essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ Effectively tugged, Iorveth watches Astarion in profile as they make their way over to the inn's first-floor bar. A space as fancy as the rest of the establishment, with rows of empty bottles with ornate labels used as decoration.

Iorveth waits for Astarion to find a seat before settling next to him, waving an eager server away with a quick request for something red and expensive. If the drinks are going to be on the house, he might as well.

When he's sure that the barkeep isn't listening: ]

I don't expect our mystery visitor will try anything untoward in public.

[ A statement, but also a question. An unpleasant one, perhaps, since it forces Astarion to think about what his methods used to be. ]

No, [ Astarion agrees. He wouldn't have, anyway. If there's anything he internalized from his years in the palace, it's that a spawn is nothing without the protection of their master. A master who's likely cold and capricious in the protection that they dole out.

He stares down at the table, picking at a tiny strip of peeling wood anxiously. The proprietor won't be happy about that. ]

He'll just run back to his master and tell him everything.

[ A quick glance around to make sure that the barkeep hasn't returned, and then: ]

We'll have to kill him.

[ Not something he'd wanted to do, but the sooner they get it over with, the better. If they're lucky, he hasn't had the chance to spill his guts to Alkam yet. ]

[ Iorveth watches Astarion pick at the lacquer, but doesn't take his hand to dissuade him; mindful, still, of the slight jump he'd felt after the touch. Content to let affection be on Astarion's own terms, or until Astarion yells at him to provide it. Either or.

On the topic of killing: ]

We could restrain him until we find a way to depose Alkam.

[ Finally remembering back to the conversation they'd had about Astarion wanting to spare the spawn if he could, after his kneejerk inclination to cut the eyes out of this unknown threat and toss him somewhere quiet. On one hand, it would be more prudent to do so, but on the other, this mystery tiefling is likely in the same position that Astarion was when he was under Cazador's shadow; not a pleasant parallel.

The barkeep comes back with their bottle and two glasses, and Iorveth waves him away after he's done pouring. ]

Our room has an office we'll not be using. We can keep him in there.

Oh, I wasn't aware you loved him so much, [ he grouses unfairly. He does remember saying that it would be nice to spare the spawn, in a distant sort of way, but the nightmares of his last trance coupled with the headache coming on from his lack of true rest make him feel very uncharitable.

With his pointer finger, he pushes the glass away, more interested in moping than drinking. Childish, as always. The amount of negative emotions that he feels has lessened, but he finds himself no more equipped to cope with them when they come. In fact, sometimes he feels even more helpless in the face of them than before. When everything was terrible, he expected bad feelings, lived with them the way one lives with a bum leg or a bad back. Now they come unanticipated, and being ripped out of happiness feels almost more unpleasant than if he'd just been unhappy the whole time. ]

What if he gets free?

[ Oh, Astarion really is brooding. Iorveth takes a sip of wine to balance out Astarion's refusal of it, leaning on one elbow with his jaw sitting on the crest of his knuckles as he considers their options. Thoughtful, keeping his space. ]

We'll just have to make sure he doesn't, if we go that route.

[ Rope, and maybe holy water in inopportune places. Not exactly the kind of setup he would have liked to have in what is supposed to be their safe space, but it all hinges on how capable or crafty this interloper is.

The hotel lobby slowly starts to find its equilibrium; the halfling takes up her position back near the front door, and Iorveth can tell that she straightens up a bit every time she sees a tiefling in her peripheral.

He hums. ]

I'd suggest you remaining in our room while I go look for our visitor, but I already know what you'd say about it. If the man wants to talk, we can take him up to the room together― depending on his actions, we can spare or kill him.

[ He'll fail you echoes in his mind, and although it isn't the usual little voice in his head, he finds it more convincing than he'd like. His fingernail digs into the peeling lacquer some more, and for a protracted moment he's uncharacteristically quiet. Then: ]

I suppose we'll just have to see what happens.

[ If Astarion panics and stabs him, well, problem solved. (And another problem created, when they have to get rid of the body.) ]

Maybe he'll at least have something worth stealing.

[ Since it's looking like he isn't going to get his 'something shiny' to lift his mood after all. ]

[ Hm. Iorveth studies Astarion's profile for another moment, notes the continues restless picking at the countertop. It's the most anxious Iorveth has seen him since... well, not since Cazador. Even the Netherbrain wasn't cause for so much turmoil, or so Iorveth'd thought while all of that was happening. (Maybe they were all so hopped up from adrenaline that they hadn't had a moment to actually acknowledge how bonkers that entire thing was, though.)

A funny thing, wondering if Astarion is ready for all of this. Iorveth has never had to consider something like this before, since he's always had to do things, ready or not― but maybe it was a bit foolhardy to rush into this so quickly.

Another sip of wine. Tastes a bit sour, Iorveth thinks. Maybe the barkeep (wherever he went) keeps a stash of pre-opened bottles to serve to rowdy assholes whenever they want to appease them. Iorveth wrinkles his nose a bit, and moves Astarion's glass away from him to discourage drinking it. Again, it tastes a little... off, and gods know Iorveth doesn't want to spoil Astarion's mood further. ]

Depends on how Alkam treats his spawn, I suppose. [ Wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, Iorveth glances back towards the door. ] Though I have to wonder if that old crone already told his retinue about us.

[ It would explain why they have people after them already. Or maybe it was just their attitudes when they dropped in. Oops. ]

Old ladies do love to gossip.

[ He finally retracts his hand from the countertop, if only because he's making a terrible mess of it. Not that he cares, particularly, but it would be just their luck to get thrown out of the place for property damage. ]

But we already know how he treats his spawn. Like a man with power.

[ Whatever kind of person Alkam was when he was mortal, being a vampire lord will have turned him into something else. Having absolute control over someone must change you. Or maybe, Astarion thinks, everyone has the capacity for horrific cruelty, and they're only waiting for the opportunity to get to enact it on someone else.

Dark, pessimistic thoughts. Gods, it feels like the early days of camp all over again, brooding alone in his tent about his circumstances. ]

Or perhaps he's been benevolent this whole time, and he'll invite us in for tea.

[ Obviously, it's not funny that Astarion is having an incredibly bad time with all of this, but the mental image of being invited over for tea by a vampire lord makes Iorveth laugh under his breath. A soft, subtle little thing that blows through his teeth. ]

Mm. He hasn't been getting letters back from Baldur's Gate, I expect. Perhaps he's looking for a replacement vampire to gloat about his accomplishments with.

[ Again, not funny (someone who actively chose to communicate with Cazador Szarr can not possibly be a good person), but the mental image is deranged enough to warrant a dry huff.

Behind him, the halfling at the entrance squeaks and rushes outside, waving her hands wildly. "Sir, sir! Come back, the man you were looking for is―"

Her voice gets cut off as the door swings shut behind her. ]

...Our man, I think. [ Through the window: a tall, slim tiefling with long hair that travels down to the middle of his back, his clothes old-fashioned but kept well. Athkatla's version of Astarion, perhaps, though Iorveth would never allow himself to dwell on that mental comparison for too long. ]

[ It dawns on him that he would have been that replacement vampire, if the ascension ritual had gone the way that he had been planning. Would he have enjoyed it, gloating about power and being in competition about cruelty? He'd told himself that ascension would only change him for the better, but perhaps Iorveth was right that it would have killed his soul. And then he would have forced the bite on Iorveth, and it would have killed his soul, too.

Unpleasant thoughts that he doesn't have time to think right now. His gaze shoots up, seeking out the man in the window, just as the woman had described. Before he even has time to think it through, he's getting up and walking toward the door, expecting Iorveth to follow. With one hand on the hilt of his dagger, he's not certain what he plans to do with the tiefling once they're face-to-face, but—

He swings the door open and suddenly they are, and he swallows thickly. ]

Finally. I've been just dying to meet my secret admirer.

[ Iorveth follows a beat after, on slightly shaky footing. His growing headache and poor balance, he attributes to bloodlessness from the night before; he braces himself against the countertop before striding across the room to where Astarion and the tiefling are, and stands an imposing step behind his partner, posture straight despite the ringing in his ears.

The stranger is handsome. Well-proportioned features made more appealing by the intensity of his eyes, whether from starvation or desperation or both, Iorveth can't tell. When he opens his mouth to speak, his tone is polite velvet― careful and deferential without being meek or quiet.

"Forgive me for my poor manners. It's only that... well, I've roamed these streets for a century or more, and I've never seen anyone so lovely," he offers, only sparing Iorveth a cursory glance. Iorveth knows what's behind that fleeting glance: a silent dismissal if he's ever seen one, and he feels his skin prickle as the tiefling continues.

"I suppose I wanted to know... how a person like you found their way to Athkatla."

(A legitimate question. What kind of situation would call for a spawn to venture so far from a master?) ]

[ In any other situation, maybe he'd notice Iorveth's distinct lack of catlike grace. In this one, he doesn't even give Iorveth the cursory glance that the tiefling does, too laser-focused on the spawn in front of him.

It's like looking in a mirror, in many ways. Something he's wanted to do for ages, but now it only makes him sick to his stomach. He hates what he sees, weak and desperate, and he feels a sudden, strong urge to stab the wretched thing over and over again so that Astarion doesn't have to look at him anymore. ]

Oh, what a long story, [ is far more light and airy than he feels. ] One better told over a glass of wine in our room.

[ The current plan is 'get him up there' and then 'I don't know, we'll wing it'. More detailed than most of his plans. He turns on his heel, tugging Iorveth by the sleeve along with him. ]

Come along.

[ Expectant, like the thought of this tiefling doing anything but what he says is unfathomable. Disdainfully, he thinks that 'no' probably isn't even in the creature's vocabulary. ]

[ No pushback from the tiefling. Iorveth tries to focus enough to see what emotion has settled on those well-defined features, but all he can see with his slightly-blurred vision is something warm but distant before he's tugged back across the lobby and towards the stairs. He rocks out of balance again, then rights himself thanks to Astarion's grip; the stranger keeps himself behind the pair, deferentially silent until they walk past the threshold of their room.

They've invited this probably-spawn in, Iorveth finally realizes as he settles into an armchair, letting its outline keep him upright. He'd forgotten to ask Astarion if the initial invitation clears all potential future visits, but it's too late now.

Meanwhile, the tiefling lingers on his feet. His red eyes never break its fixed trajectory on Astarion, and he's the first to break the silence between them.

"I apologize for being so forward. As I said, I rarely find anyone in this city who looks quite like you."

Iorveth stifles the urge to snort. 'Like a spawn, you mean?', he thinks to say, but keeps that card to use later. Somehow, he doubts the tiefling will even acknowledge the sarcasm; he's barely acknowledged Iorveth's existence this entire time. ]

Edited 2025-05-11 22:56 (UTC)

[ Poor Iorveth. A spawn who doesn't pay him any mind, and a boyfriend who's too paranoid to look at him twice. When they enter, Astarion locks the door behind him, eyes searching the room for something suitable to tie someone up with. Gods, it's not like he travels with rope. They haven't gotten that kinky.

He finally positions himself behind Iorveth's armchair, leaning on the back, subconsciously hiding behind Iorveth like a frightened child. ]

No, I imagine you don't. Just you.

[ A moment passes, and then he groans, exasperated. ]

—Ugh, this is going to take forever! Just spit it out, why don't you? You're a vampire, obviously.

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