[ 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.
[ Iorveth, on his end, is less sartorially-minded: he's dressing for defense tonight, strapping into a bulky gambeson that he knows Astarion hates. It's extra padding, though, for a scenario in which Granny Heart decides to try to claw Iorveth's chest open, and he secures it with a belt that holds a dagger (silvered) and his curved sword (not silvered).
He looks up when Astarion issues the warning, and has half a mind to be irritated by it. You didn't promise me, is the snapback that pushes at the back of his teeth, demanding to be spoken, but he ultimately swallows it. ]
―Fool. I swore to you that you'd never be alone again.
[ Which is roughly in the ballpark of promising to be careful. He finishes tightening the belt around his middle, and moves to hold Astarion's face in both (now-gloved) hands. ]
[ This whole wedding thing is doing a lot of the heavy lifting for Astarion's mood recently. He softens at the mention of it, but— ]
You're not allowed to die after, either.
[ Said very seriously, very soberly, without a hint of playfulness. Iorveth is quite literally not allowed to die. If he does, Astarion will drag his corpse around until he finds a cleric willing to resurrect him, cost (and smell) be damned. He plans to be with Iorveth until someone beheads him or the sun burns out, whichever comes first.
He holds Iorveth's gaze for a moment before slipping on his shirt. ]
[ Deadly (ha) serious, about the 'forever' thing. Iorveth will have to sit with Astarion and actually have a proper check-in after this hag ordeal, about the poisoning and the near-death experience and whether or not that made Astarion feel some type of way (likely).
(First, the cloak. If they can only get Astarion back in the sun, the world might feel different for him, Iorveth thinks.)
A puff of breath, amused, and Iorveth slips his bow into its usual cradle, opting to bring it along despite it being largely ornamental in this situation. ]
You can look forward to stripping me out of it later.
[ Until then, Astarion will have to deal with Iorveth looking lumpy. A human-shaped gambeson is truly the only garment in the world that can make a tall, lanky elf like him look squat. ]
I'll go relay my message to Gale to the innkeep. Meet me downstairs.
[ A gentle stroke of fingers to silver curls, and Iorveth turns to leave the bedroom. As ready as he can be, on his end of things: the only thing he can do is tell the hag certain variations of his truth, until he can't. ]
[ It's for the best that Iorveth leaves him. He needs a moment to himself, to pace restlessly and work himself up. He's never been much for hope, but he finds himself mustering as much of it as he can now. Everything will be different once they procure the cloak. Everything will be better. He'll have a real life, the sort of one he's always wanted, and he'll wake every morning to the sun shining on his face.
He just has to be brave enough to actually do this.
It takes about five minutes more than Iorveth might expect for him to come down. Gathering hope is hard work, after all. It's difficult to tell whether he feels genuinely optimistic about their chances or if he's just putting up a strong front, but either way, he has his shoulders back and his head held high. ]
There you are, darling. [ His hand rests on Iorveth's shoulder. ] Did you send your message? We should get going. We don't want to miss our, ah. Appointment.
[ When Astarion arrives, he'll hear the innkeep－ a rather attractive old man dressed from head to toe in violet－ asking Iorveth if he really means daybreak today, since their stay was booked for a few more days.
"The room is already paid for," he ventures tentatively, "and I'm sorry to say that the gold you spent won't be reimbursed..." ]
Today, [ Iorveth says with some measure of finality, before turning to Astarion with the sort of shrewd sharpness that telegraphs that Iorveth is trying to get a read on him. The scrutiny lets up a moment later, though, and he extends a hand to hold, ignoring the rest of the innkeep's disclaimers to step away from the front desk. ]
No, we don't.
[ Almost as important as their face-off against the Netherbrain, but on a smaller scale. More intimate, more personal. The sort of thing that only affects them, directly, but feels like a seismic shift regardless.
Leading Astarion towards the exit: ] How clever do your fingers feel tonight? [ Lightly, using terms that eavesdroppers might interpret as crude flirting. ]
[ Holding Iorveth's hand has become second nature, but he still gets a little thrill doing it, just like the very first time. He squeezes slightly tighter than usual, a byproduct of anxious energy and a reluctance to be separated from Iorveth. If only he could have Iorveth beside him while he tries his luck with the locks, he knows he'd feel less nervous. ]
You of all people should know that my fingers are always very clever.
[ As they walk through the door and onto the streets of Athkatla, he pats his pocket with his free hand, feeling the shape of his thieves' tools. He's picked countless locks. All he has to do is pick one more. ]
—You can still back out, you know.
[ An unlikely possibility, but one he feels compelled to share nonetheless. Iorveth has nothing to gain and everything to lose. ]
[ A thumb smooths over the back of Astarion's hand. Reflexive, in response to the squeeze; Astarion has become so much a part of him, that his body barely has to process how it wants to interact with that now-familiar touch. Always a thrill, yes, but also deeply ingrained.
Refusing a halfling trying to hawk his wares (a cart full of scarves and rugs), Iorveth heaves a sigh. ]
I can. [ Objectively. ] And I won't.
[ Reciprocal obstinacy. It's absurd to him, really, that Astarion thinks that this is something that's still up for discussion, but he can also appreciate that he has been the same flavor of absurd before. ]
All I need do is dangle bait, then humor the ramblings of a deranged individual. [ As if it'll be that easy. It won't, but he holds himself as if it will. That samestill confidence, a self-assurance that many people like to call arrogance. ] It'll be just like conversing with Shadowheart when she still believed in Shar.
[ (Somewhere, Shadowheart sits bolt upright and puzzles over why she suddenly felt the urge to punch Iorveth in the face.) ]
[ Despite the seriousness of the situation, Astarion laughs. Don't ever let anyone say that he isn't kind — he graciously chooses not to mention that 'humoring the ramblings of a deranged individual' is also what everyone in camp did whenever Iorveth started going on about elven rights. If there's a possibility that they're going to die in the next hour, he'd rather not end their lives by telling Iorveth that he's deranged (even if he is). ]
Right you are, darling. All you need to do is talk.
[ Which is not exactly Iorveth's strong suit, but again, pointing that out won't be helpful right now.
It takes no time at all—or perhaps just not as much time as he was hoping—to arrive at Th Slee wal er's Dr am again. He keeps his distance from the worn down old building, pulling Iorveth into a narrow alley, out of sight. ]
I love you, you know. You are the one bright thing in this world.
[ It's the sort of declaration he would usually find far too serious and a bit embarrassing, but he has no idea what their future holds after they walk through that door and into a hag's lair. If everything goes wrong, this is the sentiment Astarion wants to leave Iorveth with.
A quick kiss, and he steps back. With a muttered invisibilis, he flickers away. ]
[ Negotiation is for a diplomat; Iorveth is a warrior, through and through. Still, he can try for the sake of the people he loves, and Astarion is most definitely the person he loves.
So. A blink, at the warmth of that declaration, and he returns the sentiment as Astarion flickers out of view; I love you in Aen Seidhe, received by the empty dark of the alley.
With that, all that's left to do is to enter the ramshackle, crooked den. The interior smells the same as the first night they'd arrived in Athkatla, damp and old and acrid, like poorly-made incense and medical supplies. Items lean and pile around him, arcane bystanders no doubt pilfered－ Iorveth tries to look at none of them too closely, lest he start wondering who and what these trinkets belonged to before they found themselves in the hands of a hag. ]
―Greetings, [ he calls out, refusing to refer to the creature as 'Granny'. He finds her sitting towards the back of the shop, prim and hunched on an antique armchair, as if she'd expected him.
"Little dear, little pigeon," she coos. "Back so soon? Have you done what I asked?" Her eyes glint in the dark, milky white-yellow. "Where's your pretty dove?"
(The glass wardrobe full of clothing is just around the bend of two bookshelves full of tomes and scrolls, flanked by suits of armor with coats-of-arms that Iorveth can't identify. He keeps himself from glancing that way, from trying to note how many things are periously stacked around that area.) ]
[ In most situations, Astarion would be hesitant to set foot inside a hag's lair, even invisible. But Iorveth enters, and Astarion's body simply follows, unable to let him go alone. He tries not to sniff too loudly as he takes in the musty scent of the place; in fact, a moment in, he decides it's probably better to avoid breathing at all lest Granny Heart somehow sense it.
The unassuming old woman practically purrs with pleasure at Iorveth's arrival, and every one of Astarion's hackles raises. He hates listening to her speak to Iorveth, and he hates even more that he'll have to leave his most beloved person alone with her.
As he makes his way toward the bookshelves, he lets his fingertips drag lightly across Iorveth's back, a silent I'm here. The path between the packed bookshelves is dangerously narrow, and he has to turn himself to the side to shimmy through it without knocking anything off.
[ Sneaky vampire, not having to breathe. When he feels fingers along his back, Iorveth feels his second surprising tremor of the night, another reminder that his reality has shifted drastically due to Astarion's existence; the brief flashbang-fear he feels when he thinks of anything happening to someone he values more than himself is new, not quite unlike the despair he'd felt as he knelt in mud with his hands bound, listening to humans kill his comrades one by one.
More intense. Terrifying. It's not the time to let himself float in those feelings, though, so he keeps his chin tipped up, imperious and proud, appraising the hag in front of him (still disguised as a human, her skin stretched and folded in odd places). ]
I'm not here for a garment. I'm here for a reason I didn't want my beloved to hear. [ Calmly, without much inflection. No trace of sheepishness for someone who's here to barter with a creature far more powerful than he is; the hag smiles, showing crooked, stained teeth.
Iorveth swallows his revulsion; it occurs to him that he forgot to cast 'Pass Without Trace' on Astarion, and he curses himself internally as he quickly notes all the breakables in the area. Organs floating in jars, dolls whose eyes seem to shift with the movement in the room. Did Astarion bring a pack big enough to fit a stack of clothes in it? Gods, why haven't they found a Bag of Holding yet?
Thoughts swimming, Iorveth lets none of it show on his face. Still placid, confident, he finally offers: ] I've heard you're not what you seem. If I bargain with you, you may yet make my wishes come true.
[ Drawing it out. Buying time, hopefully, for Astarion to stay calm and do what he needs. ]
[ "Clever little fox," Granny Heart sings as Astarion slinks his way through the narrow passageway. He comes out the other side with the pinprick feeling of cold sweat on his neck, somehow so much more nervous for the fact that it's Iorveth who'll pay if he messes this up. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing away the mental image of Granny Heart fulfilling his every dream of Iorveth's immortality — as a statue, perhaps, one that can only look on in agony while the world moves on without him. Not Astarion. He'd never move on.
"You mustn't believe any of those nasty rumors, oh, no." Her voice is saccharine, too saccharine. She's kind only in the way a butcher is kind when fattening up a pig before the slaughter. "My bargains are very fair."
Astarion rolls his eyes, but not for long. No time to dally when the glass wardrobe stands directly before him. He crouches, digging through his pockets for his lockpicking tools.
"Now," she says, grin just a little too wide to be right. "Tell me, what can Granny do for you?"
The space is tight, and as Astarion raises his hands to pick the lock, his elbow bumps against a jar of mysterious purple liquid, making a very faint clinking sound. He doesn't move. He doesn't breathe. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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[ 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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He looks up when Astarion issues the warning, and has half a mind to be irritated by it. You didn't promise me, is the snapback that pushes at the back of his teeth, demanding to be spoken, but he ultimately swallows it. ]
―Fool. I swore to you that you'd never be alone again.
[ Which is roughly in the ballpark of promising to be careful. He finishes tightening the belt around his middle, and moves to hold Astarion's face in both (now-gloved) hands. ]
I want to marry you. I'll not die before then.
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You're not allowed to die after, either.
[ Said very seriously, very soberly, without a hint of playfulness. Iorveth is quite literally not allowed to die. If he does, Astarion will drag his corpse around until he finds a cleric willing to resurrect him, cost (and smell) be damned. He plans to be with Iorveth until someone beheads him or the sun burns out, whichever comes first.
He holds Iorveth's gaze for a moment before slipping on his shirt. ]
I hate that armor, you know.
[ So bulky!! So unfashionable!! ]
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(First, the cloak. If they can only get Astarion back in the sun, the world might feel different for him, Iorveth thinks.)
A puff of breath, amused, and Iorveth slips his bow into its usual cradle, opting to bring it along despite it being largely ornamental in this situation. ]
You can look forward to stripping me out of it later.
[ Until then, Astarion will have to deal with Iorveth looking lumpy. A human-shaped gambeson is truly the only garment in the world that can make a tall, lanky elf like him look squat. ]
I'll go relay my message to Gale to the innkeep. Meet me downstairs.
[ A gentle stroke of fingers to silver curls, and Iorveth turns to leave the bedroom. As ready as he can be, on his end of things: the only thing he can do is tell the hag certain variations of his truth, until he can't. ]
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He just has to be brave enough to actually do this.
It takes about five minutes more than Iorveth might expect for him to come down. Gathering hope is hard work, after all. It's difficult to tell whether he feels genuinely optimistic about their chances or if he's just putting up a strong front, but either way, he has his shoulders back and his head held high. ]
There you are, darling. [ His hand rests on Iorveth's shoulder. ] Did you send your message? We should get going. We don't want to miss our, ah. Appointment.
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"The room is already paid for," he ventures tentatively, "and I'm sorry to say that the gold you spent won't be reimbursed..." ]
Today, [ Iorveth says with some measure of finality, before turning to Astarion with the sort of shrewd sharpness that telegraphs that Iorveth is trying to get a read on him. The scrutiny lets up a moment later, though, and he extends a hand to hold, ignoring the rest of the innkeep's disclaimers to step away from the front desk. ]
No, we don't.
[ Almost as important as their face-off against the Netherbrain, but on a smaller scale. More intimate, more personal. The sort of thing that only affects them, directly, but feels like a seismic shift regardless.
Leading Astarion towards the exit: ] How clever do your fingers feel tonight? [ Lightly, using terms that eavesdroppers might interpret as crude flirting. ]
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You of all people should know that my fingers are always very clever.
[ As they walk through the door and onto the streets of Athkatla, he pats his pocket with his free hand, feeling the shape of his thieves' tools. He's picked countless locks. All he has to do is pick one more. ]
—You can still back out, you know.
[ An unlikely possibility, but one he feels compelled to share nonetheless. Iorveth has nothing to gain and everything to lose. ]
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Refusing a halfling trying to hawk his wares (a cart full of scarves and rugs), Iorveth heaves a sigh. ]
I can. [ Objectively. ] And I won't.
[ Reciprocal obstinacy. It's absurd to him, really, that Astarion thinks that this is something that's still up for discussion, but he can also appreciate that he has been the same flavor of absurd before. ]
All I need do is dangle bait, then humor the ramblings of a deranged individual. [ As if it'll be that easy. It won't, but he holds himself as if it will. That samestill confidence, a self-assurance that many people like to call arrogance. ] It'll be just like conversing with Shadowheart when she still believed in Shar.
[ (Somewhere, Shadowheart sits bolt upright and puzzles over why she suddenly felt the urge to punch Iorveth in the face.) ]
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Right you are, darling. All you need to do is talk.
[ Which is not exactly Iorveth's strong suit, but again, pointing that out won't be helpful right now.
It takes no time at all—or perhaps just not as much time as he was hoping—to arrive at Th Slee wal er's Dr am again. He keeps his distance from the worn down old building, pulling Iorveth into a narrow alley, out of sight. ]
I love you, you know. You are the one bright thing in this world.
[ It's the sort of declaration he would usually find far too serious and a bit embarrassing, but he has no idea what their future holds after they walk through that door and into a hag's lair. If everything goes wrong, this is the sentiment Astarion wants to leave Iorveth with.
A quick kiss, and he steps back. With a muttered invisibilis, he flickers away. ]
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So. A blink, at the warmth of that declaration, and he returns the sentiment as Astarion flickers out of view; I love you in Aen Seidhe, received by the empty dark of the alley.
With that, all that's left to do is to enter the ramshackle, crooked den. The interior smells the same as the first night they'd arrived in Athkatla, damp and old and acrid, like poorly-made incense and medical supplies. Items lean and pile around him, arcane bystanders no doubt pilfered－ Iorveth tries to look at none of them too closely, lest he start wondering who and what these trinkets belonged to before they found themselves in the hands of a hag. ]
―Greetings, [ he calls out, refusing to refer to the creature as 'Granny'. He finds her sitting towards the back of the shop, prim and hunched on an antique armchair, as if she'd expected him.
"Little dear, little pigeon," she coos. "Back so soon? Have you done what I asked?" Her eyes glint in the dark, milky white-yellow. "Where's your pretty dove?"
(The glass wardrobe full of clothing is just around the bend of two bookshelves full of tomes and scrolls, flanked by suits of armor with coats-of-arms that Iorveth can't identify. He keeps himself from glancing that way, from trying to note how many things are periously stacked around that area.) ]
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The unassuming old woman practically purrs with pleasure at Iorveth's arrival, and every one of Astarion's hackles raises. He hates listening to her speak to Iorveth, and he hates even more that he'll have to leave his most beloved person alone with her.
As he makes his way toward the bookshelves, he lets his fingertips drag lightly across Iorveth's back, a silent I'm here. The path between the packed bookshelves is dangerously narrow, and he has to turn himself to the side to shimmy through it without knocking anything off.
"Well?" Granny Heart asks again, voice still endlessly pleasant. "Speak up, dearie." ]
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More intense. Terrifying. It's not the time to let himself float in those feelings, though, so he keeps his chin tipped up, imperious and proud, appraising the hag in front of him (still disguised as a human, her skin stretched and folded in odd places). ]
I'm not here for a garment. I'm here for a reason I didn't want my beloved to hear. [ Calmly, without much inflection. No trace of sheepishness for someone who's here to barter with a creature far more powerful than he is; the hag smiles, showing crooked, stained teeth.
Iorveth swallows his revulsion; it occurs to him that he forgot to cast 'Pass Without Trace' on Astarion, and he curses himself internally as he quickly notes all the breakables in the area. Organs floating in jars, dolls whose eyes seem to shift with the movement in the room. Did Astarion bring a pack big enough to fit a stack of clothes in it? Gods, why haven't they found a Bag of Holding yet?
Thoughts swimming, Iorveth lets none of it show on his face. Still placid, confident, he finally offers: ] I've heard you're not what you seem. If I bargain with you, you may yet make my wishes come true.
[ Drawing it out. Buying time, hopefully, for Astarion to stay calm and do what he needs. ]
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"You mustn't believe any of those nasty rumors, oh, no." Her voice is saccharine, too saccharine. She's kind only in the way a butcher is kind when fattening up a pig before the slaughter. "My bargains are very fair."
Astarion rolls his eyes, but not for long. No time to dally when the glass wardrobe stands directly before him. He crouches, digging through his pockets for his lockpicking tools.
"Now," she says, grin just a little too wide to be right. "Tell me, what can Granny do for you?"
The space is tight, and as Astarion raises his hands to pick the lock, his elbow bumps against a jar of mysterious purple liquid, making a very faint clinking sound. He doesn't move. He doesn't breathe. ]