[ Iorveth has honey in the form of blood in his veins― "tell me what you need and I can give you a drop"― but he doesn't plan on employing that tactic, so. Vinegar it is. ]
I'll not have you do anything that you don't wish to do. But if anything goes amiss, try to keep me from getting skewered by tiefling horns.
[ Astarion doesn't have to participate, if it means dredging up unpleasant reminders of the life he used to live in the Szarr mansion. That said, if he wants to reclaim a bit of power, Iorveth won't say no to that, either; it all depends on how Damris acts under duress.
Across the living room they go, past the bathroom and towards the corner office. Iorveth's expression transitions to icy neutral, all warmth and doting gone in an instant once he hears the scrabbling on the other side of the door and once he sees the struggling man hissing and twisting on the floor.
Sharp fangs have sliced through the fabric of the robe belt. Damris, red eyes glowing like knives in the dim of the room, glares up at Iorveth and growls something garbled in what might be Infernal. ]
Awake, [ Iorveth notes, dispassionate. Once upon a time, he spoke to Astarion in the same way, in the same tone. Unthinkable, now. ]
[ It should be unsettling how seamlessly Iorveth makes the transition from the pampering lover to the cold abductor, but Astarion finds that it makes him feel a little hot under the collar. Sue him. Iorveth is irresistible when he's doing terrible things to people who would hurt them.
Astarion follows him through the doorway before leaning himself up against the wall closest to it, keeping his distance. This is Iorveth's rodeo. He wouldn't want to step on any toes. However, he does speak up upon seeing Damris thrashing against his bindings: ]
Oh, my gods. You really couldn't be any more dramatic.
[ His eyes roll back into his head, and he groans, immaturely irritated. ]
If you think this is bad, clearly your master is kinder than I thought.
[ Damris glares, first at Astarion for daring to call him dramatic, and then at Iorveth, whose approach he tries to wriggle away from. Iorveth doesn't let him, of course, and crouches near the struggling tiefling with imperious purpose, reaching with the same hand he'd used to gently stroke Astarion's hair to yank at Damris's bindings. ]
I don't wish to be uncivilized in front of my love, [ he states with dry dispassion, making sure that the knots keeping Damris bound are tight and immovable. ] So I'll lay out the terms of this conversation.
There's a window three paces from where you currently lay bound. Should you answer anything I ask with blatant falsities, or if I find that our talk isn't proceeding in good faith, I will be compelled to draw the curtains and let the midday sun make you honest.
[ Iorveth watches Damris shudder and bare his fangs again, though he doesn't miss the frisson of fear that courses through the tiefling's trussed-up body. It's been a while since he's had to torture anyone (a normal thing that normal people muse about), but it's easy to slip into the role; perhaps this is how Astarion feels when he has to wear his masks, at times. ]
Now, I'll remove the gag. [ He glances at Astarion, and for the brief moment where their eyes meet, Iorveth softens. ] Close the door for me, beloved. In case he yells.
[ Again, very normal behavior. If and when Astarion obliges for him, Iorveth reaches out and narrowly avoids being bitten when he removes the gag, but Damris, to his credit, doesn't scream: he only hisses, spits at Iorveth's foot, and coughs out a low "what do you want, Cyclops? I already cured you. There's nothing else for me to say or do." ]
[ It's probably a symptom of something quite unhealthy that Astarion can't bear to have Iorveth do anything less than dote on him but loves to watch him be cruel to others. It makes him feel special that someone capable of being so sharp can smooth his edges just for Astarion. It makes him feel powerful.
But: ]
—Ah, do make sure that I'm out of the line of fire when you pull the curtains.
[ Burning to a crisp wouldn't make him feel very powerful at all. ]
And you, [ he says, approaching to nudge at Damris with his foot. He won't interfere in Iorveth's torture plans, but he can kick him a little, as a treat. ] You won't call him that again [ —Cyclops— ] or I'll make you wish you only turned to ash in the sun.
[ The huff that Astarion gets back in return is as pompous as a man with all of his limbs tied can manage to sound after being effectively stepped on. Derisive, but mostly to posture; he doesn't try to say something snappy back in return, choosing to chew along his lower lip in what looks like an anxious habit.
Iorveth watches the blunt tip of Damris's tail (lashed around long legs like a second piece of rope) twitch and struggle, then poses his first question: ]
I've not been trancing well the past few days. [ Him, not Astarion. ] Would you know anything about why it is that I've been having undesirable visions during my meditations?
[ "Are you doing anything stupid", essentially. The question doesn't seem to resonate with Damris, eliciting only a confused furrow of shapely brows, but thoroughness is key: with a foot, Iorveth rolls Damris closer to the dreaded office window, where he plays with letting the sliver of light filtering through the curtains touch the bare skin of Damris's exposed forearms. The tiefling hisses, growls, then blanches in fear as he realizes that the deranged elves are not, in fact, joking about inflicting grievous pain on him, and finally offers:
"I don't know! Gods, I don't know. If it was just tonight, I would say the aftereffects of the poison, but..." A strained yelp, as Iorveth peels the curtains away just an inch, letting the light sear against Damris's pretty hands. "Gods, please, I don't know! Spawn don't have that kind of power!"
Red eyes glance desperately towards Astarion, pleading for some sort of corroboration as he feels his fingers start to burn. Iorveth has already heard said corroboration, but he's content with letting Astarion dictate whether he's satisfied or not with the answer. ]
[ 'I've not been trancing well', Iorveth says, and Astarion feels another flutter of affection in his heart. Protecting Astarion's privacy even when not asked to, because he knows that Astarion would rather die before showing vulnerability in front of anyone else. He feels very, very known, and while that feeling would have made him anxious before, it doesn't now.
The sight of sunlight does make him anxious, though, and he takes an unconscious step back as Iorveth opens the curtain. Once upon a time, he'd been able to boast about his daywalking abilities in front of a window at the Flophouse. No more. ]
...He's right. They don't.
[ One could almost mistake this for charity. ]
They're pathetic and impotent. Hardly powerful enough to affect your mind.
[ It guts Iorveth to see Astarion shrink away from the light, but it also renews his determination to get the cloak from the pawnshop as quickly as possible. Drawing the curtains closed again, he crouches back by a whimpering but still-glaring Damris's side. ]
Not you, then. Fine. [ A concession. Damris looks truly confused by the fact that he was accused of this at all, anger and hate and vexation clear in the way he grinds his teeth. Why me is painted all over his put-together features.
It should spark empathy. It does, to some extent. He's just better at compartmentalizing and justifying it under the banner of keeping someone he loves safe. ]
Another question. [ Relentless. He ignores the way Damris struggles weakly, flexing and unflexing sun-raw fingers behind his back. ] Your master's been eyeing an item that belongs to an old crone who sells oddities. Tell me everything you know about it.
[ Red eyes widen at the question, and then－
－surprisingly, Damris laughs. A thin, shrill thing, near-hysterical. "Oh hells, the cloak? Gods, I should have known－ there's only one reason why a foreign vampire would journey all the way to Athkatla."
Another reedy, panicked huff. "You're out of luck! Master Alkam has tried and failed to get that cloak from that hag, so so many times already!" ]
[ Talk of the cloak certainly gets his attention, and he approaches Damris now that it's safe to do so, crouching so that they're face-to-face (or at least as close to it as they can be, given Damris's current position). He furrows his brow as he does so, frowning. ]
Failed?
[ That doesn't bode well for him. If a vampire lord has already tried and failed to procure the cloak, it seems vanishingly unlikely that a mere spawn could ever do so. Why hasn't he just killed her, then? She's just one old woman. It would be a small sacrifice to make just to get his hands on a life-changing cloak. Hells, Astarion would be lying if he said he hadn't considered it himself. It would sure be a lot easier than bringing her the hand of a vampire lord. ]
Go on, elaborate. Unless you'd like to choose which part of your body that we burn next.
[ This time, Damris doesn't have to be coaxed into answering. One gets the impression that it's a rare opportunity to speak poorly about his master without being flayed alive for it.
"Oh, he's been fuming about it for a while now. Finally, something that would let him walk under the sun, and then..." Another sharp huff, derisive. "Like I said, a hag. Alkam's been furious, raving all night about how he spent all this time trying to be the most important entity in this city, and having it be ruined by one damnable creature..."
The hysterical babbling starts to slow down, making way for tired resignation and the resurfacing of what seems to be latent, inexorable fear.
"Hags and covens and plane-walking. I didn't understand half of it. I was in too much pain half the time to parse it all, but I know that all the thralls that Alkam sent to that cursed shop never returned."
This is where Iorveth realizes, oh, like, an actual hag. Ethel and her grotesque menagerie come to mind, and he wrinkles his nose. ]
[ Astarion stills. A hag. A hag hag, not just an old bat like he'd thought. He stands, suddenly restless with anxiety as he starts to pace the length of the office, hands on his hips. His feet make an apprehensive pitter-patter on the lovely purple wood floors. ]
Of course! Why would anything ever be easy?
[ He stomps his foot for good measure, still unpracticed in dealing with negative emotions in any way more mature than that of a small child. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should have been able to tell. He should have noticed something. Now it feels like all of this was for nothing. Why would a hag just give them a precious cloak? Even getting Alkam's hand for her sounds too easy. With hags, there's always a price. ]
—Maybe she never even meant to reward us with the cloak in the first place. Hags aren't known for honoring their deals.
[ Pieces of a puzzle, coming together. Weird, lingering glances from the old crone, weirder comments about trading him for the cloak (hells), weirdest gifts in the form of two gross necklaces. ]
She would have had us fight each other for her amusement, [ Iorveth spits, also getting up and giving Damris a break from his oppressive presence hovering beside him. ] Even if we'd managed to kill Alkam, she would have found a way to make us hers.
[ Assuming, based on the Ethel School of Hag Behavior. Two individuals who successfully defeated a vampire lord would be good assets to have－ or, worse, two potential future thorns in a hag's side to eliminate.
(Damris looks confused, but also seems to have given up on understanding what's happening.) ]
Yes, [ Astarion responds instantly, incensed. A moment later: ] No.
[ Ugh!! This is all so difficult. He deserves that cloak, dammit, and now he's got not only a vampire lord to contend with for it, but a godsdamned hag. Once again, it remains true: he has the hardest life of anyone in the world. He stops in his tracks, throwing his hands up in exasperation. ]
I mean, yes, of course I want us to kill her.
[ He has no qualms with killing a hag, save for the fact that, well, he's not entirely sure they can. It took a whole group of them to down Ethel, and even then, she came back. If Alkam can't even defeat her, what hope do they have? He's immediately forlorn, crossing his arms and sulking. ]
But we couldn't possibly do it. She'll kill us both.
[ 'Too hard'.
His gaze flicks to Damris, tied up on the floor. ]
I wonder if she might be interested in bartering for a sacrifice.
[ 'Too hard' has never stopped Iorveth before. In fact, 'too hard' has always made Iorveth dig his heels in and bite down with exhausted jaws, obstinate and proud. The only complication now is that he doesn't want anything to happen to Astarion, especially not the sort of thing that happens when hags are involved.
Twisted wishes, mutilations. Iorveth glances down at Damris, who is staring, wide-eyed, at Astarion and the casual suggestion he's just made. Too shocked to say anything, or too afraid to. ]
I doubt he'd be of any use to her, [ is a rude assessment on Iorveth's part, as he crouches back down and tips Damris's chin. ] Unless she likes pretty tieflings.
[ Damris scowls, and snaps at Iorveth's hand with sharp teeth, narrowly missing. ]
[ Astarion stares as Damris snaps, frowning. Upset because of the hag, of course. And upset that this horrible spawn is trying to sink his fangs into Iorveth. And also, very immaturely, upset because: ]
He's not that pretty.
[ He is, objectively, and Iorveth isn't wrong to point it out. Astarion gives him a sullen scowl anyway. There's only one vampire spawn here that Iorveth should be thinking about the looks of, and he has a torture chic outfit on. ]
She did want someone, [ he follows up, frown deepening, forehead wrinkle forming. ] She wanted you.
[ Quickly: ] Not that I'd ever allow her to take you, of course.
[ A lot of frowning and pouting going on. Rightly so, of course－ their situation is fairly dire, if they're going to dig their heels in about the cloak－ but Iorveth doesn't like seeing Astarion anxious, so once again, he steps over Damris (who tries to snap at his ankle this time, missing again) to approach Astarion (the prettiest spawn in torture chic), pressing a palm to his cheek once he's within arm's length. ]
We'll need some time to think, either way. [ Not here, where Damris is wriggling around on the floor like some sort of pretty sharp-teethed land fish. ] ...Let us speak in our room. If our prisoner has anything else to say, I'll hear it later.
[ A very mild torture session. No bloodshed, even－ or, well, that's what Iorveth thinks until he tries to gag Damris again, resulting in finally getting his hand scratched up by fangs. Nothing severe, but he does get two parallel red lines etched in his skin, from the base of his thumb down to his pulsepoint.
He draws his hand back, and laughs. ] A very unruly cat.
[ Astarion grabs Iorveth's hand and pulls him out of the room, shutting the door behind them. He holds up the palm that Damris snapped at, worry written on his face. It's just a scratch — no different than 'an unruly cat', as Iorveth had said — but it makes him feel uneasy regardless. Uneasy and jealous. Damris doesn't deserve to taste even a drop of Iorveth's precious blood; to Astarion, it might as well be molten gold. ]
Oh, yes. He must be the prettiest cat you've seen.
[ The whole 'cat' pet name is very silly and not at all fitting, in his opinion... until Iorveth calls someone else a cat, and then suddenly he's fine with claiming it for himself. If he were honest with himself, he'd acknowledge that he's just letting a bad mood overtake him, scowling about things that don't matter because the thing that does matter feels too insurmountable to even frown at. He's never honest with himself, though; gods, can you imagine?
He glances up from Iorveth's hand, offended. ] Ugh. That wretched creature made you bleed.
[ Which he'd be able to tell even without looking. The smell of Iorveth's blood is more familiar to him now than anything else. ]
[ The scratch is an easier problem to fix than the hag problem, which means that it's worth addressing, if only to feel like they've got something under control. Iorveth does some reciprocal maneuvering, moving the both of them back to the living room space, where he can fall on top of one of the many oversized lounge chairs with Astarion in tow. ]
I made him burn first, [ he points out, as he offers his palm for Astarion's perusal, the scratch still coated with a sheen of slow-seeping blood. ] Soothe this for me, if you would.
[ Early breakfast. With his other hand, Iorveth trails the pads of his fingers over frown lines and worry-creases on pale skin, trying to smooth them down. ]
Astarion. You're scowling harder than I usually do.
[ Far be it from a vampire to refuse offered blood. He could be in the worst mood of his life and he'd still lap it up. He reaches for Iorveth's wrist, holding it up to his mouth while he laves his tongue over it, hoping that Damris didn't get a taste. It's a small amount of blood, and it doesn't exactly make things better, but it does make him slightly less on edge.
He pulls Iorveth's hand to his cheek next, resting his head against it. ]
Aren't you going to tell me I'm going to get wrinkles?
[ It's one of Iorveth's favorite little threats, after all. He knows how horrified Astarion would be if he woke up a wrinkly old crone someday. ]
...We were never going to get that cloak. I was foolish to hope that we would.
You could be covered head to toe in wrinkles, [ with more conviction than strictly necessary, ] and you would still be the loveliest thing in all the Realms.
[ His Majesty from Last Light Inn comes to mind. (Iorveth doesn't say so, because Astarion is already in a terrible mood). That said, the gravity of their situation settles back onto them like a funereal shroud, bleak and oppressive; a familiar feeling not just for himself, Iorveth assumes.
Still, Iorveth is surprised to find that he doesn't feel mired in helplessness. He feels... anchored? Full of purpose. Like even the prospect of despair can't quite touch him, when Astarion is around.
Strange. Not unpleasant. He's very certain that Astarion isn't having the same experience, however, so he keeps his touch featherlight along pale skin, thumb tickling along a soft earlobe. ]
You believe so, about the cloak. But I've not yet given up. [ He breathes through his nose, low and steady. ] And if I'm correct in assuming that your nightly disturbances have been the hag's doing, she deserves death.
[ No one would ever accuse Iorveth of being optimistic, but there he is. Saying he hasn't given up. It would be so much smarter to return to Waterdeep with their tails between their legs, but somehow, he still has the conviction to take on a hag. It makes Astarion want to have conviction, too. ]
Obviously she does, but I don't want to die. ...Again.
[ Want to have conviction. Doesn't mean he actually has conviction. ]
That last hag we faced was bad enough. But this one wants you.
[ Another giant red flag. At least Ethel had no real interest in either of them. This hag does — at least, she has interest in Iorveth — and she's already made it clear. Astarion can hardly blame her, because if he were some horrible old hag, he'd want to keep Iorveth for himself, too. ]
[ It's Iorveth's job to have conviction when no one else does: that's the whole point of him, stateless radical that he is. If he loses hope, an entire group of people who depend on him despair－ he's acclimated to that responsibility, and he extends it here, too, for this particular circumstance. Force of (bad?) habit.
Poor Astarion, having to deal with Iorveth's terminal inability to live without regrets. They truly are opposites of each other in every way, and once upon a time, Iorveth might have thought that they disagree about the things that really matter. But, again, Iorveth doesn't love easy. He likes friction, rapport, a back-and-forth.
Which is why he considers Astarion's assertion, and counters it with one of his own. ] The opposite, I think. She mentioned me as an item because she wanted to barter with you. And if she's the one causing your nightmares, she's doing it to weaken your resolve.
[ Why? He has no idea. But a mortal thrall is likely less useful than an immortal one, and barring that, Iorveth mirrors Astarion's assumption that, if he were a terrible old hag, he'd want Astarion for himself. ]
But I tire of this farce. Cast invisibility on me, and I'll infiltrate the damned shop. I'll put every cloak I can get my hands on in a bag, set the place on fire, and leave.
[ Astarion sputters. Of course Iorveth would suggest such a thing. He is, after all, deranged. Astarion usually loves Iorveth's derangement, but this time is— ridiculous. Reckless even by his standards. His hand closes tightly around Iorveth's wrist, and he shakes his head. ]
Are you mad, walking into a hag's den and stealing from her? If she discovered you, she'd disintegrate you. Or bake you into a pie.
[ Or whatever hags do. He isn't particularly knowledgeable about them, aside from knowing that whatever this creature could do to Iorveth is unthinkably awful. Astarion can barely tolerate the thought of Iorveth stubbing his toe. ]
Besides, if anyone should break into her lair...
[ He swallows, uncertain. ]
I suppose it should be me. I am a rather accomplished thief. And, besides, she might have her precious cloaks behind a lock.
[ Iorveth, a man who has burned villages down (RIP Flotsam), returns Astarion's bemusement with a cant of his head, like a dog that doesn't understand that no, it's not nice to bite the mailman's hand every morning. It's just arson...? Why don't you love him, Astarion...?
But then Astarion follows up with the sensible warning that he might be made into Iorveth pie, and that makes him reconsider. Briefly. He still thinks arson is a viable plan and prefers it to Astarion sneaking in alone, because again, he's still convinced, the way Iorveth is convinced in many (if not all) situations, that people want Astarion for themselves. ]
I've picked locks before.
[ (Flashback: Iorveth in Moonrise Towers, struggling gainfully with his set of Thieves' Tools in front of a locked door. Eventually, he's forcibly dislodged by Shadowheart, who drags Astarion along with an exasperated "I told you to just ask Astarion," to which Iorveth grumbles "I've picked locks before.")
[ Iorveth frowns, and Astarion smiles pityingly, reaching out so that it's Iorveth's cheek in his hand now. His thumb brushes up and down Iorveth's jaw affectionately. ]
Oh, you sweet thing. I know you have.
[ None that he's been present for, because why would he ever let someone else pick a lock in his presence? They're just going to do it wrong. Like how Iorveth feels when he sees someone else try to nock an arrow, probably. Tiny, detailed work with his hands has always come easily to him. In another life, maybe that would have translated to a profession. ]
But I'd rather not risk your survival on it.
[ The longer Iorveth takes, the more likely it is that the hag discovers him. He couldn't bear it if Iorveth were found out because he was trying to pick a lock that Astarion really should have been the one to handle. ]
You're not allowed to get eaten by a hag. I forbid it.
[ Not sullen, per se, but slightly displeased, Iorveth lists against Astarion's hand and leans into him. A fox, resting its chin on a trusted human's hand. ]
She wouldn't be able to stomach me.
[ Iorveth pie sounds disgusting, thank you very much. But he does have to concede that, in terms of efficiency, thieving is more Astarion's area of expertise, and he would likely be able to get the job done far more quickly than Iorveth could.
A huff. Fine, is the sentiment. He's clearly not happy about it. ]
...I could cast Longstrider on you. And Pass Without Trace. [ The latter, he's not very proficient with. Iorveth is a fighter, not a spellcaster, and spells that require concentration tend not to hold very well, or very long.
Another huff. ] I could also create a diversion. [ uh oh ]
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I'll not have you do anything that you don't wish to do. But if anything goes amiss, try to keep me from getting skewered by tiefling horns.
[ Astarion doesn't have to participate, if it means dredging up unpleasant reminders of the life he used to live in the Szarr mansion. That said, if he wants to reclaim a bit of power, Iorveth won't say no to that, either; it all depends on how Damris acts under duress.
Across the living room they go, past the bathroom and towards the corner office. Iorveth's expression transitions to icy neutral, all warmth and doting gone in an instant once he hears the scrabbling on the other side of the door and once he sees the struggling man hissing and twisting on the floor.
Sharp fangs have sliced through the fabric of the robe belt. Damris, red eyes glowing like knives in the dim of the room, glares up at Iorveth and growls something garbled in what might be Infernal. ]
Awake, [ Iorveth notes, dispassionate. Once upon a time, he spoke to Astarion in the same way, in the same tone. Unthinkable, now. ]
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Astarion follows him through the doorway before leaning himself up against the wall closest to it, keeping his distance. This is Iorveth's rodeo. He wouldn't want to step on any toes. However, he does speak up upon seeing Damris thrashing against his bindings: ]
Oh, my gods. You really couldn't be any more dramatic.
[ His eyes roll back into his head, and he groans, immaturely irritated. ]
If you think this is bad, clearly your master is kinder than I thought.
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I don't wish to be uncivilized in front of my love, [ he states with dry dispassion, making sure that the knots keeping Damris bound are tight and immovable. ] So I'll lay out the terms of this conversation.
There's a window three paces from where you currently lay bound. Should you answer anything I ask with blatant falsities, or if I find that our talk isn't proceeding in good faith, I will be compelled to draw the curtains and let the midday sun make you honest.
[ Iorveth watches Damris shudder and bare his fangs again, though he doesn't miss the frisson of fear that courses through the tiefling's trussed-up body. It's been a while since he's had to torture anyone (a normal thing that normal people muse about), but it's easy to slip into the role; perhaps this is how Astarion feels when he has to wear his masks, at times. ]
Now, I'll remove the gag. [ He glances at Astarion, and for the brief moment where their eyes meet, Iorveth softens. ] Close the door for me, beloved. In case he yells.
[ Again, very normal behavior. If and when Astarion obliges for him, Iorveth reaches out and narrowly avoids being bitten when he removes the gag, but Damris, to his credit, doesn't scream: he only hisses, spits at Iorveth's foot, and coughs out a low "what do you want, Cyclops? I already cured you. There's nothing else for me to say or do." ]
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But: ]
—Ah, do make sure that I'm out of the line of fire when you pull the curtains.
[ Burning to a crisp wouldn't make him feel very powerful at all. ]
And you, [ he says, approaching to nudge at Damris with his foot. He won't interfere in Iorveth's torture plans, but he can kick him a little, as a treat. ] You won't call him that again [ —Cyclops— ] or I'll make you wish you only turned to ash in the sun.
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Iorveth watches the blunt tip of Damris's tail (lashed around long legs like a second piece of rope) twitch and struggle, then poses his first question: ]
I've not been trancing well the past few days. [ Him, not Astarion. ] Would you know anything about why it is that I've been having undesirable visions during my meditations?
[ "Are you doing anything stupid", essentially. The question doesn't seem to resonate with Damris, eliciting only a confused furrow of shapely brows, but thoroughness is key: with a foot, Iorveth rolls Damris closer to the dreaded office window, where he plays with letting the sliver of light filtering through the curtains touch the bare skin of Damris's exposed forearms. The tiefling hisses, growls, then blanches in fear as he realizes that the deranged elves are not, in fact, joking about inflicting grievous pain on him, and finally offers:
"I don't know! Gods, I don't know. If it was just tonight, I would say the aftereffects of the poison, but..." A strained yelp, as Iorveth peels the curtains away just an inch, letting the light sear against Damris's pretty hands. "Gods, please, I don't know! Spawn don't have that kind of power!"
Red eyes glance desperately towards Astarion, pleading for some sort of corroboration as he feels his fingers start to burn. Iorveth has already heard said corroboration, but he's content with letting Astarion dictate whether he's satisfied or not with the answer. ]
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The sight of sunlight does make him anxious, though, and he takes an unconscious step back as Iorveth opens the curtain. Once upon a time, he'd been able to boast about his daywalking abilities in front of a window at the Flophouse. No more. ]
...He's right. They don't.
[ One could almost mistake this for charity. ]
They're pathetic and impotent. Hardly powerful enough to affect your mind.
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Not you, then. Fine. [ A concession. Damris looks truly confused by the fact that he was accused of this at all, anger and hate and vexation clear in the way he grinds his teeth. Why me is painted all over his put-together features.
It should spark empathy. It does, to some extent. He's just better at compartmentalizing and justifying it under the banner of keeping someone he loves safe. ]
Another question. [ Relentless. He ignores the way Damris struggles weakly, flexing and unflexing sun-raw fingers behind his back. ] Your master's been eyeing an item that belongs to an old crone who sells oddities. Tell me everything you know about it.
[ Red eyes widen at the question, and then－
－surprisingly, Damris laughs. A thin, shrill thing, near-hysterical. "Oh hells, the cloak? Gods, I should have known－ there's only one reason why a foreign vampire would journey all the way to Athkatla."
Another reedy, panicked huff. "You're out of luck! Master Alkam has tried and failed to get that cloak from that hag, so so many times already!" ]
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Failed?
[ That doesn't bode well for him. If a vampire lord has already tried and failed to procure the cloak, it seems vanishingly unlikely that a mere spawn could ever do so. Why hasn't he just killed her, then? She's just one old woman. It would be a small sacrifice to make just to get his hands on a life-changing cloak. Hells, Astarion would be lying if he said he hadn't considered it himself. It would sure be a lot easier than bringing her the hand of a vampire lord. ]
Go on, elaborate. Unless you'd like to choose which part of your body that we burn next.
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"Oh, he's been fuming about it for a while now. Finally, something that would let him walk under the sun, and then..." Another sharp huff, derisive. "Like I said, a hag. Alkam's been furious, raving all night about how he spent all this time trying to be the most important entity in this city, and having it be ruined by one damnable creature..."
The hysterical babbling starts to slow down, making way for tired resignation and the resurfacing of what seems to be latent, inexorable fear.
"Hags and covens and plane-walking. I didn't understand half of it. I was in too much pain half the time to parse it all, but I know that all the thralls that Alkam sent to that cursed shop never returned."
This is where Iorveth realizes, oh, like, an actual hag. Ethel and her grotesque menagerie come to mind, and he wrinkles his nose. ]
Wonderful. So the crone wasn't just senile.
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Of course! Why would anything ever be easy?
[ He stomps his foot for good measure, still unpracticed in dealing with negative emotions in any way more mature than that of a small child. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should have been able to tell. He should have noticed something. Now it feels like all of this was for nothing. Why would a hag just give them a precious cloak? Even getting Alkam's hand for her sounds too easy. With hags, there's always a price. ]
—Maybe she never even meant to reward us with the cloak in the first place. Hags aren't known for honoring their deals.
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She would have had us fight each other for her amusement, [ Iorveth spits, also getting up and giving Damris a break from his oppressive presence hovering beside him. ] Even if we'd managed to kill Alkam, she would have found a way to make us hers.
[ Assuming, based on the Ethel School of Hag Behavior. Two individuals who successfully defeated a vampire lord would be good assets to have－ or, worse, two potential future thorns in a hag's side to eliminate.
(Damris looks confused, but also seems to have given up on understanding what's happening.) ]
Damnable witch. I'll end her for this.
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[ Ugh!! This is all so difficult. He deserves that cloak, dammit, and now he's got not only a vampire lord to contend with for it, but a godsdamned hag. Once again, it remains true: he has the hardest life of anyone in the world. He stops in his tracks, throwing his hands up in exasperation. ]
I mean, yes, of course I want us to kill her.
[ He has no qualms with killing a hag, save for the fact that, well, he's not entirely sure they can. It took a whole group of them to down Ethel, and even then, she came back. If Alkam can't even defeat her, what hope do they have? He's immediately forlorn, crossing his arms and sulking. ]
But we couldn't possibly do it. She'll kill us both.
[ 'Too hard'.
His gaze flicks to Damris, tied up on the floor. ]
I wonder if she might be interested in bartering for a sacrifice.
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Twisted wishes, mutilations. Iorveth glances down at Damris, who is staring, wide-eyed, at Astarion and the casual suggestion he's just made. Too shocked to say anything, or too afraid to. ]
I doubt he'd be of any use to her, [ is a rude assessment on Iorveth's part, as he crouches back down and tips Damris's chin. ] Unless she likes pretty tieflings.
[ Damris scowls, and snaps at Iorveth's hand with sharp teeth, narrowly missing. ]
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He's not that pretty.
[ He is, objectively, and Iorveth isn't wrong to point it out. Astarion gives him a sullen scowl anyway. There's only one vampire spawn here that Iorveth should be thinking about the looks of, and he has a torture chic outfit on. ]
She did want someone, [ he follows up, frown deepening, forehead wrinkle forming. ] She wanted you.
[ Quickly: ] Not that I'd ever allow her to take you, of course.
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We'll need some time to think, either way. [ Not here, where Damris is wriggling around on the floor like some sort of pretty sharp-teethed land fish. ] ...Let us speak in our room. If our prisoner has anything else to say, I'll hear it later.
[ A very mild torture session. No bloodshed, even－ or, well, that's what Iorveth thinks until he tries to gag Damris again, resulting in finally getting his hand scratched up by fangs. Nothing severe, but he does get two parallel red lines etched in his skin, from the base of his thumb down to his pulsepoint.
He draws his hand back, and laughs. ] A very unruly cat.
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Oh, yes. He must be the prettiest cat you've seen.
[ The whole 'cat' pet name is very silly and not at all fitting, in his opinion... until Iorveth calls someone else a cat, and then suddenly he's fine with claiming it for himself. If he were honest with himself, he'd acknowledge that he's just letting a bad mood overtake him, scowling about things that don't matter because the thing that does matter feels too insurmountable to even frown at. He's never honest with himself, though; gods, can you imagine?
He glances up from Iorveth's hand, offended. ] Ugh. That wretched creature made you bleed.
[ Which he'd be able to tell even without looking. The smell of Iorveth's blood is more familiar to him now than anything else. ]
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I made him burn first, [ he points out, as he offers his palm for Astarion's perusal, the scratch still coated with a sheen of slow-seeping blood. ] Soothe this for me, if you would.
[ Early breakfast. With his other hand, Iorveth trails the pads of his fingers over frown lines and worry-creases on pale skin, trying to smooth them down. ]
Astarion. You're scowling harder than I usually do.
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He pulls Iorveth's hand to his cheek next, resting his head against it. ]
Aren't you going to tell me I'm going to get wrinkles?
[ It's one of Iorveth's favorite little threats, after all. He knows how horrified Astarion would be if he woke up a wrinkly old crone someday. ]
...We were never going to get that cloak. I was foolish to hope that we would.
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[ His Majesty from Last Light Inn comes to mind. (Iorveth doesn't say so, because Astarion is already in a terrible mood). That said, the gravity of their situation settles back onto them like a funereal shroud, bleak and oppressive; a familiar feeling not just for himself, Iorveth assumes.
Still, Iorveth is surprised to find that he doesn't feel mired in helplessness. He feels... anchored? Full of purpose. Like even the prospect of despair can't quite touch him, when Astarion is around.
Strange. Not unpleasant. He's very certain that Astarion isn't having the same experience, however, so he keeps his touch featherlight along pale skin, thumb tickling along a soft earlobe. ]
You believe so, about the cloak. But I've not yet given up. [ He breathes through his nose, low and steady. ] And if I'm correct in assuming that your nightly disturbances have been the hag's doing, she deserves death.
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Obviously she does, but I don't want to die. ...Again.
[ Want to have conviction. Doesn't mean he actually has conviction. ]
That last hag we faced was bad enough. But this one wants you.
[ Another giant red flag. At least Ethel had no real interest in either of them. This hag does — at least, she has interest in Iorveth — and she's already made it clear. Astarion can hardly blame her, because if he were some horrible old hag, he'd want to keep Iorveth for himself, too. ]
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Poor Astarion, having to deal with Iorveth's terminal inability to live without regrets. They truly are opposites of each other in every way, and once upon a time, Iorveth might have thought that they disagree about the things that really matter. But, again, Iorveth doesn't love easy. He likes friction, rapport, a back-and-forth.
Which is why he considers Astarion's assertion, and counters it with one of his own. ] The opposite, I think. She mentioned me as an item because she wanted to barter with you. And if she's the one causing your nightmares, she's doing it to weaken your resolve.
[ Why? He has no idea. But a mortal thrall is likely less useful than an immortal one, and barring that, Iorveth mirrors Astarion's assumption that, if he were a terrible old hag, he'd want Astarion for himself. ]
But I tire of this farce. Cast invisibility on me, and I'll infiltrate the damned shop. I'll put every cloak I can get my hands on in a bag, set the place on fire, and leave.
[ full scorched earth mode ]
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Are you mad, walking into a hag's den and stealing from her? If she discovered you, she'd disintegrate you. Or bake you into a pie.
[ Or whatever hags do. He isn't particularly knowledgeable about them, aside from knowing that whatever this creature could do to Iorveth is unthinkably awful. Astarion can barely tolerate the thought of Iorveth stubbing his toe. ]
Besides, if anyone should break into her lair...
[ He swallows, uncertain. ]
I suppose it should be me. I am a rather accomplished thief. And, besides, she might have her precious cloaks behind a lock.
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But then Astarion follows up with the sensible warning that he might be made into Iorveth pie, and that makes him reconsider. Briefly. He still thinks arson is a viable plan and prefers it to Astarion sneaking in alone, because again, he's still convinced, the way Iorveth is convinced in many (if not all) situations, that people want Astarion for themselves. ]
I've picked locks before.
[ (Flashback: Iorveth in Moonrise Towers, struggling gainfully with his set of Thieves' Tools in front of a locked door. Eventually, he's forcibly dislodged by Shadowheart, who drags Astarion along with an exasperated "I told you to just ask Astarion," to which Iorveth grumbles "I've picked locks before.")
Iorveth's turn to frown. ]
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Oh, you sweet thing. I know you have.
[ None that he's been present for, because why would he ever let someone else pick a lock in his presence? They're just going to do it wrong. Like how Iorveth feels when he sees someone else try to nock an arrow, probably. Tiny, detailed work with his hands has always come easily to him. In another life, maybe that would have translated to a profession. ]
But I'd rather not risk your survival on it.
[ The longer Iorveth takes, the more likely it is that the hag discovers him. He couldn't bear it if Iorveth were found out because he was trying to pick a lock that Astarion really should have been the one to handle. ]
You're not allowed to get eaten by a hag. I forbid it.
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She wouldn't be able to stomach me.
[ Iorveth pie sounds disgusting, thank you very much. But he does have to concede that, in terms of efficiency, thieving is more Astarion's area of expertise, and he would likely be able to get the job done far more quickly than Iorveth could.
A huff. Fine, is the sentiment. He's clearly not happy about it. ]
...I could cast Longstrider on you. And Pass Without Trace. [ The latter, he's not very proficient with. Iorveth is a fighter, not a spellcaster, and spells that require concentration tend not to hold very well, or very long.
Another huff. ] I could also create a diversion. [ uh oh ]
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