[ 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. ]
[ 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. ]
[ Astarion breathes a sigh of relief, tension that he hadn't even realized he had easing from his body. He smiles, wide and earnest, as he cards his fingers through Iorveth's hair. His precious, perfect man. Alive. Part of him wants to chain Iorveth to the bedposts so that he can never leave safety again. A whole new set of neuroses has been unlocked, but there will be plenty of time to stress about that later. ]
Good, [ he says as he stands, warmth seeping into his voice. He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to Iorveth's mouth before straightening up and swiveling around to face Damris once more. ]
That means there's nothing to lose once I kill you.
[ A couple long strides and he's practically nose-to-nose with the tiefling, pale hands wrapping around that elegant neck and squeezing. Poorly thought through, of course — his hands are not strong. All the same, it feels good to press down on Damris's windpipe, even if he doesn't actually need to breathe. ]
―a withdrawal, and an attack. Iorveth watches in a half-daze, the pain of poison and antidote still raging under his skin. Despite the fact that he knows he should chide Astarion for his timing (poor), he also knows that doing so would make him a hypocrite. Were their roles reversed, he would be doing the same.
Or, well. Maybe not the same same. Different tactics, certainly. Throttling is the least efficient way to kill someone, and he tries to rasp a short warning. ]
Astarion―!
[ 'Your dagger', he coughs, though Astarion might not be able to hear it under Damris's equally enraged snarling, his pretty face contorted in spiteful hate. It's evident that the choking is more painful to Damris than it is damaging, the usual physical compulsion to breathe overridden by an undead spawn's instinct to survive; grappling with Astarion, the tiefling raises his hand with the syringe still in it and attempts to blindly jab Astarion wherever he might be able to land a blow. His side is the easiest target.
(Meanwhile, Iorveth scrabbles for one of his own three knives, two of them being lightweight things more suitable for throwing than stabbing. Oh no this fucker won't, he thinks to himself.) ]
[ Astarion actually laughs, disdainful, at the ridiculousness of being threatened with a needle. As a spawn, surely Damris knows that something so small couldn't possibly frighten him after all of the torture he's endured-- ]
Ow! [ The needle pierces through his sleeve and into his skin, and godsdammit, it does hurt. Astarion has tolerated endless pain, but he's never been good at it. His hands drop from Damris's throat out of surprise, and he growls, ] You little shit.
[ He scrambles for his dagger, unsheathing it and holding it to Damris's throat in one motion. Even held at knifepoint and snarling like a rabid beast, the tiefling is annoyingly good-looking. Why he was chosen, Astarion imagines. Looks open so many doors, and it's unlike a vampire lord not to try and open as many doors as he can. ]
Beg me to spare your worthless life, [ he says, tip of his dagger pressing against the soft skin of the tiefling's throat. ] --No. Better yet, beg him.
[ Iorveth doesn't like the sound of that ow, and stumbles over on pin-and-needle-riddled legs toward Astarion's side, his own knife drawn. It's a blessing that the needle only made it into a forearm and not, say, Astarion's face; not because Iorveth cares about Astarion's appearance, but because Astarion cares.
More mad scrambling from Damris, pretty fingers trying to grab silver curls and tug, but it settles once he's threatened at daggerpoint and told to beg. His expression echoes what he'd said before back at the inn, that none of this is fair, and it only deepens when he's told to implore Iorveth for his mercy.
"...I did what you asked," he spits. Proud, his soft voice laced with venom. "I spared your life. Now spare mine."
Craning backwards away from the sharp object held to a very vulnerable space, Damris closes his eyes. Iorveth doesn't particularly care about being pleaded with, but again, Astarion does, so as he slinks by Astarion's side: ]
My love would find your begging inadequate.
[ Translation: you can do better than that. Damris scowls, showing teeth, and spits out an acerbic "please". ]
[ Another laugh, cruel and scornful. Even after all that time being softened by camaraderie, it's so easy to fall back into callousness. An unpleasant thing about himself that he chooses not to examine too closely. It's for love, he tells himself, so that means it's all right. ]
Oh, I know you can plead better than that.
[ Being a spawn means begging for your right to exist nearly every day, and Alkam wouldn't have given him his own room—a real privilege—if Damris weren't capable of some quality beseeching. Perhaps it's feeding an ugly side of himself to keep reliving this sort of thing with the roles reversed, but he can't help it; it feels too good to be on this side of the blade.
[ A better partner would perhaps make an attempt at diplomacy, or implore Astarion to be the better man. Not Iorveth. Iorveth has tried to be the better man, and got his eye gouged out and his people slaughtered for the trouble. He, too, might have died here if not for impossible circumstances that prevented it, and while Iorveth is grateful for being cured, he wouldn't have had to be if this fool didn't try to kidnap the love of his life.
So. No grace. He stands behind Astarion like a slightly rumpled, stone-faced wraith, and waits for Damrin's verdict. It's simple when it's offered to them, and Iorveth doesn't doubt that it's true.
"If I'd been able to take you instead of him, I would have left him alone. Master Alkam likes his tributes to be more... symmetrical.
Why do you care so much? Mortals exploit us, so we exploit them. He'll get tired of you eventually, too― better to drain them before they can think to harm us." ]
[ Damn. Linus would be heartbroken to hear Damris talk so poorly of mortals, but, well, he'd also be very confused at why his handsome tiefling friend is talking about mortals. It's the exact same way Astarion had operated for centuries. The same way he still does operate, sometimes. Treat everyone as if they have not only the potential but the desire to hurt him. A 'when', not an 'if'. ]
Ugh, have you nothing original to say? Honestly, you're just a pale [ —ha— ] imitation of me.
[ In no way intentionally, but he'll still accuse Damris of being a copycat anyhow. ]
Mmm. Perhaps we should just throw him in one of those cells we passed.
[ A genuine frisson of fear, when Astarion mentions the cells. Iorveth watches the tiefling shift gears and kaleidoscope from furious indignity to deep-rooted trauma, as if he can't bear the thought of being locked into one of those damp, dark rooms and be left there for uncertain periods of time.
"No! No. Please. I'll stay out of your way, as long as you don't put me down there."
Long fingers scrabble at Astarion's sleeve, imploring. Iorveth frowns, and flicks his gaze to the side, towards the desk and its drawers. ]
A taste of his own medicine, then?
[ If Iorveth remembers correctly, whatever he was dosed with would have been a sedative for the undead, not a poison. A part of him would still be more comfortable with killing someone who wishes Astarion harm (no loose ends), but more important than that is allowing Astarion to feel like he has control over their current, very chaotic situation.
A low breath, and Iorveth lists against Astarion's side again. Damris furrows his brows, clearly displeased by what he perceives, perhaps, to be audacity.
(Linus is nice, but Damris doubts that Linus would like him if he looked different. So many mortals have promised him things, and none of them have delivered.) ]
[ Words no one has ever thought before besides Astarion: Iorveth is too nice. If he had it his way, he'd throw Damris in one of those dark, dank cells and forget that he ever existed. Poisoning—or, well, sort of poisoning him—is practically child's play in comparison, but maybe it's the better option. He'd hate Iorveth to leave here with regrets about what they did, or worse, a changed opinion of Astarion. ]
Whatever you wish to happen to him will, my love.
[ This is so romantic. It'd practically count as a date if there weren't still a chance that they'll both die.
With a cant of his head, he says, ] Rifle through those drawers, will you? I would, but my hands are, ah, otherwise occupied.
[ Iorveth is too nice, Astarion thinks, and with reciprocal delusion, Iorveth thinks that Astarion has shown very significant growth of character for not having stabbed Damris outright. Proud of Astarion for what many (all) would perceive as basic human empathy, if that: poisoning someone isn't exactly a big moral choice.
Still, Iorveth finds it a more generous option (again, if the roles had been reversed, Damris would be a tiefling-shaped corpse on the floor right about now), and nods in assent. ]
Don't loosen your hold. He already did a number on your hair.
[ The biggest crime of all. While Iorveth turns to rifle through the various items tucked neatly in order in the desk's drawers, Damris, finally having snapped out of his stunned disbelief (are these weirdos... flirting in front of him???), starts to struggle weakly, attempting to knock his horns against the side of Astarion's head.
"There are lethal poisons in there! He might choose the wrong one!" ]
[ Astarion tilts his head from side to side, doing his best to avoid Damris's horns. As if it weren't bad enough that he messed up Astarion's beautiful hair! He presses the dagger a little harder against Damris's throat as a threat, a warning. 'Keep misbehaving and see what happens.'
Meanwhile, he throws another quick glance behind him at Iorveth, rummaging through the drawers as requested. ]
Mm. I'm sure it will be fine.
[ Gaze returning to Damris: ]
And if not, well. [ A shrug. ] No big loss, really.
[ This is what happens when a junior monster tries to contend with two full-fledged monsters, perhaps. While Damris gapes, offense mixing with the realization that no, Astarion isn't joking, Iorveth turns over a bottle of unidentifiable liquid labeled "for undead" in his hand and makes an educated guess. ]
Love, [ is casual, as if he's merely asking Astarion to hand him a book. ] Make sure he doesn't struggle too much, will you?
[ Striding over, trying to find a position that won't get him headbutted by a horned head. He uncaps the bottle and holds it at the tiefling's lips, but Damris refuses to yield; his mouth remains shut while he makes soft sounds of protest, which doesn't feel... good, really. A bit of revulsion crawls up the back of Iorveth's throat again, but he steels himself against it, reminding himself that this is a man who would have grievously harmed Astarion if given the chance.
Ugh. Can't even do the 'pinch his nose until he has to breathe' thing, since Damris is undead. Grudgingly, Iorveth dips his fingers in the contents of the bottle and smears it over the tiefling's mouth, forcibly breaching past the barrier of his knit lips to scour his index against sharp fangs. A fortuitous accident has him pricking the pad of his finger, and the tiny bead of blood is enough for the starved spawn to part his lips to run his tongue over it alongside the acrid-smelling solution. ]
[ Astarion watches with a frown until the sweet scent of Iorveth's fresh blood mixes with the sharp smell of poison. The aroma of Iorveth's blood usually makes him feel hungry, but the knowledge that it's on Damris's tongue makes him want to throw up, and he has to swallow down the bile crawling in his throat. It's not the sort of feeling Iorveth would encourage him to have, he imagines.
His gaze drops, too displeased to keep watching, and he snatches the bottle from Iorveth's hand, droplets of poison spilling out onto the floor before he shoves the mouth of the bottle between Damris's pretty parted lips. ]
[ More choking and sputtering, as the liquid pours down Damris's mouth. Iorveth retracts his fingers from where they'd been trying to pry pretty lips open, shuddering at the residual feeling of someone else's tongue on his skin. Unpleasant, to say the least.
Wiping his hand on the tiefling's shirt, smearing poison and just another droplet of his blood on it, Iorveth watches Damris struggle, choke, then slowly lose balance. Whatever Iorveth had drunk before at the inn's bar was diluted in alcohol, but Damris has just consumed pure concentrate: it takes very little time at all for the solution to rage through his nonexistent pulse and render him an unconscious pile of limbs and horns on the floor.
Mm. Iorveth can't even check for the tiefling's pulse or his breathing― for all he knows, Damris could be dead(er). But his main concern is less about that, and more about Astarion having a horrible day, so. One last wipe of his hand against Damris's shoulder is the last time Iorveth spares Damris his attention, and he pivots to Astarion with his brows turned down in open contrition. ]
...An ordeal.
[ Gesturing to Astarion in the universal motion for "come here". ]
[ All of that consternation, and now that he's incapacitated, Damris might as well not even exist anymore. He falls to the floor with a thump, and Astarion simply tosses the bottle of poison aside before turning and immediately making his way toward Iorveth to throw his arms around him. Weak though his arms may be, they squeeze tight, almost too tight, like he's afraid of Iorveth wriggling out of his grasp.
He presses his face into the crook of Iorveth's shoulder, openly pathetic. Only with Iorveth, only for Iorveth. He can still feel the cold shiver of fear coursing through his veins even now. He'd been terrified for Iorveth, still is. Who else in the world could ever make him worry so much? ]
Are you all right? [ comes out muffled against Iorveth's shoulder. ]
[ Oh, being a horrible elf is worth it for this. Being with Astarion, keeping Astarion close. Iorveth winds his own, still slightly-weak arms around Astarion's middle, keeping them both nested while he noses against silver hair. ]
Yes, thanks to you. [ Genuinely. Astarion might say that it wasn't noble or altruistic of him at all, but there's a big difference between working to keep someone alive because an alliance is practical, and helping someone out of depth of feeling.
Iorveth slides one hand up Astarion's back to fix mussed curls and to pet soft hair, mindful that they should be alert but simultaneously being too concerned about Astarion's mental state to divide his attention in any meaningful way. ]
I was careless― a mistake I'll not make again. Forgive me.
[ Astarion doesn't respond for a moment, too caught up in the feeling of Iorveth warm and alive against him, the earthy smell of him. His fingers curl in the fabric of Iorveth's clothes; if he had claws, they'd be digging in.
Then: ] You absolute idiot.
[ 'Forgive me', he says! Astarion relinquishes his tight hold, although he doesn't remove himself from Iorveth entirely, only leans back and allows his hands to slide down to latch onto Iorveth's forearms instead. He thinks he might never let go of Iorveth again. Iorveth will have to spend the rest of his life with a vampire hanging off of him. ]
It's me who should beg for forgiveness. [ And that's something he doesn't do lightly, if ever. ] You nearly died because of your proximity to me.
[ He exhales, shaky. Now that Damris is out of the picture and the immediate danger is over, it feels much more difficult to stay strong for Iorveth's sake. ]
If anything had happened to you, darling, I— [ A pause, like he didn't ever actually consider how he might finish that sentence. ] Well, I don't know. I wouldn't be able to go on.
[ Iorveth has only ever been inclined to show care and affection for the Aen Seidhe, has only ever been gentle with people from his own clan, has always only had space for them; even during the whole ordeal with the mindflayers, his support for the other members of the party had come with a bit of distance. Not because he didn't empathize with them― he did, and he'd still kill a village for any of them if he had to― but because he didn't think his softness was needed.
Astarion is a different story entirely. Not Aen Seidhe, but just as singular and precious. There's no replacing bloodlines and history, but there's also no replacing someone that holds his heart as thoroughly as Astarion does.
So it's care and affection all the way down as Iorveth strokes silver hair, then cradles that perfect face housing an even more perfect soul. Iorveth is biased, but he doesn't care. ]
More reason for me to exercise more caution, [ he murmurs. A paranoid person, promising to be even more paranoid. ] I refuse to be the thing that harms you.
[ Too little too late, he knows. If he really wanted that, he could have chosen not to ask Astarion to come north with him the way he'd initially planned, but there's no closing that can of worms anymore. Iorveth leans in to briefly brush noses, then pulls back enough to be able to see Astarion, to make sure that he doesn't lose sight of him. ]
[ Ridiculous. Iorveth could never be the thing that harms him, he thinks, not ever. (He's hurt Astarion plenty of times, but, well, certainly the reverse is true as well.) Life is terrifying, but Iorveth makes it worth braving. He makes Astarion want to traipse into vampire lairs without any preparation just to keep him safe.
—Right. The vampire lair that they're currently in. Astarion's fingers grip those arms even tighter. ]
Let's leave this awful place, then. Leave this awful city.
[ He sighs, shaking his head as if disappointed in himself. ]
I was so stupid to chase after that godsdamned cloak. I already have everything I need.
[ Or, at least, that's what he's going to tell himself while he spends a lifetime in the dark. ]
[ It would probably be safer and saner for Astarion to find someone who isn't constantly on the wrong side of a conflict, but Iorveth has given up on warning Astarion against him; every time he's tried, he's buckled under the weight of Astarion's hurt, and it's gotten to the point where he really can't bear the thought of it.
The suggestion to leave, though, makes Iorveth frown. ]
...Astarion. The cloak would let you walk in the sun again.
[ It might not be a necessity, but Iorveth would rather die (not productive) than let Astarion give up on the quality of his very long, very eternal life. The conflict shows on his face, his frown pinching into pensive concern. ]
I wouldn't have you settle. Perhaps we could talk to that old crone again.
[ The Alkam mission might be bust for now, but surely there's something. Iorveth, back at it with his unhinged obstinacy. ]
[ But it's more than that. The cloak would mean being part of the world again, no longer confined to a prison of darkness. He could live life freely and without fear, the way he's always wanted, and he could bask in the sun's warmth until it becomes so positively mundane that he no longer feels the need to. Gods, he could go outside with Iorveth during the day instead of forcing him to hide away until nightfall like a fugitive. ]
...But if you believe the old woman could help, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to speak with her again.
[ He's doubtful that she can, but old biddies have surprised him before. His gaze drifts toward Damris's unconscious (or dead?) form on the floor, and he frowns. ]
If we're to stay in Athkatla, then we can't leave him here like this. He knows too much.
[ Unreasonably in love with Astarion, but willing to argue with him about his happiness. Iorveth knows that third parties would find all of this very ridiculous, but it doesn't matter― Astarion's quality of life is imperative to him, and reintroducing the sun would be a marked success in reclaiming at least one of the things that Cazador forcibly took from Astarion.
He deserves that. Iorveth believes it, with all the conviction he has when he says that the Aen Seidhe deserve to reclaim their land. Even if Astarion isn't yet convinced of what he's earned or hasn't earned, Iorveth is doubly convinced for the both of them. ]
We can speak to her tomorrow. [ Today has been, to say the least, A Lot. ] We can return to our room with this one in tow for tonight, and hope he hasn't spoken to Alkam about us yet.
[ The problem is, uh. Carrying Damris. The tiefling isn't Karlach-shaped, but he is a statuesque, tall man. Iorveth grumbles under his breath, and tries to see if he can sling him across his wide shoulders, fireman-carry style. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
[ Astarion breathes a sigh of relief, tension that he hadn't even realized he had easing from his body. He smiles, wide and earnest, as he cards his fingers through Iorveth's hair. His precious, perfect man. Alive. Part of him wants to chain Iorveth to the bedposts so that he can never leave safety again. A whole new set of neuroses has been unlocked, but there will be plenty of time to stress about that later. ]
Good, [ he says as he stands, warmth seeping into his voice. He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to Iorveth's mouth before straightening up and swiveling around to face Damris once more. ]
That means there's nothing to lose once I kill you.
[ A couple long strides and he's practically nose-to-nose with the tiefling, pale hands wrapping around that elegant neck and squeezing. Poorly thought through, of course — his hands are not strong. All the same, it feels good to press down on Damris's windpipe, even if he doesn't actually need to breathe. ]
You wretch.
no subject
―a withdrawal, and an attack. Iorveth watches in a half-daze, the pain of poison and antidote still raging under his skin. Despite the fact that he knows he should chide Astarion for his timing (poor), he also knows that doing so would make him a hypocrite. Were their roles reversed, he would be doing the same.
Or, well. Maybe not the same same. Different tactics, certainly. Throttling is the least efficient way to kill someone, and he tries to rasp a short warning. ]
Astarion―!
[ 'Your dagger', he coughs, though Astarion might not be able to hear it under Damris's equally enraged snarling, his pretty face contorted in spiteful hate. It's evident that the choking is more painful to Damris than it is damaging, the usual physical compulsion to breathe overridden by an undead spawn's instinct to survive; grappling with Astarion, the tiefling raises his hand with the syringe still in it and attempts to blindly jab Astarion wherever he might be able to land a blow. His side is the easiest target.
(Meanwhile, Iorveth scrabbles for one of his own three knives, two of them being lightweight things more suitable for throwing than stabbing. Oh no this fucker won't, he thinks to himself.) ]
no subject
Ow! [ The needle pierces through his sleeve and into his skin, and godsdammit, it does hurt. Astarion has tolerated endless pain, but he's never been good at it. His hands drop from Damris's throat out of surprise, and he growls, ] You little shit.
[ He scrambles for his dagger, unsheathing it and holding it to Damris's throat in one motion. Even held at knifepoint and snarling like a rabid beast, the tiefling is annoyingly good-looking. Why he was chosen, Astarion imagines. Looks open so many doors, and it's unlike a vampire lord not to try and open as many doors as he can. ]
Beg me to spare your worthless life, [ he says, tip of his dagger pressing against the soft skin of the tiefling's throat. ] --No. Better yet, beg him.
no subject
More mad scrambling from Damris, pretty fingers trying to grab silver curls and tug, but it settles once he's threatened at daggerpoint and told to beg. His expression echoes what he'd said before back at the inn, that none of this is fair, and it only deepens when he's told to implore Iorveth for his mercy.
"...I did what you asked," he spits. Proud, his soft voice laced with venom. "I spared your life. Now spare mine."
Craning backwards away from the sharp object held to a very vulnerable space, Damris closes his eyes. Iorveth doesn't particularly care about being pleaded with, but again, Astarion does, so as he slinks by Astarion's side: ]
My love would find your begging inadequate.
[ Translation: you can do better than that. Damris scowls, showing teeth, and spits out an acerbic "please". ]
no subject
Oh, I know you can plead better than that.
[ Being a spawn means begging for your right to exist nearly every day, and Alkam wouldn't have given him his own room—a real privilege—if Damris weren't capable of some quality beseeching. Perhaps it's feeding an ugly side of himself to keep reliving this sort of thing with the roles reversed, but he can't help it; it feels too good to be on this side of the blade.
All the same, his eyes flick over to Iorveth. ]
What would you have done to him?
no subject
So. No grace. He stands behind Astarion like a slightly rumpled, stone-faced wraith, and waits for Damrin's verdict. It's simple when it's offered to them, and Iorveth doesn't doubt that it's true.
"If I'd been able to take you instead of him, I would have left him alone. Master Alkam likes his tributes to be more... symmetrical.
Why do you care so much? Mortals exploit us, so we exploit them. He'll get tired of you eventually, too― better to drain them before they can think to harm us." ]
no subject
Ugh, have you nothing original to say? Honestly, you're just a pale [ —ha— ] imitation of me.
[ In no way intentionally, but he'll still accuse Damris of being a copycat anyhow. ]
Mmm. Perhaps we should just throw him in one of those cells we passed.
no subject
"No! No. Please. I'll stay out of your way, as long as you don't put me down there."
Long fingers scrabble at Astarion's sleeve, imploring. Iorveth frowns, and flicks his gaze to the side, towards the desk and its drawers. ]
A taste of his own medicine, then?
[ If Iorveth remembers correctly, whatever he was dosed with would have been a sedative for the undead, not a poison. A part of him would still be more comfortable with killing someone who wishes Astarion harm (no loose ends), but more important than that is allowing Astarion to feel like he has control over their current, very chaotic situation.
A low breath, and Iorveth lists against Astarion's side again. Damris furrows his brows, clearly displeased by what he perceives, perhaps, to be audacity.
(Linus is nice, but Damris doubts that Linus would like him if he looked different. So many mortals have promised him things, and none of them have delivered.) ]
no subject
Whatever you wish to happen to him will, my love.
[ This is so romantic. It'd practically count as a date if there weren't still a chance that they'll both die.
With a cant of his head, he says, ] Rifle through those drawers, will you? I would, but my hands are, ah, otherwise occupied.
no subject
Still, Iorveth finds it a more generous option (again, if the roles had been reversed, Damris would be a tiefling-shaped corpse on the floor right about now), and nods in assent. ]
Don't loosen your hold. He already did a number on your hair.
[ The biggest crime of all. While Iorveth turns to rifle through the various items tucked neatly in order in the desk's drawers, Damris, finally having snapped out of his stunned disbelief (are these weirdos... flirting in front of him???), starts to struggle weakly, attempting to knock his horns against the side of Astarion's head.
"There are lethal poisons in there! He might choose the wrong one!" ]
no subject
[ Astarion tilts his head from side to side, doing his best to avoid Damris's horns. As if it weren't bad enough that he messed up Astarion's beautiful hair! He presses the dagger a little harder against Damris's throat as a threat, a warning. 'Keep misbehaving and see what happens.'
Meanwhile, he throws another quick glance behind him at Iorveth, rummaging through the drawers as requested. ]
Mm. I'm sure it will be fine.
[ Gaze returning to Damris: ]
And if not, well. [ A shrug. ] No big loss, really.
no subject
Love, [ is casual, as if he's merely asking Astarion to hand him a book. ] Make sure he doesn't struggle too much, will you?
[ Striding over, trying to find a position that won't get him headbutted by a horned head. He uncaps the bottle and holds it at the tiefling's lips, but Damris refuses to yield; his mouth remains shut while he makes soft sounds of protest, which doesn't feel... good, really. A bit of revulsion crawls up the back of Iorveth's throat again, but he steels himself against it, reminding himself that this is a man who would have grievously harmed Astarion if given the chance.
Ugh. Can't even do the 'pinch his nose until he has to breathe' thing, since Damris is undead. Grudgingly, Iorveth dips his fingers in the contents of the bottle and smears it over the tiefling's mouth, forcibly breaching past the barrier of his knit lips to scour his index against sharp fangs. A fortuitous accident has him pricking the pad of his finger, and the tiny bead of blood is enough for the starved spawn to part his lips to run his tongue over it alongside the acrid-smelling solution. ]
no subject
His gaze drops, too displeased to keep watching, and he snatches the bottle from Iorveth's hand, droplets of poison spilling out onto the floor before he shoves the mouth of the bottle between Damris's pretty parted lips. ]
Oh, you're thirsty? Then drink.
no subject
Wiping his hand on the tiefling's shirt, smearing poison and just another droplet of his blood on it, Iorveth watches Damris struggle, choke, then slowly lose balance. Whatever Iorveth had drunk before at the inn's bar was diluted in alcohol, but Damris has just consumed pure concentrate: it takes very little time at all for the solution to rage through his nonexistent pulse and render him an unconscious pile of limbs and horns on the floor.
Mm. Iorveth can't even check for the tiefling's pulse or his breathing― for all he knows, Damris could be dead(er). But his main concern is less about that, and more about Astarion having a horrible day, so. One last wipe of his hand against Damris's shoulder is the last time Iorveth spares Damris his attention, and he pivots to Astarion with his brows turned down in open contrition. ]
...An ordeal.
[ Gesturing to Astarion in the universal motion for "come here". ]
no subject
He presses his face into the crook of Iorveth's shoulder, openly pathetic. Only with Iorveth, only for Iorveth. He can still feel the cold shiver of fear coursing through his veins even now. He'd been terrified for Iorveth, still is. Who else in the world could ever make him worry so much? ]
Are you all right? [ comes out muffled against Iorveth's shoulder. ]
no subject
Yes, thanks to you. [ Genuinely. Astarion might say that it wasn't noble or altruistic of him at all, but there's a big difference between working to keep someone alive because an alliance is practical, and helping someone out of depth of feeling.
Iorveth slides one hand up Astarion's back to fix mussed curls and to pet soft hair, mindful that they should be alert but simultaneously being too concerned about Astarion's mental state to divide his attention in any meaningful way. ]
I was careless― a mistake I'll not make again. Forgive me.
no subject
Then: ] You absolute idiot.
[ 'Forgive me', he says! Astarion relinquishes his tight hold, although he doesn't remove himself from Iorveth entirely, only leans back and allows his hands to slide down to latch onto Iorveth's forearms instead. He thinks he might never let go of Iorveth again. Iorveth will have to spend the rest of his life with a vampire hanging off of him. ]
It's me who should beg for forgiveness. [ And that's something he doesn't do lightly, if ever. ] You nearly died because of your proximity to me.
[ He exhales, shaky. Now that Damris is out of the picture and the immediate danger is over, it feels much more difficult to stay strong for Iorveth's sake. ]
If anything had happened to you, darling, I— [ A pause, like he didn't ever actually consider how he might finish that sentence. ] Well, I don't know. I wouldn't be able to go on.
no subject
Astarion is a different story entirely. Not Aen Seidhe, but just as singular and precious. There's no replacing bloodlines and history, but there's also no replacing someone that holds his heart as thoroughly as Astarion does.
So it's care and affection all the way down as Iorveth strokes silver hair, then cradles that perfect face housing an even more perfect soul. Iorveth is biased, but he doesn't care. ]
More reason for me to exercise more caution, [ he murmurs. A paranoid person, promising to be even more paranoid. ] I refuse to be the thing that harms you.
[ Too little too late, he knows. If he really wanted that, he could have chosen not to ask Astarion to come north with him the way he'd initially planned, but there's no closing that can of worms anymore. Iorveth leans in to briefly brush noses, then pulls back enough to be able to see Astarion, to make sure that he doesn't lose sight of him. ]
no subject
—Right. The vampire lair that they're currently in. Astarion's fingers grip those arms even tighter. ]
Let's leave this awful place, then. Leave this awful city.
[ He sighs, shaking his head as if disappointed in himself. ]
I was so stupid to chase after that godsdamned cloak. I already have everything I need.
[ Or, at least, that's what he's going to tell himself while he spends a lifetime in the dark. ]
no subject
The suggestion to leave, though, makes Iorveth frown. ]
...Astarion. The cloak would let you walk in the sun again.
[ It might not be a necessity, but Iorveth would rather die (not productive) than let Astarion give up on the quality of his very long, very eternal life. The conflict shows on his face, his frown pinching into pensive concern. ]
I wouldn't have you settle. Perhaps we could talk to that old crone again.
[ The Alkam mission might be bust for now, but surely there's something. Iorveth, back at it with his unhinged obstinacy. ]
no subject
[ But it's more than that. The cloak would mean being part of the world again, no longer confined to a prison of darkness. He could live life freely and without fear, the way he's always wanted, and he could bask in the sun's warmth until it becomes so positively mundane that he no longer feels the need to. Gods, he could go outside with Iorveth during the day instead of forcing him to hide away until nightfall like a fugitive. ]
...But if you believe the old woman could help, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to speak with her again.
[ He's doubtful that she can, but old biddies have surprised him before. His gaze drifts toward Damris's unconscious (or dead?) form on the floor, and he frowns. ]
If we're to stay in Athkatla, then we can't leave him here like this. He knows too much.
no subject
He deserves that. Iorveth believes it, with all the conviction he has when he says that the Aen Seidhe deserve to reclaim their land. Even if Astarion isn't yet convinced of what he's earned or hasn't earned, Iorveth is doubly convinced for the both of them. ]
We can speak to her tomorrow. [ Today has been, to say the least, A Lot. ] We can return to our room with this one in tow for tonight, and hope he hasn't spoken to Alkam about us yet.
[ The problem is, uh. Carrying Damris. The tiefling isn't Karlach-shaped, but he is a statuesque, tall man. Iorveth grumbles under his breath, and tries to see if he can sling him across his wide shoulders, fireman-carry style. ]
(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)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...