essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST 1 ]

[ If he weren't so exhausted and in need of sustenance, Astarion would probably find this whole thing embarrassing. He would never drink from someone other than Iorveth in the first place, though, and certainly not a belligerent, lecherous drunk, if he weren't in a bad state. The man knocks heads with him, and Astarion lurches back, room spinning for a moment— ]

Ow!

[ —and he does have the good sense to feel a little embarrassed then, if only because he can hear Iorveth telling him that he needs to start guarding his face in the back of his head.

His solution is far from elegant. He hikes a knee up on the couch, pressing his weight forward to pin poor (?) Breakfast between their bodies like a cat with a mouse caught under its paw. When he latches on again, it's with none of the gentleness he bothers to show Iorveth; the man struggles a bit longer, but with each draw of blood into Astarion's mouth, his body weakens until there truly is nothing he can do but flop over and die. It's a lengthy process, draining someone all the way, and even though half of his blood is on the floor and their clothing it still takes several minutes. He drinks past the point of fullness and to the point of gorging himself, and even then, he imagines he could keep going if only there were more blood to spare. Greed and gluttony are in a vampire's nature.

Once the blood stops flowing easily, he takes a step back, gingerly thumbing at the corner of his mouth as if there isn't blood splattered all over his face and his shirt. As for Iorveth: ]

...You have a little something there.

[ Minutes pass in this awkward state of slowly watching a man being drained of life. Iorveth slips on his mask of impassivity as it happens, adopting that still, porcelain expression of neutrality as the body stops fighting above him; it only breaks when he's spoken to, peels off at the edges as he finally gets to see the entirety of Astarion's face again, blood-slick as it is.

Defying all expectations, Iorveth laughs. A soft, dry thing. ]

Mm. So I do.

[ A little, all over. The room is redolent with the scent of copper and death, and it's stuck to both of their clothes, their skin, their hair.

Ugh. Instead of shoving the dead man off of him, Iorveth takes the time to pick him up gingerly, then deposit him on a bit of floor that won't get stained. ]

We'll have to ask Gale to magic the blood off the furniture. [ Is that how magic works? Whatever. ] ...How are you feeling?

[ He's feeling awkward about the fact that he just murdered someone so viscerally right on top of Iorveth. Embarrassed, maybe. Iorveth has never made him feel ashamed for the parts of himself that aren't palatable for the public, but he still shudders at the fact that Iorveth had to see him that way. Not heroic in the least.

His eyes follow the now-corpse as Iorveth lays it on the floor. Iorveth presumably means to ask how he feels physically, so he answers, ] Fine.

[ A moment of lingering on the dead man on their sitting room floor, and his gaze flicks back up to Iorveth. ]

Are you all right?

[ "Fine" isn't as enthusiastic as Iorveth might have wanted it to be, but "fine" is better than being two steps away from exhaustion-based collapsing, so Iorveth will take it. He moves towards Astarion and tries to wipe some of the blood on his cheek with a sleeve, but winds up smearing more of it than he removes. Ugh. ]

In need of a wash. [ Another light huff-laugh, as he peels the blood-soaked tunic off of himself. ] But fine otherwise. He put up less of a fight than I imagined.

[ Thumbing along the little red patch where the man'd headbutted Astarion, then taking Astarion's hand to see where he'd been reciprocally bitten. He briefly considers casting Cure Wounds, but that's probably overkill. ]

[ It's a ring of teeth marks in the flesh between his thumb and forefinger, and Astarion acts a little bit like a dog with a thorn in its paw about it, hand limp and dramatic as if the man maimed him instead of gave him a taste of his own medicine. ]

To you, maybe.

[ Iorveth had the privilege of being behind the person who was biting and headbutting. He lets his gaze fall back to the man's lifeless body again, and he worries his lip. ]

...Well, I'm sure he was a good-for-nothing, and the city will celebrate his loss.

[ It had to be done. Astarion was looking out for number one, as he's always done. ]

[ Hmm. On second thought, he will use Cure Wounds, just because he doesn't like seeing teethmarks on Astarion's skin. Pale skin knits itself together, inflammation cooled by the spell.

Noting that sideways flicker of attention towards the dead man, Iorveth muses: ]

You're a better man than me. I'll not lose sleep over his death.

[ Simply, without inflection. For all that Astarion worries about Iorveth thinking less of him for supposedly monstrous deeds, Astarion's blood-drinking is part of his now-undead biology; Iorveth thinks that it might be Astarion who will become disillusioned by him one day, who will watch Iorveth sitting on the mountain of men and women he actively chose to kill and realize that Iorveth is the kind of person that cities would celebrate losing.

Iorveth bunches his dirty tunic into a ball, and tosses it by the foot of the dead man. ]

I'll rid us of the corpse. Stay here.

[ It isn't exactly the comfort he'd been hoping for. He'd wanted you're right, he was definitely an awful man who deserved to die, or at least it was him or you. He crosses his arms over his chest before realizing that his shirt is far too sticky with blood to do so comfortably; instead, he lets his arms hang awkwardly limp by his sides. ]

How do you intend to do that?

[ He hadn't thought of disposing of the body. He hadn't thought any part of this through, really. Sure, he'll be strong enough to steal from a hag—maybe, if he's lucky—but that won't mean much if he's sitting in an Athkatlan prison for murder. ]

A bloodied corpse isn't inconspicuous.

[ The fact that the man was awful and Iorveth absolutely wanted him to die is the sort of obvious reality that Iorveth doesn't feel he needs to say out loud: more importantly, he's watching Astarion with the sort of hawklike attention that projects wariness, like he's not sure if Astarion actually does feel better now that he has more blood in him. Iorveth is fairly certain that he's seen Astarion look more giddy after licking one of Iorveth's cuts. ]

I'll carry him out through the window. [ Gesturing towards the many nice windows in the suite that they haven't been appreciating, what with the curtains being perpetually drawn. There's a small balcony with one solitary chair, but it's useless for his current purposes; it just faces out into the street, and he can't really do anything with that. ] I doubt anyone is patrolling the rooftops at this time of night.

[ And he'll just, like. Dump the corpse somewhere a bit away. It isn't an elegant plan, but it's better than having a dessicated corpse just rotting away in their room. ]

[ It's a questionable idea, honestly. Iorveth, shirtless and bloody, dumping a corpse? If anyone saw him, he'd be the one ending up in an Athkatlan prison, and as knowledgeable as Astarion once was about the law, he's not sure he'd be able to argue Iorveth's way out of an execution at a trial.

But he's right that they have to rid themselves of the body one way or another. The smell of rot will certainly draw attention, and Astarion could swear this room is already beginning to smell of death. Or maybe that's just the copious amounts of blood. ]

If you must.

[ Said with some reluctance. Just because Iorveth must doesn't mean that Astarion likes it. ]

But do be careful. [ A moment's pause, and he adds, ] And quick.

[ He'll worry about Iorveth the whole time he's gone. ]

[ This would be certifiably the worst time to end up in Athkatlan prison, but it wouldn't surprise Iorveth if it happened. Less than a day after getting engaged, too! Crazy.

But, ah. Weak as he is to Astarion's frowning now, Iorveth sidles up towards him again, pressing his mouth to Astarion's still bloodstained lips. Not minding the acerbic sting of copper that comes with the kiss, ignoring it in favor of giving affection that, surprisingly, Iorveth finds he needed. After being touched in an unpleasant way, the reminder that there's someone he likes being close to is startlingly welcome. ]

Don't pout. I don't wish to be away from you for long－ especially given the poor company I'll be keeping while I'm away.

[ Being rude to a man they murdered is incredibly gauche, he's aware, but Iorveth also doesn't care; again, he is not a good person. ]

I love you, [ he reminds as he pulls away, hefting the dead man on his broad shoulders. ] Torment the tiefling if you're in need of things to do.

[ Again again: Iorveth is a bad person. With that said, he goes to dispose of the body, an elf-shaped shadow slinking gracefully into the night. ]

[ It does feel good to have confirmation that he's still loved after doing something that feels, well, monstrous. Making Iorveth let someone touch him displeasingly so that he could sacrifice that person for his own benefit. It feels... a little close to home. This man had disgusted him through and through, but so had nearly every person he dragged back to Cazador, too. He'd always told himself he didn't care what happened to them once Cazador pulled them away, but—

Ugh. There's no time to brood. He has a cloak to steal.

He does torment the tiefling while Iorveth is away. He walks in the room covered in blood, which is torment enough; Damris's eyes widen, and Astarion detects both fear and hunger in them. He considers letting Damris lick the blood up off of the floor, but the thought of watching someone lower themselves to that level makes his stomach churn a little bit. (Ugh, again. Something terrible is happening to him.)

The worst torment of all is that Astarion crouches beside him and makes him listen to him talk. Anything to distract himself from the unpleasant swirling of guilt (for his actions) and worry (for Iorveth's) in his stomach. ]

You know, I really think Linus can do better, [ he ends up saying to a gagged Damris, who can't argue. ]

[ It winds up being a mini-journey on Iorveth's part, with him traveling (huffing and puffing) along rooftops and alleyways until he reaches the edge of the District, where the river meets the Sea of Swords. Water is a great way to hide bodies, so into the unforgiving depths the corpse sinks, where either the fish or fishing nets will find him in the hours to come.

Morbid. He finds himself feeling a bit too much like the Woodland Fox and not enough like Iorveth; it makes him miss Astarion in a way that, again, startles him into the reality that his world has been irrevocably reshaped. It's humbling, and it's the sort of thing that he should probably take some time to digest, possibly away from Astarion and on his own time.

He doesn't. Not tonight, anyway. Without seeking perspective, Iorveth flits back up onto treetops and roofs, slipping back through the window of their inn (leaving it open to let some of that death scent float out) for the comforting familiarity of the man he loves. ]

Astarion, [ he calls, peering into the study where the man in question is crouched and tormenting their captive. ] I'm back. ―Come here for a moment.

Darling.

[ Full of relief that Iorveth made it back in one piece, as of yet unarrested. Pet names had always been nothing more than another way to try to ingratiate himself, but the way he says it now, one has to believe that he really does find Iorveth darling.

He turns his attention back to Damris for just a moment, saying, ] To be continued.

[ Damris shakes his head as Astarion stands and walks away. He's already had enough of Astarion's company to last a lifetime, apparently.

He shuts the study door behind him with his foot. His hands have yet to be cleaned, and there's dried blood on them. Better not to leave behind more things for Gale to prestidigitate away. He's already going to have a conniption with the mess they've already made. Astarion makes a mental note to come up with a more sympathetic reason for having horribly murdered someone in their room; Gale will want it to have been self-defense. ]

Did everything go all right, love?

[ Blood-flecked face, blood-crusted hands. Astarion hasn't washed up in his absence, but Iorveth cares very little about getting a bit more red on his already-painted skin; he strides forward with purpose, bewildered by his own need, and wraps his arms around Astarion's middle for an embrace. ]

No one saw me, [ is what he hopes, anyway. ] Our corpse will turn to silt in a few days, if we're lucky.

[ A horrible thing to say so plainly. Iorveth still won't lose sleep over it, but he rocks into Astarion's front anyway, burying his face against that pale neck. ]

―I know we shouldn't waste time. But give me a moment.

[ A minute of Astarion's time, to let the world settle back around them before they have to shatter their peace, again, with the hag confrontation. Iorveth can't wait to get out of this city and the foul luck it's brought with it. ]

Oh.

[ A little surprised by the embrace, a little concerned. No one has ever turned to him for comfort, so it feels strange being the one someone clings to for relief. He's loath to touch Iorveth with his bloody hands, but— Iorveth is already pressing his chest to Astarion's sticky red shirt, so it seems a little silly to be precious about it.

His palm runs across the plane of Iorveth's back, rubbing in a way that he hopes is soothing. Being in this role feels new and out of his depth, but Iorveth has provided him comfort what feels like hundreds of times, so he copies the movements with their roles reversed. ]

Is everything all right? ...Did I push you too far?

[ Iorveth had said he wouldn't lose sleep over the man's death, but perhaps it was harrowing to be stuck under a bloodied corpse that just had its wandering hands all over him. Astarion could understand that. ]

You push me too little.

[ Sincerely meant. Unlike the events of the past century, nothing about the events that transpired within the last few hours have felt unsafe: there was always the assurance that it was happening towards a logical conclusion, and that Astarion would never have allowed Iorveth to get hurt. ]

I'm fine. ―Perhaps I just remembered, for a moment, how bleak my world had felt when you weren't in it.

[ He'd told Astarion before, way back when, that he wasn't meant to feel anything for the things he'd done. That he was a sharp tool to be wielded, and nothing more. It was posturing, of course, but some of it had held true at the time― maybe far less so now, if only when he has Astarion in his periphery.

A low exhale, and he slowly lets go. ] A more normal man might have said 'I missed you'.

[ A self-own. "I know, I know. I'm weird." ]

Edited 2025-06-11 22:18 (UTC)

[ Iorveth is so ridiculously sweet that Astarion can barely handle it. He pulls back, and Astarion pulls him in again, holding him tight for another moment. ]

I have no interest in a normal man.

[ The very thought is horrific. How could he ever love someone who isn't positively deranged? He frees Iorveth from his grip after that, stepping back to offer him space. Neither of them are really in the shape to be embracing, not when they're covered in a stranger's blood. ]

We should clean up before we go rob a hag blind.

[ It's both practical and a way to procrastinate. Tonight will be the moment of truth. Either they get the cloak, or they get turned into newts. ]

[ Astarion deserves a bit more exposure to normal, but that certainly won't happen tonight. The hag problem looms near, impossible to put off, and so the gears in Iorveth's head shift again to the task at hand.

It was nice to get a hug, though. Very twee, sure, but it's not like Iorveth is going to go around asking strangers for them; surely he can have this soft little thing on occasion, as a treat. ]

Mm. In the state you're in now, she'd smell you even if she didn't see you.

[ A dry tease, as he flicks some dried blood off Astarion's cheek. ]

Remember to stay calm. Unless I call for you specifically, don't move in to help me－ prioritize your task at hand.

[ Quick strategy check-in, as he moves towards the bathroom for a quick dip. ]

[ Iorveth really is deranged to think that talking strategy would ever work with Astarion. His strategy for all things is 'don't die', which has worked out swimmingly every time except for once (but to be fair, he was outnumbered). It's essentially the same strategy now, just with a few tweaks: 'don't let Iorveth die'. There's something almost freeing about caring about another person more than he does himself. All of his life, Astarion has been his own number one priority. Not anymore.

He crouches beside the pool of water in the bathroom, wetting his hands and watching the water turn a shade pinker as he scrubs the blood from them. It's not an unusual feeling, cleaning up after doing something horrendous, but it has become more uncommon as of late. ]

If it goes south, I assure you I'll turn tail and scurry away as fast as my legs can take me.

[ The same thing he said about Henselt. It was a lie then, and it's a lie now. ]

[ Iorveth unfastens his eyepatch to wash it in the quickly-pinkening water, then combs flecks of dried blood out of his hair with damp fingers. Minimal effort, on his part－ he doesn't need to look his best for the sake of a hag.

To Astarion's reply: ] If it goes south, I'll call for you.

[ Exasperated, he flicks water at Astarion's face. ]

But the plan is guaranteed to go south if you get distracted by the distraction.

[ Stick to the mission!!!!!! Iorveth is only going to task Astarion with one job, which is to be sneaky, and he's expecting (perhaps foolishly) Astarion to stick to that one job without getting sidetracked.

Another flick of water, like spritzing a cat in the face. ]

[ Astarion is far more vain, even though he'll be unseen for this particular plan. He leans over the pool, staring into the water below. No reflection, of course. All the same, he cups his palms, gathering water in them to splash his blood-flecked face with.

Iorveth is reasonable. This plan is more likely to be successful if Astarion sticks to it rationally and unemotionally. Unfortunately, those two words have never described him. Perhaps if it weren't the love of his eternal life putting himself in harm's way, he might be able to do as Iorveth says, but the mere thought of him being preyed on by a hag makes Astarion feel like throwing up.

Love is very inconvenient. ]

I can't help it. I find you endlessly distracting.

[ A quick peck to Iorveth's cheek, mischievous. It's an obvious attempt to distract Iorveth from the fact that he won't agree to 'stay calm' and 'not move in to help Iorveth', but he hopes it's adorable enough that Iorveth won't mind. ]

[ It's so annoying that he's perceptive enough to identify when Astarion is trying to be cute to win an argument, and more annoying still that he knows he's weak to it. That moment when you know you're being manipulated, but being manipulated feels... kind of nice...? What the fuck is happening to him, truly.

A touch of a frown (far less serrated than it should be), and Iorveth reaches to muss Astarion's hair. ]

That doesn't sound like a "yes, I'll stay on-task".

[ His clown nose honks; the fingers in Astarion's hair slides down to cup his cheek, and Iorveth presses a kiss to the corner of Astarion's smiling mouth. ]

Keep those pretty eyes fixed on locks and cloaks.

[ Like telling a child at a candy store that he can only choose one treat. ]

[ Astarion only smiles in response. Sure, he'll keep his eyes on the prize, but not at the expense of Iorveth's well-being. Astarion has fought tooth and nail to live for the entirety of his existence, but he'd rather die than let something happen to Iorveth.

Nothing Iorveth needs to concern himself about. Besides, if they're lucky, this whole thing will go off without a hitch, and that wretched hag will be none the wiser that she's just been swindled. Not that they've ever been very lucky in the past, but their fortune could turn any day now! Really!! ]

Mm, [ he says as he stands, peeling off his bloodstained shirt and balling it up before throwing it on the floor. They'll have to burn it. Or make Gale prestidigitate the evidence of murder away. Speaking of— ] You should have your little birdies send word to Gale. Tell him that we plan to be gone from this place by sunrise.

[ That still isn't a "yes, I promise to at least try". Stubborn cat. Iorveth likes to think that he knows Astarion well enough by now to recognize when Astarion won't budge, and also thinks that Astarion is at his most obstinate when he's quiet about what he intends to do instead of stomping his feet and kicking up a fuss.

It's frustrating. It's also incredibly attractive. Astarion quietly asserting himself without budging an inch is simultaneously the most beautiful and most vexing thing in the world, and Iorveth has to respect it as he washes his torso one last time and steps away from the dirty bathwater. ]

Infuriating, [ is the last thing he'll say about the matter, without actually sounding angry at all. ] ...I'll speak to the innkeep about sending Gale a message. After I make arrangements for our departure, we'll go.

[ Poor Gale, who probably expected this to be a lot more open-and-shut than it wound up being. He deserves none of this, but these are the friends he unfortunately made. ]

Then I suppose there's nothing left to do besides ready myself for the hag.

[ It's meant to sound resolute, filled with grim determination, but his voice wobbles a little, nervous. He can't hide that he's anxious about what's to come; he would be stupid not to be, he thinks. While he isn't an expert on hags, if Ethel is anything to go by, they don't tolerate impertinence well. If Granny Whatever-The-Hells gets any inkling that Iorveth is trying to pull the wool over her eyes, she'll undoubtedly retaliate, quickly and brutally.

He can't afford to ruminate on that. If he does, then he'll never want to go. He sighs, heading back into their bedroom where he rifles through their packs, seeking out the bottle of sandalwood cologne Iorveth gifted him. It gets dabbed on his neck, a familiar scent to comfort him during this chaotic time. Afterward, he throws open the closet, surveying the options with narrowed eyes. This could be the outfit he dies in. Hard not to think twice about what he chooses.

After a long moment of thought, he pulls out a shirt, then puts it back, then pulls it back out again. ]

Iorveth. [ His voice takes on a slight warning tone. ] Promise me that you'll be careful.

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