essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Astarion feels furious about the marks left on Iorveth's face, but before he can seek revenge by carving up the hag's hideous face, she extends a hand that shimmers with arcane energy. His limbs feel suddenly very limp, his eyelids heavy, and he reaches out to lean against a shelf full of morbid curiosities. A leather-bound (he hopes it's leather, and not flesh) tome with an inscription in a strange, unrecognizable language, what looks to be a humanoid's tongue jarred and floating in viscous fluid, a too-shiny amulet with a blood-red jewel.

His eyes flutter closed, and he fights to open them again. He reaches out, trying to find the words to cast another spell, but his brain feels terribly foggy. His eyes shut again, and as he collapses in an unconscious heap on the floor, he brings the contents of the shelf down along with him. ]

[ While the world turns, slowly, and surely, and while the contents of the shelf crash and shatter around Astarion, dousing him in stale preservative fluid－

－the hag attacks his mind. Visions of experiences both lived and imagined, projected with alarming clarity. The more Astarion chooses to engage with them, the more he acknowledges the visions to be his reality instead of something induced, the more he'll feel something of himself slipping away: anything from something slighter, like a dulling of his hearing, to something more dire, like entire handfuls of memories and recollections gone missing. It's the hag trying to make good on her promise, to enclose as much of Astarion's soul into her bag as she can.

Meanwhile, Iorveth scrabbles towards Astarion, kicking aside broken trinkets and soggy books to crouch by Astarion's side, swallowing down waves of what he knows is genuine fear to heft the prone body up from the fluid-slick floor, palm to his face, gently trying to rouse him with taps. ]

Astarion. [ He's dripping blood onto Astarion's shirt; Iorveth barely registers it, sick with worry as he is. More tapping ensues, accompanied by insistent jostling. ] Astarion. Wake up.

[ (The hag bides her time in the Ethereal Plane, knowing she only has one more hop left tonight. She'll have to make it count.) ]

[ It's like a flashback, but even worse. More vivid, like he's really there, like every moment of freedom was just the daydream of a deeply miserable spawn. That's the worst part; it's one of his greatest—if not the greatest—fears, that all of this was just a fantasy or cruel joke. It's taken him this long to believe that this isn't all too good to be true, and a part of him still does believe that.

He can smell the permeating aroma of death, can see a dark figure standing over him. I don't want to do this, it says. You make me do this. He hears the clinking of Godey's tools, feels the burn of those manacles on his wrists. None of that is anything, though, compared to the hands. Too many hands. He thrashes in Iorveth's grip, and when he finally comes to, it's violently, shoving Iorveth and scrabbling away to create as much distance between him and another person's body as he can.

It feels as if there's something very essential inside him that's been twisted and emptied out, but he doesn't have time to dwell on that. He's overcome with a familiar feeling that nonetheless he hasn't felt in a long time: the burning desire to be anywhere but here. Whole body shaking and leaving wet handprints on the floor, he scrambles back toward the wardrobe. ]

—The cloak.

[ Oh.

It's not that Iorveth doesn't expect pushback― he does, given what he remembers of nights prior― but he stills regardless, crouched where he is among fallen objects and broken shelves, blinking the reality of Astarion slipping away from his eye. Only for a moment, though; he understands that there are more pressing matters to attend to than emotional outbursts, which means that he doesn't make a move to stop Astarion from making his madcap dash towards the open wardrobe full of garments.

The stuffed crow has stopped shrieking. It's done its duty, and now stays frozen with its beak open wide mid-scream, eerie in its stillness. ]

―Take whatever you can, [ Iorveth calls out, wiping blood from his face with his gambeson sleeve, wincing at the pull of fabric over broken skin. ] Hurry, before the creature comes back.

[ Why she left, Iorveth has no idea. He considers it a blessing for now, and maneuvers through the mess they've made to approach Astarion and help him stuff cloak-adjacent items into his own pack. ]

Don't tell me what to do, [ comes as a surprise even to Astarion, who shrinks back after saying it like a guilty dog who just chewed up its owner's favorite slippers. He feels half here and half there, adrenaline coursing through him not just because of the hag that threatens to kill them but because of the memories. Or— not memories. It had felt more real than that. It had felt like being transported inside his own mind, and if there's ever a place he didn't want to be, it's there.

He isn't in any state to apologize, so he doesn't. Iorveth will understand, or he won't. Astarion can't bear the thought of asking for forgiveness right now.

There aren't just cloaks in the wardrobe. It's stuffed with articles of clothing of all kinds, each of them with their own strange arcane pulsing. A belt that feels warm to the touch. A pair of patchwork shoes that vibrate softly. He ignores them all, tossing them haphazardly away. Under better circumstances, he might think to take them to pawn later, but there's only one thing on his mind now. ]

...I don't know which it is.

[ He has one cloak in each hand, frowning. From their appearances, both look terribly plain. Nonmagical, even. One in brown leather and one in black velvet; they feel exactly the same to the touch, and Astarion has to wonder if they're even arcane at all or if this is just Granny Heart's winter wardrobe. Or worse, if one of them is a decoy meant to throw would-be thieves off, and it'll turn him into a pile of ash the moment he puts it on.

Fuck it. He stuffs them both in his pack. ]

[ Astarion clearly needs more than an arm's length right now. Iorveth stays away from Astarion's immediate orbit, offering neither a hand nor his input; it's only after he watches the cloaks get put into the pack that he opens his mouth to suggest that they leave―

―which is also when the hag reappears, unbeknownst to him, and strikes him in the head with something heavy and blunt. The femur of some gigantic animal, Iorveth would note, if he weren't crumpling to the ground.

Dragging Iorveth's stunned body towards the back of the shop, the hag laughs:

"Go on, take the cloaks! You can have them! I'll let you fly free, little dove."

The underlying threat there, of course, is unless you want to stay and suffer even more. If only she was peddling death― what she deals in is even worse. ]

[ No, no, no. This is all going so terribly wrong. Astarion is standing in an instant, pack hanging precariously over one shoulder. Guilt and shame flood him as he watches Iorveth being dragged away, face scratched and bloodied. Visions of strangers being dragged down to Cazador's dungeon in similar fashion burst behind his eyes, and he squeezes them shut only to find that they're still there. ]

Give him back, [ he demands as he follows her, voice wobbling only a little. ]

You can take the damned cloaks—

[ Iorveth would be so angry with him right now, if he were conscious to hear it. How quickly Astarion gives up. He extends a hand, although he's not quite sure what he plans to do with it. Fire Bolt had only made her angry. Gods, where's a Gale when you need one? ]

Just let go of him, or I'll...

[ He trails off. ]

[ "Or you'll what? Cry? Stomp your feet?"

Mocking, in the same way Ethel'd been. Her face contorts, smile stretching to show too many yellowed, crooked teeth splitting a cruel, ugly face. She drops Iorveth by a stack of large, dust-caked crates and presses her wrinkled palm to her lumpy human-skin bag, petting it as one would do to a particularly beloved lap animal.

"Granny needs a new bag, and this elf has nice markings." Toeing at Iorveth's neck, where his tattoo peeks out from his collar. "He'll make such pretty leather. A good exchange for that frumpy cloak."

With finality, as if the bargain is done. She starts to pick Iorveth up, trying to shove him into the nearest open crate.

"See, Granny always makes fair trades. You leave here with a gift and your life, even though you were so, so ungrateful." Another toothy smile, though she grunts in irritation at having to fold Iorveth's long legs in order for him to fit in the box. ]

[ Astarion will absolutely cry and stomp his feet, which are actually two things he's trying very hard not to do right now. This is worse than the nightmare, somehow; it's a new nightmare, something that can still hurt him now. ]

No, no, absolutely not.

[ He stomps his feet. Fuck.

Watching the person he loves most in the world get loaded into a crate is possibly the most horrific thing he could do, and he rushes to it, grabbing the other end of Iorveth and tugging like they're two dogs fighting over the same stick. She's a hag, and of course he could never be stronger than her — he's hardly even strong enough to heft Iorveth's body up, but he struggles through it regardless. ]

Keep your stupid cloak, then! I don't want it.

[ He is very much throwing a fit now. Crying, stomping his feet, the works. ]

You can have whatever you want, just not him.

[ Oh, the hag is enjoying this. Her leathery face is frozen in that grotesque smile, and she laughs as Astarion struggles with the unconscious body half-spilling out from the old crate.

"Well, dearie, if you're so upset... I can make you forget all about this wretched liar. Just trance a little for me, and dear Granny can take all those pesky memories away while you're asleep."

To the tune of 'isn't that wonderful?' Delighting in Astarion's misery, delighting in the possibility of making things even worse. She leans forward, extending one spindly hand with its palm up.

"Then you can leave here with the cloak, and without all that sadness. Don't you hate him for making you feel like this? Don't you hate him for failing you?"

Another crowing laugh, and her hands glow a sickly purple (always purple, in this stupid city). The beginnings of a spell, waiting for Astarion to say yes.

"Get rid of the things that hurt you, little dove. You'll thank Granny in the end." ]

[ There is a part of him that hates being made weak, hates that Iorveth is a huge gaping vulnerability, a wound that anyone with ill intentions can stick their fingers into. But he loves Iorveth more than he hates weakness, something that would have felt impossible months ago, so he shakes his head, hauling Iorveth's body over the side of the crate until they're both sprawled on the floor. ]

Shut up, you stupid old bag.

[ Probably not the way he should be talking to a hag that holds his fate in her thin, sinewy hands, but Astarion has never been polite. Sitting up, he takes Iorveth in his arms again, shaking him in a way that's likely too violent for someone who just suffered a head injury. He can't help it; he's never felt so panicked in his life, not even when Iorveth had been poisoned. At least then he had time. ]

Wake up.

[ 'Stupid old bag'. The hag's expression twists when Astarion doesn't do exactly as she'd wanted－ obviously, she'd expected him to cave immediately. She hisses at the pair, flecks of saliva hitting Iorveth's slowly-stirring face, and flicks her still-glowing hand to blast Astarion back with a jolt of force energy (magic missile, how annoying).

"You really don't know when to give up, do you? Not a single wrinkle on that small, small brain."

Annoyed now (throwing a tantrum of her own, really), the hag approaches and stomps, hard, over Astarion's leg, with enough force to break bone if he's unlucky.

"Now sleep, and give everything you love to dear Granny."

Grinding her heel over the same leg, delighting in Astarion's pain－

－she fails to notice Iorveth moving just below her, rearing up with his silvered blade to make an attempt at destroying the flesh bag dangling from the hag's chest. ]

Don't touch him, you fuck.

[ It's funny. Astarion has a very low tolerance for any sort of mild discomfort, but the pain of having his leg shattered by a hag's heel hardly registers. The burst of adrenaline from Iorveth's awakening dulls any sensation, and he feels as if he could run all the way back to Waterdeep if need be.

Iorveth slashes at Granny's hideous skin-bag, tearing it open. Maybe it's the blood rushing in his ears, but Astarion could swear he hears it scream, a shrill, whistling sound, like something escaping. Granny certainly screams, stumbling back as if she herself is the one being stabbed. "You wretched brat! I'll skin you alive for that!" (Astarion gets the feeling she was planning on skinning Iorveth alive anyway. It seems the sort of thing she'd do.)

He scrambles onto his feet, ignoring the awful crunching sound when he puts weight on the leg that the hag had crushed underneath her foot. Granny Heart rears back, gnarled claws poised to swipe at Iorveth again; Astarion yanks him by the arm. ]

Let's go.

[ He isn't too proud to run away from this situation like a coward. ]

[ The hag was definitely just going to skin Iorveth anyway (the perils of having a sick tattoo); Iorveth barely registers the threat anyway, half-concussed and too concerned about the state of Astarion's leg to give a single fuck.

The world spins around him, literally. Colors and vague shapes. He follows when he's yanked, because he also knows when it's better to live than to dig his heels in and die for the sake of pride. In this situation, they're both outclassed and underprepared, and dying here would be dying for no reason at all.

So he stumbles after Astarion, ignoring the shrieks and clamor of oddities falling behind him. He throws something that looks like the end of a flail over his shoulder, and narrowly avoids being blasted by an incoming ray of enfeeblement.

A mess. Bombarded by projectiles and trinkets, they stumble out of the shop as the hag is left to stay behind and scream about the state of her soul bag. Small mercies: the creature doesn't want to risk making a scene in public, which means that once they careen outside, they're relatively safe.

(Unless some passing guard spots the two bloodied, haunted looking elves and decides to arrest them. Wouldn't that make this a night to remember.) ]

[ Astarion and Iorveth spill out into the street, bloodied and broken and (in Astarion's case) covered in preservative fluid. Under normal circumstances, Astarion would be grousing about his hurt leg or how disgusting the stickiness feels on his skin, but he can barely feel those things. They're a distant irritation, like a fly buzzing around his ear, but he has something far more important to focus on.

Thank the gods it's still dark outside. The shadows hide a multitude of sins. Still, as he limps forward, dragging Iorveth along with him, a couple passersby do a double take at the elves who look like they've just committed murder. Astarion trudges forward regardless, a relentless push forward.

It's only when he spots a guard in the distance that he stops. Not just any guard — fucking Linus. Astarion holds his breath, pulling Iorveth into a dark alleyway. ]

[ Summarily tugged, Iorveth (still mildly concussed), starts to piece together the fact that Astarion is limping mid-journey; scrambled head struggling to find focus, he pulls closer to Astarion in the inky dark of the alleyway, trying to find a position that would help Astarion lean instead of putting weight on the incriminating leg.

He knows they're meant to be hiding, so Iorveth says nothing despite wanting to. A few seconds of stressful suspension later, breaths held and bodies still, he can hear snippets of conversation in the distance: perhaps a concerned passerby who saw the pair and cared enough about the safety of the city to mention them to a guard.

The ringing in his ears makes it hard for Iorveth to catch the entire exchange: something about two elves, something about 'bloody'. Linus, emphatic idiot that he is, seems to be making a show of reassuring the civilian, his excited voice carrying above the humming din of the city noise. ]

[ "I've actually been on the lookout for two elves," Linus says, and gods, he probably thinks that Astarion and Iorveth murdered Damris. (Instead of what they actually did, kidnapping and torturing him, which is much more respectable.) "You're doing this city a great service! If you see something, say something."

Astarion stays quiet, but he can't resist the urge to roll his eyes. What an inveterate do-gooder. Doesn't he know that guards are supposed to be corrupt?

"They were just over here, I swear," comes another voice. "Maybe they backtracked this way?"

Footsteps grow louder, and Astarion stiffens, watching as a civilian passes by the entrance to the alleyway, followed by Linus. He waits another ten seconds to ensure that they've really gone before tugging Iorveth's arm with a quiet ] Come on.

[ The one guard in this entire miserable city who actually likes doing his job, and they had to run afoul (?) of him. Great. No time to grouse about that, though― Iorveth will only be able to breathe freely again once they're through the portal and back in Gale's tower.

So, as much as he wants to stop, to sit Astarion down somewhere and find a cleric for Astarion's leg, he doesn't. Iorveth doesn't mention it either, knowing what injuries tend to do when attention is brought to it: hurt more.

It's a slow, careful slide out of the shade of the alley, and less of a madcap dash this time around. Iorveth has to hope that their punctual, slightly neurotic wizard is already at their designated inn and waiting for them, though he doesn't relish the thought of being asked a downpour of questions that he doesn't have the patience to answer.

Whatever. There are two cloaks in Astarion's pack, and they're both alive. Iorveth, still sick with worry, just wants to find a soft, flat surface for Astarion to lie down on. ]

[ As the adrenaline slowly wears off, the unpleasantness of his physical situation begins to set in. Aches all over from collapsing on the floor and being thrown around. A sharp pain up his leg every time he tries to take a step on it. A headache from crying (humiliating). He does his damnedest to ignore it, and not to think about the blood still dripping from the cuts on Iorveth's face.

He's uncharacteristically silent on the trek back to the inn, focused solely on returning to safety. When he stumbles through that purple-painted door, a staff member looks up in surprise.

"M-Masters Blackmane?" ]

Wild night out.

[ The scrutiny is unavoidable. Iorveth waves away a few purple-uniformed humans who offer to help them up the stairs, and tries to snap at them about making a scene, when a familiar, clear tenor rings above the worried murmurs:

"By Tyr's missing hand― Astarion, Iorveth, is that you?!"

Politely pushing stunned staff aside, Gale makes his way from one of the cushy velvet couches stationed in the inn's lobby to approach them, as violet as the rest of the decor. He regards the both of them with brows raised to his hairline, hands out as if he's inclined to cast a healing spell that he most definitely doesn't have prepared.

"You two certainly always know how to make an entrance." Gale's tone suggests that this is the one thing he hasn't missed about them; Iorveth resists the urge to say something unkind, and gestures for Gale to follow them towards the stairs. ]

Grant flight, [ Iorveth demands, gesturing towards Astarion. "A 'it's good to see you' would be nice", Gale counters, but casts the spell anyway, lifting Astarion off the ground and off his injured leg. ]

[ As weightlessness takes him, the relief of pressure off of his leg is instant. Astarion can't help but sigh, although he's already inwardly dreading the moment when the spell wears off. Gale had once told them that he can't maintain it forever, that even for 'a wizard of considerable talent such as myself' concentration spells wear off in minutes, not hours. Priority number one is still getting the hells out of this place, but priority number two is definitely sitting down.

They make their way up the stairs, a feat he probably wouldn't have been able to accomplish with his leg the way it is. Iorveth and Gale walk, and Astarion floats. Gale keeps looking back at them, concerned, obviously wanting to pry but reluctant to do so given both of their personalities.

Astarion says nothing, too drained in every possible way to explain. Except when Gale opens the door to their room and steps inside, he suddenly has a burst of energy as he remembers: ]

Oh, Gale—

[ There is blood everywhere. "What in the Nine Hells have you two gotten yourselves into?!" ]

[ A legitimate question, but exhausting all the same. Iorveth, head still in the process of screwing itself back straight, nevertheless grinds himself into a familiar mold: a leader and a survivalist. Efficient and graceful and proud, despite the fact that he looks like utter shit. ]

Our journey for the cloak proved more complex than we'd initially assumed.

[ Which isn't an answer as to why there's blood all over the sitting room, but it's a start. Straight-backed and measured, he leads Astarion to the nearest chair and bids him to sit, allowing Gale to break concentration (he was going to break it anyway, with all the goggling and gaping he's doing right now). ]

The fact that we called you here earlier than intended should speak volumes. Our first priority is leaving this cursed city－ we'll speak more candidly when we're back in Waterdeep.

[ A beat. ]

I don't suppose you could... [ Waving one hand in a careless gesture: ] ...Clean all of this up.

[ Gods, he hasn't even gotten to the trussed-up tiefling in the other room. Again, exhausting. ]

[ Thank the gods that Iorveth takes control of the situation. Astarion sits, wincing a little as his leg is jostled, and allows Iorveth to speak for them both. He just doesn't have it in him to respond to Gale's questioning right now.

"And what, pray tell, is 'all of this'?" Gale asks, arms crossed. "Because I fear that it looks as if I'll be covering up a crime scene!" ]

Well, obviously we had our reasons.

[ Gale raises an eyebrow, looking torn between protecting his friends and what's morally correct. He's always been a little ethically askew, if you ask Astarion—his favorite quality about Gale—so he finally throws his hands up, sighing.

"Fine. Give me a moment — prestidigitation can only clean so much at once, and, well..." He gestures toward the bloodied room. It's a lot, is the implication.

What must be five minutes of Gale walking around the room, casting a spell, and then stepping a foot to the right to repeat the entire process again later, there's nary a speck of blood to be seen. Honestly, Astarion couldn't care less at this point if they just left the puddles here for the guards to find. He's never coming back here.

"Now, if we're all ready, I can conjure the portal—" ]

Oh. I forgot to mention. We do have a... hostage, of sorts.

[ Gale stares. ]

[ It's a testament to how stupidly good-hearted Gale is (a compliment) that he actually takes the time to use his very valuable wizarding powers to do something as menial as cleaning up after a crime scene. Some people may have been furious at the very suggestion－ Iorveth might have been, if he were on the other side of the equation－ so Iorveth softens a little, letting the edges of his own exhaustion show more candidly as a sign of trust.

That said, he understands that he'll have to give Gale more bad news, so: ]

A vampire spawn, [ he appends, unhelpfully. Gale continues to stare. ] He poisoned me. ...Again, a long story.

[ Gale's staring doesn't stop. At some point, that big, big wizard brain has probably deemed it a good idea to stop trying to understand, which is likely why his reaction is so underwhelming once he follows Iorveth to the study and sees Damris hog-tied near a pile of cushions.

"Oh, of course," Gale says, flatly. "Why wouldn't you have taken an assailant hostage."

Damris looks as confused as someone gagged can manage, and Iorveth huffs an aggravated sigh. ]

Spare me the theatrics. We're taking him back to Waterdeep.

[ Astarion doesn't follow Iorveth and Gale into the study. Instead, he hugs his pack to his chest like he's afraid someone will steal it from him and lets his head loll back, eyes closing. At this point, he doesn't care what happens to Damris. Maybe he will once he's tranced for a couple days straight, but for the time being, he really can't muster up the energy to give a shit if Gale were to cast Disintegrate on him right now.

Gale, on the other hand...

"Back to Waterdeep?" he sputters before seemingly trying to calm himself, because someone has to be rational here, and it obviously isn't going to Iorveth. "Iorveth. My friend." Appealing to their camaraderie, here. "You do realize that this is kidnapping. Across national borders, I might add! What the devil do you need him in Waterdeep for?" ]

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