent or simply huff it when he misses him. Maybe he'll do both. ]

I don't mind smelling like you, [ he says, knocking their knees together, ] as long as I can make you smell like me.

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