essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

Edited 2025-05-13 03:36 (UTC)

[ 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.

Under his breath: ] A lunatic.

[ 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.

Then, a sudden switch, like a lever flipped: ]

—How are you holding up, darling?

[ 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. ]

[ Everything in the Scepter District is magnificent and expensive, estates stretching out over blocks of the city and reaching up toward the skies. They pass a manor with ornate stained glass windows that practically glitter in the firelight; a servant out front gives them a puzzled look as they hobble by, clearly unused to such unpleasant sights in the district. Astarion should love it here, but all he can think about is how, if Iorveth dies right now, he'll just have to lie down outside and wait for the sun to rise.

Iorveth would hate hearing him say something like that, so he doesn't say it, but he's in no position of emotional stability to be reasonable and think about living on for Iorveth's sake. In fact, before he offs himself, he thinks he'll take Damris with him, too.

All hypothetical, of course, because Iorveth cannot die. ]

What was that you said? That if I pretended to be well when I wasn't, you'd hit me upside the head?

[ Not exactly Iorveth's words, but. ]

[ Iorveth is too angry to let himself die like this, which is a familiar state of being with a brand new twist. As he follows Damris towards the corner of the district, past the extravagant estates clamoring for attention on either side of the main road and towards an area tucked scenically along the water, he tries for a brief sift of fingers through silver hair. He hates how weak the gesture feels, but he swallows that indignity down. ]

Don't hit me now.

[ A soft murmur, and a bit of a concession. Admitting that a punch may or may not be enough to wipe him out at this point. Not great.

Also not great: ] Hells, we really should have gone shopping.

[ Their inventory is literally four sharp objects and a spawn they can use as potential blackmail material. The odds are against them, for sure.

Damris leads them up a little hill towards what is presumably the Alkam Manor: a palatial residence built comfortably for several dynasties to inhabit, let alone one family. Stucco and redstone, marginally more tasteful than the gothic exterior of the Szarr Palace, flanked by gardens tended to by vacant-looking servants. Clearly, Alkam is very vain. ]

Knowing what you know about spawn, [ Iorveth huffs, winded just by the journey up that small hill. Fuck Damris, honestly. ] How likely is it that he'd actually cure me?

[ Ugh, Iorveth was supposed to point out that they have nothing to defend themselves with before they made it all the way to the manor. (Sure, he's poisoned, but his brain still works better than Astarion's.) He swallows thickly, throat dry, and tries not to think about the fact that there's a vampire lord somewhere within that manor, likely in possession of all sorts of magical talent. ]

He'll cure you.

[ It's not a proper answer, but it's the only one he's willing to give. If it were Astarion in Damris's place, he would never cure one of Cazador's victims. Not unless he wanted another year underground. ]

Ah— Dennis, was it? [ he calls, rude for the sake of being rude. ] Surely you don't intend for us to go through the front door.

[ Damris, who may or may not be thinking very hard about whether or not he should betray the pair and bring Astarion to Alkam－ leaning towards "not", if only because then he really would have to spend a very, very long time in Astarion's company－ looks over his shoulder. The mask is on: he's perfectly pleasant, even smiling a bit.

"We'll go in through the greenhouse."

Past the main gate, through a small wooden door installed in the perimeter wall that's hidden behind two squat trees. The door leads into the side yard, where the greenhouse in question sits pretty, attached to the side of the manor like a lovely afterthought.

Inside, the air smells... stale. Rancid, almost. Rotten. Iorveth wrinkles his nose, trying not to feel even sicker than he already does; instead of looking at anything in the interior of the place, he buries his face against Astarion's neck and tries, again, to breathe him in instead.

"I made the poison here," Damris says. Distant, dispassionate. On the far end of the greenhouse is a hatch that leads down into a basement passage, presumably for spawn to use instead of the master of the estate. ]

[ The greenhouse smells awful. Astarion wonders if this is what Iorveth tasted in the wine; he should have tasted it before Iorveth had the chance. He's spent enough time around poisons that he (hopes he) would have been able to clock it. A mistake, but he'll just have to make sure Iorveth never consumes anything again without Astarion's approval first (which Iorveth will just love, he's sure). Food is endlessly unappealing to him, but he'd suffer the taste of ash if it meant keeping Iorveth safe. ]

So many talents.

[ He hates that Damris made the poison, actually, both because it's the damn thing killing Iorveth and because it means they have similar skill sets. Ideally, he wouldn't have a thing in common with this creature. Unfortunately, that isn't proving to be the case.

Rubbing Iorveth's back soothingly, he steers them toward the hatch, which he looks down at with a frown. ]

A bit ominous. [ Looking up, he gestures to the darkness below. ] ...You first.

[ Like hell he's going to go down before Damris and get trapped underground again. ]

[ The one positive thing Iorveth notes about Damris having made the poison is that it probably isn't a lie that he has an antidote. If he has the skill to make a poison, he likely has the skills to make something to counteract it― whether he actually felt the need for it is an entirely different story, but Iorveth will hold on to this small sliver of hope.

It's a small thing to cling to, especially once Damris reveals the hatch. The only way down is a ladder, and Iorveth isn't entirely sure if he has the grip strength to carry his weight. Brooding, he watches Damris slink down the wooden ladder (after the tiefling scoffs softly at "you first", replying to Astarion with a breezy "so suspicious") with feline grace. ]

You should throw me down after him, [ he mutters to Astarion. ] I'll use him as cushioning for the fall.

[ It'd be nice to just slam the hatch shut now and leave Damris in the dark, but doing that may spell his own demise. Clicking his tongue, Iorveth peels himself away from Astarion's side and tries to steady himself. His bones hurt. ]

I'll go first. I don't want him to be waiting down there for you.

[ Idiot. It's not like there's any difference between Astarion being alone with Damris and Astarion being accompanied by a dying man; Iorveth is in no position to protect him. Actually, there is one difference: when Iorveth is there, he has something to lose. Either way, there's no damn way he's letting Iorveth go first.

He's faster than Iorveth in his current state, so Astarion quickly crouches down and lowers into the hatch, boots catching on the rungs of the ladder. ]

If you go first, then I won't be able to heroically catch you if you fall.

[ As he disappears further into the darkness, he adds, ] Although that might kill me, so do try to keep your bearings.

[ Just being honest. He's not strong, and Iorveth is big! All of those lovely long limbs would crush him. ]

[ Very rude of his slippery cat to beat him to the hatch. Iorveth scowls, but there really isn't much he can do to deter Astarion by the time he reaches the edge of the pit. All he can do is watch that silver head of hair disappear into the dim, where Damris may or may not be waiting with a sharp object that he'd hidden somewhere in the basement.

Fortunately for them, Damris is waiting down in the dim, stone cellar with his hands folded behind his back, the very picture of serene innocence. Whether it's a tactic or not, Iorveth can't tell－ he's put so much of his energy into climbing down without collapsing on top of Astarion that his vision is blurred by the time his feet touch damp, smooth stone.

The tiefling smiles, so guileless that it's infuriating.

"You friend doesn't look like he's doing well," he notes. More confident than before, almost as if it's finally sunk in that he has a real advantage, which is that Astarion actually does care enough about his personal blood donor to follow him blindly through a vampire lord's manor. His steps are purposeful, leisurely, as he winds down a narrow passage that slopes gently upwards, occasionally flanked by heavy-looking wooden doors. It makes Iorveth remember what Astarion called the one room in Cazador's manor: 'the kennel'.

(From behind one door, soft scrabbling. Almost as if someone behind it is clawing at it.) ]

[ The moment Iorveth is in reach, Astarion helps him down the ladder before slinging one of Iorveth's arms around his shoulders again. The walk up this foreboding hall is slow-going, which just gives him more time to take it in. It smells like musty death, the same way Cazador's palace had. And, just like Cazador's palace, there's the strange sense that awful things have happened here.

His eyes flick away from specks of red on one of the doors. ]

Where did you say the antidote was, again?

[ Probably something he should have confirmed before bringing both of them down here. ]

[ "I didn't say", is the flutelike response. Great. Iorveth, trying not to put his entire weight along Astarion's side, is nevertheless aware of how his whole body feels like it's on fire, and how that heat must feel on Astarion's cool skin. Shame and anger claw through his brain again, but there's no point in losing composure when they're literally in the middle of enemy territory.

So. He bottles all of that rage to use against Alkam later. And perhaps to use against Damris, if he's stupid enough to try anything. Squinting his one eye against the slowly-brightening lights that line the musty hallway, Iorveth ventures: ]

We could just kill you and look for it ourselves.

[ A threat, just for the sake of it. The manor is huge, and he might kick it before they find the right room; worse, they might accidentally cross paths with Alkam before they're prepared to, and that would mean death for the both of them.

Damris knows it. He smiles again, still looking at Astarion instead of Iorveth.

"Don't be hasty. It's in my room－ just a few more minutes, and we'll be there."

(The tiefling has a room. He really must be Alkam's favorite, or he's lying through his teeth.) ]

[ It dawns on him that if everything doesn't go exactly to plan—a plan that's half-baked and ill-advised at best—then they're well and truly fucked. Look at him, risking life and limb for someone else. The Astarion of a year ago would have turned up his nose and laughed at how foolish he is, but that Astarion had no idea what it feels like to be loved.

Other people are still stupid for doing things like this, of course, but that's because they aren't doing them for Iorveth, the singular person in the world who matters. ]

Your own room, [ Astarion echoes, disbelieving and a little jealous. Suffice to say, he never got to inhabit the favored spawn bedchamber. In the end, he supposes, it would have been just another thing for Cazador to threaten to take away. Better that he didn't have anything at all.

On that note: ] Oh, good. If you wrong us, I'll make certain we share.

[ The worst punishment of all, being stuck in a room with Astarion for eternity. ]

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