essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ It's impressive, watching Astarion slip his mask back on. Cavalier indifference, smooth as porcelain. The only slipup is the glance backwards, and Iorveth reacts to it with the barest twitch of one hand, instinct telling him to reach and place his palm to the small of Astarion's back.

He doesn't, but the three pairs of red eyes track over to him anyway, likely having sensed his slight twitch. Aurelia raises her brow, hunger mixed with curiosity, while Petras still looks like he's inclined to sink his teeth into whatever soft part of Iorveth he can get his mouth on.

Dalyria, on the other hand, seems conflicted by the non-spawn's presence down in the bowels of the manse. After a beat of silence after Astarion's not-quite-reassurance (which, Iorveth notes, the other siblings look somewhat convinced by), she ventures a soft: "why did you bring a human with you, brother? It's... cruel, almost, to bring something alive when so many of us are starving."

Gods, this again. Iorveth sighs, as if resigned to his designation as walking food. ]

They do realize that I can speak Common.

[ The spawn do realize that in some distant way, he's sure, but Astarion can see by the looks in their eyes that it's difficult to separate the concept of a living person from prey. They've spent so long seeing other people as things to exploit or victimize in one way or another. Of course the adjustment is difficult. Astarion went through it himself not long ago.

"Is it an offering?" asks Aurelia, eyeing Iorveth. ]

He's not food, so stop salivating, [ he snaps.

Petras, probably tired of being scolded for a second time, scoffs and leans in toward the two women. "He's our brother's personal blood bag," he says. "Astarion won't share."

Honestly, Petras looks better than he did last night; a little more color to his cheeks, a little more energy. Astarion wouldn't be surprised if he really did feed after they met. The women, though, still look listless and pallid. If he had to guess, Petras didn't share, either. ]

He's half the reason you're all rid of Cazador now, thank you very much. You should all be on your knees thanking us.

[ "He doesn't look enthralled," Dalyria observes with a frown. An insulting assessment, really, but the other siblings' difficulty in believing that Astarion could be around someone simply because they're comrades or friends (or whatever they've decided they are, Iorveth doesn't have a word for it yet) speaks volumes.

"And he scarcely looks like he would have been able to..." This time, it's Aurelia's turn to hesitate before finishing the sentence, which Iorveth assumes is "kill Cazador". She doesn't fill in that blank, and chooses instead to look over her shoulder towards the direction of the underground kennels, expression clouding. Remembering the other spawn, no doubt.

"The others... they'll tear the elf apart, if they're given even a sliver of a chance. Even if it participated in their liberation. Take care, brother."

It. Iorveth's frown turns sharp, but decides, with extreme restraint, not to say anything about how he's being referred to for now. ]

We'll see how far gone they are, [ he suggests to Astarion, his focus swiveled back, unwavering, on him. ] And assess what we should do with them afterwards.

[ If they're too deranged for rehabilitation, the difficult option might be the kindest; if they can still have some part of their minds left, Iorveth thinks that they could continue living, albeit with some sort of supervision. Not theirs; they still have things to do. ]

[ It's the same thing Astarion has been saying, but the warning feels offensive coming from Aurelia. He bristles, about to tell them that Iorveth is quite capable of defending himself against a weak, starving vampire spawn, but Iorveth himself speaks up before he's able to. Iorveth taking point is comforting; Astarion hardly knows where to begin, so there's no disagreement from him. After a simple nod, he tugs Iorveth along by the forearm, brushing past his siblings.

He doesn't miss the hungry stares as they pass by. His fingers wind tighter around Iorveth's arm, and he pulls him closer.

The cages are further down the corridor, bathed in a sickly green light. As they approach, he frowns. ]

To think that I always thought of the palace as a prison, and all this time it really was.

[ He stops dead in his tracks a few feet out of sight from the wretched creatures behind the bars. His body doesn't want to go any further, his feet like lead blocks. ]

They're going to be furious. If they still have their wits about them.

[ They leave the siblings behind to confer amongst themselves about their big brother and his intentions; the closer they get to the barred cages lining the corridor leading to Cazador's now-empty coffin (Iorveth vaguely wonders if his remains are still there, a congealed mess of blood and gore), the stronger the scent of huddled masses become. More death, more misery.

Keeping himself within Astarion's reach, Iorveth lets his eye settle on the hand on his arm, on its white-knuckled grip. ]

They'll want your head. [ Not reassuring, but the truth. ] You should worry about your own safety, not mine.

[ His gaze slides upwards, trying to read the outline of Astarion's expression; anxiety? Dread? Embarrassment? ]

What are you afraid of?

[ If Astarion is afraid, which Iorveth assumes he is. His tone is soft despite the bitingly blunt nature of the inquiry, his shoulders turned towards Astarion to telegraph attentiveness. Astarion doesn't have to answer, but as always, Iorveth wants to know. ]

I'm not afraid, [ is his immediate, defensive reply, unthinking and instinctive. Admitting vulnerability still feels like handing someone a knife and baring his throat for the slitting.

But if there's anyone who he'd allow to hold a blade at his neck, it's Iorveth. He shrugs his shoulders, eyes drifting off to gaze, unfocused, at the tip of Iorveth's ear. It's clear that he's unused to spilling his most sensitive thoughts, and the act makes him feel restless, apprehensive. ]

This is a— gallery of my humiliation.

[ A selfish reason to be discomfited by thousands of starving prisoners, but his reason all the same. He'd comforted himself with the knowledge that he'd never have to see any of his victims again. That they'd be dead and gone, the evidence of what he'd been made to do erased from the world. The worst part isn't even that he'll have to look them in the face and remember what he did; it's that there are so many that he won't be able to remember. ]

I've spent the past two centuries trying to forget about them. Now...

[ He gestures vaguely toward the corridor. That speaks for itself, he thinks. ]

Now you'll have to confront them. Properly.

[ No mincing words. There's a sliver of Iorveth that wants to think that he understands a fraction of what Astarion is feeling, even if not on the same scale or magnitude: he's been confronted with the futility of his existence, and chose the continued humiliation of kicking and screaming against extinction in lieu of dying with dignity. He wants to think that he understands how hard it is; he wants to think that he understands the weight of it.

A low breath, and Iorveth reaches to cup his palms on either side of Astarion's face. Bracketing him, and turning his head to align their focus, one eye to two eyes. ]

And you'll have to make a choice. On your own terms this time, and of your own volition.

[ No one forced Astarion to come back here. Astarion decided that he had to, which Iorveth respects more than Astarion may realize. The sternness of his gaze gives way to something noticeably softer, a little resigned. He expects pushback, but that's fine. ]

A final farewell to your past, no matter what form it takes. Trust me, I know the feeling.

[ On his own terms, of his own volition. He's hardly ever done anything that way. It feels awfully intimidating, and he almost wants to ask Iorveth to just do it all for him. Unfortunately, he already knows that Iorveth won't. He'd say something about Astarion's freedom and independence and blah blah blah, and then he'd make Astarion make the hard choice.

He sighs, then forces himself to take one step and then another. His hand stays wrapped around Iorveth's arm, holding him close as if a rabid spawn could jump out any minute. They're unlikely to do any jumping at all; as they approach, it's obvious that the creatures are lethargic, wasting away. Some have enough energy left in them to approach the bars, grasping them and staring slack-jawed at the living person being paraded through their prison.

Astarion looks at them, at their faces. None of them are familiar, although hundreds of them must be here by his doing. To them, he's the awful monster who led them to their dooms. To him, they're only strangers. ]

I don't know where to start, [ he admits, a sea of red lights peering back at him. ]

[ A sea of hollow, glowing eyes; wraiths in all shapes and sizes. Some of them are wearing clothes that are fraying off of their thin bodies, in styles that seem old-fashioned even by Iorveth's standards. Iorveth sweeps his attention over them, maps the tired track of their slippery focus and turns back towards Astarion. ]

I wouldn't start with conversations about the weather. [ Dry humor, to take the edge off of a situation so sharp that it must cut Astarion to be present for it.. Doubtful how well it works, though. Nothing will make this process easier.

As if to corroborate his mental assessment, a low voice filters through the relative quiet, accompanied by the sound of jostling, cloth against cloth as one of the spawn pushes himself through the crowd.

"That voice... I've heard that voice before."

Matted silver hair and grime-covered skin mar what must have been a handsome man in life; he shuffles forward, staggering close enough to the prison bars that Iorveth can smell the thick scent of copper and earth on him, death made manifest. ]

[ The voice is soft, sad. As Astarion turns to look at the source of it, there's no recognition in his eyes. How could there be? Whatever's standing here now, oily-haired and sallow-skinned, wouldn't even resemble whoever he saw across a crowded tavern. Every bit of life has been sucked out of these prisoners. ]

Perhaps I just have one of those voices, [ he says, but he sounds distant, unsure.

"No," the man replies miserably. "I remember. It's the last voice I heard before—" Astarion swallows down the bile rising in his throat. Misery gives way to anger, although the poor thing is still too weak to put too much venom in his voice. Or perhaps he's just too good-natured to, even now, after everything Astarion has done. "You plied me with drink in that tavern. You invited me back to your home. I thought you liked me."

Recollection returns like a slap to the face. He remembers now: a good-looking young man, too innocent and inexperienced to know what Astarion had in store for him. Giddy and excited at the prospect of being liked for the first time. Astarion suddenly feels like retching. His gaze flicks to Iorveth, there and gone in an instant, apprehensive to be perceived like this. ]

I— [ He sounds like he wants to argue in some way, but he can't find the words. There is no argument that will undo what he did. He shrinks a little, shoulders rounding. ] Yes, I remember now.

[ Iorveth keeps his expression carefully still, the picture of neutrality. The Woodland Fox has killed countless brothers, fathers, sons, seen resentment in all shapes and sizes. He only shifts his weight from one foot to the other, regarding the starved man with distant caution.

"You... you did this to me." Defeated, the spawn hooks his weak fingers into the tarnished gold bars of the cell. Upright, he'd likely cut a more impressive figure－ tall and broad, barrel-chested－ but imprisonment seems to have bent him, his spine curled to match his broken spirit. "You lied to me. You gave me to him. And now I have nothing."

A sharp exhale, as if saying the words out loud have shattered something in him. "Gods, please, I don't want to die down here."

Some of the spawn around him look tiredly on, as if it's been centuries of hearing someone say this at least once a day. An endless rotation of despair and misery. Even their own hopelessness has become rote. ]

[ Now that he's imagined Sebastian without the grime and years of suffering on his face, Astarion can do the same for the others. He'd thought they'd all blur together, and they had for all of those years. People he'd used and offered up and told himself never to think of again. All of a sudden, though, the memories come rushing back. A wan, sickly-looking tiefling in the corner who had been uproariously outgoing. A human the next cell over who'd smelled horribly of ale but now only smells of death. An elf who'd treated him poorly then, now looking every bit the victim.

Sebastian is still perhaps the worst of all, because he'd been sweet. Guileless. He'd looked at Astarion like he was something special, and then Astarion had thrown him to the wolves.

"I'm so hungry," says another spawn, spindly fingers reaching out through the bars. She can't quite reach. "Please, just a drop of blood."

Astarion says nothing to them, instead tugging Iorveth a few steps away. His voice lowered, he hisses, ] Just because they're able to talk to us doesn't mean they won't drain you and everyone else in the city once they have the chance.

[ It's true, although it isn't really what he's thinking right now. What he's really thinking is that it feels so awful to exist in this moment that he wants to erase every link to his past life off of the face of the earth. ]

[ "It isn't fair", a different spawn wheezes in the shadows. "I just want to get out. I just want to get out."

The voice continues, repeating the last phrase over and over like a dirge. Iorveth frowns and glances back towards Sebastian again, two haunted eyes glowing red in the dark. ]

If even one of them can prove that they can exercise self-restraint, [ is a slowly-enunciated proposal, ] would you consider freeing them?

[ A paltry benchmark, but it's something. Like holding one's hand out to a wild animal and testing to see if it'll bite― actually, exactly that. Maybe Sebastian will surprise them both, and his desire to be free will supersede his desire to sink his teeth into Iorveth's forearm and consume his blood.

Or maybe Iorveth is a crazy person. He can fathom a guess that the longer they spend waffling by this cage, the worse Astarion will feel; though it's up to Astarion to make a choice, Iorveth can offer options. ]

[ Of course Iorveth thinks that if the spawn can be free, they should be free. Astarion could have guessed as much. Freedom is one of his strongest values, if not the strongest. Astarion frowns, eyes flicking back to the ghosts of his past who've come back to haunt him. Some of them are crouched on the floor, hunched over, wretched and pathetic. Others are pressed up against the bars, eyes glassy but unmistakably fixed on Iorveth's throat. He turns back, pulling up Iorveth's collar with a sharp tug. ]

I— [ He falters. Is it so wrong to want them gone? He'd finally be free of the last of his ties to Cazador. And yet— how many times did he think the same thing? I don't want to die here. On constant refrain in his mind for two hundred years. ]

How do you suggest we test their restraint?

[ Probably not the best time to think that Astarion's fussing with his collar is a bit cute (unnecessary, but cute), especially given their current topic of conversation. He straightens his crooked collar after it's yanked, and pauses before pressing an index finger between Astarion's brows to feel the furrow there. ]

I present my arm for consideration.

[ There's only one living person down here right now, after all. ]

The one you were talking to seems self-controlled enough. He may be able to set some sort of example for the others, alongside your siblings.

[ Because Iorveth fully intends to involve them, too. Refugee spawn should be led by fellow refugee spawn, and though Cazador's chosen six (a conscious exclusion of Astarion from the headcount) were in extremely unenviable positions, they probably know a bit more about being on their feet than the prisoners do. ]

Sebastian, [ Astarion murmurs, the name bitter on his tongue. The last time he'd said it, he'd been leading a wide-eyed fool to his death with promises of romance, the words I've never met anyone like you before.

Astarion turns his head to look at him. He looks tired, the years of confinement and starvation etched into his face. He's dirty, grime-caked, although Astarion remembers him looking clean and bright-eyed across the tavern. His expression is somewhere between sad, angry, and exhausted as he slumps against the bars, watching. ]

Maybe.

[ Or perhaps he hates Astarion so much that he'd tear through Iorveth's flesh just to punish him. It's what Astarion would have done in his place. He would have done anything to get revenge, cut off his own nose to spite his face.

Not literally, of course. If there's anything he wouldn't do, it's tarnish his own beauty.

He approaches the spawn again, arms crossed, keeping a healthy distance from the bars. They won't want to take a bite out of him, but he wouldn't be surprised if they wanted to see him dead. ]

Let's play a game. All you have to do is keep your teeth to yourself.

[ "...I don't understand," Sebastian says. "Did you bring us food?" ]

Mm. In a manner of speaking, but you're on a diet.

[ Iorveth is going to have to get used to being referred to as food. He steps forward in time to Astarion proposing their little "game" and starts rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, baring his tan forearm all the way up to his elbow. ]

If we're to set you all free, we'll need at least some measure of confidence that we're not dooming half the Sword Coast to death by vampires.

[ The Woodland Fox may be a monster in the North, but it's not like he enjoys wide-scale genocide. Flexing his hand, fingers opening and closing into a loose fist, he approaches the bars of the cage and gestures with his uncovered arm to emphasize his point. ]

I'll give you my arm. [ Iorveth watches Sebastian's eyes widen, two hungry pinprick red lights sharpening with hunger. ] If you can prevent yourself and others from tearing into it for a minute, we'll see what we can do for you all.

[ Sebastian, swallowing visibly, murmurs: "I... Gods, I can try. Anything to get out of here." The others around him seem less convinced, their fanged teeth glittering in the dim, but Iorveth glances towards Astarion for any sign of a go-ahead. At the end of the day, this is about Astarion, and what he wants. ]

[ Sebastian, at least, seems determined to pass the test, but Astarion still hates the idea of Iorveth presenting himself to a cage full of hungry vampires. He'd sunk his teeth into every woodland creature he could find after his abduction, and he'd been fed — not much, but certainly more than these pitiful souls. He gets the feeling that they'd even jump at the chance to drink from a rat. ]

Keep in mind that if any of you harm my companion, I'll make sure it's the last meal you ever have.

[ Some of the spawn glance at each other, nervous. Perhaps they don't believe that they can achieve such a monumental task as resisting the siren call of blood. Others simply look defeated, as if even death would be preferable to another moment here. They're probably right. It would be a mercy to put them out of their misery.

Even so, he can't help the twisting feeling in his chest. At one point, it would have been a mercy to put him out of his misery, too.

He looks at Iorveth for a long moment, hesitant. Every cell in his body screams out not to let him do something so stupid and careless, the image of Iorveth bleeding out from the wrist flashing in front of his eyes. He steels himself, pushing his shoulders back, holding his head up high. ]

Go on.

[ "You're not just grandiose, you're utterly mad" is what most people say to Iorveth when they find out what he's willing to put himself through, and it's what he recalls now, in different voices, as he approaches Sebastian and his hunched-forward posture.

It's not that Iorveth wants to cause Astarion grief. This is, in fact, the one thing he finds particularly problematic about how much he likes Astarion: that he'll find himself averse to doing something that Astarion would find particularly upsetting, perhaps to the detriment of what needs to be done.

Something to think about later. For now, it's a quick and careful nudge of forehead to forehead before he situates himself directly in front of the starving spawn. He snakes his arm through the thin bars of the cage, and watches as Sebastian's entire body spasms forward for a fraction of a second, lured by what Iorveth assumes is the scent of warm blood, of something living that he could sink his teeth into if he wanted.

"I'm so hungry," he whispers, and Iorveth feels the slide of cold fingers play over his wrist. Goosebumps crawl onto his skin, almost close to revulsion－ almost shocking, how different it feels from the welcome feeling of Astarion's hands on him.

Sebastian presses his thumb against the thin skin of Iorveth's inner wrist, untrimmed nails threatening to break the surface; the other spawn close in, inching closer, eyes like knives. ]

[ Astarion experiences a low-grade anxiety at all times, an undercurrent humming in the background of everything he does, but Sebastian's sharp nails against Iorveth's skin ratchets it up to very much in the foreground. Gods, it's distressing to care for someone. Sometimes it feels wonderful and exciting to give a damn about another person; other times, like now, it feels like a curse.

If Sebastian draws blood now, he's certain every single spawn will lunge at Iorveth and tear him apart. Impulsively, Astarion bangs a fist against the bars, rattling the spawns' cage to startle them. It hurts, though, and he clutches at his knuckles while sucking in a hiss of air. ]

Keep your hands to yourselves, too.

[ Sebastian's grip slackens, but several other spawn seem entirely unfazed by Astarion's warning, eyes still locked onto the veins of Iorveth's wrist. They must be the ones who've been here the longest. The earliest victims. Astarion grinds his teeth, lip curling. ]

And at least try not to look so damned hungry.

Astarion, [ Iorveth breathes, a quiet dissuasion after Astarion rattles the bars. "I'm fine" is implied, despite the lingering displeasure of being perceived without properly being seen. To these spawn, he really is just a human-shaped casing for blood.

He's relieved when Sebastian's fingers peel away, but they're replaced by ones that trace the soft dip of his forearm where it bends into the joint; the new set of fingers belong to a haggard-looking tiefling who keeps edging closer, his mouth half-open. Sebastian turns to him and whispers "stop it" through clenched teeth, trying to push the intruder away with his shoulder.

"We need to get out," he reminds the other spawn, who doesn't reply with anything intelligible. Just a garbled half-grunt that makes Iorveth wrinkle his nose.

The minute ticks down, second by second. The moans behind Sebastian get louder as the time passes: someone asks for just a mouthful, another asks for a finger. Iorveth is glad to be able to tug his arm back out of the cage once the minute passes, and instinctively touches his hand to Astarion's to remind himself of the existence of a more welcome feeling. ]

ーThere. In one piece.

[ This may be the most agonizing minute of his life, and he's endured torture. He wants to yank Iorveth away from these hungry creatures, but he only clenches his fists, his own nails digging into his palms. It's a relief when the minute finally ends, and he tugs Iorveth back by the hand, hesitant to leave him so close to the spawn who were just fondling his veins a moment before.

He stares at their plaintive faces, unmoving.

"We did what you asked," Sebastian says. "Please. You can't leave us here."

Instead of replying, he says, distantly, ] Cazador would have used magic to keep the imprisoned.

[ Another glance Iorveth's way. ]

His staff will still be— with him.

[ With the bloody wreckage of his body. ]

[ Iorveth keeps his grip on Astarion's hand, choosing to maintain that point of contact while quashing down on the undercurrent of residual revulsion that makes him want to find the nearest source of clean water and douse his arm in it.

Gods, they can't get out of here soon enough. Leaving Sebastian and the others to beg them to keep their promise, it's Iorveth's turn to tug Astarion towards the other end of the corridor, past more cages and more hazy-eyed victims, and down towards the stairs leading to Cazador's abandoned coffin and what still remains of him, a ruined stain on the elevated platform hovering above a green-black abyss.

Iorveth stops before they can reach the bottom of the stairs, pausing to expel a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He regrets it― the inner sanctum of the basement stinks― but he holds himself together, and loosens his hold on Astarion's hand. ]

This should be the last time you ever step foot in this cursed place, [ he spits. ]

[ The stench had been bad before, but it's worse now, the pungent scent of death forcing its way into his nostrils. He doesn't strictly have to breathe, so Astarion holds his breath, preferring the discomfort of airlessness to the fetid smell of Cazador's rotting corpse. That is, if one can call it a corpse. As he approaches, it looks more a pile of decaying meat. Cazador's burnt skin and smashed-in face is entirely unrecognizable if not for his gaudy clothing, even that spattered with blood that's dried a dark brown.

He remembers very little from the day they came to kill Cazador. His head tilts, surprised at the mess he'd made.

Astarion crouches next to the mangled carcass of what used to be his greatest tormentor. Clutched in his death-stiffened fingers is his staff, twisting metal with deep red gemstones, a winged beast carved atop it. ]

We'd all scatter when we heard the rap of this staff in the halls.

[ And now it's his for the taking. He opens Cazador's fingers one-by-one with sickening cracks, lifting the staff in his hands and feeling the weight of it. Strange. This staff had been one of the things Astarion hated most, a symbol of Cazador's power. Here, though, in the green-blue light of the crypt, it looks only like an expensive accessory.

He stands, staff in hand. Magic has never been his strong suit, but the staff should be able to undo whatever spell Cazador cast to keep his spawn imprisoned. That is, if he wants it to. ]

Do you trust them?

[ Iorveth'd hardly noticed the staff when Cazador'd been holding it in his non-life. It'd seemed like a logical extension of someone so grotesque, and it looks particularly tasteless in Astarion's hands now. The thought of Astarion channeling anything that his tormentor used to use against him is vaguely abhorrent, but it's what needs to be done.

To the question, he answers: ] No. [ Flatly, truthfully. He doesn't trust easily; it would be a lie to say that he has any faith in the spawn. ] But I trust your decision. One can hope that the spawn don't choose to waste their hard-earned freedom as monsters.

[ A low sigh, and Iorveth rakes his hand through his hair, sweeping it out of his eye. The air feels like cobwebs; he feels a compulsion to swat it from his face every so often. ]

Your siblings can guide them. Through the sewers, perhaps into the Underdark.

[ Casual wood elf disdain for drow, don't even worry about it. ]

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