[ 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. ]
[ A variety of movable items, in various states of precariousness. Iorveth hears the faint clatter, and he can tell that the hag hears it too― she turns her head, squinting eyes that bulge a little too far out of their sockets― which is his cue to speak up as a distraction. ]
―You're aware that there are vampires in this city. [ She must, given all her fussing about 'rats'. ] And my love is...
[ He pauses, reticent to continue for a moment. This isn't his truth to speak out loud, but it's the card he has to play. ]
...He's also a vampire. A being blessed with eternal life. [ Blessed? Cursed? The former makes more of a compelling argument, so it's the one he chooses. ] My wish is to share that eternity with him.
[ Iorveth watches as the hag's eyes light up; clearly, this is the sort of request she likes most. The most selfish, the least likely to end well, and the most open to interpretation. It effectively pries her attention away from the soft clink, though one of her strange eyes seems to stay fixed in the direction of the wardrobe, shrewd and suspicious.
To Astarion's left, there's a taxidermy crow sitting on a suit of armor, whose eyes are uncomfortably bright and eerily focused. Its beak is open in a silent cry, almost as if it can sound an alarm as soon as it senses foul play. Everything in this place is fucking morbid, if anyone takes enough time to look. ]
[ "Oh," the hag coos, sympathetic — and distracted from Astarion's noisemaking, for the time being. She has bigger fish to fry, clearly. "Of course it is, you sweet little thing. Who wouldn't want to live forever?"
Even though he's already expressed interest in it, she's still trying to talk him into it. Building the concept of immortality up, hoping to make it something Iorveth would be willing to give anything for. It would work, too, if only she were pitching Iorveth's immortality to Astarion. Stupid hag has the wrong audience.
"Granny Heart can help you with that."
Astarion slides a pick inside the lock, accompanied by a tension wrench. Slowly, carefully, he coaxes the lock open. It isn't as difficult to pick as he thought it might be, and as it makes a small click to denote its opening, he wonders if that might not be a good thing.
"I will need something from you, of course." As hags always do. "But there's no cost too great for eternal life! One of those pretty little fingers will suffice." ]
[ A... finger. Iorveth's reaction to the offer is genuine: he raises a brow, clearly projecting that he expected something far worse, which might be a bit too telling about his approach to this transaction. Still, he has to keep this conversation going, so: ]
What would you do with a fin―
[ The query terminates, interrupted by a shrill scream: the open-beaked crow perched next to the wardrobe starts to screech in warning once the lock definitively clicks open, as if some part of it has been inextricably connected to the latch mechanism.
Iorveth starts, and the hag whirls. A maelstrom of bad intent― her face contorts, a half-grin half-grimace that pulls all her loose, stretched skin.
"Naughty, naughty little birds! Ungrateful brats, nasty little thieves!"
Well, fuck. The hag's human disguise starts to melt away, sloughing off like river sludge; purple-grey skin, curled horns, a twisted visage. Her hair runs wild and tangled down her back, a waterfall of matted black strands occasionally coiled into intricate braids threaded with what looks like sinew, making her smell, perpetually, like death and rot.
Again: fuck. Iorveth tries to unsheathe his dagger, but the hang grabs his collar with one clawed, birdlike hand, and throws him against the nearest wall. ]
Fuck, [ Astarion says aloud. It's not like his presence is a secret anymore. He stares at the open wardrobe filled with magical clothing. What he should do is grab the cloak, grab Iorveth, and run. But there's no telling which of these cloaks is the cloak, and it would take so long to rifle through them all. They won't all fit in his pack, either, and if he carries them in his arms, he'll be entirely helpless to defend Iorveth.
So, he steps away from the wardrobe, no matter how much it hurts to do it knowing that his life's greatest desire is in there, waiting for him. He vaguely recalls Iorveth saying that he shouldn't step in unless Iorveth calls for him, but it seems even less important to follow that now than it did when he said it. Astarion can hear the sound of something heavy and person-shaped colliding with the wall, and he barrels through the narrow passageway like an invisible bull, knocking over tomes and glass vials of strange, swirling substances.
He doesn't think about it. He doesn't even consciously do it; it just happens. Before he knows it, he has a dagger embedded in the sickly purple (everything here is godsdamned purple) of the hag's flesh, and he flickers back into view. Dagger still deep in her skin, he stumbles back.
She blinks, then rips the blade out with one sharp movement, tossing it on the floor by his feet. ]
Oh, [ he says, right as she crows, "Stupid little creatures." ]
[ The problem with handling multiple moving parts is that it forces Iorveth to make difficult decisions and handle nothing at maximum capacity. Dazed from the throw, he picks himself up off of the floor and battles cascading objects during his efforts to regroup; out of the corner of his shit peripheral vision, he sees Astarion flicker back into view and get handily disarmed with a flick of a gnarled hand.
Fuck. His pulse is a roar in his ears, and he calls out: ] Astarion, take the damned cloaks and run!
[ Outlining his two priorities, the only thing that would make this debacle worthwhile: Astarion's safety, and the sun. Iorveth kicks forward to provide a distraction, silvered dagger in hand for a rush attack, but the items in the room seem to pulse and shift around him, sneaking under his foot to trip him mid-motion.
"Bad thieves need to learn their manners," the hag cackles as Iorveth stumbles over a stack of books (was that there before?); one of her hands glow a sick blue-violet, and the subsequent spell she casts sends him lurching sideways, blinking back a sudden, overwhelming desire to sleep. The other hand darts forward, vicelike fingers attempting to close around Astarion's neck and handle him with the sort of strength one wouldn't expect from a creature that looks so slight.
"Oh, but Granny does love thinking of punishments. Fun, fun punishments." ]
[ Um, he's not a big fan of that tone Iorveth is speaking to him in— but he really doesn't have time to complain, because a moment later there are cold, spindly fingers around his throat, long talons pressing into his skin. This must be what Astarion's hands feel like to living people: like dead flesh.
It's a blessing that he doesn't need to breathe, because he's not sure that he would be able to under these circumstances. Her grip is exceedingly strong for such thin, birdlike fingers. He wraps his own fingers around hers, trying to pry them off. ]
A little help, [ he wheezes, hoarse. ] Any minute now.
[ No good, very bad. Iorveth sways on his feet, hand darting sideways to grab a bookshelf for balance; the overwhelming need to close his eye persists, even despite him trying to push through it. A lurch, a lunge, and he misses his next attack entirely, earning him another cackle from the hag.
"Sleep, sleep, dearie! Wasn't it unfair of you to trance so soundly while your little dove tossed and turned?"
Spider-thin fingers dig into Astarion's neck one more time, before she tosses him bodily aside. A wild predator enjoying the process of playing with its food.
"You wanted forever with your sweetheart, hmm? How about forever in your poor little dear's nightmares?" Her laugh is like metal scraping together, shrill and grating. "Oh, he's been through such horrible things― Granny saw so much of them the past few nights. You can see them for eternity!"
Iorveth's blood runs cold; not fear, but rage. The fucking gall of this wretched creature to look at something Astarion wants no one to see, and the fucking audacity of her to try to weaponize it. He growls, low and through clenched teeth, and lurches forward again, aiming for a clean cut across her sagging throat. ]
Don't speak, [ is a threatening hiss, though his balance is still off― he knows he won't hit, but this might give Astarion some time to scurry away. ]
[ It would give Astarion time to scurry away, if he were inclined to do such a thing. He's not. He pushes himself up off the floor, thankful now for the man at the bar whose blood now runs through his body. As Iorveth staggers toward the hag, Astarion scrambles for his own dagger, abandoned on the floor.
Iorveth slashes toward the hag's neck, and she has the audacity to laugh as she reaches out to curl mottled fingers around Iorveth's wrist before the blade ever meets her flesh. "You rotten little thing," she says. "How dare you treat Granny like this."
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Astarion hears Gale's endless lecturing. When they'd fought Auntie Ethel, he'd gone on and on about hags' resistance to typical attacks, and how magic really is the best offense! Astarion had found it the irritating blathering of a wizard with far too much ego, but now, well. Maybe he had a point.
As Granny Heart's arm winds back and she sweeps at Iorveth's face with long, sharp claws, Astarion extends a hand and mutters the incantation for Fire Bolt. ]
[ 'Maybe Gale is actually right about some things' is a revelation they can share later: for now, Iorveth is treated to claws raking across his face, leaving four diagonal lines from earlobe to jaw and across his neck. It feels like fire on his skin, which is funny considering the actual fire that slams into the hag just a moment later, scorching her hair and making her shriek in ill-concealed offense.
"Wretched thing! I own you!"
Wiping blood out of his eye, Iorveth watches as the hideous creature reaches under her robe for what can only be described as a bag made of humanoid flesh: tanned and stretched, stitched together by the same sinew-like ropes keeping the hag's hair in her messy braids. She strokes it with the flat of her gnarled fingers, then points to Astarion with vicious glee. (Still smoldering, but infuriatingly less hurt than she should be.)
"I'll drain the soul out of you, you miserable rat. You'll be a husk－ no feelings, no memories, nothing."
And, again, the Sleep spell. Aimed at Astarion this time, leaving Iorveth to click his tongue and rush the hag again, who pops out of existence as soon as Iorveth gets too close. ]
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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. ]
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―You're aware that there are vampires in this city. [ She must, given all her fussing about 'rats'. ] And my love is...
[ He pauses, reticent to continue for a moment. This isn't his truth to speak out loud, but it's the card he has to play. ]
...He's also a vampire. A being blessed with eternal life. [ Blessed? Cursed? The former makes more of a compelling argument, so it's the one he chooses. ] My wish is to share that eternity with him.
[ Iorveth watches as the hag's eyes light up; clearly, this is the sort of request she likes most. The most selfish, the least likely to end well, and the most open to interpretation. It effectively pries her attention away from the soft clink, though one of her strange eyes seems to stay fixed in the direction of the wardrobe, shrewd and suspicious.
To Astarion's left, there's a taxidermy crow sitting on a suit of armor, whose eyes are uncomfortably bright and eerily focused. Its beak is open in a silent cry, almost as if it can sound an alarm as soon as it senses foul play. Everything in this place is fucking morbid, if anyone takes enough time to look. ]
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Even though he's already expressed interest in it, she's still trying to talk him into it. Building the concept of immortality up, hoping to make it something Iorveth would be willing to give anything for. It would work, too, if only she were pitching Iorveth's immortality to Astarion. Stupid hag has the wrong audience.
"Granny Heart can help you with that."
Astarion slides a pick inside the lock, accompanied by a tension wrench. Slowly, carefully, he coaxes the lock open. It isn't as difficult to pick as he thought it might be, and as it makes a small click to denote its opening, he wonders if that might not be a good thing.
"I will need something from you, of course." As hags always do. "But there's no cost too great for eternal life! One of those pretty little fingers will suffice." ]
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What would you do with a fin―
[ The query terminates, interrupted by a shrill scream: the open-beaked crow perched next to the wardrobe starts to screech in warning once the lock definitively clicks open, as if some part of it has been inextricably connected to the latch mechanism.
Iorveth starts, and the hag whirls. A maelstrom of bad intent― her face contorts, a half-grin half-grimace that pulls all her loose, stretched skin.
"Naughty, naughty little birds! Ungrateful brats, nasty little thieves!"
Well, fuck. The hag's human disguise starts to melt away, sloughing off like river sludge; purple-grey skin, curled horns, a twisted visage. Her hair runs wild and tangled down her back, a waterfall of matted black strands occasionally coiled into intricate braids threaded with what looks like sinew, making her smell, perpetually, like death and rot.
Again: fuck. Iorveth tries to unsheathe his dagger, but the hang grabs his collar with one clawed, birdlike hand, and throws him against the nearest wall. ]
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So, he steps away from the wardrobe, no matter how much it hurts to do it knowing that his life's greatest desire is in there, waiting for him. He vaguely recalls Iorveth saying that he shouldn't step in unless Iorveth calls for him, but it seems even less important to follow that now than it did when he said it. Astarion can hear the sound of something heavy and person-shaped colliding with the wall, and he barrels through the narrow passageway like an invisible bull, knocking over tomes and glass vials of strange, swirling substances.
He doesn't think about it. He doesn't even consciously do it; it just happens. Before he knows it, he has a dagger embedded in the sickly purple (everything here is godsdamned purple) of the hag's flesh, and he flickers back into view. Dagger still deep in her skin, he stumbles back.
She blinks, then rips the blade out with one sharp movement, tossing it on the floor by his feet. ]
Oh, [ he says, right as she crows, "Stupid little creatures." ]
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Fuck. His pulse is a roar in his ears, and he calls out: ] Astarion, take the damned cloaks and run!
[ Outlining his two priorities, the only thing that would make this debacle worthwhile: Astarion's safety, and the sun. Iorveth kicks forward to provide a distraction, silvered dagger in hand for a rush attack, but the items in the room seem to pulse and shift around him, sneaking under his foot to trip him mid-motion.
"Bad thieves need to learn their manners," the hag cackles as Iorveth stumbles over a stack of books (was that there before?); one of her hands glow a sick blue-violet, and the subsequent spell she casts sends him lurching sideways, blinking back a sudden, overwhelming desire to sleep. The other hand darts forward, vicelike fingers attempting to close around Astarion's neck and handle him with the sort of strength one wouldn't expect from a creature that looks so slight.
"Oh, but Granny does love thinking of punishments. Fun, fun punishments." ]
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It's a blessing that he doesn't need to breathe, because he's not sure that he would be able to under these circumstances. Her grip is exceedingly strong for such thin, birdlike fingers. He wraps his own fingers around hers, trying to pry them off. ]
A little help, [ he wheezes, hoarse. ] Any minute now.
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"Sleep, sleep, dearie! Wasn't it unfair of you to trance so soundly while your little dove tossed and turned?"
Spider-thin fingers dig into Astarion's neck one more time, before she tosses him bodily aside. A wild predator enjoying the process of playing with its food.
"You wanted forever with your sweetheart, hmm? How about forever in your poor little dear's nightmares?" Her laugh is like metal scraping together, shrill and grating. "Oh, he's been through such horrible things― Granny saw so much of them the past few nights. You can see them for eternity!"
Iorveth's blood runs cold; not fear, but rage. The fucking gall of this wretched creature to look at something Astarion wants no one to see, and the fucking audacity of her to try to weaponize it. He growls, low and through clenched teeth, and lurches forward again, aiming for a clean cut across her sagging throat. ]
Don't speak, [ is a threatening hiss, though his balance is still off― he knows he won't hit, but this might give Astarion some time to scurry away. ]
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Iorveth slashes toward the hag's neck, and she has the audacity to laugh as she reaches out to curl mottled fingers around Iorveth's wrist before the blade ever meets her flesh. "You rotten little thing," she says. "How dare you treat Granny like this."
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Astarion hears Gale's endless lecturing. When they'd fought Auntie Ethel, he'd gone on and on about hags' resistance to typical attacks, and how magic really is the best offense! Astarion had found it the irritating blathering of a wizard with far too much ego, but now, well. Maybe he had a point.
As Granny Heart's arm winds back and she sweeps at Iorveth's face with long, sharp claws, Astarion extends a hand and mutters the incantation for Fire Bolt. ]
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"Wretched thing! I own you!"
Wiping blood out of his eye, Iorveth watches as the hideous creature reaches under her robe for what can only be described as a bag made of humanoid flesh: tanned and stretched, stitched together by the same sinew-like ropes keeping the hag's hair in her messy braids. She strokes it with the flat of her gnarled fingers, then points to Astarion with vicious glee. (Still smoldering, but infuriatingly less hurt than she should be.)
"I'll drain the soul out of you, you miserable rat. You'll be a husk－ no feelings, no memories, nothing."
And, again, the Sleep spell. Aimed at Astarion this time, leaving Iorveth to click his tongue and rush the hag again, who pops out of existence as soon as Iorveth gets too close. ]