essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ When Astarion wakes from his trance, he's drenched in sweat and all alone on the other side of the bed, having thrashed his way into solitude. He must have kicked off the covers at some point during his rest—if one can call it that—and now they're a puddle at his feet. He feels how a rabbit spotted by a wolf must feel, his fight-or-flight response fully activated as he stares up at the ceiling.

It's ridiculous, and he feels entirely pathetic for it. He's no stranger to nightmares, but this one had been a torment even with Iorveth by his side, and he feels strangely disappointed in himself for it. He'd thought himself better than this, hoped he was cured of restless trances filled with images of people who can't hurt him anymore. Or, at least, aren't supposed to be able to hurt him anymore.

A clammy hand blindly gropes for Iorveth, seeking out his elf-shaped security blanket. ]

[ It's a tinny voice that calls to all of Astarion's fears: "he'll hurt you, they'll all hurt you, they don't care about you." And, underneath it all, a slight suggestion that someone can help make it all better, if Astarion brings her gifts.

Something that they might have been able to nullify with a tadpole, but Iorveth remains blissfully unaware until they wake― the only thing amiss is that, at some point, Astarion moved away from him. He makes a vague sound in the back of his throat and rolls onto his side, instinctively starting to come back to the present once he senses that the body near him is stirring. ]

'starion, [ he murmurs, warm and lazy until his brain starts to register the sweat-slicked desperation of Astarion's seeking. Eye snapping open, Iorveth immediately pulls closer, the beginnings of a frown starting to form when he sees the distance between them on the (unnecessarily) oversized bed. ]

―Astarion, [ he repeats, clearer this time, and nests next to Astarion to stroke sweat-mussed bangs from furrowed brows. ]

[ He feels a little undercurrent of embarrassment at how bad he must look right now, after a full day of tossing and turning and cold-sweating. It doesn't manage to hold his focus, though; he stares at Iorveth with a wrinkle between his brows, the sort of paranoia he'd grown used to during his time in captivity tugging at him. ]

Did you leave?

[ It sounds a little bit like an accusation, a 'how dare you take my peace away'. A ridiculous accusation, of course, if he'd only look at the evidence. Iorveth isn't the type to lie, and dressing himself to go out and returning to strip down again is exactly the type of farce Iorveth would never undignify himself with.

And yet. The fear that Iorveth had left him to fend for himself when he'd been vulnerable enough to ask him not to remains. ]

[ A blink, uncomprehending. Still naked, with pillow wrinkles creasing just around the prominent scar bisecting his missing eye, Iorveth tips his head and narrows his eye, almost as if he's on the verge of being offended by the would-be accusation. He definitely would have been, a handful of tendays ago.

Instead, he takes a deep breath in, and blows it out again through his teeth. ]

Does it look like I did? [ Just shy of a reciprocal accusation, leaning more towards exasperated concern. Brushing through Astarion's hair with the tips of his fingers again, before tweaking the end of one pointy ear. Chiding perfunctorily, before settling into watchful curiosity. ]

...Did you not trance well?

[ Not to be conceited, but he'd assumed that the night prior would have been nice enough for Astarion to trance soundly. Odd. ]

I don't know.

[ An automatic answer for when he does know, but doesn't want to admit the truth. No, he didn't trance well at all. A surprise, seeing as how he'd slipped into semiconsciousness with Iorveth's body underneath him and the taste of blood still fresh on his tongue. He hadn't wanted for anything, yet he'd still found himself plagued with anxiety.

Appropriately chided, he sits himself up, scooting back against the mahogany headboard of their too-big bed. Frowning, he reaches out to wrap a hand around Iorveth's wrist, humiliatingly needy even as he tries to appear unbothered. ]

Perhaps I'm just... under the weather.

[ He isn't certain vampires can get ill by natural means, but it's a better thought than the alternative: that he hasn't made nearly as much progress as he'd thought, and that being here, facing a vampire lord again, has made him regress from what little progress he did make. ]

—Yes, I think that's it. There must be something going around.

[ Astarion can have the wrist, Iorveth doesn't care. He lets it sit in that cold, now-clammy grip, letting it rest limp and relaxed on Astarion's knee, his pulse still comparatively slow from his own restful trance. He doesn't buy "under the weather" for a moment, but he also knows how much Astarion despises being called out on not being alright; for someone who got so huffy about Iorveth trying to maintain his veneer of composure, Astarion doesn't hold himself to the same standards.

Exasperating. But not so much so that it makes Iorveth want to pull away ("fine, get some rest and I'll go be useful") or remain annoyed. Instead, he reaches with his free hand to fix Astarion's robe, realigning the front of it and re-adjusting the loosened belt. Sometimes, it's easier to feel put-together when one looks the part. ]

Do vampires fall ill?

[ Iorveth wouldn't know. Once he's done smoothing rumpled purple fabric, he presses his free hand to Astarion's forehead. ]

I could go fetch you a potion.

Edited 2025-05-07 02:24 (UTC)

[ Instinctively, he leans against Iorveth's hand, forehead still cold against the warmth of someone living. He feels a sting of guilt for doubting that Iorveth stayed with him; a foreign feeling, regretting the paranoia that's always kept him safe. Iorveth is so ridiculously sweet, and of course he was mad to think he'd ever do anything to hurt Astarion. (Intentionally.) ]

I— [ A pause. Genuinely, this time: ] I don't know.

[ He isn't sure if he's ever been sick before. If he had been, it would have been difficult to tell. In that state of abject starvation, he felt unwell all the time. What difference would an illness have made when he already felt half-dead? ]

Don't go, [ he adds, a little too quickly. ] —If I faint, I'll need someone to gallantly catch me.

[ Stupid question. Of course Astarion wouldn't know: it seems like he barely got a chance to understand his vampirism before being subjected to the worst facets of it. A little gutting to think that Astarion didn't actually know what feeling good was like until...

...recently, even. Maybe he's still figuring it out. Gods. ]

The bed can do that well enough.

[ Gently teasing, to keep Astarion from feeling like he's being coddled. Like appearances, some measure of pride should be left intact for the sake of comfort. That said, Iorveth doesn't let up on the contact, palm sliding down to a smooth cheek (even colder than usual, with the sweat cooling on his skin) with his thumb stroking affectionately along the corner of one red eye. ]

...Must be the sudden change in location. Or all this cursed purple. [ A huff, as he flicks his focus sideways to the decor. Surreptitiously, Iorveth searches the room for any changes or oddities; nothing, except for their travel packs and the tattoo quill, their weapons and supplies. The staff have kept to their promise about leaving the Masters Blackmane well enough alone during the day－ no cleaning staff worth their salary would have allowed weird-looking handmade necklaces with shrunken hearts to remain strewn about on the floor (was that there before?).

Paranoia tickles at the edges of Iorveth's conscious, a familiar guest. ]

[ Astarion doesn't even fail his Perception check, because he doesn't make it to begin with. Iorveth is a level of observant that he simply isn't; he's too wrapped up in himself to even notice Iorveth's wayward glances. He lets his thumb gently stroke the pulse point on Iorveth's wrist, feeling the familiar thump-thump of Iorveth's blood pumping. ]

That may be it, [ he agrees, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly. ] I do believe I'm allergic to tacky decor.

[ Somewhere, the proprietor of this place, clad in head-to-toe mauve, shivers in offense and doesn't know why.

Astarion releases Iorveth's wrist, then, hands doing their best to blindly style the mess that's become of his hair. ]

—Just give me a moment to freshen up, and I'll be as good as new.

[ Meanwhile, somewhere in Waterdeep, Gale sits up straight and feels compelled to say "purple is a perfectly pleasant color" to no one in particular.

Here, in Athkatla, Iorveth gives their bedroom one last cursory sweep before turning his attention back to Astarion and his grooming, lending a hand to realign some of the more stubborn wayward curls into their rightful place. His perception hasn't yielded much in the way of concrete ideas of what could be troubling Astarion, but it does remind Iorveth, after a night of pleasant uselessness, to remain hypervigilant in enemy territory.

Speaking of. He should probably wear some clothes. After a brief peck to Astarion's forehead, Iorveth slides out of bed to pull fresh clothes out of his pack to change into: a dark emerald tunic that Gale had kept tucked away in the back of his closet (too self-conscious about the open V-neck collar to wear), and a pair of sleek black pants, self-purchased. He cinches it all in with a belt, and then clips three different knives to said belt. Practicality over fashion. ]

If anything feels amiss during the night, tell me so. I'll be cross if you feign wellness when you aren't.

[ "Being cross" is the most benign form of Iorveth's anger, but it's anger nevertheless. He stoops down to pick up the scattered charms off the floor, considers them, then tosses them onto the nearest armchair. ]

[ Astarion watches Iorveth dress with an appreciative hum; not as much fun as watching him undress, but still enjoyable. The knives sort of ruin the silhouette, but he does like the look of Iorveth holding something sharp, so he's forgiven. Once he feels reasonably put-together, wiping the sweat from his brow, he scoots up to dangle his feet over the foot of the bed. ]

Oh, well, I'd hate for you to be cross with me. That's never happened before.

[ Sarcasm, of course, but he really would hate it. Iorveth was right. Astarion can't tolerate being spoken to sharply, especially when the person doing the sharp-speaking is the person he relies on to coddle his sensitive feelings.

He'd rather not dwell on this any longer than they have to, so he cants his head toward their belongings, saying, ] Pick me out something handsome to wear.

[ Iorveth is still perfectly capable of being cross with Astarion－ it's just the whole "I don't have to put up with this" part that's been trimmed out of his options. He does have to put up with it, mostly because he doesn't perceive it as "putting up with it" anymore: no matter how angry Astarion makes him, he prefers quibbling to the shocked contrition Astarion'd shown when Iorveth walked away.

So. Thoughtful, he rummages through their pack (carefully, since Astarion's clothes are more delicate than his own) and picks out a burgundy shirt with a smartly-tailored black vest to go with it. Dark pants, high boots. Vampire-chic.

As he approaches Astarion with the items and fusses around to help him change: ]

Beloved. [ Fitting the vest over the shirt, buttoning up the front. ] I commend you for your strengths, and I'd not judge you for your uncertainties.

[ "It's fine if you want to vent," essentially. But Iorveth leaves it at that, since choice is everything to him; if Astarion doesn't want to talk about a bad night, he doesn't want to talk about a bad night. Making sure that the side of the vest cinches exactly where it should, Iorveth rocks back to get a better look at Astarion's face. ]

Beautiful, [ he observes, simply. ]

[ Astarion feels his shrunken little black heart grow a few sizes at being helped to change. It's completely unnecessary, which is perhaps why he likes it. Being tended to and taken care of not because of need, but to make him happy. His ears turn pink with pleasure even as he casts his eyes downward in embarrassment at his enjoyment, focusing very hard on tugging his boots on so that he doesn't have to meet Iorveth's gaze and give away how much he likes being cared for. ]

It was hardly my first restless trance.

[ His first with Iorveth in his bed, which is concerning, but not nearly his first overall. 'Restless' used to be the only sort of trance he ever got.

A glance up, finally. ]

But you are so very charming when you're a worrywart.

[ Iorveth's love language: acts of service. Not entirely unsurprising given his propensity to always be moving and working on something, but he finds it pleasant to be performing these acts on such a small, intimate scale. Usually it's more along the lines of "risk his life for the future of the bloodline"-type scale.

Fixing the breast pocket of the vest, Iorveth sighs through his nose. Cants his head, sharp and observant for the split second it takes to note Astarion's pleased flush, and relaxes out of "you better not be bulshitting me" phase with a half-smile. ]

Fool. Your peace of mind is worth everything.

[ In case Astarion has forgotten, Iorveth has made it his entire life goal to find peace for his people: this will always remain integral to who he is as a freedom-fighting elf. Happiness for the ones he cares about, even at his own expense (especially at his own expense). Astarion being at the top of that list means that he has to bear the brunt of Iorveth's incredibly deranged determination. ]

[ A cant of his head, thoughtful. He knows Iorveth loves him, obviously, but it still knocks the wind out of him every time to be told something like this. Centuries of not mattering, and Iorveth somehow decided to put him first. His heart grows a few more sizes, and suddenly it feels like it might burst out of his chest. ]

I didn't have a day of peace until I met you, you know.

[ Until quite a bit after he met Iorveth, but that doesn't sound quite as romantic. The point is that there's only one person in this world who's ever brought him comfort, and it's a deranged terrorist with three knives on his belt.

Wilting away from vulnerability: ] —But you really must stop being so adorable, or I'll be inclined to throw you back on the bed again.

[ No arguments: they haven't actually had an entire day where they didn't have to worry about one catastrophe or other since they've met, but Iorveth understands the sentiment. Iorveth feels at peace when he's around Astarion, and the thought of that truth being reciprocal is, well.

It makes Iorveth's cynical, raging heart grow ten sizes too. Ugh. He dips down, relacing Astarion's boots to give his hands something to do again. ]

I think Master Blackmane needs some fresh air to clear his mind.

[ Maybe some shopping will distract Astarion from the unpleasant punctuation to what should have been a good night. Looping a perfect bow (Iorveth is very good with his hands when it comes to braiding and lacing, but not so much with embroidery, still), he sits up into a half-kneel and lifts to kiss the corner of Astarion's mouth. ]

Something shiny should lift your mood. Come.

[ Ugh. Iorveth knows him so well. He perks up instantly, fruitlessly fighting the inexorable smile curling the corners of his lips before giving up and letting it happen. He pushes himself up to stand, crossing the room in a few strides to rummage through their packs himself to find the sun pin Iorveth gifted to him.

As he fastens it to his lapel: ] I have been thinking that the Blackmanes would have more jewels on their person.

[ He crouches down, picking up one of the creepy necklaces the old woman had given to them, now strewn across the floor. He raises an eyebrow as he stuffs it back inside the pack. Not this type of jewelry. ]

You know, just to keep up the charade that we're very rich and important.

[ And because he loves himself some retail therapy, the only type of therapy he'll ever have (but certainly not the only type he needs). ]

We have Gale to thank for our deep pockets, [ Iorveth notes dryly, though with a healthy amount of amusement. Feels weird being financially indebted to someone who asks for nothing in return; feels even weirder that the someone is a human wizard, but stranger things have happened to him over the course of the past few tendays.

Smiling faintly at the addition of the pin (Astarion is so cute), Iorveth extends a hand with imperious grace. ] My love. [ With all the grandiose theater that he assumes would be befitting a title like "Master Blackmane": ] Let us grace the rabble with our presence.

[ More like "let's terrorize everyone". If and when Astarion takes the offered hand, Iorveth will lead them out of their purple suite and down to the purple lobby with the purple bar attached, where a member of staff dressed in purple looks up from her station and, after a moment of clear consideration, approaches the pair on hurried feet (wrapped in purple shoes).

"Master Blackmane!", the halfling woman squeaks. "Oh, um, the lovely one with the silver hair."

("The one who spoke rudely to me last night for no reason," she doesn't say.) ]

[ There's not a shred of recognition in Astarion's eyes, despite the fact that he verbally berated this poor staff member last night. For her, it was offensive. For him, it wasn't even worth remembering. He stares down his nose at the halfling, a little irritated at having his shopping trip interrupted before they've even set foot out the door. ]

As opposed to the lovely one with the dark hair, I presume.

[ Probably not what she was thinking, considering most people's descriptions of Iorveth focus on his lack of an eye and not his loveliness. (Most people, Astarion thinks, are stupid.) ]

I hope you haven't come to beg for a tip.

[ A menace. ]

[ "What? Oh no, the inn pays me rather handsomely," is her chirped response to Astarion's (expectedly) rude snapback. She seems to take his curtness in stride, letting it roll off her purple-clad shoulder with the finesse of someone who has worked all her life in customer service.

"I just wanted to inform you that a rather handsome tiefling man's been asking after you," she continues with a glance towards Iorveth, bowing her head politely as a show of apology for, presumably, the content of her message. "He wanted to be shown to your room last night－ I refused, of course－ but I saw him just a few minutes ago again."

She gestures towards the center of the lobby, where there's a rather beautiful wooden table surrounded by ornate (purple) armchairs. They're all unoccupied at the moment, but the implication, Iorveth assumes, is that that wasn't the case until very recently.

"I would have liked to ask you this morning if he was a friend of yours, but you asked not to be disturbed during the day. I do apologize if it's someone you've been expecting."

Huh. Iorveth frowns, sharp features pinching into his face momentarily; the halfling takes note of that apparent displeasure, and quickly bows her head again. ]

[ Astarion feels prickles of cold sweat on the back of his neck again, and he reaches up to wipe them away. There are plenty of reasons a handsome tiefling could be looking for him. Maybe because he's a handsome elf, and it's completely reasonable to follow someone this good-looking back to his inn in the hopes of having a crumb of attention thrown your way. Or maybe, the paranoid part of himself thinks, because he has ill intentions. There's a godsdamned vampire lord in town, after all. Who knows how many spawn or thralls or, hell, just hired mercenaries he has? Cazador had his spindly fingers in every pie, so why would his, ugh, penpal be any different? ]

And you didn't think to tell me earlier? [ he demands, snappish from anxiety. This poor staff member has been relegated to a punching bag. ] Are you lazy, or just incompetent?

[ Normally, being cruel to someone makes him feel a little better, but not right now. He scowls, expression shadowed by fear and displeasure. ]

Well, where did he go? Hurry up, and your employer might not receive a letter demanding your firing.

[ Astarion is pretty enough to warrant desperate admirers, Iorveth thinks, but this development sits poorly with him; he watches the halfling― masking her own displeasure under supposed contrition― duck and weave around Astarion's barbed words to the best of her ability in stern silence.

"I... He may have given up for the night. I apologize, Master Blackmane― perhaps you can wait a bit at the bar and see if he returns. Drinks will be on the house, of course."

Poor creature, looking for some way to appease what seems to be two very un-appease-able elves. Iorveth would love to corral this woman against the wall and grill her about what specifically was said in reference to wanting to see Astarion, but he notes that the other strangers in the room (as well as the rather large half-orc also clad in purple) are starting to look over towards them to see what the half-commotion is about.

Hm. He steps closer to Astarion and winds his arm around his waist, rocking sideways into his partner's space with imperious ease. ]

Love. [ Avoiding the use of 'Astarion', only partially because he's not sure if Gale offered a pseudonym for their first names to go alongside 'Blackmane'. ] Perhaps you could ask what your admirer looks like, so I know who to remove the eyes of if and when I see them.

[ Joking. (But also like, not really.) ]

[ He's on edge enough to stiffen at the contact—and at someone unexpectedly entering his space—for a moment, a porcupine becoming prickly at the thought of danger, but after a second it registers that it's only Iorveth and he relaxes. ]

Oh.

[ Both at the realization that he's already become so paranoid at this minor threat that Iorveth putting an arm around his waist frightened him, and at the very logical idea that he'd been too worked up to think of, too busy berating an innocent employee. ]

—Yes, you're right.

[ The realization that he's been acting a fool (as Iorveth would say) dawns on him, and he seems to droop a little, hackles lowering. ]

What constitutes 'a handsome tiefling', in your opinion?

[ Astarion tenses, and Iorveth's first instinct is to remove the touch from where it'd settled and to give Astarion a polite handspan-and-a-half of space. It wouldn't do to overwhelm him on a night that started so poorly for him, Iorveth thinks.

(Unaware, of course, of accusatory voices in an old woman's voice, interwoven between horrible nightmares. "He won't help you, he'll hurt you, he'll fail you.")

Meanwhile, the halfling offers her description of the mysterious admirer: "Well. He was a bit taller than Master Blackmane with... the black mane," she titters at her own joke. "Lovely glossy black hair that went down past his shoulders, horns that curved back like..."

A gesture with her hand, demonstrating horns that bend and flare out to the sides.

"A bit on the pale-ish purple-ish side, with ruby eyes... ah, not unlike yours, Master Blackmane." Addressing Astarion this time, and rocking up onto her toes to look at him more closely. "And a very lovely tail, with a slightly blunted tip. Very charming." ]

[ That polite handspan-and-a-half feels an awful lot like a polite two inches, and Astarion finds himself—unfairly, but all the same—irritated at the perceived coddling. His mood only worsens, expression growing more sour, and everything the halfling says just deepens his sullenness.

Ruby eyes. Any tiefling could have ruby eyes, he reminds himself. It doesn't mean anything.

And yet, he says, darkly, ] We'll wait at the bar for him to return.

[ Maybe not the best idea, but the last thing he wants is to be surprised by some spawn out on the street. ]

Come.

[ A rough tug to Iorveth's arm. ]

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