essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

All the same, his eyes flick over to Iorveth. ]

What would you have done to him?

[ 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!" ]

Gods— get those things away from me.

[ 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. ]

Oh, you're thirsty? Then drink.

[ 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. ]

It isn't worth risking you for a tan.

[ 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. ]

Hope, [ Astarion echoes, shaking his head, before reaching over to stop Iorveth from what will almost certainly kill him. Or, you know, at least sprain something. Instead, he slings one of Damris's arms across Iorveth's shoulders and one around his own, so that they can carry him side-by-side like a passed-out drunk and not someone that they just poisoned. Yet again, he's willing to do manual labor only for Iorveth. ]

That isn't a concept I would have entertained before you, you know.

[ He detests the idea of bringing Damris back to their sanctum, but he hates the idea of him running to Alkam before they're ready more. No life-affirming intimacy tonight, he supposes, with a tiefling-shaped cockblock tied up in the other room. ]

Ugh. [ Astarion shifts, repositioning himself (and Damris). ] Couldn't he have been a halfling?

[ An annoyed rumble, when Damris' horn knocks against the side of his face. ]

Troublesome, even when unconscious.

[ As if they aren't the reason for him being that way. Then again, maybe they wouldn't have had to knock him out if he hadn't poisoned Iorveth's wine, so there's that, too. Karma, if Iorveth believed in that sort of thing.

The only positive about the situation is that the way out of the manor is straightforward: an easy path down the hall, through a door, down a steady incline into the basement paths, then up a ladder once they reach the far end of the cellar. An unpleasant and unwanted journey, especially considering the trouble of carrying Damris up so they can breach the cellar hatch, but preferable to remaining in the mansion and confronting Alkam with no plan and no weapons.

Still, it isn't ideal. Iorveth still feels annoyingly weak from the aftereffects of the toxin, and he's sweating by the time he reaches the greenhouse, less pale than when he entered but markedly more grumpy. ]

Hells, I forgot about the gatekeeper. [ Lucas? Linus? He was half-dead at the time. ] You'll have to do the talking, beloved. I might kill him out of impatience.

[ Damris is (possibly literally) dead weight, and Astarion gripes and complains the whole way up to the greenhouse. He's only finally just started to accept his circumstances as they drag Damris's body out of there and onto the streets of the Scepter District, but then Iorveth brings up the gatekeeper, and— ]

Shit.

[ Obviously he'll have to do the talking! As much as he adores Iorveth, he understands where their respective strengths lie, and. Well. Iorveth's CHA score is probably, like, a 3. Astarion isn't Wyll with his effortless charm and boyish grin, but what he lacks in that he makes up for in complete lack of scruples. Lying is his favorite thing!

So, they make their way slowly but surely back to the gate, where Linus still stands on the lookout. Great. He had hoped there might have been a miraculous change of shift in the time they've been gone.

"Damris!" he calls, waving, before his hand slows and his brow furrows. "—Damris? What in the hells—" ]

We found the antidote, [ Astarion says quickly. ] And, well, of course we had to celebrate. Some of us a little too much, mm?

[ He jostles Damris's limp body. Linus doesn't look convinced. "Are you sure he's all right? What did you say he drank? Gods, it hasn't even been an hour!" ]

...Ah, who can remember? [ He smiles, but Linus only stares back suspiciously. ] —You know, you wouldn't believe what he said under the influence. Oh, he'd kill me for saying so, but he told us that he's sweet on you.

[ That distracts Linus. Gods, people are so easy. "Wait, he did? Really?" ]

[ Poor Linus. Or not― he might yet be the thing that undoes Damris's skeptical heart. Iorveth watches Astarion breezily offer their excuses regarding the tiefling's very unresponsive state, as charming as he is pretty, and thinks about how glad he is that Astarion takes the mask off when Astarion is around him.

Once Linus starts prying: ] Don't spoil the surprise, love.

[ Implying that there's some sort of sweet confession on the way, and that Linus should wait to hear it from the man currently unconscious (?) and sandwiched between two weird elves. Iorveth's way of subtly demanding that the gatekeep stop asking questions.

Which he... does, partially. However, he starts getting googly-eyed about the whole thing, which is possibly worse.

"The surprise...? Oh. Oh. Gods, I'd always hoped... But he's so lovely, and has so many admirers, I thought that he couldn't possibly. Then again, he's always stopping by the gatehouse at this hour― he knows that I'm permanently on night shift."

Babbling. Iorveth stifles the urge to roll his eye. ]

[ 'So many admirers'. Astarion represses his urge to ask how many of those admirers are still alive. (Not many, he imagines.) Instead, he titters like he actually gives a shit whether these two end up together. ]

How darling.

[ An optimist would think that, despite everything, perhaps Damris has a fondness for Linus after all. A cynic like Astarion thinks that Damris is just using and manipulating, as vampire spawn are wont to do. Luckily, he doesn't care. If Linus is stupid enough to get manipulated by a vampire, then he deserves whatever bloodsucking he gets. ]

True love is so rare these days. But, ah, if he's going to confess, we'll need to take him back to our place to freshen up.

[ "Oh! Yes, of course. I wouldn't dream of rushing him."

Again: darling. It makes Astarion sick. ]

And he's really going to have quite a hangover, so I wouldn't expect to see him out for a bit.

[ "Oh. Well, do take care of him for me, will you? I'd do it myself, but... duty calls."

Gesturing around himself, puffing up his chest a bit. Proud of his work, it seems, or proud of the fact that perhaps it's the thing that keeps him connected to Damris in some way. Iorveth diagnoses Linus as a hopeless romantic, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, if not for the fact that it landed him in a possibly one-sided romance with a vampire.

Stones and glass houses, though. Iorveth hefts Damris a little higher along his shoulders, and nods at the lovely vampire that he's enamored by, to indicate that they should go.

"－If you can, ask him what kind of flowers he likes!", Linus calls out as they start moving. Very twee, in a sad way.

Once they're out of earshot: ] What kind of flowers do you like?

[ To Astarion. Dryly teasing. ]

[ It's all so sweet that Astarion could puke. Linus is obviously being played, says the pessimist inside him, and if he's lucky he'll only end up brokenhearted. Or maybe Damris really does care for Linus, and he'll be the one who ends up brokenhearted when the guard finds out he's a vampire and turns on him, pitchfork swinging.

There's only so much growth one person can have in a short time. While he's come to recognize that love is 1) real and 2) wonderful, it's difficult to believe that many people, or perhaps any people, could be as worthy of love as Iorveth. There's one person in this world with good intentions and a pure heart, and that's his sweet little terrorist. ]

Ugh. None.

[ The corner of his mouth does turn up, though, relieved that they've made it through the worst of this trek. Now, they'll just have to drag him into the inn and upstairs to their room without anyone asking too many questions. ]

You spend all of that time watering them just for them to die, and I already have one unfortunately mortal thing to tend to.

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