[ 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. ]
[ 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.
[ Gods, Astarion is so funny. Iorveth lists in his armchair, but huffs another quiet half-laugh at the outburst. That's one way to speed things, up he thinks.
Meanwhile, the tiefling raises his impeccable brow and finally glances back and forth between Astarion and Iorveth, seeming to note how the two have positioned themselves. There's the faintest suggestion of a frown on his lips, but Iorveth's vision is doubling; it's starting to dawn on him that this might not, in fact, be bloodlessness.
"Obviously," the spawn finally admits, and opens his arms as if to suggest that he comes in peace. "And there's not a vampire in this city that should go unaccounted for. My Master guards his territory very jealously."
Not a threat; it rings as a statement of fear and dread. Iorveth tries to say something, but his tongue feels paralyzed, his mouth too dry to form words. He narrows his eye at the stranger, who notes it, again, with that same half-suggestion of displeasure, as if he's not happy that Astarion seems fine in comparison.
[ Astarion glances over the chair at Iorveth, frowning in disbelief, a silent are you seriously not going to say anything? He would have thought Iorveth would have something to say about him serving someone, but apparently not. He'll have to defend himself. 'He'll fail you' rings again in his head.
Astarion straightens up, chin held high, imperious to combat the horrible suggestion of servitude. ]
No one.
[ A pause, then, wilting a little: ] ...Anymore.
[ Maybe he should have lied. Maybe he should have said he was here on behalf of Cazador. Maybe now this spawn will run back to his master and tell him that there's an unleashed vampire out there that needs to be eliminated. Fuck. ]
...But we come in peace, of course, [ he says, like a liar. ] I'm one of those nice vampires. So much more common than you think.
[ The world spins again. Iorveth feels colder, sicker― he tries to right himself on the chair but lists to the side instead, his strength failing him entirely. Paying attention is becoming more and more difficult, a lesson in futility.
Meanwhile, the tiefling states simply: "You and I know there's no such thing."
As a good vampire, presumably. The stranger seems grimly determined to make his point, though he seems surprised― and perhaps jealous, which he just stated was Alkam's personality deficiency of choice― by the implication that Astarion is a free spawn. A hard concept to accept or stomach for a man currently under a tyrant's thumb.
At least, Iorveth assumes. He opens his mouth, again, to say something, but winds up folding over the armrest of his chair and coughing up a mouthful of blood instead. ]
[ Astarion opens his mouth to say something, and— ]
Gods! [ Iorveth hacks up bright red blood all over their fancy floor. His eyebrows shoot up, and in an instant he rounds the chair to crouch next to Iorveth, placing a hand on his shoulder. He can smell the mix of blood-bile from here. Oh, it's gross. ] What in the hells—
[ He suddenly remembers that they aren't alone, and his eyes shoot up, locked on the tiefling. His free hand fumbles to unsheathe his dagger, and he holds it out in warning. ] Don't come any closer or I'll gut you.
[ Although that would probably be a mercy, really, if he's (un)living a life that's anything like the one Astarion used to have. He doesn't care. All he wants is this awful creature away from them while Iorveth is vulnerable. ]
Darling. [ A furious shake of Iorveth's shoulder. ] Say something.
[ A sigh, a wheeze. Iorveth's throat feels like fire, mirroring the anger threatening to turn him inside out. Oh, he was so stupid for this. ]
The wine, [ he finally manages. Brittle, furious. ] Something in the drink.
[ Was the barkeep in on the whole thing? Possible, if Alkam's bunch have had control over this portion of the city for a while now. An oversight on Iorveth's part; the rage sparking flames in his skull is halfway directed at himself for being so fucking careless.
Meanwhile, the tiefling standing vigil a few steps away looks resigned. Tired, almost. Like all of this has become so commonplace that he has no energy to feel anything about it anymore.
"It was meant to be for you," he explains to Astarion. "A poison that incapacitates the undead. Lethal for mortals, I've heard― depending on how much he drank, he'll be dead within the next three days."
Oh. Not great.
"For the better, I suppose," the tiefling continues. "Lord Alkam doesn't allow spawn to keep pets." ]
[ They're all the fucking same, it seems. He'd laugh if he didn't feel so murderous. Instead, Astarion seethes with rage, a familiar, almost nostalgic feeling. Gods, he used to feel like this all the time. It's been a long time, though, since something managed to muster the sort of deep hatred that used to occupy his every waking moment.
He's torn between comforting Iorveth and throttling this tiefling. As a compromise, he stands, fingers still lightly brushing against Iorveth's back even as he waves his dagger like a madman. ]
Fix him, you worthless wretch, or I'll flay you open like the animal you are.
[ He chooses not to acknowledge how much he sounds like someone else when he says this. Ugh, to kill him would be a mercy. There will be nothing that frightens him more than-- ]
Oh, or better. I'll tell on you to your daddy. He'll be so furious if he finds out you came here to beg me to help you to freedom. On your knees, even.
[ Falling into old habits is so easy, 'I'll tell Cazador' becoming 'I'll tell Alkam' in an instant. ]
[ The world doubles, triples. It's hard for Iorveth to continue paying attention when it feels like his entire body is on fire, but he persists: numb fingers scrabbling at his hip for his own sharp object, just in case.
It isn't very threatening, he knows. The tiefling still barely acknowledges him, and when he does, only in brief flicks towards the blood on the floor. Even that stops at the threat of Alkam, which demands the stranger's attention immediately.
"It would be my word against yours," he says, handsome features somewhat twisted by uncertainty. "He'd have no reason to believe you."
An attempt to convince himself, Iorveth thinks. He croaks as much, under his jagged breath: ] You'd like to think so.
[ The tiefling's frown grows deeper. "―Shut up. All you had to do is stay away from this city, to stop flaunting your freedom in front of us."
It isn't fair, the spawn hisses under his breath. "Lord Alkam will reward me if I bring an intruder to him. He'll know that whatever you say will just be lies." ]
[ It's charming that Iorveth is still talking shit, even now, but Astarion wishes he would stay quiet and conserve his energy. He's no physician, but surely the more Iorveth does, the faster he'll--
Die. Gods. He feels like he's in that nightmare all over again. Maybe this is still a nightmare, and he'll wake in a moment with Iorveth lying peacefully beside him.
...Or not. ]
Because he's so reasonable, I'm sure.
[ The only bright side to all of this is that he knows his enemy. He is him. He knows what would frighten himself more than anything: the dread of his master's rage. ]
You're his favorite, I imagine. He'd take any excuse to hear you scream.
[ If Iorveth is going to die, let him die while talking shit. That said, as much as he'd spent the past few decades of his life looking for the right way to die, he has someone he wants to live for now, so－
－not kicking the bucket is imperative. He breathes through his nose, as slow and steady as he can manage, and rests his pounding head against the back of the armchair to watch the tiefling's reaction to what seems like a verbal knife being jammed somewhere soft and vulnerable.
"You could be his next favorite," he wavers. "He's never seen a free spawn before."
Obviously frightened. Dreading the truth in Astarion's words, trying to justify his learned helplessness. The tiefling's hands ball into fists, fingers furling and unfurling.
"What else could I do? You would do the same, in my place." ]
Oh! [ Astarion laughs as if this is hysterical, a manic edge to his high-pitched howling. ] Oh, do you think I'm going to feel sorry for you?
[ A gentle squeeze of Iorveth's shoulder, anathema to his harsh words, before he releases him to approach the tiefling, dagger still drawn. Killing him wouldn't be the brightest idea, admittedly, since then he'll never find out what was put in Iorveth's drink, although it would feel good. The only thing holding back the feral, angry animal that wants to rip this spawn's pretty little throat out is Iorveth's ragged breathing, a visceral reminder of what he stands to lose. ]
Tell me how to fix him, [ he repeats, ] or I'll run right to your master, just like you want, and I'll spend every day of the rest of eternity making sure he despises you.
[ What the tiefling didn't account for: the possibility that Astarion would be the kind of person that would endure an eternity of torture in order to torture his fellow spawn right back. It would be funny if the situation weren't so fucking dire, and if Iorveth didn't feel like ripping his own throat out with his own hands. Stupid, he tells himself again, as he watches Astarion approach their unwanted visitor with his weapon in hand.
The other spawn looks... well. Maybe however long he's spent under Alkam's rule has fried his brain a bit. He looks genuinely surprised that a fellow spawn cares so much about another creature beyond the blood under its skin－ almost as if he can't fathom why anyone would go through the trouble of risking any amount of themselves for what is, ostensibly, an elf-shaped bag of blood.
"You can find another elf to drink from," he offers in a way that suggests that he really has no idea what the emotional stakes are. The point has flown very far over his pretty head. "I don't want to fight you."
Iorveth finally notices at this point that the tiefling is unarmed. Makes a bit of sense if one considers that Alkam maybe wouldn't want his spawn to be in the possession of pointy objects, but also very telling of the extent to which this spawn's brain really has been scrambled. The self-preservation skills have very literally been beaten out of him; the most he can do is throw his hands up.
"Please, I don't have the antidote on me," he pleads. "It's in the manor... it was supposed to be for you." ]
[ Another elf to drink from. Ha. Sure, he can find another elf to drink from. What he can't find is another elf who loves him this much even though he shouldn't, or another elf this intolerably irritating yet perfectly endearing, or another elf who casually suggests incorporating cock rings into their intimacy without batting an eye. He can't find another Iorveth, and he's really quite attached to this one.
He finally stops pointing the sharp end of his dagger at the tiefling, dropping his hand to instead gesture widely. ]
Well, what's mine is his.
[ There's not a thing in this place that he wouldn't share with Iorveth, which is unusual for someone as possessive as him. (Well, maybe not his pin. That was a gift! It's his!)
A moment, and then he glances back at Iorveth, worrying his lip with a fang. ]
Can you walk, darling?
[ Not well, at any rate. The smart thing to do would be to leave him, get the antidote himself. The only issue is that he's not sure he'll be able to return from Alkam's lair, and then Iorveth will just lie here dying. A no-win scenario, but it's not like it's his first. ]
[ Can he walk. For the first time since this whole ordeal started, Iorveth actually－ with no small amount of trouble－ wheeze-laughs through his teeth, wildly amused by the question. "Hey babe, so, I know you're poisoned, but I really need you to get up and come to a vampire's lair with me anyway." (Paraphrasing. Iorveth knows that Astarion cares.)
It's insane. He loves it. He will cite this in the future as yet another moment out of many moments where he looked at Astarion and thought 'yeah, he's the one'.
Many constitution saving throws later and through the power of sheer, unhinged obstinacy, Iorveth slowly makes himself vertical again and wipes the corner of his bloody mouth with the back of his hand. ]
With you, beloved－ anywhere.
[ He sways, but recovers enough to make it seem intentional; a gentle list that has him rub his forehead against Astarion's hair. The tiefling looks incredibly freaked out by the whole situation unfolding in front of him, and it's hard to tell whether he's unnerved by the deranged elf or the dagger still being held in Astarion's hand. Both, probably.
"I... if I do this, you're going to have to protect me from Lord Alkam," he stutters. "Please, he can't know. You have to let me leave with you." ]
[ A long moment passes before Astarion sheathes his dagger, taking Iorveth's arm and slinging it around his shoulders so that he can bear his weight on Astarion's comparatively steadier body. He hates physical labor, but the thought of complaining doesn't even cross his mind (for now). If they were still in possession of the tadpoles, and their illithid parasites reached out for each other, all that Iorveth would hear would be a constant refrain of Iorveth, Iorveth, Iorveth. There's no room for any other thoughts right now. ]
—Of course.
[ He couldn't give a rat's ass about this tiefling right now. If all goes according to plan—which, you know, it hasn't so far—Alkam will die, and his hold on the spawn will happen to snap. If not, well. The tiefling will still be under Alkam's control, and he won't risk himself (or Iorveth) to save one pathetic spawn.
But he can certainly say he will. ]
I'm all for the, ah, liberation of the oppressed. Positively mad about it.
[ A reassuring pat on Iorveth's back. ] One foot in front of the other, my love.
[ If they're lucky－ and they haven't been so far－ they can slip inside the Alkam manor without causing a ruckus, Iorveth will receive the antidote, and they'll...
...well, they'll figure out the rest. The poison in his system isn't particularly conducive to scheming, and so he shifts the gears in his brain to concentrate on doing exactly what Astarion has suggested he do, and to keep a hand on the knife resting at his hip, just in case the tiefling tries anything stupid.
One foot in front of the other. The tiefling leads the pair down the stairs and past the members of staff in the lobby, who all politely attend to other things instead of testing their luck with the two elves and their collective volatile moods. As they walk, the tiefling regains his previous composure and breezes out into the Athkatlan night, turning to walk down the main street that leads up to the Scepter District, which is within throwing distance of their violet-themed inn.
The guard manning the one gate that permits entry into the exclusive district takes one look at the tiefling and grins from ear to ear. "Damris! Back already? I saw you out not more than an hour ago!"
"Maybe I only left because I wanted you to greet me back in again," the tiefling smiles, wrapping the guard around his finger with ease. It's clear that they've been doing this song-and-dance for ages; it makes something in Iorveth feel vaguely sick(er). ]
[ The sight makes Astarion feel sick, too, albeit not for the same reasons. The guard is clearly besotted, fooled by this Damris's charm. If only he knew Damris was a wretched slave to a worse master, the guard would surely be disgusted. (He thinks, not projecting at all.)
Adorable, [ he spits out, Iorveth still hanging off of him like... well, like a man dying. Not everything needs a simile.
"Oh," the guard says, a little taken aback by Astarion's rudeness. "Damris, who is this with you?" ]
Gods! Must we all make small talk? I have places to be.
[ He gestures to Iorveth, pallid and weak. ]
Unless you have an antidote for poison, we've nothing to talk about.
[ "A-an antidote for poison?" The guard's eyes flick to Damris, confusion evident. "You must tell me who the culprit is. I'll apprehend them." ]
[ Gods, Astarion is so funny. Perhaps not to anyone but Iorveth, but whatever. 'You can't just tell random guardsmen that I'm poisoned,' Iorveth thinks to say, but whacking someone over the head with the mallet of truth is also hilarious, so he'll allow it.
Pallid, weak, and thoroughly amused, Iorveth wheeze-laughs again. ]
I think it was a tiefling, [ he huffs, to which Damris surreptitiously flicks his long, pretty tail and whacks Iorveth against the side of his knee. Ow. The guard is too busy looking at Damris' pretty face to notice.
"A lunatic going after travelers, I imagine. We were drinking at my favorite bar when I noticed that this gentleman looked ill." Very loose on the details. Iorveth tries to laugh again, but winds up coughing more blood instead. Ugh. "―As you can see, I need to tend to him urgently. We can talk again later, Linus."
Again, with the million-watt smile, this time laced with slight apology. The man called Linus all but swoons, and hurriedly makes way for the three of them to pass.
[ Astarion can scarcely believe that Iorveth has the gall to laugh under these circumstances. For once, it's him who's the scowling spoilsport, watching this back-and-forth with a glower befitting a very rich and very irritated child. ]
Isn't he dreamy? [ he snarks as they make their way into the Scepter District. ] Oh, you two should get married.
[ Not an actual show of support, obviously. He hates Damris more than anything right now, and he hates stupid Linus for liking him. None of this is Damris's fault, and he should know that better than anyone, but Astarion has no one else present to focus all of that seething rage on, so Damris it is.
[ Damris sucks, but Iorveth is too busy using his dwindling brainpower to worry about Astarion rather than reflecting on how Damris, too, is a victim of his current circumstances. Something about that effortlessly charming mask makes Iorveth think back to early days post-Nautiloid, when Astarion'd tried so very valiantly to convince everyone that he was just a harmless little magistrate with coincidentally sharp teeth.
Could've been Damris standing where Astarion is right now. Doesn't matter. Iorveth wipes his mouth again, bitter blood between his teeth, fire in the back of his throat. ]
Surprisingly well.
[ For a guy with two and a half mouthfuls of poison currently metabolizing in his system. Hells. He follows Damris as Damris swishes his way through the opulent streets of the Scepter District, passing manors that stretch backwards into the darkness, towering and entirely too large to be reasonable. A few smatterings of well-dressed nobles are present here and there, and glance towards the strangers in their midst with snide curiosity.
Also doesn't matter. Iorveth leans against Astarion, trying to concentrate on the scent of his cologne. ]
You know, I've never been poisoned before. [ Still talking shit, downplaying his ailment. Mostly, he can't bear the thought of Astarion worrying overmuch; if there's one thing that makes Iorveth's heart sink, it's Astarion's distress. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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?) ]
no subject
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 subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
Meanwhile, the tiefling raises his impeccable brow and finally glances back and forth between Astarion and Iorveth, seeming to note how the two have positioned themselves. There's the faintest suggestion of a frown on his lips, but Iorveth's vision is doubling; it's starting to dawn on him that this might not, in fact, be bloodlessness.
"Obviously," the spawn finally admits, and opens his arms as if to suggest that he comes in peace. "And there's not a vampire in this city that should go unaccounted for. My Master guards his territory very jealously."
Not a threat; it rings as a statement of fear and dread. Iorveth tries to say something, but his tongue feels paralyzed, his mouth too dry to form words. He narrows his eye at the stranger, who notes it, again, with that same half-suggestion of displeasure, as if he's not happy that Astarion seems fine in comparison.
"Why have you come? Who do you serve?" ]
no subject
Astarion straightens up, chin held high, imperious to combat the horrible suggestion of servitude. ]
No one.
[ A pause, then, wilting a little: ] ...Anymore.
[ Maybe he should have lied. Maybe he should have said he was here on behalf of Cazador. Maybe now this spawn will run back to his master and tell him that there's an unleashed vampire out there that needs to be eliminated. Fuck. ]
...But we come in peace, of course, [ he says, like a liar. ] I'm one of those nice vampires. So much more common than you think.
no subject
Meanwhile, the tiefling states simply: "You and I know there's no such thing."
As a good vampire, presumably. The stranger seems grimly determined to make his point, though he seems surprised― and perhaps jealous, which he just stated was Alkam's personality deficiency of choice― by the implication that Astarion is a free spawn. A hard concept to accept or stomach for a man currently under a tyrant's thumb.
At least, Iorveth assumes. He opens his mouth, again, to say something, but winds up folding over the armrest of his chair and coughing up a mouthful of blood instead. ]
no subject
Gods! [ Iorveth hacks up bright red blood all over their fancy floor. His eyebrows shoot up, and in an instant he rounds the chair to crouch next to Iorveth, placing a hand on his shoulder. He can smell the mix of blood-bile from here. Oh, it's gross. ] What in the hells—
[ He suddenly remembers that they aren't alone, and his eyes shoot up, locked on the tiefling. His free hand fumbles to unsheathe his dagger, and he holds it out in warning. ] Don't come any closer or I'll gut you.
[ Although that would probably be a mercy, really, if he's (un)living a life that's anything like the one Astarion used to have. He doesn't care. All he wants is this awful creature away from them while Iorveth is vulnerable. ]
Darling. [ A furious shake of Iorveth's shoulder. ] Say something.
no subject
The wine, [ he finally manages. Brittle, furious. ] Something in the drink.
[ Was the barkeep in on the whole thing? Possible, if Alkam's bunch have had control over this portion of the city for a while now. An oversight on Iorveth's part; the rage sparking flames in his skull is halfway directed at himself for being so fucking careless.
Meanwhile, the tiefling standing vigil a few steps away looks resigned. Tired, almost. Like all of this has become so commonplace that he has no energy to feel anything about it anymore.
"It was meant to be for you," he explains to Astarion. "A poison that incapacitates the undead. Lethal for mortals, I've heard― depending on how much he drank, he'll be dead within the next three days."
Oh. Not great.
"For the better, I suppose," the tiefling continues. "Lord Alkam doesn't allow spawn to keep pets." ]
no subject
He's torn between comforting Iorveth and throttling this tiefling. As a compromise, he stands, fingers still lightly brushing against Iorveth's back even as he waves his dagger like a madman. ]
Fix him, you worthless wretch, or I'll flay you open like the animal you are.
[ He chooses not to acknowledge how much he sounds like someone else when he says this. Ugh, to kill him would be a mercy. There will be nothing that frightens him more than-- ]
Oh, or better. I'll tell on you to your daddy. He'll be so furious if he finds out you came here to beg me to help you to freedom. On your knees, even.
[ Falling into old habits is so easy, 'I'll tell Cazador' becoming 'I'll tell Alkam' in an instant. ]
no subject
It isn't very threatening, he knows. The tiefling still barely acknowledges him, and when he does, only in brief flicks towards the blood on the floor. Even that stops at the threat of Alkam, which demands the stranger's attention immediately.
"It would be my word against yours," he says, handsome features somewhat twisted by uncertainty. "He'd have no reason to believe you."
An attempt to convince himself, Iorveth thinks. He croaks as much, under his jagged breath: ] You'd like to think so.
[ The tiefling's frown grows deeper. "―Shut up. All you had to do is stay away from this city, to stop flaunting your freedom in front of us."
It isn't fair, the spawn hisses under his breath. "Lord Alkam will reward me if I bring an intruder to him. He'll know that whatever you say will just be lies." ]
no subject
Die. Gods. He feels like he's in that nightmare all over again. Maybe this is still a nightmare, and he'll wake in a moment with Iorveth lying peacefully beside him.
...Or not. ]
Because he's so reasonable, I'm sure.
[ The only bright side to all of this is that he knows his enemy. He is him. He knows what would frighten himself more than anything: the dread of his master's rage. ]
You're his favorite, I imagine. He'd take any excuse to hear you scream.
no subject
－not kicking the bucket is imperative. He breathes through his nose, as slow and steady as he can manage, and rests his pounding head against the back of the armchair to watch the tiefling's reaction to what seems like a verbal knife being jammed somewhere soft and vulnerable.
"You could be his next favorite," he wavers. "He's never seen a free spawn before."
Obviously frightened. Dreading the truth in Astarion's words, trying to justify his learned helplessness. The tiefling's hands ball into fists, fingers furling and unfurling.
"What else could I do? You would do the same, in my place." ]
no subject
[ A gentle squeeze of Iorveth's shoulder, anathema to his harsh words, before he releases him to approach the tiefling, dagger still drawn. Killing him wouldn't be the brightest idea, admittedly, since then he'll never find out what was put in Iorveth's drink, although it would feel good. The only thing holding back the feral, angry animal that wants to rip this spawn's pretty little throat out is Iorveth's ragged breathing, a visceral reminder of what he stands to lose. ]
Tell me how to fix him, [ he repeats, ] or I'll run right to your master, just like you want, and I'll spend every day of the rest of eternity making sure he despises you.
no subject
The other spawn looks... well. Maybe however long he's spent under Alkam's rule has fried his brain a bit. He looks genuinely surprised that a fellow spawn cares so much about another creature beyond the blood under its skin－ almost as if he can't fathom why anyone would go through the trouble of risking any amount of themselves for what is, ostensibly, an elf-shaped bag of blood.
"You can find another elf to drink from," he offers in a way that suggests that he really has no idea what the emotional stakes are. The point has flown very far over his pretty head. "I don't want to fight you."
Iorveth finally notices at this point that the tiefling is unarmed. Makes a bit of sense if one considers that Alkam maybe wouldn't want his spawn to be in the possession of pointy objects, but also very telling of the extent to which this spawn's brain really has been scrambled. The self-preservation skills have very literally been beaten out of him; the most he can do is throw his hands up.
"Please, I don't have the antidote on me," he pleads. "It's in the manor... it was supposed to be for you." ]
no subject
He finally stops pointing the sharp end of his dagger at the tiefling, dropping his hand to instead gesture widely. ]
Well, what's mine is his.
[ There's not a thing in this place that he wouldn't share with Iorveth, which is unusual for someone as possessive as him. (Well, maybe not his pin. That was a gift! It's his!)
A moment, and then he glances back at Iorveth, worrying his lip with a fang. ]
Can you walk, darling?
[ Not well, at any rate. The smart thing to do would be to leave him, get the antidote himself. The only issue is that he's not sure he'll be able to return from Alkam's lair, and then Iorveth will just lie here dying. A no-win scenario, but it's not like it's his first. ]
no subject
It's insane. He loves it. He will cite this in the future as yet another moment out of many moments where he looked at Astarion and thought 'yeah, he's the one'.
Many constitution saving throws later and through the power of sheer, unhinged obstinacy, Iorveth slowly makes himself vertical again and wipes the corner of his bloody mouth with the back of his hand. ]
With you, beloved－ anywhere.
[ He sways, but recovers enough to make it seem intentional; a gentle list that has him rub his forehead against Astarion's hair. The tiefling looks incredibly freaked out by the whole situation unfolding in front of him, and it's hard to tell whether he's unnerved by the deranged elf or the dagger still being held in Astarion's hand. Both, probably.
"I... if I do this, you're going to have to protect me from Lord Alkam," he stutters. "Please, he can't know. You have to let me leave with you." ]
no subject
—Of course.
[ He couldn't give a rat's ass about this tiefling right now. If all goes according to plan—which, you know, it hasn't so far—Alkam will die, and his hold on the spawn will happen to snap. If not, well. The tiefling will still be under Alkam's control, and he won't risk himself (or Iorveth) to save one pathetic spawn.
But he can certainly say he will. ]
I'm all for the, ah, liberation of the oppressed. Positively mad about it.
[ A reassuring pat on Iorveth's back. ] One foot in front of the other, my love.
no subject
...well, they'll figure out the rest. The poison in his system isn't particularly conducive to scheming, and so he shifts the gears in his brain to concentrate on doing exactly what Astarion has suggested he do, and to keep a hand on the knife resting at his hip, just in case the tiefling tries anything stupid.
One foot in front of the other. The tiefling leads the pair down the stairs and past the members of staff in the lobby, who all politely attend to other things instead of testing their luck with the two elves and their collective volatile moods. As they walk, the tiefling regains his previous composure and breezes out into the Athkatlan night, turning to walk down the main street that leads up to the Scepter District, which is within throwing distance of their violet-themed inn.
The guard manning the one gate that permits entry into the exclusive district takes one look at the tiefling and grins from ear to ear. "Damris! Back already? I saw you out not more than an hour ago!"
"Maybe I only left because I wanted you to greet me back in again," the tiefling smiles, wrapping the guard around his finger with ease. It's clear that they've been doing this song-and-dance for ages; it makes something in Iorveth feel vaguely sick(er). ]
no subject
Adorable, [ he spits out, Iorveth still hanging off of him like... well, like a man dying. Not everything needs a simile.
"Oh," the guard says, a little taken aback by Astarion's rudeness. "Damris, who is this with you?" ]
Gods! Must we all make small talk? I have places to be.
[ He gestures to Iorveth, pallid and weak. ]
Unless you have an antidote for poison, we've nothing to talk about.
[ "A-an antidote for poison?" The guard's eyes flick to Damris, confusion evident. "You must tell me who the culprit is. I'll apprehend them." ]
no subject
Pallid, weak, and thoroughly amused, Iorveth wheeze-laughs again. ]
I think it was a tiefling, [ he huffs, to which Damris surreptitiously flicks his long, pretty tail and whacks Iorveth against the side of his knee. Ow. The guard is too busy looking at Damris' pretty face to notice.
"A lunatic going after travelers, I imagine. We were drinking at my favorite bar when I noticed that this gentleman looked ill." Very loose on the details. Iorveth tries to laugh again, but winds up coughing more blood instead. Ugh. "―As you can see, I need to tend to him urgently. We can talk again later, Linus."
Again, with the million-watt smile, this time laced with slight apology. The man called Linus all but swoons, and hurriedly makes way for the three of them to pass.
Under his breath: ] A lunatic.
no subject
Isn't he dreamy? [ he snarks as they make their way into the Scepter District. ] Oh, you two should get married.
[ Not an actual show of support, obviously. He hates Damris more than anything right now, and he hates stupid Linus for liking him. None of this is Damris's fault, and he should know that better than anyone, but Astarion has no one else present to focus all of that seething rage on, so Damris it is.
Then, a sudden switch, like a lever flipped: ]
—How are you holding up, darling?
no subject
Could've been Damris standing where Astarion is right now. Doesn't matter. Iorveth wipes his mouth again, bitter blood between his teeth, fire in the back of his throat. ]
Surprisingly well.
[ For a guy with two and a half mouthfuls of poison currently metabolizing in his system. Hells. He follows Damris as Damris swishes his way through the opulent streets of the Scepter District, passing manors that stretch backwards into the darkness, towering and entirely too large to be reasonable. A few smatterings of well-dressed nobles are present here and there, and glance towards the strangers in their midst with snide curiosity.
Also doesn't matter. Iorveth leans against Astarion, trying to concentrate on the scent of his cologne. ]
You know, I've never been poisoned before. [ Still talking shit, downplaying his ailment. Mostly, he can't bear the thought of Astarion worrying overmuch; if there's one thing that makes Iorveth's heart sink, it's Astarion's distress. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...