[ 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. ]
[ Yes, he'd resent Iorveth if he asked the same of him, but it isn't the same. Stupid Iorveth. Astarion glowers as they walk past a stall selling various pieces of jewelry. "A hundred percent real emerald!" calls the halfling stall-owner; Astarion is fairly sure it's not even one percent real emerald. ]
Don't be stupid, darling.
[ A little harsh, but— ]
You're mortal. He can't hurt me the way he can hurt you.
[ And, in fact, it would hurt him more than any mere physical injury could. It's funny: he never worried about this when they took on Cazador, too wrapped up in his own emotions. ]
[ The "Who-Could-Be-Hurt-More-In-A-Nightmare-Scenario Olympics" is profoundly stupid, but Iorveth is competing in it anyway. Not even to win the gold; he's arguing that Astarion should win it, which is even stupider. He presses on anyway. ]
He could do worse to you, because you're not mortal.
[ Not to bring up the two hundred years of pure torture again, but Iorveth wouldn't have survived year one with his limited mortal tolerance. ]
I can endure torture, [ he says, and ignores the way a teenage human double-takes as he passes by with his gaggle of friends, ] and it would be easier for me to do so than to faff about with my thumb up my ass while you suffer.
[ Stubborn, but not angry; he can't be, not after Astarion admits that seeing him hurt would be agonizing. ]
...I won't leave you, but I promise to be careful. I'll not be cavalier for the sake of being cavalier. [ Not much of a compromise, he knows, but he offers it as diplomatically as he can. Still frowning, but not scowling. ]
[ Astarion stomps his foot, the heel of his boot clacking against the cobblestone. Across the street, a couple tieflings milling about turn to look at the elves who are clearly having some sort of domestic dispute in public. They shoot each other knowing glances, somewhere between amused and filled with secondhand embarrassment.
He doesn't notice, too wrapped up in Iorveth. Pulling him over to the side of the street, he hisses, ] Must you be so daft?
[ Rude. It's out of love, so he assumes that will cover his sins. ]
He could bite you, you idiot, and after throwing you in six feet of dirt you'd be his.
[ Slightly stunned by the outburst, but not in a way that invites rage. Under the awning of a shop stall that's closed for the day, Iorveth watches Astarion bare his teeth at him (cute, despite everything) and tries to wrap his head around the idea of being bitten, which―
―is not a concern he's actively had, mostly because he experienced Cazador, who'd looked at him and called him something similar to a defective mutt that should be put down. Apparently, vampire lords are picky about who they turn into spawn. Iorveth says as much. ]
Not even Cazador wanted to bite me.
[ And Cazador needed all the souls he could get for his stupid infernal ritual. Kind of insulting, in a sense, but also the only time Iorveth will be grateful for being ugly. ]
I doubt Alkam needs a disfigured elf to grace his hallowed halls. That's the least of your worries, foolish cat.
[ He's sure the man has some standards, and that isn't a dig at Astarion; he loves Astarion very much, especially when he's being yelled at about being stupid. ]
[ Astarion isn't pacified. Nothing that relies on Iorveth being unappealing could ever soothe his worries. It's rose-tinted glasses, yes, but Iorveth is the most desirable person in the world to him, inside and out. Even before he grew to love—or even like—Iorveth, he could admit that there was a certain rugged appeal. Those deft fingers plucking at bowstrings, those long limbs stretching out after a long day, that aquiline nose and strong chin. His eye (or lack thereof) never mattered. ]
Is that what you'd like me to bet my world on?
[ Because that's what it is: his world. There would be no world for him anymore if Iorveth were subjected to the same sort of torture and subjugation he was, after already being subjected to his own unique brand of torture and subjugation at humans' hands. ]
That you're not handsome enough to be turned?
[ Iorveth would have been the very first person Astarion bit if he had completed the ritual, but he probably shouldn't say that. ]
[ A circular disagreement. Iorveth knows he'd never agree to leaving Astarion if anything were to go awry, and he can tell that Astarion won't budge on his point, no matter how improbable (to Iorveth) it seems. Brows knit and posture straight, Iorveth considers their impasse through a hiss of breath between his teeth. ]
As flattering as your assessment is, beloved, [ in a tone of voice softer than he'd intended, ] you forget that I've made it a point to be off-putting for decades.
[ He reaches to press his palm against Astarion's cheek, warm skin to cold. ]
Not just physically, but in spirit. You were the first to break my defenses in ages. [ A light huff, exasperation laced with amusement. ] It would be easy for me to make it so that Alkam would sooner slit my throat than want to have me in his periphery for centuries.
[ Which probably isn't ideal, either. A no-win situation. Iorveth sighs again, and lowers his shoulders just a fraction. ]
[ Instinctively, Astarion covers Iorveth's hand with his own, sandwiching it between his cold cheek and cold palm. He wants to argue; Cazador didn't bite him because he wanted to keep him around for centuries. His endless criticism was proof enough of that — he thought that Astarion was stupid, worthless, a brat. But he also thought that Astarion was useful — Iorveth could be useful, too. ]
But—
[ He stumbles over his words for a moment, uncharacteristically at a loss for what to say. Damn Iorveth and his stubbornness. Finally, he tips up his chin, haughty. ]
Promise me you won't get bitten. I won't ever forgive you if you do.
[ It's humbling, certainly, to know what it would mean for Iorveth to be bitten. His world, Astarion had said― what a thing to be told so brazenly. It makes Iorveth's heart seize, and he strokes the crest of Astarion's high cheekbone with the flat of his thumb. ]
That, I can promise. [ Can he? Perhaps not with any degree of actual certainty, but he has far more confidence in his ability to be eminently un-biteable than his ability to leave someone he loves more than himself. ] I would never allow myself to become his.
[ A despicable notion. Another breath, and to lighten the mood: ] ...Perhaps I should get my tattoo before we confront him. To show that I already belong to a fearsome fanged creature.
[ Lightly pinching Astarion's cheek. Hard to do when it's being sandwiched under Astarion's palm, but he manages. ]
[ Iorveth certainly can't promise that, but Astarion allows himself to live in the delusion for a moment. He knows exactly how to appeal to Astarion; mentions of belonging, even though Astarion knows that Iorveth must believe everyone belongs to no one but themselves. It works regardless, a happy little warmth spreading from Iorveth's fingertips to Astarion's cheek and beyond. ]
...You know I can't resist the offer to put my mark on you.
[ If it's meant to be a distraction from the danger they could soon be facing, well, it's successful. He sighs, curling his fingers around Iorveth's and bringing their joined hands down to their sides. ]
I'm sure there are plenty of seedy tattoo parlors around here. You need only take your pick.
[ They link fingers, and Iorveth takes the opportunity to pull closer, with their forearms almost twining. When they step out from under the shadow of the awning, Iorveth hikes a haughty chin at the onlookers, who'd likely expected the quibbling elves to storm off separately in a huff; instead, Iorveth tips his head and presses his lips to Astarion's temple in a not-so-subtle fuck-you to the gawkers.
A moment passes, when he considers pressing the point again― "I promise I'll be careful", or "it would kill me if I were the reason you felt hurt"― but he can leave that for later, when they're in the privacy of the ridiculous suite that Gale arranged for them. It seems a better place for it.
So: ]
I expect you'd like to be the one putting me under the needle.
[ Which means they'll have to buy a throwaway kit. Of all the ways they can do this, it is, in fact, the most painful, but Iorveth doesn't mind; he's the kind of psycho who enjoyed sitting naked in front of someone while they tattooed his inner thigh. Probably best not to mention that unless Astarion asks.
They pass a few more carts selling miscellaneous objects― fabrics from a town he's never heard of, more questionable potions touted to improve a man's potency― and a few darker storefronts until they happen upon a place called "Immovable Inks". It's manned by a sharp-eyed halfling who glances up from his workbench when the pair come in, then excitedly approaches Iorveth to ask for a better look at the branches extending up his neck.
To "how low does that go?", Iorveth's reply is a coy: ] Lower than you're imagining.
[ Astarion instantly butts in both verbally and physically, sticking his head in front of the halfling's wandering eyes. ]
It coils around his nethers, actually.
[ A joke, mostly, and also an implication that Astarion has seen his nethers, so if this halfling finds a one-eyed terrorist with an extensive tattoo hot, back off!!! The halfling first looks surprised and a little horrified before finally laughing, clearly hoping it's a joke, at least. "I certainly hope not," he says. "What brings you in?" ]
I need ink and a needle.
[ Are there any more supplies needed for a tattoo? Astarion hasn't the slightest idea. (And this is the man Iorveth is going to let put a needle to his skin.) ]
Mmm, [ he says in thought, ] is red too on the nose?
[ Another look of horror on the halfling's face, when he realizes that the white-haired gentleman has no idea what tattooing seems to entail. Then again, the narration is also not aware of Athkatlan tattooing practices, so it will have to be conveniently contrived for this particular purpose.
Anyway. Iorveth laughs at the joke (because even he's not brave enough to let someone go to town on his junk with a needle and ink), and slinks around the section of the shop that offers portable tattooing tools. There's a sign hanging above the tools that reads, in clear and crisp font, 'WE DO NOT SELL TO PEOPLE WHO ARE CLEARLY DRUNK. PLEASE TATTOO RESPONSIBLY. IMMOVABLE INKS WILL NOT BE HELD LIABLE FOR BAD DECISIONS.'
Iorveth laughs again, and picks up a tattoo 'gun': an item that looks like a motorized quill with a needle situated at the tip. 'Only good for one use. Motor only lasts for up to three hours after activation,' the instructions read. ]
It'll be your mark― have it be whatever color you wish.
[ "We have special inks, too", the halfling offers. "Won't believe how many people come here asking for colors that glow in the dark." ]
I don't intend to spend too much time in the dark.
[ A comment that, of course, goes over the halfling shopkeeper's head (like many things do, Astarion imagines, given his short stature). He sees no point in anything 'glow in the dark' when he plans to spend all of his time basking in the sun as soon as he's able to.
He gravitates toward a shelf, picking up a vial of ink that seems to shimmer and sparkle. Pretty, but not particularly suited toward his glowering sweetheart. Iorveth has seemingly given him free rein, but he does want the tattoo to be something enjoyable for the both of them. After all, he knows what it's like to have permanent markings that he hates on his body. ]
As much as I'd like us to match, I think red might clash with your, ah, color palette.
[ The fear of the gods put in him, slightly, by that glittering vial. Astarion is free to be as shiny as he wants to be, as long as Iorveth doesn't also have to participate (famous last words).
To that, the halfling weaves between the two elves' collectively long legs, and ventures: "well, there is a special burgundy that I have somewhere..." Muttering, he starts to rummage in cabinets for the item in question, until he pops up like a gopher again, holding the pinky-sized delicate bottle for Astarion's inspection. "Found it! It looks red in the dark, but you'd be able to see the jade shimmer in the ink when the sun hits the tattoo just right."
Again, shimmer is a bit frightening, but― ] I'll leave it to him to decide.
[ He was spontaneous about his currently existing ink, and he can be just as spontaneous about this new one. An encouraging nudge, and Iorveth goes to pay for the motorized 'pen', fielding questions from the halfling about Aen Seidhe art. ]
[ 'As long as it doesn't sparkle', Iorveth says, while Astarion admires the sparkle. What can he say? A magpie is a magpie. He places the vial of sparkly ink back on the shelf, but he does take the proffered burgundy, holding it up to the light to admire the hidden glint of green.
It's a dangerous thing to allow Astarion to decide. He pops up behind Iorveth, placing his little bottle of ink on the counter. It's a tiny amount, really, but he supposes he won't be needing much. He might not know anything about tattooing, but he at least knows that. ]
[ Sometimes, love is risking it all and resigning yourself to the fact that you've given someone free reign to draw anything they want on your skin. If Astarion changes his mind and decides to draw a giant fluorescent prick on his ass, well, Iorveth will just deal with it; the scariest thing about this is that Iorveth would rather get a pink dick on his ass than lose Astarion forever.
So. A scoff, but the ink is paid for and put into his pack. ]
How unfortunate for me that they suit you.
[ They do. One day, Iorveth is going to find Astarion curled up on a bed surrounded by shiny trinkets and soft clothes, and he won't even be mad about it.
The good-natured halfling thanks the weird elves for their patronage, and lets them know that they have a tenday-long warranty on the motorized quill if anything goes awry. A salesman, through and through. Iorveth thanks him, tips him a good silver for being so accommodating, and rests the coinpurse in Astarion's hand as they walk out of the shop. It is, predictably, obscenely heavy, packed with gold.
(Things Iorveth has found out about Gale: he's a fussy worrywart.) ]
[ Astarion appreciates the weight of their gifted coin purse for a moment--upsides to having a wealthy ex-archwizard as a friend--before reaching out and placing it back in Iorveth's pack. If Athkatla is anything like Baldur's Gate, it's for the best that they don't openly carry around anything that could make them a target for thieves. (Astarion would know, because he was one of those thieves.)
Once the pouch is safely tucked away, he links their arms again. For the sake of it, of course, but also so that Iorveth doesn't begin to feel overwhelmed and adrift in the hustle and bustle of Athkatla in the evening. It's grounding him the only way Astarion knows how to. ]
The marks are fading, [ he observes, peering at Iorveth's throat, ] and I'll need a stencil to follow, you know.
[ An excuse, mostly. ]
I'll have to bite you again. [ With a sigh: ] A trial, but I'll do it.
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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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Don't be stupid, darling.
[ A little harsh, but— ]
You're mortal. He can't hurt me the way he can hurt you.
[ And, in fact, it would hurt him more than any mere physical injury could. It's funny: he never worried about this when they took on Cazador, too wrapped up in his own emotions. ]
Believe me when I say that it would kill me.
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He could do worse to you, because you're not mortal.
[ Not to bring up the two hundred years of pure torture again, but Iorveth wouldn't have survived year one with his limited mortal tolerance. ]
I can endure torture, [ he says, and ignores the way a teenage human double-takes as he passes by with his gaggle of friends, ] and it would be easier for me to do so than to faff about with my thumb up my ass while you suffer.
[ Stubborn, but not angry; he can't be, not after Astarion admits that seeing him hurt would be agonizing. ]
...I won't leave you, but I promise to be careful. I'll not be cavalier for the sake of being cavalier. [ Not much of a compromise, he knows, but he offers it as diplomatically as he can. Still frowning, but not scowling. ]
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[ Astarion stomps his foot, the heel of his boot clacking against the cobblestone. Across the street, a couple tieflings milling about turn to look at the elves who are clearly having some sort of domestic dispute in public. They shoot each other knowing glances, somewhere between amused and filled with secondhand embarrassment.
He doesn't notice, too wrapped up in Iorveth. Pulling him over to the side of the street, he hisses, ] Must you be so daft?
[ Rude. It's out of love, so he assumes that will cover his sins. ]
He could bite you, you idiot, and after throwing you in six feet of dirt you'd be his.
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―is not a concern he's actively had, mostly because he experienced Cazador, who'd looked at him and called him something similar to a defective mutt that should be put down. Apparently, vampire lords are picky about who they turn into spawn. Iorveth says as much. ]
Not even Cazador wanted to bite me.
[ And Cazador needed all the souls he could get for his stupid infernal ritual. Kind of insulting, in a sense, but also the only time Iorveth will be grateful for being ugly. ]
I doubt Alkam needs a disfigured elf to grace his hallowed halls. That's the least of your worries, foolish cat.
[ He's sure the man has some standards, and that isn't a dig at Astarion; he loves Astarion very much, especially when he's being yelled at about being stupid. ]
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Is that what you'd like me to bet my world on?
[ Because that's what it is: his world. There would be no world for him anymore if Iorveth were subjected to the same sort of torture and subjugation he was, after already being subjected to his own unique brand of torture and subjugation at humans' hands. ]
That you're not handsome enough to be turned?
[ Iorveth would have been the very first person Astarion bit if he had completed the ritual, but he probably shouldn't say that. ]
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As flattering as your assessment is, beloved, [ in a tone of voice softer than he'd intended, ] you forget that I've made it a point to be off-putting for decades.
[ He reaches to press his palm against Astarion's cheek, warm skin to cold. ]
Not just physically, but in spirit. You were the first to break my defenses in ages. [ A light huff, exasperation laced with amusement. ] It would be easy for me to make it so that Alkam would sooner slit my throat than want to have me in his periphery for centuries.
[ Which probably isn't ideal, either. A no-win situation. Iorveth sighs again, and lowers his shoulders just a fraction. ]
Astarion. You know I could never leave you.
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But—
[ He stumbles over his words for a moment, uncharacteristically at a loss for what to say. Damn Iorveth and his stubbornness. Finally, he tips up his chin, haughty. ]
Promise me you won't get bitten. I won't ever forgive you if you do.
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That, I can promise. [ Can he? Perhaps not with any degree of actual certainty, but he has far more confidence in his ability to be eminently un-biteable than his ability to leave someone he loves more than himself. ] I would never allow myself to become his.
[ A despicable notion. Another breath, and to lighten the mood: ] ...Perhaps I should get my tattoo before we confront him. To show that I already belong to a fearsome fanged creature.
[ Lightly pinching Astarion's cheek. Hard to do when it's being sandwiched under Astarion's palm, but he manages. ]
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...You know I can't resist the offer to put my mark on you.
[ If it's meant to be a distraction from the danger they could soon be facing, well, it's successful. He sighs, curling his fingers around Iorveth's and bringing their joined hands down to their sides. ]
I'm sure there are plenty of seedy tattoo parlors around here. You need only take your pick.
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A moment passes, when he considers pressing the point again― "I promise I'll be careful", or "it would kill me if I were the reason you felt hurt"― but he can leave that for later, when they're in the privacy of the ridiculous suite that Gale arranged for them. It seems a better place for it.
So: ]
I expect you'd like to be the one putting me under the needle.
[ Which means they'll have to buy a throwaway kit. Of all the ways they can do this, it is, in fact, the most painful, but Iorveth doesn't mind; he's the kind of psycho who enjoyed sitting naked in front of someone while they tattooed his inner thigh. Probably best not to mention that unless Astarion asks.
They pass a few more carts selling miscellaneous objects― fabrics from a town he's never heard of, more questionable potions touted to improve a man's potency― and a few darker storefronts until they happen upon a place called "Immovable Inks". It's manned by a sharp-eyed halfling who glances up from his workbench when the pair come in, then excitedly approaches Iorveth to ask for a better look at the branches extending up his neck.
To "how low does that go?", Iorveth's reply is a coy: ] Lower than you're imagining.
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It coils around his nethers, actually.
[ A joke, mostly, and also an implication that Astarion has seen his nethers, so if this halfling finds a one-eyed terrorist with an extensive tattoo hot, back off!!! The halfling first looks surprised and a little horrified before finally laughing, clearly hoping it's a joke, at least. "I certainly hope not," he says. "What brings you in?" ]
I need ink and a needle.
[ Are there any more supplies needed for a tattoo? Astarion hasn't the slightest idea. (And this is the man Iorveth is going to let put a needle to his skin.) ]
Mmm, [ he says in thought, ] is red too on the nose?
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Anyway. Iorveth laughs at the joke (because even he's not brave enough to let someone go to town on his junk with a needle and ink), and slinks around the section of the shop that offers portable tattooing tools. There's a sign hanging above the tools that reads, in clear and crisp font, 'WE DO NOT SELL TO PEOPLE WHO ARE CLEARLY DRUNK. PLEASE TATTOO RESPONSIBLY. IMMOVABLE INKS WILL NOT BE HELD LIABLE FOR BAD DECISIONS.'
Iorveth laughs again, and picks up a tattoo 'gun': an item that looks like a motorized quill with a needle situated at the tip. 'Only good for one use. Motor only lasts for up to three hours after activation,' the instructions read. ]
It'll be your mark― have it be whatever color you wish.
[ "We have special inks, too", the halfling offers. "Won't believe how many people come here asking for colors that glow in the dark." ]
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[ A comment that, of course, goes over the halfling shopkeeper's head (like many things do, Astarion imagines, given his short stature). He sees no point in anything 'glow in the dark' when he plans to spend all of his time basking in the sun as soon as he's able to.
He gravitates toward a shelf, picking up a vial of ink that seems to shimmer and sparkle. Pretty, but not particularly suited toward his glowering sweetheart. Iorveth has seemingly given him free rein, but he does want the tattoo to be something enjoyable for the both of them. After all, he knows what it's like to have permanent markings that he hates on his body. ]
As much as I'd like us to match, I think red might clash with your, ah, color palette.
[ You know. Earth tones. ]
Green, perhaps.
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[ The fear of the gods put in him, slightly, by that glittering vial. Astarion is free to be as shiny as he wants to be, as long as Iorveth doesn't also have to participate (famous last words).
To that, the halfling weaves between the two elves' collectively long legs, and ventures: "well, there is a special burgundy that I have somewhere..." Muttering, he starts to rummage in cabinets for the item in question, until he pops up like a gopher again, holding the pinky-sized delicate bottle for Astarion's inspection. "Found it! It looks red in the dark, but you'd be able to see the jade shimmer in the ink when the sun hits the tattoo just right."
Again, shimmer is a bit frightening, but― ] I'll leave it to him to decide.
[ He was spontaneous about his currently existing ink, and he can be just as spontaneous about this new one. An encouraging nudge, and Iorveth goes to pay for the motorized 'pen', fielding questions from the halfling about Aen Seidhe art. ]
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It's a dangerous thing to allow Astarion to decide. He pops up behind Iorveth, placing his little bottle of ink on the counter. It's a tiny amount, really, but he supposes he won't be needing much. He might not know anything about tattooing, but he at least knows that. ]
You know I so enjoy shiny things.
[ He can have a little sparkle, as a treat!! ]
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So. A scoff, but the ink is paid for and put into his pack. ]
How unfortunate for me that they suit you.
[ They do. One day, Iorveth is going to find Astarion curled up on a bed surrounded by shiny trinkets and soft clothes, and he won't even be mad about it.
The good-natured halfling thanks the weird elves for their patronage, and lets them know that they have a tenday-long warranty on the motorized quill if anything goes awry. A salesman, through and through. Iorveth thanks him, tips him a good silver for being so accommodating, and rests the coinpurse in Astarion's hand as they walk out of the shop. It is, predictably, obscenely heavy, packed with gold.
(Things Iorveth has found out about Gale: he's a fussy worrywart.) ]
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Once the pouch is safely tucked away, he links their arms again. For the sake of it, of course, but also so that Iorveth doesn't begin to feel overwhelmed and adrift in the hustle and bustle of Athkatla in the evening. It's grounding him the only way Astarion knows how to. ]
The marks are fading, [ he observes, peering at Iorveth's throat, ] and I'll need a stencil to follow, you know.
[ An excuse, mostly. ]
I'll have to bite you again. [ With a sigh: ] A trial, but I'll do it.
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