essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

Edited 2025-04-19 23:25 (UTC)

[ 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.

[ You know. Earth tones. ]

Green, perhaps.

As long as it doesn't sparkle.

[ 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. ]

You know I so enjoy shiny things.

[ He can have a little sparkle, as a treat!! ]

[ 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.

[ The grounding is appreciated, and perhaps needed. Waterdeep'd been an adjustment, and Iorveth'd thought that it would prepare him for any other city to follow, but he's finding that he was sorely wrong: Athkatla is even busier, even more awake at this time of night than Waterdeep'd been, and less polite about its interest in strangers. Two tall elves wearing nice Waterdhavian clothing is attracting more than a few eyes, and the casual attention, no matter how harmless it is, makes Iorveth's hackles rise somewhat.

Astarion's steady and confident presence helps. Matching his stride to his partner's pace, Iorveth steers them as best he can, relying on sparse guideposts to point him in the right direction while ignoring several Athkatlans who try to speak to them in the interim. Thank the gods Astarion distracts him with mentions of biting. ]

Magnanimous as always. [ A huff-laugh, and a glance Astarion's way. The irritated furrow between Iorveth's brows fades when he's focused on the welcome presence next to him. ] I've been missing your teeth.

[ A very normal thing for a normal elf to say. ]

I always look forward to you asking me for a bite, you know.

[ Astarion holds Iorveth close, away from the crowds as much as he can. He's never been a fan of crowds, exactly—he's not one for people—but there is a familiarity to it. Slipping into a crowd at night is what he's done for centuries.

He smiles, then, pleased by Iorveth's freakiness. There are many wonderful things about Iorveth, but one of his favorites is Iorveth's unconditional acceptance of the qualities that make Astarion, well, left of normal. He doesn't so much as flinch at vampirism, never makes Astarion feel judged for his undead inclinations. ]

Mm, [ he acknowledges, ] you aren't afraid of being mauled by a fearsome fanged creature?

[ 'Fearsome', no. 'Mauled', probably. He does enjoy biting and scratching and kicking, like a rabid raccoon. ]

Brave little snack.

Bloodbag, you mean.

[ Wry humor, at his expense. He still remembers those starved, drained spawn staring at him with hungry eyes in the pits of Cazador's castle; how they seemed to see through him and into his veins instead of anything about him that made him sentient. It would've been chilling if not for Astarion's steady presence there, too, with his cold grip around Iorveth's wrist, tugging him through the crowd.

Struck, again, by how much he loves this silly vampire. Iorveth leans on Astarion far more than Astarion knows, he thinks. ]

I'm not afraid of you.

[ He states, simply. Almost insultingly. But the bluntness comes with an addendum, as usual: ] You would never do anything that would harm me.

[ Hurt him, sure, but only because Iorveth is the kind of freak that asks Astarion to hold him at knifepoint during intimacy. His lips curl upwards at the thought of that (very enticing), and he nudges the side of Astarion's head with his own. ] I don't trust the other spawn milling about in this cursed city, however. Be watchful, will you?

[ Not a bloodbag. Well, all right, maybe a bloodbag, but not just a bloodbag, and a beloved one at that. It's strange to think that Iorveth's initial blood offering—the first time he'd ever drank from someone willing and not just a cultist or goblin in the midst of battle—was so long ago. There's a lifetime of difference between then and now. He imagines he must have been embarrassed at how much he had enjoyed it, but such a feeling seems foreign and impossible now. Although there are many things still infused with the shame that Cazador gave him, Iorveth has all but rid him of shame for his vampiric proclivities.

The spawn, though— he doesn't like thinking about them. Astarion frowns, a wrinkle forming between his brows. ]

I suppose it would be... nice to spare the spawn, given the chance.

[ Something he does still feel a little shame about: acts of mercy. ]

—But don't worry. I have no compunctions against killing them, if the need arises.

[ "It would be nice to spare the spawn". Iorveth mulls over this despite the quick caveat that Astarion wouldn't mind murdering if it came to that, and feels that stillsame warmth he'd felt, again, back in Cazador's ugly dungeon. For the millionth time, Astarion is far more noble than he knows or gives himself credit for, even if that nobility is in his own self-interest.

With the hand that isn't currently occupied holding Astarion's, Iorveth combs his fingers through silver hair, more reverent than affectionate. ]

Astarion Ancunín, liberator of vampire spawn.

[ Has a nice ring to it. ]

Eventually, you'll be more feared than the vampire lords themselves.

[ And wouldn't that be something. The tables turn on the oppressors; the kind of narrative Iorveth can get behind. But then again, that's a lot of work, and Iorveth doubts Astarion wants to spend the rest of forever playing whack-a-mole with vampires. ]

[ 'Liberator of vampire spawn'. Astarion scoffs. Iorveth seems to enjoy painting him out to be some sort of hero, and he figures it makes sense. After all, Iorveth's life has been dedicated to being a savior of the subjugated; it tracks that he would value altruism, working toward a common good. Astarion knows, though, that he doesn't have a shred of altruism inside of him. Maybe he did once, but two hundred years made sure to beat it out of him. ]

Don't be ridiculous.

[ It does, however, feel good to have Iorveth look at him like this, touch him so adoringly. If he were still trying to manipulate his way into safety, he would have played the hero angle up, pretended to care about unshackling the elves from the chains of humanity, or whatever.

But he isn't trying to manipulate Iorveth, at least not to that extent, so he huffs and says, ] I just— pity them, is all.

[ Context and understanding have smoothed out some of the more contentious parts of Astarion's jagged personality: Astarion's caring might be variable, but it isn't nonexistent. There just isn't much of it to currently spare for people who aren't himself, which is, all things considered, pretty fair.

Which means that pity is a hell of a lot more than indifference, and which is why Iorveth doesn't mention that Astarion probably would have been furious if some other vampire lord's spawn had claimed to pity him, if their roles were reversed. (Maybe not, though. Maybe liberation would have been worth the humiliation. Iorveth would've seen it as more kindred for his ever-burning fire.)

One more gentle touch to Astarion's hair, and Iorveth relents. ]

If your pity earns them their freedom, then they've nothing to complain about.

[ And with that, down the street they go, bypassing a rosy-cheeked bard warbling about valiant sailors in love with bloodthirsty sirens. They've passed from the Bridge District to the Center District－ noticeably more tailored to the upper-class, with bigger and more elegant building facades and less haggard-looking drunks－ and are making their way to the opulent inn that Gale's contact has kindly reserved from them under the name of "Blackmane".

(There was a long history lesson here about a Blackmane who operated in Amn under Khelben Arunsun's tutelage, but Iorveth had to tune this portion out. Even he has his limits.) ]

[ Iorveth is endlessly encouraging despite Astarion's many, many flaws. He doesn't deserve it, but he basks in it anyway, fingers curling around Iorveth's as they make their way into the heart of the city. The merchants here are distinctly more professional, shoddy stalls giving way to a proper marketplace. Traders sell their wares to well-to-do Athkatlans at booths and storefronts, and Astarion cranes his neck to peruse a selection of shiny daggers before turning his attention back to Iorveth. ]

You're sweet, [ he says, squeezing Iorveth's hand. Across the street, an Athkatlan guard watches them warily, having picked them out of the crowd thanks to their foreign clothing. ]

It's no wonder that I always want to eat you up.

[ And he really does. Maybe it's only due to affection and not any true qualities of taste, but there's no blood he could ever crave more than Iorveth's. ]

Mm. Keep an eye out for any respectable jewelers, will you?

[ More heads turn as they wind their way around the perimeter of the stadium-sized open market situated in the heart of the District. The crowd of people is thickest here, the time of day (night) having done nothing to thin it. Iorveth makes no attempt to venture near the throng, however, instinctively disliking how many people are bumping shoulders in that space, and pulls Astarion closer to him in response to that squeezed hand.

Delusion says that everyone whose eyes linger a little too long is looking at Astarion, because why wouldn't they be? Iorveth has seen a lot of faces in the short amount of time since they'd been dropped unceremoniously into this new city, but no one has been half as striking as his favorite person (biased).

There probably are a few respectable jewelers in the open market, but Iorveth steers them away anyway. ]

Eager to fit something on me? [ Speaking of jewelers. Iorveth smooths his thumb over the back of Astarion's. ] You're the sweet one, I think.

[ He is eager to fit something on Iorveth. When isn't he trying to put Iorveth in something shiny? It's been one of his favorite pastimes ever since Iorveth got put in that ridiculous clothing that they stole from the temple to Umberlee in Baldur's Gate. As strange as it is to say given how fraught Henselt's assassination had been, Astarion most remembers it as being oddly fun. Despite everything, he'd enjoyed spending time with Iorveth. He had liked him, as embarrassing as such a thought had been at the time. ]

And that would make you the delusional one.

[ Nothing about Astarion is sweet. He's all jagged edges that are sharp enough to cut yourself on, and he's unpleasant more often than not, and he's insecure in the worst, most unflattering ways. It's a miracle that Iorveth tolerates him at all.

That being said: ]

...You do make me want to be.

[ Sweet, that is. To Iorveth alone, but sweet nonetheless. ]

[ A beat, followed by a long, low sigh. ]

Beloved. Don't make me want to kiss you here.

[ In witness of all these strangers that Iorveth kind of wants to hiss at. As he says so, they step into a wider main street that scoops through the nicest portion of the area, the one that eventually leads to the guarded entrance to the Scepter District: there are, in fact, fancy boutiques and jewelers on either side of the path, enticing the well-to-do to make one last purchase before they're admitted in (or rejected; according to Gale, the Scepter District is even more heavily-guarded than the Upper City of Baldur's Gate).

Opulent gowns and glittering accessories sit pretty behind glassfront stores; a few yards away, the inn they're meant to stay in stands tall above the others around it, an impressive four-story building decorated by violet pennants meant to symbolize refinement and money.

Iorveth can certainly kiss Astarion in there, unless Astarion wants to take a look at all this stuff. Iorveth is amenable, as long as Astarion can stand being Looked At Slightly Impolitely by Iorveth. ]

I had no idea you were so shy.

[ Astarion has no issue with sticking their tongues in each other's mouths and groping each other in public, and anyone who would complain about their displays of affection is just jealous, in his extremely unbiased opinion. But this place makes Iorveth uncomfortable, as he can clearly see, so Astarion can sympathize that this isn't a romantic setting for him.

A quick glance toward the sparkling things behind pretty storefronts, before he tugs Iorveth toward the inn instead. (In the back of his mind, a question lingers: did Gale pick this one because he knew the pennants were purple?) As much as he loves shiny things, he does, in fact, love Iorveth more. ]

Well, all the better for me to have you all to myself.

[ Iorveth, the least shy man in the world, who chose a dressing room in a boutique after being attacked by cultists to get horny. He's the farthest thing from being a prude, but he's far more mindful of Astarion's comfort levels than his own; Astarion's endured two centuries of being perceived in terms of the physical, and Iorveth doesn't want to perpetuate it.

So. Towards the inn they go, which is delightfully (?) decorated in royal purples. 'The Crown Jewel', the establishment calls itself proudly, with violet velvet curtains and violet upholstery and violet-uniformed staff. The whole place smells faintly of lavender. There's a theme.

Greeted by a cheery halfling dressed head to toe in dark plum, Iorveth gives her their name, "Blackmane", and watches as she dips into a deep bow to indicate reverence. "Of course, we've been exepcting you, Master Blackmane..." A quick glance towards Astarion, and then: "...And of course, you as well, Master Blackmane."

She's made an assumption, and she can't back down from it now. Before they can get a word in edgewise, she hurriedly leads them up, up, up the stairs and to their suite, which occupies the entire fourth floor. Extremely overkill, but it also apparently cost Gale nothing thanks to his connections at Blackstaff. (Wizards are the worst, in Iorveth's opinion.)

The halfling gives Iorveth the keys to the castle, and asks if they need a tour of their room (a living room, two bedrooms, a giant bathroom with a miniature pool instead of a tub, a half-office). His answer is a crisp, blunt: ] No.

[ Gale is ridiculous. Too kind. Perhaps trying too hard to stay in their good graces, afraid that if he doesn't lavish them with gifts and assistance that he'll lose his hard-won friends. He wouldn't, of course, but Astarion feels less guilty than he should for taking advantage of Gale's very probable insecurity if it means getting to lounge in a place like this.

Turning to the halfling: ]

Get lost.

[ Haughty enough that he fills the role of Master Blackmane, wealthy and imperious. The halfling woman looks a little taken aback, but after a moment of silence, she bows out. His elven ears do, however, pick up on her muttering on the way out.

Too bad he doesn't care. He drops his pack by the door and moves to rid Iorveth of his pack, too, sliding the straps down his arms. ]

Mm, Master Blackmane. Very sexy.

[ Gale didn't say anything about not ruining the Blackmane name, so his acquaintance will have to deal with the fallout of whatever these two deranged elves get up to in here in the next tenday.

Gently relinquishing the straps of his pack (the newly-acquired tattoo pen looked too delicate to just toss around), Iorveth gets to work unhooking his bow cradle and setting his quiver aside, stripping the more cumbersome parts of his travel gear to get comfortable in Astarion's presence. ]

An established name in the city that'll discourage casual intruders, [ he explains, instead of addressing whether or not the name is sexy. The customary wet blanket retort. With that out of the way, Iorveth reaches to tip Astarion's chin and give him the promised kiss.

For his own benefit, mostly. It makes Iorveth feel less on-edge, and he relaxes into his next exhale as he pulls back. ]

They gave us two bedrooms, [ he laughs. ]

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