essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ Right. The reminder that Astarion might be around to harangue him forever seems to put a damper on Damris' spirits, but he presses forward anyway.

"No matter what, I'll be punished for bringing you two in without incapacitating you first. Master Alkam doesn't appreciate his spawn being clever."

Unnecessary ego from his servants, and unwanted risk. Two things a vampire lord never wants.

"So if you give me your word that you'll protect me, I'll let your friend live."

One last reinforcement, and Damris leads them up a short flight of stairs that lead to a less damp, less musty hall: somewhere along the edge of the estate, Iorveth assumes, away from the master's quarters. There's only one room here, and there's a door on the opposite end of the hall that must connect to a separate wing－ Damris beelines for the solitary room, and gestures for the pair to go inside.

Iorveth glances towards Astarion, brows furrowed. ]

I won't give him my word.

[ He says, hushed, for Astarion's pointy ears only. Always in the habit of never promising anything that he won't follow through on. Astarion can, however, deceive Damris in whatever way he wishes. ]

[ Astarion reaches up to stroke Iorveth's cheek with his thumb, affectionate and bittersweet. Iorveth, straightforward and honest to a fault. Again: a shit-talker until the very end. It's still one of the things Astarion loves most about him (despite sometimes finding it incredibly fucking irritating). Centuries with an equivocator like Cazador have made him grow tired of playing along with interpersonal games, and Iorveth always tells it exactly how it is.

All of that being said, he's all right with lying to Damris. ]

Of course, [ he calls, picking up the pace to urge Iorveth inside the room. ] I give you my word. If you knew me, you'd know that's, gods, practically sacrosanct.

[ It may just be because Iorveth feels lightheaded in general, but he swears he sees Damris roll his eyes as he walks into the room.

The room is... plain. Bare-boned, furnished only with the essentials of a bed, a bedside dresser, a wardrobe, a desk, and－ perhaps cruelly－ a mirror. Everything looks distinctly secondhand, if not thirdhand, and there's a pile of clothes in various states of wearability folded and sitting in a corner. The only thing that gives the place a little color is the alchemy set on the desk, as well-used as the furniture surrounding it.

Damris makes his way towards it, and pulls out one of the drawers to fish out a small syringe full of translucent, reddish fluid.

"I also want you to promise me one more thing," he says, as he holds the syringe behind his back. "If you're going to go after Master Alkam, I want you to render him unconscious. Don't kill him."

Huh. A strange request. Iorveth lifts a brow, having expected to be requested the opposite. ]

[ Astarion watches Damris warily, feeling very uncertain of that mysterious syringe of liquid. There could be anything in there, and it's rather difficult to trust someone who poisoned Iorveth in the first place. Maybe this has all been part of the plan, to lure Astarion back by affection for his companion and then murder them both, or worse.

His fingers curl into the fabric of Iorveth's shirt, wrinkling it at the back and holding him in place. ]

--I'm sorry.

[ A humorless laugh. ]

I must be mistaken, because I thought I just heard you ask us to keep the evil vampire lord who's enslaved you alive.

[ Iorveth also takes note of the syringe, paranoid and wary but equally aware that if he doesn't do anything, he'll die. He feels just on the verge of tipping over into unconsciousness, conversations becoming harder and harder to follow― the world feels wrapped in layers of cushioning, hard to touch or grasp.

He doesn't want to worry Astarion more than he has, but his body slumps against Astarion's side. A little slacker, his breathing less even.

Meanwhile, Damris continues: "I'm tired of being a spawn." By way of explanation. His pretty face twists into an expression of grim determination. "If I can drink Master Alkam's blood..."

He trails off, apparently having used the last dregs of his courage to even insinuate such a thing. Iorveth scoffs― why would they agree to creating a replacement vampire lord?― but the tiefling seems not to notice.

"I want him alive, and I want a taste of your blood bank's blood. Say yes, and I'll give you the antidote."

Blood bank. Another scoff, which Damris does take note of this time around, and frowns. ]

[ Astarion gapes as if Damris has just asked to fuck Iorveth, not drink his blood. (At a certain point, the lines between the two actions become very blurred.) He grips Iorveth's shirt tighter, possessiveness and protectiveness swirling together to form a very new, very unpleasant feeling. ]

You must be fucking joking.

[ His voice drips animosity. As if it weren't bad enough that Damris is a spawn, he had to go and poison Iorveth, and then he had to start making demands. It's exactly the sort of thing Astarion would have done in his place. Gods, he fucking hates this man. ]

I've already promised you your freedom, [ he hisses, even though his promise meant little to nothing, ] and you're too stupid to just take it and run.

[ Iorveth's body, slumped against him, feels terribly hot. He realizes that the more time they spend arguing over this, the less time Iorveth has, and he stomps his foot with a frustrated exhale. ]

You said it yourself that there are plenty of other elves to drink from. This one's mine.

[ Give an inch, they'll take a league. Iorveth is beginning to see patterns in Damris' behavior, dictated, perhaps, by the vices of his Master. Primarily, driven by envy.

"Oh, I don't want him," Damris says, to the tune of oh, ew. "But he must taste good, if you're going through the trouble to keep him."

Iorveth feels those cold, red eyes settle over him. They're only similar to Astarion's in color; everything that makes Iorveth respond to Astarion's focus is missing entirely from Damris' dispassionate gaze. There's none of Astarion's keenness, his sharpness, his mischievousness.

It makes Iorveth sick, really. He feigns slumping further against his partner's side, and as he does so, whispers: ]

Let him think he'll get his way, then incapacitate him after he gives me the shot.

[ "I hate him, knock him the fuck out". Damris knits his brows again, noting the obvious back-and-forth happening between the two, but not having heard the actual contents of the whispering.

"So? Are you going to let him die, or are you going to agree?" ]

[ 'He must taste good'. What an idiot, to not know that Astarion would never drink a drop of Iorveth's blood again if it meant that he would live. Astarion doesn't want to incapacitate Damris — he wants to fucking throttle him. He bottles his rage, or at least attempts to; he still burns with it, and it's obvious in the set of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes.

Saying that this is something he'd allow, even deceitfully, feels like swallowing fetid rat's blood. Luckily, he has plenty of experience in gritting his teeth and swallowing things that make him want to retch, both literally and metaphorically. His molars grind together as he hisses through clenched teeth: ]

Give him the godsdamned antidote and you can do whatever you want.

[ No feeling of betrayal on Iorveth's part: he interprets "do whatever you want" as "what you want to do is not necessarily what you're going to do", which is what Iorveth might have said under his breath if he didn't feel like his lungs were on fire.

Compliance doesn't come easy to him, regardless. He makes his way onto the lone bed in the room with some ushering from Damris, and pulls the sleeve of his shirt up past his elbow for the tiefling to aim the sharp needle into the soft bend of his inner arm.

Rasped: ] If this kills me, [ because there really is no guarantee that it won't, ] we are acquainted with a skeleton with resurrection powers.

[ Without mentioning that he has no idea where Withers is currently, or if he indeed has the power to help Iorveth if he succumbed to poison; the point here is that he's threatening Damris with horrible consequences for stupid actions. As he does so, his free hand moves to wherever Astarion may be, asking for it to be held.

"So suspicious," Damris replies again, still breezy as he wastes no time sliding the needle under Iorveth's skin and pushing the liquid into his bloodstream. Cold, to counteract the fire of the poison－ it hurts, and Iorveth doubles over, gritting his teeth. ]

[ Astarion squeezes Iorveth's hand as the needle punctures his skin, and once he bends over in pain, he crouches in front of him, palms pressed to either side of Iorveth's too-warm face. ]

Darling.

[ He should be embarrassed at this display in front of Damris, but he isn't. It's all too scary: the thought of losing Iorveth, the sight of him in pain. He strokes Iorveth's cheeks with his thumbs, Damris suddenly no more than an irrelevant footnote. He's never been a comforting presence, but he tries for it now; Cazador would laugh at the attempt, but he doesn't care. ]

It's all right. The worst is over.

[ He... hopes. A pause, and he finally tears his gaze away from Iorveth—with great effort—to look at Damris instead. ]

How long until it works?

[ Iorveth could endure being strapped to a rack as long as it kept Astarion safe, honestly. The pain is overwhelming, like his insides are scraping itself against his bones to rake the poison out of his system, but he breathes and smiles through it anyway, wolfish.

I'm fine, he mouths, and presses his face into the welcome cradle of Astarion's palms. He can't see Damris from where his peripheral vision is cut off by the hands on him, but he doesn't care; he'd prefer it if he couldn't even hear the tiefling speak, but no dice.

"Only a few minutes. Master Alkam doesn't like to be kept waiting when I bring him his trophies."

Implying that Damris has done this before, and successfully. Cruelty displayed by a cruel tyrant's favorite, in order to keep his position of feeble, meaningless power. Iorveth wants to snap at Damris to develop a spine, but he also really doesn't care to improve Damris' life; he only cares about one vampire, and Astarion is it.

He relaxes. Nuzzles against Astarion's palm again, and privately feels relieved that Damris did not, in fact, poison him with something even worse than what he'd already been going through. ]

Better already.

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