essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ That frown is a little frightening, and Astarion holds his breath (metaphorically). He'd be lying if he didn't expect to be rebuffed, or perhaps even chastised. Iorveth values independence; it would only make sense that he'd try to lessen Astarion's reliance on him. Astarion finds himself shrinking under his gaze, feeling suddenly ashamed for the admission.

When he acquiesces, every muscle in Astarion's body relaxes, and he crawls on top of him in a fit of affection, kissing him on the lips in a way not dissimilar to an excited Scratch licking their faces. Astarion has never had anyone to hold his hand through the scary moments, and he'd told himself that he didn't need it, but it elates him to know he doesn't have to suffer it alone. ]

You wonderful man.

[ He takes Iorveth's head in his hands, holding him in place so he can kiss him again, quick but firm. ]

You really must stop making me like you.

[ "Stop making me like you," Astarion says, while Iorveth also thinks "stop making me like you" between kisses. A weird mirroring of sentiments; Iorveth almost laughs, but the sound is muffled against Astarion's mouth.

When he has room enough to breathe again: ] I could, if I wished it. [ It is very easy to dislike him, he promises. ] But I like the shape of your favor.

[ Iorveth truly couldn't care less about currying anyone else's favor, and would actually take massive offense if someone accused him of fishing for approval. That said, making Astarion smile is...

...well, it's nice. Kill him. He sifts his touch through Astarion's sleep-mussed hair and cranes to kiss him again―

"Disgusting."

―when Shadowheart interrupts from beyond the curtains, her voice playfully singsong. "Are you two going to be quite so unbearably saccharine every morning?" ]

[ Oh, right. Other people exist. In the high of his happiness, he'd forgotten.

A flash of embarrassment runs through him, because he knows deep down that his behavior is only a few steps removed from calling Iorveth schmoopie. More than that, though, he feels strangely but entirely justified. He's certain he's unlocked a new level of feeling heretofore unknown. If the others had ever felt such fondness, they'd be saccharine, too. He pities them, really. ]

If you'd rather, [ he calls, ] we could be salacious instead.

[ "Please don't," comes Shadowheart's reply. He can picture her wrinkled nose and downturned mouth without even looking at her.

Another kiss pressed to Iorveth's face, this time to the tip of his aquiline nose, before Astarion peels himself away to perch on the edge of the bed and rummage through his freshly-laundered clothing for a shirt. Iorveth might be the type to wander the city streets shirtless, but Astarion is sure the infernal on his back would cause a commotion. ]

It's jealousy, of course. I can hardly blame her. The gith wouldn't know affection if it hit them over the head.

[ A low sigh, and Iorveth flops onto his back on the bed. He reminds himself to tug Shadowheart's proverbial pigtails sometime later as retribution for interrupting. Glancing over at Astarion's curled shoulders and exposed back, the scars on his back shifting as he rummages for his clothes, Iorveth thinks, again, about his simmering desire to kiss each devastating scrawl of infernal carved onto pale skin.

Not today. He kisses below it, near Astarion's waist and away from the long lower line that dips almost down to his tailbone. ]

Let them say what they like.

[ He's endured worse scorn in his past from humans who found his loyalties amusing and alien; to Iorveth, it'd always been the sneering humans that were unnatural, their obsession with their own self-interests far more embarrassing than any Aen Seidhe's brazen admission of affection for each other. He still carries that chip on his shoulder, that kneejerk defensiveness. ]

What they have is theirs, what we have is ours. [ Finally sitting up, Iorveth reaches for the eyepatch that he'd left on the bedside dresser. ] But I'll not apologize to them for coveting you.

[ Brushing his hair back and snapping leather straps over his face, he hums. ] Though it could be that she misses having your time.

[ As he pulls his shirt over his head, his hair gets even more disheveled. He pats it with a hand, feeling for the errant strands sticking up, before he begins to smooth it down with his fingers. Only Iorveth is allowed to see him like this, fresh from his trance and entirely uncoiffed. ]

Hm, [ is his only reply. It's doubtful, he thinks, that any of their group is jealous of the time he spends with Iorveth. If anything, they're probably grateful that Iorveth has taken over vampire-minding duty. It's too early for insecurity, though, so he says, ] You know, I always thought she had a schoolgirl fancy for me.

[ Not. She's been obsessed with Lae'zel in one way or another since their band of misfits first met. She would have called it hatred, but Astarion has found that thinking endlessly of someone because they irritate you isn't so far from thinking endlessly of them because you adore them.

Tucking his shirt in, he adds, ] Take those vampire hunting supplies along, will you? There's no telling what we might find.

[ Freed spawn, perhaps, who are very angry with him and very hungry. ]

[ Maybe not a schoolgirl fancy, but definitely something friendly and tentative. Shadowheart, much like Astarion, had so little for so long― most of their current party shares that trait, actually. It's no wonder why they all stuck to each other despite all the ribbing about everyone being certifiably insane.

Iorveth finally gets out of bed to follow suit in the dressing business, deciding to choose a shirt that doesn't show much of his neck or collarbone today. Less temptation for hungry spawn. It's a pity that he has to cover up his tattoos in the process, but that's life.

As he pulls off his sleeping clothes and pulls on more battle-appropriate trousers: ] I should dip myself in garlic oil.

[ Is that even effective against vampire spawn, he actually has no idea. But he complies with the request to take their shared anti-vampire pack, and checks inventory after he finishes lacing himself into his gear: one more vial of holy water, three scrolls of sunbeam, a few stakes. The blessed daggers sit primly among the rest of the knickknacks, and Iorveth checks to make sure that the blade is sharp enough to his liking. ]

[ As much as Astarion would love for Iorveth to wear a deep V at all times, it's for the best that he covers up today. Astarion is leading him into the proverbial lion's den, after all; some of those spawn must have been starving for centuries, and Astarion's not entirely certain they'll be able to be reasoned with if they smell blood. He frowns, turning to Iorveth and doing up his buttons, right up to the throat. ]

Just try not to look too tasty.

[ Not that it'll matter. Astarion remembers his year in a coffin vividly. He didn't even have putrid rats to sustain him; when he emerged, he would have gorged himself on vermin if given the chance. He can hardly blame the spawn if they're hungry, but the thought of even one of them lunging at Iorveth makes him wrinkle his nose sourly. ]

If any of them makes a move, I won't hesitate to pierce their heart.

[ His eyes wander to Iorveth's pack. ]

We'll need to get rid of this when all is said and done, of course. Your people don't need to be supplied with vampire-killing weapons.

[ Just in case. ]

[ A small scoff at "try not to look too tasty", which is as reasonable as asking Astarion not to look too pretty. Maybe Iorveth should have bought some of the clown paint that the mummy at the circus was peddling, and painted himself sheet-white to look less alive.

Slotting the daggers back into the pack for safekeeping, Iorveth flits his gaze sideways as he pulls the strings of the pouch taut. He can read between the lines of Astarion's latter statement, obviously, and while the caution may be warranted, it still clouds his expression into a half-frown. ]

My clan knows what it feels like to be hunted. They won't touch you. [ He says, though he appreciates that reassurances are empty if they haven't been proven. Hard to talk to Astarion about the honor of wood elves when the only one he's met is himself and cautious, careful Ciaran. ] The humans are a different story. I'll discard the pack, if only to keep it away from their hands.

[ If any of them got even an inkling of an idea that anything happening to Astarion would ruin Iorveth, Astarion would be in grave danger. Not something he wants to think about at this precise moment, what with the spawn situation that needs addressing first.

On his feet, stretching: ] Will we depart for the palace now? Or will we wait until sunset?

[ Iorveth's reassurance doesn't give him much hope. Of course he'd defend the people who are most important to him. Whether they're actually as understanding as Iorveth claims remains to be seen. The idea of a gaggle of humans who might want to kill him doesn't sit well with him, either, but he says nothing. He'll face that problem when they come to it.

As for Iorveth's question— ]

Ah.

[ Astarion fiddles with a curl at the side of his face, the thought of departing now filling him with anxious energy. He might have been brave enough to suggest they go, but there's still a part of him that wants to put it off as long as possible. ]

I'm sure you have plenty of important things you need to do before we go.

A few errands, here and there.

[ There's always something to do. Jaheira has mentioned some strange goings-on in certain properties in the Lower Cities, and bade him to investigate if he ever felt inclined; he could get updates from Ciaran about how the transfer of power has gone, and if their dragon-in-disguise is comfortable with the new crown on her head. He could probably terrorize some humans for sport. Little luxuries.

Tipping his head to the side, his expression carefully evaluative: ] If you need your space, we could reconvene near the manse at sunset.

[ He's aware that he's been monopolizing Astarion's time for a good portion of the past few days. It's good to give a reminder that Astarion is in no way obligated to follow him if he wants to do something else; again, he's free now.

But. Just as a reassurance that he isn't trying to get rid of Astarion, Iorveth reaches and fixes a stray curl that's gone against the grain. ]

[ It isn't that he needs time away from Iorveth, exactly. It's just that he needs to psych himself up for the unpleasantness that's coming, and Iorveth doesn't need to be present for that. Thinking back of the way he'd acted the first time they entered the palace makes him feel sick; he doesn't want to humiliate himself this time. Iorveth had said his greatest desire was strength, but he doesn't want Iorveth to think he simply desires it. He wants Iorveth to think he is strong.

His smile is thin but unwavering. ]

All right.

[ Sunset. That's hours from now. He can certainly steel his nerves by then. ]

—Don't be late, or I'll start to worry Petras is nibbling on you.

[ With all due respect (which is not much)― ] You couldn't convince me that your brother is fearsome, even if he had a knife to my neck.

[ A slow drawl to deliver an uncharitable assessment about someone who is technically a part of Astarion's very fucked-up family. Iorveth will be nice to Astarion, but that's where his leniency begins and ends.

He returns the thin smile with a flicker of one of his own. Trusting, implicitly, that Astarion will be fine: he's managed well for himself all this time, ducking and weaving and threading through situations with the finesse of a survivor. ]

Later, then. [ As he slips the ring Astarion gifted him into his pocket. ] Don't start your reunion without me.

[ Just in case Astarion gets antsy and decides to muscle through it. A low laugh and one last press of his lips against Astarion's temple, and Iorveth is off. ]

[ Petras isn't particularly fearsome, but a hungry vampire is, and there's no telling whether he found himself another meal after their run-in at the circus. If he did, Astarion hopes he at least had the decency to eat his meal out of the public eye. A citywide panic over vampires won't do anyone any good, least of all him.

He heads out after Iorveth, unsure where he's going but certain he has to go somewhere. In the end, he finds himself sitting in the Flophouse, a mug of ale he has no intention of drinking in front of him. By pure habit alone, his eyes wander, looking for the drunkest, loneliest idiots in the tavern. The Flophouse was one of his favored hunting grounds, after all. It's hard not to feel like he's on the prowl again. How many of the spawn under the palace were the drunk, lonely idiots he met here?

Today's idiots get to survive another day, of course. A few people strike up idle conversations with him, but he has no interest in seduction anymore, so the dialogue is half-hearted at best. Exchanges about how awful the swill is here, gossip about a Fist who got thrown out of Sharess' Caress yesterday after a blow-up argument with his lady love. Nothing scandalous.

Sunset rolls around, and he's late arriving to their meeting. The walk from the Flophouse to the manse is one he's made many times before, but it's difficult to make his feet move. They should just ignore this problem and hope it goes away, he thinks. Then he imagines a city overrun with ravenous vampires, their fangs piercing Shadowheart's throat or Jaheira's wrist, and he knows he can't.

By the time he scurries toward the mansion, the evening sky is getting dark. A pang of anxiety hits him at the idea of Iorveth loitering around here alone after dark, and he picks up the pace. ]

There you are, [ he says when he reaches Iorveth, as if he isn't the one who's late. He winds his fingers around Iorveth's wrist, more out of a protective instinct than affection this time. ] I was hoping you hadn't gotten eaten yet.

[ It's the same old Iorveth waiting by the wooden door leading into Cazador's foyer, an elf-shaped shadow with its arms folded across its chest. Intact and mostly unchanged from the morning, save for the chain around his neck that wasn't there a few hours ago, the gifted ring from the day prior hanging from it and settling near his clavicle.

Iorveth thinks to be annoyed by the fact that Astarion is late; a third of him is, but the another third understands why Astarion is late, and the last third is just pleased that he showed up. He knows he's got it down bad when he's giving out points for participation. ]

Don't sound too disappointed. [ Dryly, to the tune of "what, you wanted to be there for when I did get eaten?" ] The night's still young.

[ Dark humor, its edge filed down by the gesture following it: a gentle nudge of shoulder to shoulder. They haven't been apart for long enough for missing to have set in, but it's nice to see Astarion regardless. ]

The place has been unusually quiet. No signs of life or activity on the surface as far as I could tell― the servants must have come to their senses and fled.

[ Of course he wants to be there for when Iorveth gets eaten. He plans to play the dashing, gallant knight for once in his life.

The shoulder nudge pacifies him somewhat, although an anxious energy still runs through his body as he glances toward the manse. Perhaps the servants fled, or perhaps his siblings released the spawn and they devoured them. He can't say he'd be sad if that were the case; Cazador's servants were idiots desperate for a 'gift' that they didn't understand. Still, it would be a problem for him if the spawn were ravenous enough to rip their way through the entirety of the palace staff. ]

Yes, they must have, [ he says, distantly, hoping that's the case. ]

[ He turns his attention back to Iorveth then, eyes drifting past the long line of his neck to the hollow of his clavicle. The stolen ring glints in the soft light of the street lanterns, and he reaches out to run his thumb over the smooth stone, mouth quirking up faintly. Despite the cold sense of foreboding permeating every inch of him, the sight of Iorveth wearing that ring makes him feel warm. ]

You look handsome.

[ Very much not the point right now, but necessary to say regardless. He tucks the ring underneath Iorveth's collar; he's sad to see it go, but he'd feel worse if the chain got broken in a scuffle. ]

I don't want anything to happen to it, [ he explains. ] Not when it flatters you so.

[ Iorveth's gaze momentarily slides to the side, just shy of demurring from the compliment. He isn't ashamed of wanting keepsakes- elves and their longevity means that they lose people to memory more often than not- but he doesn't want to come across as overeager.

He adjusts the chain around his neck, and feels the stone inset warm against his skin. It's grounding, in a way. ]

Nothing will happen to it. [ An encouraging nudge, again, before he turns and wraps his fingers around the entrance doorknob. ] You won't let anyone near my neck, I trust.

[ This would've been bitingly sarcastic if he were saying it to anyone else: a scathing "thank you for the completely unnecessary concern". Aimed at Astarion, it's a simple "I trust you".

Iorveth pushes the door open. The interior of the palace is like pitch, a darkness that tests even his natural Darkvision; the atmosphere is even more fetid and funereal than his first foray into the premises, thick and oppressive.

The dessicated body of a woman lies prone on the corridor leading into the main foyer, paper-white skin ghoulish in the dark. Iorveth wrinkles his nose. ]

[ For once, someone's trust in Astarion isn't misplaced. He has no intention of letting anyone—whether it's his siblings or a feral spawn—sink their teeth into Iorveth. That privilege is reserved for him alone.

The moment they enter the palace, he can sense that something is wrong. If the smell was bad before, it's horrid now, the musty stench of death billowing out through the open door. It takes little time to realize the source of it, and as he stares down at the pale corpse in front of them, he recognizes it as the body of the servant who'd given them trouble when they came here last.

He won't shed a tear for her, but his insides twist a little. ]

Petras's work, perhaps.

[ It very well could be, or any of his other siblings. They must be just as hungry as he was when he first escaped, and the household staff would be a convenient source of sustenance. He isn't concerned about the possibility that his family decided to rid the world of Cazador's last sycophants.

He curls his fingers around Iorveth's sleeve, holding him in place. ]

Or it could have been one of the spawn downstairs. They must be voracious after all this time, and if my siblings decided to free them—

[ Well, it would only take one out of thousands to act up. It would only take one to drain Iorveth of his lifeblood, too. ]

Just be careful.

[ The grip at his sleeve stops Iorveth from moving over to the corpse to investigate it― which isn't to say that he actually has to, given that the cause of death is obvious. Glancing sideways at where Astarion has his fingers curled in his shirt, Iorveth tries to gauge if it's an anxious hold or if it's a firm reminder.

Either way, he reaches with his free hand to rummage inside their anti-vampire pack and fish out a Scroll of Sunbeam, which he brandishes with casual care. ]

This should dissuade anyone who gets too ambitious.

[ Whether or not he can use it as well as, say, Gale could is up for debate, but it'll work to thin the horde at least once. It doesn't seem very productive to reflect on the fact that his skillset is better-suited for one-on-one fighting or long-distance combat in the open, so he won't. The less metaphorical hand-wringing Astarion has to do, the better.

Iorveth tucks the scroll under his belt for easy access, and runs his fingers through Astarion's hair. ]

Don't pout. You'll give yourself wrinkles.

I'm eternally youthful. I don't have wrinkles.

[ Still, he relaxes his facial muscles, using his fingers to smooth the skin between his brows. Just in case.

He steps over the servant's corpse as if she were a dead bug on the floor, nose crinkling and lip curling with a distant disgust. Astarion couldn't care less that she's dead, but it is rather unseemly to leave a bloodless corpse out. Whoever did this never learned to clean up after their dinner.

The manse is still quiet; perhaps it always will be. Even with Cazador gone, there's a suffocating quality to it, like the walls are constantly closing in. It's no place for joy or relaxation. He runs a finger across one of the tables in the foyer, coming up with a thin film of dust. ]

My siblings won't have lingered here long, given the choice.

[ He knows somewhere deep down that they feel the same as him. This place is a coffin. ]

If anyone is still here, they'll be down in that crypt.

Down we go, then.

[ The less time they have to spend in what serves as the physical manifestation of Cazador's atrocities, the better. This place has played spectator to centuries of senseless death and brutalization, and been made complicit by association; it should be dismantled piece by piece.

A future task for Wyll or Jaheira, perhaps. For now, the unhappy duty of clearing it out is left to him and Astarion (mostly Astarion), so Iorveth wastes no time in heading towards the half-open massive double-doors leading into the inner sanctum of the manse, frowning as he catches a glimpse of the gilded rats embossed onto the metal of the door's surface again.

They continue. Past the mess of the ballroom and its decaying mass of corpses, down into the velvet hall with the side room and its hidden elevator. The dais leading down into the crypt glides more smoothly along its invisible rails this time around, as if it's been used more frequently in the past few days.

The dark makes way to dim, green-blue subterranean light. Unlike the surface, there are whispers of activity below them, indistinct conversations in several voices. Glowing red eyes get brighter in the gloom as the elevator hums to a stop, and Iorveth can spot three figures discussing among themselves: one of them looks like Petras, flanked on both sides by a tiefling and an elf, both women. ]

More siblings, [ Iorveth notes blithely. ] They seem to be arguing.

[ Descending into the bowels of the manse is harrowing, just as it was previously. Every step further into the palace makes him tense involuntarily, and this time the ride down the elevator is filled not with fear of Cazador but a churning in his gut, preemptively sick at seeing the evidence of his disgrace. It's almost a relief to see his trio of siblings, a thought he was sure he'd never have. Talking to them means he won't have to face his victims yet. Images of their sallow, gaunt faces are still stamped into his brain. ]

Aurelia, [ he says to Iorveth, canting his head toward the tiefling woman, her skin an ashen reddish hue, her dark locks pulled back in a braided style. Another cant of his head goes toward the elf, pale-haired, fair-skinned, and beautiful. Cazador has a type. ] Dalyria.

[ He steps forward off the dais, the heels of his boots clacking against the stone floors, the sound reverberating through the vast crypt. Despite how uneasy he feels being down here again, he throws his shoulders back, looking every bit the confident cad. ]

Look at us. It's a veritable family reunion. [ He waves a hand. ] Well, all of the tolerable members, anyway.

[ The jury is still very much out on Petras.

The trio, which had been engrossed in a heated conversation only seconds earlier, turns to face them. It's obvious that Dalyria and Aurelia are surprised to see him—and even more surprised to see his company—but Petras hardly seems fazed.

"Astarion!" Dalyria exclaims. "Petras said you'd taken on the master and lived to tell the tale, but—" ]

But you doubted me? Don't be ridiculous, Dal.

[ Iorveth hangs back, not discomfited by the three pair of red eyes that swivel on him momentarily, but heeding Astarion's warnings to be careful. While he doesn't fear any of the vampire spawn present, he can appreciate that it would be monumentally stupid to antagonize three starving creatures who are literally out for blood.

Arms folded, he stands a step and a half behind Astarion, remaining in his shadow. Petras seems to regard that deference with mild scorn, as if he knows that the sullen elf is less than civil; he sneers at Iorveth, to which Iorveth shrugs in response.

Manwhile, the one Astarion pointed out as Dalyria steps forward, brows turned down in a mournful frown at her brother's apparent disregard for the situation at hand. "Of course we doubted. None of us would have dreamed of..." She trails off, and Iorveth thinks he notes a tremor go through her, as if she's afraid to even finish the rest of that sentence. How long they'd all spent wishing to kill Cazador, only to have their spirits broken, Iorveth can't imagine.

Aurelia picks up where her sister left off, sharper in tone than Dalyria. "We'd thought that you'd assumed the master's place－ finished the rite on your own." Some stubborn refusal to acknowledge that the rite couldn't have happened without their blood ritual clings to her expression, torn between anger and uncertainty. "But Petras tells us that that isn't the case, either. And we've seen the..."

She stutters. "...The others. Astarion, they..."

Her frown twists into a deep grimace. Iorveth can sense her unease, less pronounced than Astarion's had been when he'd first seen the spawn in the cages, but similiar. ]

Edited (when you spot a typo 500 years later) 2024-09-30 03:39 (UTC)

Yes, I know, [ he says, waving a hand as if this is all very banal to him. An affectation, an attempt to keep it all together by reverting to old ways. ] Our forgotten step-siblings do look a little worse for wear.

[ The understatement of several centuries. They look like death. No, they look like something worse than death. Undoubtedly, they've all begged to be killed by now. To starve a vampire is one of the worst things one can do. At least a mortal person's suffering eventually ends. ]

Well, don't you worry your pretty little heads. Your big brother has come to—

[ Abruptly, he trails off. What has he come to do? If he frees them, they might run amok in the city. He could kill them, put them out of their misery. The thought is both appealing and appalling at once. It would be nice to rid the world of the living proof of his shame, but picturing himself doing it feels... dark. ]

Ah. [ Unconsciously, he glances back at Iorveth, as if looking for guidance. He catches himself and snaps forward again. ] To take care of this little problem.

[ A beat. ]

One way or another.

[ It's impressive, watching Astarion slip his mask back on. Cavalier indifference, smooth as porcelain. The only slipup is the glance backwards, and Iorveth reacts to it with the barest twitch of one hand, instinct telling him to reach and place his palm to the small of Astarion's back.

He doesn't, but the three pairs of red eyes track over to him anyway, likely having sensed his slight twitch. Aurelia raises her brow, hunger mixed with curiosity, while Petras still looks like he's inclined to sink his teeth into whatever soft part of Iorveth he can get his mouth on.

Dalyria, on the other hand, seems conflicted by the non-spawn's presence down in the bowels of the manse. After a beat of silence after Astarion's not-quite-reassurance (which, Iorveth notes, the other siblings look somewhat convinced by), she ventures a soft: "why did you bring a human with you, brother? It's... cruel, almost, to bring something alive when so many of us are starving."

Gods, this again. Iorveth sighs, as if resigned to his designation as walking food. ]

They do realize that I can speak Common.

[ The spawn do realize that in some distant way, he's sure, but Astarion can see by the looks in their eyes that it's difficult to separate the concept of a living person from prey. They've spent so long seeing other people as things to exploit or victimize in one way or another. Of course the adjustment is difficult. Astarion went through it himself not long ago.

"Is it an offering?" asks Aurelia, eyeing Iorveth. ]

He's not food, so stop salivating, [ he snaps.

Petras, probably tired of being scolded for a second time, scoffs and leans in toward the two women. "He's our brother's personal blood bag," he says. "Astarion won't share."

Honestly, Petras looks better than he did last night; a little more color to his cheeks, a little more energy. Astarion wouldn't be surprised if he really did feed after they met. The women, though, still look listless and pallid. If he had to guess, Petras didn't share, either. ]

He's half the reason you're all rid of Cazador now, thank you very much. You should all be on your knees thanking us.

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