[ Very sweet. A feline and canine, bonding. Iorveth imagines a fluffy white cat curled up on the back of a big, good-natured golden retriever (or whatever the Toril equivalent is), and smiles to himself as he gets up and moves to retrieve his gear from their bedroom. Gale and Astarion can have A Moment while he gets geared up. It's a quick, instinctive process: bows slotting into cradles and quiver slung against his hip, sword in its sheath, knives tucked away out of sight.
He's armed to the teeth by the time he returns, and Gale looks－ maybe a little disappointed by the fact that his guests will be gone again, despite the fact that all they ever did was be rude to him and eat all his food (citation needed). Iorveth makes a mental note to get more than a few souvenirs for Gale upon return.
"Well, I suppose we should get to it," Gale says, invisible dog ears drooping. "I wish I could join you on this little adventure, but I'm sure there'll be more opportunities in the future."
A wave, and they're led out onto the patio with its soft-looking divans and stacks of books. The Sea of Swords stretches deep and dark beyond the glittering portal situated between two armchairs, a dark void that makes the magic look even more frenetic in comparison. ]
I hate portals, [ Iorveth grouses. Which is why he holds out his hand for Astarion to hold, and not because he thinks Astarion needs the support (though he does, a little). ]
[ Astarion finds it sort of endearing that Gale genuinely seems to wish he could take part in this shitshow, which is how he knows he's grown far too soft. Finding Iorveth charming is one thing, but finding Gale charming is quite another. Gods, what's next? Is he going to stop making fun of Halsin? What would be the point in living anymore? ]
I'm sure there will be, [ he agrees. ] There will always be someone who needs to be set on fire, after all.
[ He glances down at Iorveth's hand, reaching out to take it in his own. The support is needed, although he'd never admit it (at least not in front of Gale, who is endearing, yes, but Astarion still can't bear to be vulnerable in front of him). All bluster, Astarion hikes his chin up. ]
Don't worry, darling. Just hold on to me.
[ He's never been through a portal himself, but surely it can't be that bad. Astarion takes a step toward the swirling darkness, reaching out and—
In an instant, he's sucked through the portal, Iorveth alongside him. He feels everywhere and nowhere at once, disoriented with no time or space to anchor him. Complete silence, complete darkness. Then, suddenly, it's all back: the light of streetlamps is glaring, the hustle and bustle of Athkatla in the evening deafening. His head is spinning, and he turns to retch up a little bile onto the street like a cat with a hairball. ]
Gods! Whoever came up with such a piss poor form of transportation?!
The portal makes him, unmakes him, puts him back together. It's the feeling of having the floor fall out from under his feet, of not knowing where up ends and down begins, the feeling of existence being pulled, pulled, pulled like putty―
―and it all snaps back. Iorveth, Mr. Wood Elf Balance, Mr. Animal Grace, finds himself letting go of Astarion's hand to stumble, foot crossing over foot, center of balance utterly fucked, until he slams against the nearest wall and mirrors Astarion in the retching.
Ugh. ] Wizards, [ he spits, literally. ] Masochists, the lot of them.
[ "I think I'd like to experience what being dematerialized feels like," said no one but spellcasters, ever. Iorveth lurches back onto the balls of his feet, very disgruntled about the whole affair.
Behind him: a strange, crooked two-story building with a sign that reads, in fading antique-gold letters, "Th Slee wal er's Dr am". A sign hangs on the door, "CLOSED", but a shadow keeps darting across the curtained window flanking it. Someone is inside. ]
[ Astarion reaches out to rub Iorveth's shoulder soothingly, staring up at the eccentric building behind him. It does seem the sort of place that a strange old woman might reside; he feels a pang of nervousness run through his body again. It really is time to face the music, he supposes. No way around it.
Unless: ] Ah, it looks like the place is closed for the evening. Perhaps we should return another time.
[ He's become quite the expert at avoiding things that make him feel even a little bit unpleasant. The idea of begging some old woman for the cloak makes him feel nervous, and so— avoidance. Procrastination. Putting it off until it's a problem for Future Astarion. ]
Honestly, she's probably not even home.
[ As if on cue, a shadow passes behind the curtain again. ]
[ Brought back into his body via touch, Iorveth yet again mirrors Astarion by offering the same gesture: a palm to Astarion's shoulder, soothing. He probably needs all the reassurance he can get, what with the sudden and unceremonious throwing of his trials in his face.
Iorveth swivels on his heels, and watches that jittering shadow pass back and forth across the crooked shop's only window. Maybe it's the change in scenery, or perhaps his innate dislike for man-made cities speaking, but he doesn't like the look of the place one bit.
Still. ] Best to do what we can now, lest we regret not doing so later. [ Terminally unable to not do what needs to be done. He lifts his hand from Astarion's shoulder and fluffs up his curls a bit, an extraneous gesture just for the sake of idle contact. ]
I'll be by your side. You'll not be alone.
[ Two elves who survived a Netherbrain, against one old woman. It can't possibly be so bad. ]
[ Fucking Iorveth. Every single thing that Astarion wants to avoid, Iorveth wants to barrel right into. Astarion would be irritated if he didn't love him so much, but unfortunately he does, Iorveth's ridiculous persistence included. A mirror of Iorveth, he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind one pointy ear. ]
...Fine.
[ If Iorveth had, in fact, gone to the north while Astarion visited Athkatla, he'd probably have spent the next tenday gearing himself up for this. It's ridiculous that Iorveth's fear was something happening to him; he should have been worried about nothing happening.
An unnecessary deep breath, and Astarion approaches the odd, crooked building. It looks a bit run-down, and Astarion wonders just how long the shop—or museum, maybe, or collection—has been around.
He raps his knuckles against the door once, twice. ]
Excuse me, [ he calls through the door. ] I know it's after hours, but our sparkling company will surely make up for it.
[ There are still things about Astarion that Iorveth yet to know: the inclination to procrastinate, for one. Iorveth has always been on the side of telling Astarion to do something and Astarion grudgingly obliging, which means that Iorveth's perception of Astarion is "he grumbles, but he has initiative", with hearts dotting the 'i's.
Which is to say, deranged elf is very proud of his beloved vampire. He hovers behind his partner, a lanky shadow with its arms crossed, regarding the old woman with a critical eye when she finally appears from the other side of the door.
'Granny Heart' is－
－strange, at first glance. Small, bent, with sallow skin that seems to spread unevenly across her sunken features. When she smiles up at Astarion, wavy grey-black hair pulled up in a lumpy bun, the components of her face pull in directions that feel slightly incorrect. As if a different face has been superimposed on top of another one.
Still, she's friendly when she opens her mouth to greet them. "Oh, hello, my little birdies. Yes, yes, Granny doesn't mind the time at all－ what lovely little pigeons, cooing in the night. Come inside, come inside... not at all like the rude gentleman callers I usually get, they really are so pushy. Not like you lovely little birds."
With that, she gestures for them to follow her inside to her den of curiosities: a stale-smelling room packed from floor to ceiling with cabinets and shelves. An array of items sit behind glass panels in varying states of identifiability, from glasses to gloves to amulets to strange fleshy objects floating in murky liquid, seemingly in no particular order.
It's chaotic. Vaguely offputting. Iorveth wrinkles his nose, and stays close to Astarion's side. ]
Less a shop and more a mausoleum of things, [ he notes. ]
[ Astarion does note the strange, uncanny appearance, but it's quickly overshadowed by the compliments. Lovely little birds! He preens as he follows behind her, confidence bolstered by the praise. ]
Well, I'm not sure about pigeons. They are the rats of the sky, you know.
[ At least, they taste like it. Gross! Still, he shrugs it off, smiling as he adds, ] But we are lovely.
[ Good. If she likes them, maybe she'll be more willing to part with her things. He's instantly on the lookout for a cloak, peering at her various wares with interest. What looks to be an eyeball floats in a jar, and Astarion taps the glass with a finger. ]
Quite a collection you've got here. My partner and I are actually in the market for some interesting artefacts to bring back home with us.
[ "Granny has lot of nice things," the woman says, weaving through a section of taxidermied creatures with surprisingly lively eyes. "Precious things, rare things. I don't like to part with any of them, truth be told. They all have such memories."
She smiles again, ungainly, as she finds one of the few empty chairs in the room that look good enough to perch on. Her eyes shine amber in lamplight.
"So Granny likes to trade. Give a trinket, get a trinket. It helps me remember all the little birds that've flown into my nest."
Behind her is a glass-paneled wardrobe guarded comically by an iron padlock (Iorveth thinks that it would be much easier to break the glass than pick the lock, but what does he know), containing cloaks and clothing in various styles. A promising start. ]
We only have gold. Everything else we possess is what you see in front of you.
[ Arms loosely spread in the universal gesture for "what you see is what you get". The old woman laughs at that, as if it's the funniest thing she's heard all tenday.
"And isn't it nice, what I see? Would your pretty dove trade you for something in my shop?" ]
[ Astarion forces out a laugh. It isn't funny at all, actually, but he hopes it's just that: a joke. She's a collector of magical curios, but at the end of the day, she's only an old woman. Hardly a threat.
He gravitates toward the glass wardrobe, peering curiously inside. Which of these, he wonders, is the cloak they're after? It would be too much to ask, he supposes, for it to have DAYLIGHT CLOAK embroidered on it. If only he knew, he could come back when the old biddy is gone and try his luck at the padlock.
Instead: ]
What do you say, ten gold for a cloak? That's very reasonable, I think.
[ Very unnerving, to have a weird old man leer at him with her weird toothy smile. Iorveth frowns, but decides shortly after being treated like collateral, to stonewall her; he easily slips into haughty neutrality－ a stance he assumes in the presence of unkind humans－ albeit with far less hostility.
Granny slips her oil-slick gaze back towards Astarion, though, at his suggestion, which leaves Iorveth free to inspect her shift in expression... or, well. Lack thereof. Her grin stays, and it's not as gormless as Iorveth'd like it to be.
"A cloak? A cloak. So many people asking for cloaks recently! All of them with eyes like yours, sweet little dove. Red, red eyes. Maybe you'd trade me one for a cloak."
Another laugh, this one more unpleasant. Iorveth feels his hackles rise, and puts a hand against the sword at his hip, just in case.
The woman continues: "Something given, something gained. No gold! You give me something of yours, or you do me a favor." Her voice lilts, singsong. "So many people just want to take and take. But you're not like that, are you? Not like the others." ]
[ Astarion's eyes dart to Iorveth's hand, resting on the hilt of his sword, and then back up to his face, questioning. Everyone seems suspicious and untrustworthy to him, so it's difficult to tell if there's really any credence to the feeling, but if Iorveth feels it, then he supposes there must be something to it. ]
We're already down one eye, so I'm afraid I'll have to pass.
[ With a cant of his head toward the jarred eyeball: ]
Besides, it looks like you already have plenty.
[ But the knowledge that others have come asking about the cloak already puts the pressure on. He glances back to the wardrobe, fingertips pressed against the glass surface. ]
—But we're quite adept at odd jobs. What sort of favor did you have in mind? Mm, picking up groceries, perhaps, or doing the laundry?
[ Please, let it be laundry. Unfortunately, Granny clasps her clawlike hands on her lap, and offers:
"If you could give me the hand of a thieving gentleman caller who's been bothering Granny lately, Granny will give you any cloak you want in my shop."
A very normal request from a very normal old woman, except it totally isn't. Iorveth's remaining eye narrows, his overactive mind pouring over the terms laid out to them, going over the pros and cons of the proposal.
(Pros: Iorveth doesn't give a shit about killing a vampire and taking its hand if it'll get Astarion his cloak. Cons: literally everything else.)
While Iorveth mulls over the potential consequences of their future choices, Granny appends: "his name is Mrel Alkam－ a nasty little rat who keeps nibbling at my things. He's sent a few of his mean-faced lackeys to sniff around, but they all learned how to be polite in the end." ]
[ Astarion, ever the underthinker, doesn't consider the pros and cons at all. Cut off some random man's hand? Sure! As long as it gets him the cloak, he'd cut off several hands. He opens his mouth so say as much, but then she utters the name Mrel Alkam. ]
Ah.
[ (Stupid name. He hates it.)
He deflates in an instant, his fire extinguished. Fuck. Killing and de-handing any old man is one thing, but a vampire—a true vampire, a vampire lord—is another. Astarion is no one's spawn anymore, but he's still a spawn with a quarter of the power of a true vampire, if that. Besides, if Alkam is anything like Cazador, he'll have his own army of slaves to contend with. At least there's no possible way he could turn Astarion again. Iorveth, on the other hand—
Well, that would be impossible, because he'd never let that happen, so there's no point in even thinking about it.
A moment of hesitation. His gaze wanders to Iorveth, uncertain. ]
...Of course, that would be trivial for adventurers such as ourselves. Wouldn't it, darling?
[ A lot to consider. For one, Iorveth doesn't trust this old woman to honor her promise even if they did bring her a hand, but for the other, she seems far more shrewd than she lets on; he's wondering what she meant by "learned to be polite" about her past intruders when Astarion looks at him and poses his question.
Ugh. Iorveth is weak. He hates it when he sees any sort of worry cloud Astarion's eyes, which means that his first instinct is to be protective: he reaches and loosely wraps his fingers around Astarion's hand, giving it a light squeeze. ]
It's nothing we couldn't accomplish together.
[ He ignores the amused scrutiny that the old woman is beaming their way; there's something unsettling about the way she observes them, as if they're new toys on her shelf.
"What sweet little birdies! And so brave. Don't worry, Granny wouldn't let you two face a nasty man like that without something to help you along. ...Now, where did I put those trinkets, where oh where..."
With that, she shuffles towards the back of the room to rifle through her extensive collection, giving the two of them some breathing space. Iorveth frowns, and glances back towards Astarion. ]
[ Their options are always limited one way or another. 'Freedom', Astarion is finding out, is really a sham. He'd imagined being able to do whatever he wants whenever he wants, but there's always some stupid obstacle in his way. This, he tells himself, will be the last one. After this, he'll have the cloak, and his life will be everything he ever dreamed of.
Presuming he survives the challenge. ]
You don't happen to still have those supplies we, er—
[ He glances toward Granny Heart for just a moment. Probably better not to say stolen in front of strange company. ]
—acquired from that hunter in Baldur's Gate, do you?
[ They won't be able to utilize sunlight the way they did before, not unless Astarion wants to burn to a crisp alongside Alkam. They'll have to be crafty. ]
[ A vial of holy water and two Scrolls of Sunbeam. None of the stakes, and the blessed knives were gifted to Shadowheart, who probably took them back with her to her farm. Not an extensive arsenal against Cazador 2.0, so they might have to get creative.
As he's looking through his pack, Granny returns with two necklaces: one that she passes to Iorveth, and one that she offers to Astarion.
"This", she explains to Iorveth, "will prevent that nasty rat from charming you." To Astarion: "and this will make you harder for him to find."
Iorveth turns the item over in his hand, inspecting what looks suspiciously like a very shrunken heart, no bigger than the size of his thumbnail, hanging off the chain; he's hesitant to wear it, unsure if it will actually do as advertised, so he puts it into his pack for now. At any rate, it's obvious that Granny knows what Mrel is, which means that she's not as much of a clueless old coot as she'd like to seem. ]
[ Astarion looks down at the necklace, frowning. Not because it's creepy, although it is, but because it's ugly. better wear it under his clothes, lest Alkam decide to mock him for it. That is, if it even works at all. Maybe it's a useless doodad she's trying to pawn off on them, or maybe it does something more sinister. ]
Oh, thank you, [ he says, insincerely. ] I can't wait to wear it. ...Later.
[ He stuffs it into Iorveth's pack alongside the other necklace. ]
Perhaps you might point us in the direction of the nasty rat's hidey-hole, hm?
[ Gods, he hopes they don't have to ask around to figure out where Alkam is. That sounds like so much work. ]
[ Granny shuffles back to her chair again, and the smell of her― a sharp, acrid scent of formaldehyde laced with dried, dead flowers― recedes as well. Iorveth is glad for it, nose wrinkled and arms folded across his chest.
"He's in one of those big nests in the Scepter District. Nasty little thing, throwing nasty little parties all the time. Never invites Granny to them, no, though Granny wouldn't go anyway― Granny likes her sweet birdies, wouldn't want to spent time with all those rude rats."
She beams at Iorveth with her row of crooked, yellowed teeth. Her scrutiny touches him, a wet, slimy thing that pebbles his skin with goosebumps. For a moment, he believes that the old woman really would have accepted trading her cloak for Iorveth's blood.
Ugh. He shakes the feeling off, and slides his gaze over to Astarion. A far more pleasant person to look at, in more ways than one. ]
[ Ooh, the Scepter District. Fancy. It's no wonder Cazador kept in contact with him; he always coveted everything rich and gaudy. Astarion can't resist rolling his eyes at the thought of Cazador seething with jealousy over this Mrel Alkam.
He watches the woman grin her unnerving grin at Iorveth for a moment, then reaches out to wrap a hand around his forearm. ]
Well, the early bird gets the, ah, hand. We had better get going and start planning.
[ With a gentle tug, he starts to steer Iorveth out of the building. ]
We'll be back soon! Do clean the lint off those cloaks for me.
[ The woman keeps her sharp, hungry gaze fixed on the both of them until they leave the musty shop in favor of the muggy streets, and Iorveth has to physically wipe himself clean of her when the door clangs closed behind them. Shuddering, he scrapes at his shoulders and torso with his free hand, wicking psychic slobber off of him as if he's just stepped out from the mouth of a giant creature. ]
I half-expected her to unhinge her maw and try to bite my head clean off, [ Iorveth finally manages after a beat, wiping his hand on his trouser leg. ] Unpleasant thing. Not a normal human, by the look and sound of her. We should tread with caution.
[ Now they're stuck "arbitrating" a cold war between a weird old woman and a vampire lord. Great. Athkatla kind of sucks, actually. That said: ]
...Are you alright?
[ Astarion's been antsy and anxious since they woke up early that night, and now he has to contend with someone who likely shares many of Cazador's worst traits and tendencies. Not exactly an ideal situation. ]
Of course I am, [ comes his automatic response, as prickly and defensive as ever, but it's only a moment after that he softens, a testament to how much he trusts Iorveth with his feelings that he's willing to acquiesce so quickly.
He sighs, hand stroking up and down Iorveth's arm. ]
I just... had hoped we wouldn't have to face another vampire lord so soon.
[ An easy validation of that sentiment, because Iorveth shares it. There's no harm in admitting that a situation isn't ideal, and no shame in pointing out that vampire lords are, in fact, a pain in the ass. Astarion has had to survive one for two centuries, after all.
A low breath later, it's Iorveth's turn now to tug Astarion. Away from the shop (eeriely quiet compared to the rest of the neighborhood, a pinprick of darkness in an otherwise well-lit street) and towards a row of taverns and late-night markets still open to the curious and deep-pocketed. Mostly to keep the both of them out of their own heads, and to acclimate to the new city as they walk and talk. Athkatla is decidedly less clean and tidy than Waterdeep, the configuration of its inhabitants more chaotic, less orderly. ]
Perhaps I could just act like a thrall and knife him in the neck if he takes me to bed.
[ A perfectly sound plan, if not for the fact that Iorveth is the farthest thing from seductive. It would be great if things were that easy, though. ]
[ Waterdeep had been glamorous, but Athkatla is closer to home, if one can call Baldur's Gate that. Grittier. All it needs is some murder cultists running around. (Gods forbid they have to contend with that on top of vampires.)
The suggestion should make him laugh--Iorveth would never make it to the bedroom; he'd get irritated and stab him much sooner-- but it only sends a cold feeling down his spine. Quickly, he blurts out, shaking his head, ] No.
[ Unconsciously, he pulls Iorveth a little closer. ]
I don't want you alone with him, ever. In fact, [ he adds, frowning, ] if things go poorly, I want you to leave.
[ A lot to ask Iorveth, he knows. After all, he's the one who'd said he didn't want anything to happen to Astarion while he was gone. Whatever could happen to Astarion now pales in comparison to what could happen to Iorveth, though; the worst that can happen to Astarion is death, but there are a lot of things worse than that.
Manipulative to his core: ] If you love me, you'll do as I ask.
[ Definitely a lot to ask. Iorveth stops mid-motion, a handful of paces away from a cart selling what looks to be questionable potions at questionable prices, and turns towards Astarion with furrowed brows and a downturned mouth. ]
You would resent it if I asked the same of you.
[ Like, Iorveth could just say that he agrees and ignore the would-be promise entirely, but that isn't in his nature; he hates lying, and he hates lying to Astarion most of all. ]
I've already told you that I wouldn't be able to bear it if anything happened to you. It would be worse if I knew that I left you to be hurt while I saved myself.
[ Honestly, he would rather die. Not the outcome that Astarion wants, Iorveth knows. ]
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He's armed to the teeth by the time he returns, and Gale looks－ maybe a little disappointed by the fact that his guests will be gone again, despite the fact that all they ever did was be rude to him and eat all his food (citation needed). Iorveth makes a mental note to get more than a few souvenirs for Gale upon return.
"Well, I suppose we should get to it," Gale says, invisible dog ears drooping. "I wish I could join you on this little adventure, but I'm sure there'll be more opportunities in the future."
A wave, and they're led out onto the patio with its soft-looking divans and stacks of books. The Sea of Swords stretches deep and dark beyond the glittering portal situated between two armchairs, a dark void that makes the magic look even more frenetic in comparison. ]
I hate portals, [ Iorveth grouses. Which is why he holds out his hand for Astarion to hold, and not because he thinks Astarion needs the support (though he does, a little). ]
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I'm sure there will be, [ he agrees. ] There will always be someone who needs to be set on fire, after all.
[ He glances down at Iorveth's hand, reaching out to take it in his own. The support is needed, although he'd never admit it (at least not in front of Gale, who is endearing, yes, but Astarion still can't bear to be vulnerable in front of him). All bluster, Astarion hikes his chin up. ]
Don't worry, darling. Just hold on to me.
[ He's never been through a portal himself, but surely it can't be that bad. Astarion takes a step toward the swirling darkness, reaching out and—
In an instant, he's sucked through the portal, Iorveth alongside him. He feels everywhere and nowhere at once, disoriented with no time or space to anchor him. Complete silence, complete darkness. Then, suddenly, it's all back: the light of streetlamps is glaring, the hustle and bustle of Athkatla in the evening deafening. His head is spinning, and he turns to retch up a little bile onto the street like a cat with a hairball. ]
Gods! Whoever came up with such a piss poor form of transportation?!
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The portal makes him, unmakes him, puts him back together. It's the feeling of having the floor fall out from under his feet, of not knowing where up ends and down begins, the feeling of existence being pulled, pulled, pulled like putty―
―and it all snaps back. Iorveth, Mr. Wood Elf Balance, Mr. Animal Grace, finds himself letting go of Astarion's hand to stumble, foot crossing over foot, center of balance utterly fucked, until he slams against the nearest wall and mirrors Astarion in the retching.
Ugh. ] Wizards, [ he spits, literally. ] Masochists, the lot of them.
[ "I think I'd like to experience what being dematerialized feels like," said no one but spellcasters, ever. Iorveth lurches back onto the balls of his feet, very disgruntled about the whole affair.
Behind him: a strange, crooked two-story building with a sign that reads, in fading antique-gold letters, "Th Slee wal er's Dr am". A sign hangs on the door, "CLOSED", but a shadow keeps darting across the curtained window flanking it. Someone is inside. ]
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Unless: ] Ah, it looks like the place is closed for the evening. Perhaps we should return another time.
[ He's become quite the expert at avoiding things that make him feel even a little bit unpleasant. The idea of begging some old woman for the cloak makes him feel nervous, and so— avoidance. Procrastination. Putting it off until it's a problem for Future Astarion. ]
Honestly, she's probably not even home.
[ As if on cue, a shadow passes behind the curtain again. ]
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Iorveth swivels on his heels, and watches that jittering shadow pass back and forth across the crooked shop's only window. Maybe it's the change in scenery, or perhaps his innate dislike for man-made cities speaking, but he doesn't like the look of the place one bit.
Still. ] Best to do what we can now, lest we regret not doing so later. [ Terminally unable to not do what needs to be done. He lifts his hand from Astarion's shoulder and fluffs up his curls a bit, an extraneous gesture just for the sake of idle contact. ]
I'll be by your side. You'll not be alone.
[ Two elves who survived a Netherbrain, against one old woman. It can't possibly be so bad. ]
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...Fine.
[ If Iorveth had, in fact, gone to the north while Astarion visited Athkatla, he'd probably have spent the next tenday gearing himself up for this. It's ridiculous that Iorveth's fear was something happening to him; he should have been worried about nothing happening.
An unnecessary deep breath, and Astarion approaches the odd, crooked building. It looks a bit run-down, and Astarion wonders just how long the shop—or museum, maybe, or collection—has been around.
He raps his knuckles against the door once, twice. ]
Excuse me, [ he calls through the door. ] I know it's after hours, but our sparkling company will surely make up for it.
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Which is to say, deranged elf is very proud of his beloved vampire. He hovers behind his partner, a lanky shadow with its arms crossed, regarding the old woman with a critical eye when she finally appears from the other side of the door.
'Granny Heart' is－
－strange, at first glance. Small, bent, with sallow skin that seems to spread unevenly across her sunken features. When she smiles up at Astarion, wavy grey-black hair pulled up in a lumpy bun, the components of her face pull in directions that feel slightly incorrect. As if a different face has been superimposed on top of another one.
Still, she's friendly when she opens her mouth to greet them. "Oh, hello, my little birdies. Yes, yes, Granny doesn't mind the time at all－ what lovely little pigeons, cooing in the night. Come inside, come inside... not at all like the rude gentleman callers I usually get, they really are so pushy. Not like you lovely little birds."
With that, she gestures for them to follow her inside to her den of curiosities: a stale-smelling room packed from floor to ceiling with cabinets and shelves. An array of items sit behind glass panels in varying states of identifiability, from glasses to gloves to amulets to strange fleshy objects floating in murky liquid, seemingly in no particular order.
It's chaotic. Vaguely offputting. Iorveth wrinkles his nose, and stays close to Astarion's side. ]
Less a shop and more a mausoleum of things, [ he notes. ]
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Well, I'm not sure about pigeons. They are the rats of the sky, you know.
[ At least, they taste like it. Gross! Still, he shrugs it off, smiling as he adds, ] But we are lovely.
[ Good. If she likes them, maybe she'll be more willing to part with her things. He's instantly on the lookout for a cloak, peering at her various wares with interest. What looks to be an eyeball floats in a jar, and Astarion taps the glass with a finger. ]
Quite a collection you've got here. My partner and I are actually in the market for some interesting artefacts to bring back home with us.
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She smiles again, ungainly, as she finds one of the few empty chairs in the room that look good enough to perch on. Her eyes shine amber in lamplight.
"So Granny likes to trade. Give a trinket, get a trinket. It helps me remember all the little birds that've flown into my nest."
Behind her is a glass-paneled wardrobe guarded comically by an iron padlock (Iorveth thinks that it would be much easier to break the glass than pick the lock, but what does he know), containing cloaks and clothing in various styles. A promising start. ]
We only have gold. Everything else we possess is what you see in front of you.
[ Arms loosely spread in the universal gesture for "what you see is what you get". The old woman laughs at that, as if it's the funniest thing she's heard all tenday.
"And isn't it nice, what I see? Would your pretty dove trade you for something in my shop?" ]
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[ Astarion forces out a laugh. It isn't funny at all, actually, but he hopes it's just that: a joke. She's a collector of magical curios, but at the end of the day, she's only an old woman. Hardly a threat.
He gravitates toward the glass wardrobe, peering curiously inside. Which of these, he wonders, is the cloak they're after? It would be too much to ask, he supposes, for it to have DAYLIGHT CLOAK embroidered on it. If only he knew, he could come back when the old biddy is gone and try his luck at the padlock.
Instead: ]
What do you say, ten gold for a cloak? That's very reasonable, I think.
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Granny slips her oil-slick gaze back towards Astarion, though, at his suggestion, which leaves Iorveth free to inspect her shift in expression... or, well. Lack thereof. Her grin stays, and it's not as gormless as Iorveth'd like it to be.
"A cloak? A cloak. So many people asking for cloaks recently! All of them with eyes like yours, sweet little dove. Red, red eyes. Maybe you'd trade me one for a cloak."
Another laugh, this one more unpleasant. Iorveth feels his hackles rise, and puts a hand against the sword at his hip, just in case.
The woman continues: "Something given, something gained. No gold! You give me something of yours, or you do me a favor." Her voice lilts, singsong. "So many people just want to take and take. But you're not like that, are you? Not like the others." ]
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We're already down one eye, so I'm afraid I'll have to pass.
[ With a cant of his head toward the jarred eyeball: ]
Besides, it looks like you already have plenty.
[ But the knowledge that others have come asking about the cloak already puts the pressure on. He glances back to the wardrobe, fingertips pressed against the glass surface. ]
—But we're quite adept at odd jobs. What sort of favor did you have in mind? Mm, picking up groceries, perhaps, or doing the laundry?
[ One can hope. ]
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"If you could give me the hand of a thieving gentleman caller who's been bothering Granny lately, Granny will give you any cloak you want in my shop."
A very normal request from a very normal old woman, except it totally isn't. Iorveth's remaining eye narrows, his overactive mind pouring over the terms laid out to them, going over the pros and cons of the proposal.
(Pros: Iorveth doesn't give a shit about killing a vampire and taking its hand if it'll get Astarion his cloak. Cons: literally everything else.)
While Iorveth mulls over the potential consequences of their future choices, Granny appends: "his name is Mrel Alkam－ a nasty little rat who keeps nibbling at my things. He's sent a few of his mean-faced lackeys to sniff around, but they all learned how to be polite in the end." ]
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Ah.
[ (Stupid name. He hates it.)
He deflates in an instant, his fire extinguished. Fuck. Killing and de-handing any old man is one thing, but a vampire—a true vampire, a vampire lord—is another. Astarion is no one's spawn anymore, but he's still a spawn with a quarter of the power of a true vampire, if that. Besides, if Alkam is anything like Cazador, he'll have his own army of slaves to contend with. At least there's no possible way he could turn Astarion again. Iorveth, on the other hand—
Well, that would be impossible, because he'd never let that happen, so there's no point in even thinking about it.
A moment of hesitation. His gaze wanders to Iorveth, uncertain. ]
...Of course, that would be trivial for adventurers such as ourselves. Wouldn't it, darling?
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Ugh. Iorveth is weak. He hates it when he sees any sort of worry cloud Astarion's eyes, which means that his first instinct is to be protective: he reaches and loosely wraps his fingers around Astarion's hand, giving it a light squeeze. ]
It's nothing we couldn't accomplish together.
[ He ignores the amused scrutiny that the old woman is beaming their way; there's something unsettling about the way she observes them, as if they're new toys on her shelf.
"What sweet little birdies! And so brave. Don't worry, Granny wouldn't let you two face a nasty man like that without something to help you along. ...Now, where did I put those trinkets, where oh where..."
With that, she shuffles towards the back of the room to rifle through her extensive collection, giving the two of them some breathing space. Iorveth frowns, and glances back towards Astarion. ]
It seems our options are limited.
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[ Their options are always limited one way or another. 'Freedom', Astarion is finding out, is really a sham. He'd imagined being able to do whatever he wants whenever he wants, but there's always some stupid obstacle in his way. This, he tells himself, will be the last one. After this, he'll have the cloak, and his life will be everything he ever dreamed of.
Presuming he survives the challenge. ]
You don't happen to still have those supplies we, er—
[ He glances toward Granny Heart for just a moment. Probably better not to say stolen in front of strange company. ]
—acquired from that hunter in Baldur's Gate, do you?
[ They won't be able to utilize sunlight the way they did before, not unless Astarion wants to burn to a crisp alongside Alkam. They'll have to be crafty. ]
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[ A vial of holy water and two Scrolls of Sunbeam. None of the stakes, and the blessed knives were gifted to Shadowheart, who probably took them back with her to her farm. Not an extensive arsenal against Cazador 2.0, so they might have to get creative.
As he's looking through his pack, Granny returns with two necklaces: one that she passes to Iorveth, and one that she offers to Astarion.
"This", she explains to Iorveth, "will prevent that nasty rat from charming you." To Astarion: "and this will make you harder for him to find."
Iorveth turns the item over in his hand, inspecting what looks suspiciously like a very shrunken heart, no bigger than the size of his thumbnail, hanging off the chain; he's hesitant to wear it, unsure if it will actually do as advertised, so he puts it into his pack for now. At any rate, it's obvious that Granny knows what Mrel is, which means that she's not as much of a clueless old coot as she'd like to seem. ]
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Oh, thank you, [ he says, insincerely. ] I can't wait to wear it. ...Later.
[ He stuffs it into Iorveth's pack alongside the other necklace. ]
Perhaps you might point us in the direction of the nasty rat's hidey-hole, hm?
[ Gods, he hopes they don't have to ask around to figure out where Alkam is. That sounds like so much work. ]
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"He's in one of those big nests in the Scepter District. Nasty little thing, throwing nasty little parties all the time. Never invites Granny to them, no, though Granny wouldn't go anyway― Granny likes her sweet birdies, wouldn't want to spent time with all those rude rats."
She beams at Iorveth with her row of crooked, yellowed teeth. Her scrutiny touches him, a wet, slimy thing that pebbles his skin with goosebumps. For a moment, he believes that the old woman really would have accepted trading her cloak for Iorveth's blood.
Ugh. He shakes the feeling off, and slides his gaze over to Astarion. A far more pleasant person to look at, in more ways than one. ]
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He watches the woman grin her unnerving grin at Iorveth for a moment, then reaches out to wrap a hand around his forearm. ]
Well, the early bird gets the, ah, hand. We had better get going and start planning.
[ With a gentle tug, he starts to steer Iorveth out of the building. ]
We'll be back soon! Do clean the lint off those cloaks for me.
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I half-expected her to unhinge her maw and try to bite my head clean off, [ Iorveth finally manages after a beat, wiping his hand on his trouser leg. ] Unpleasant thing. Not a normal human, by the look and sound of her. We should tread with caution.
[ Now they're stuck "arbitrating" a cold war between a weird old woman and a vampire lord. Great. Athkatla kind of sucks, actually. That said: ]
...Are you alright?
[ Astarion's been antsy and anxious since they woke up early that night, and now he has to contend with someone who likely shares many of Cazador's worst traits and tendencies. Not exactly an ideal situation. ]
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He sighs, hand stroking up and down Iorveth's arm. ]
I just... had hoped we wouldn't have to face another vampire lord so soon.
[ A frown. ]
Or ever.
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[ An easy validation of that sentiment, because Iorveth shares it. There's no harm in admitting that a situation isn't ideal, and no shame in pointing out that vampire lords are, in fact, a pain in the ass. Astarion has had to survive one for two centuries, after all.
A low breath later, it's Iorveth's turn now to tug Astarion. Away from the shop (eeriely quiet compared to the rest of the neighborhood, a pinprick of darkness in an otherwise well-lit street) and towards a row of taverns and late-night markets still open to the curious and deep-pocketed. Mostly to keep the both of them out of their own heads, and to acclimate to the new city as they walk and talk. Athkatla is decidedly less clean and tidy than Waterdeep, the configuration of its inhabitants more chaotic, less orderly. ]
Perhaps I could just act like a thrall and knife him in the neck if he takes me to bed.
[ A perfectly sound plan, if not for the fact that Iorveth is the farthest thing from seductive. It would be great if things were that easy, though. ]
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The suggestion should make him laugh--Iorveth would never make it to the bedroom; he'd get irritated and stab him much sooner-- but it only sends a cold feeling down his spine. Quickly, he blurts out, shaking his head, ] No.
[ Unconsciously, he pulls Iorveth a little closer. ]
I don't want you alone with him, ever. In fact, [ he adds, frowning, ] if things go poorly, I want you to leave.
[ A lot to ask Iorveth, he knows. After all, he's the one who'd said he didn't want anything to happen to Astarion while he was gone. Whatever could happen to Astarion now pales in comparison to what could happen to Iorveth, though; the worst that can happen to Astarion is death, but there are a lot of things worse than that.
Manipulative to his core: ] If you love me, you'll do as I ask.
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You would resent it if I asked the same of you.
[ Like, Iorveth could just say that he agrees and ignore the would-be promise entirely, but that isn't in his nature; he hates lying, and he hates lying to Astarion most of all. ]
I've already told you that I wouldn't be able to bear it if anything happened to you. It would be worse if I knew that I left you to be hurt while I saved myself.
[ Honestly, he would rather die. Not the outcome that Astarion wants, Iorveth knows. ]
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