[ 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? ]
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. ]
[ 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. ]
[ '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. ]
[ 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.
[ 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.
[ 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?" ]
We either kill him, or we remove him from this city.
[ Which is to say, he doesn't need Damris in Waterdeep at all. Gale is right to be concerned about smuggling an entire person out of national borders, but those artificial borders really mean nothing to Iorveth at all.
More importantly is the addendum, which is delivered just as calmly. ] Astarion doesn't wish to kill him, and leaving him here would be worse than death. You know why this would be the case.
[ He doesn't have to say "vampire spawn politics" again to drive the point home, Iorveth hopes. Crouching down, Iorveth grabs Damris by his bindings and starts to drag him into the sitting room, getting ready to toss him into the portal when it appears. Yes, he understands Gale's concern, and yes, he likes Gale enough to take his counsel when he can, but Iorveth's priority right now is honoring Astarion's wishes. He never said that he wasn't biased. ]
[ "Astarion doesn't want to kill someone?" Gale asks with the sort of incredulity that might offend Astarion, were he in any position to feel anything at all besides exhaustion. Gale follows Iorveth back into the sitting room, hands on his hips and robe flowing behind him as he walks.
"Well, far be it from me to stop you from sparing someone." Even if it makes Gale an accomplice to tiefling trafficking. "I do apologize," he adds, glancing to Damris (who doesn't seem particularly moved by the apology; he's too busy squirming around while Iorveth drags him). "This is no way to meet a new acquaintance! I trust that we'll all be on friendlier terms once we return to Waterdeep."
That sounds a bit like a warning. An I'm not keeping a hostage, you freak, in nicer terms.
"Now! Stand back, will you? Opening a portal is quite the task."
Astarion cracks open an eye in time to watch Gale waving his hands, fingers tracing esoteric patterns in the air before a swirling portal appears before him. It's fucking purple. ]
[ Honestly, Iorveth really has no particular desire to do anything at all with Damris once they return to Waterdeep: his chief concern is, of course, Astarion, and making sure Astarion is fine, and making sure Astarion trances for at least two days. More honestly, the only thing Iorveth plans on doing with Damris is perhaps testing the cloak on him to see which one works (if either of them does), but that might give Damris ideas, so he'll likely scrap that idea.
His concussed head starts whirring again. It's giving him a migraine, but he doesn't care― he lets Gale work on the portal while he goes into the bedroom to gather the rest of their things, brushing by Astarion to give him a careful sift of fingers against sticky silver curls. Astarion seems far too exhausted and in pain to do anything but sit limply, which is far more worrying than breaking international laws.
The portal crackles open, and Iorveth helps Gale lug Damris through it first (still hog-tied and very disoriented by the fuckery happening around him); after that, Iorveth ushers Gale through next, promising they'll follow close after, tosses their packs through the violet light, then turns towards Astarion. ]
I can carry you, [ he offers. Not far, obviously, but three steps through the portal should be manageable. Crouching in front of Astarion this time, Iorveth nudges close. ] Wrap your arms around my shoulders.
[ Tired, dry. He doesn't have the energy to resist. His arms snake around Iorveth's shoulders, and he winces preemptively, before Iorveth has even touched his leg. The adrenaline has worn off entirely now, and it throbs even while he's sitting still. It's probably beyond Iorveth's healing capabilities, especially when he has his own wounds to tend to, but he does hope they'll at least be able to dull the worst of the pain.
Speaking of Iorveth's wounds, Astarion says, lamely, ] Your face.
[ Gods, he hates that the hag had the gall to dig her claws into something he already had insecurities about. It's bled quite a lot—on Astarion's shirt, he suddenly notices—and it looks red and raw. Not so deep that it'll leave scars, he hopes. He'd find Iorveth infinitely desirable even if his entire face was scar tissue, but Astarion knows how much grief his maiming gave him. He couldn't bear if Iorveth had more ammo for his ridiculous belief that he's anything but perfect. ]
[ A mild huff, not quite a laugh and not quite a sigh, at the mention of his face. Iorveth knows that Astarion doesn't like when he's uncharitable about his appearance, but his response is a near-impulsive: ]
It's no worse than it usually is.
[ Small mercies: the hag's claws raked the unmarred side of his face, which means that the sharp nails didn't rake over and destroy the gifted eyepatch. The angry-red gash extends from his earlobe and down, scouring his jaw and near where the branches of his tattoo extend up his neck; it pulls and bleeds when Iorveth strains a bit to pick Astarion up, but it's negligible.
Hefting Astarion's limp body sideways, bridal style, he tests his balance and starts making his way through the portal. The sinking, unsettling feeling of vertigo and rearrangement threaten to make him drop Astarion, but he holds fast until they're back in the familiar, book-drenched backdrop of Gale's living room.
Phew. A few teetering steps, and Iorveth deposits Astarion onto the biggest couch available. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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.
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"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." ]
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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.
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"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.
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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. ]
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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.) ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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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.
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"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. ]
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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?!" ]
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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. ]
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"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. ]
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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.
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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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We either kill him, or we remove him from this city.
[ Which is to say, he doesn't need Damris in Waterdeep at all. Gale is right to be concerned about smuggling an entire person out of national borders, but those artificial borders really mean nothing to Iorveth at all.
More importantly is the addendum, which is delivered just as calmly. ] Astarion doesn't wish to kill him, and leaving him here would be worse than death. You know why this would be the case.
[ He doesn't have to say "vampire spawn politics" again to drive the point home, Iorveth hopes. Crouching down, Iorveth grabs Damris by his bindings and starts to drag him into the sitting room, getting ready to toss him into the portal when it appears. Yes, he understands Gale's concern, and yes, he likes Gale enough to take his counsel when he can, but Iorveth's priority right now is honoring Astarion's wishes. He never said that he wasn't biased. ]
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"Well, far be it from me to stop you from sparing someone." Even if it makes Gale an accomplice to tiefling trafficking. "I do apologize," he adds, glancing to Damris (who doesn't seem particularly moved by the apology; he's too busy squirming around while Iorveth drags him). "This is no way to meet a new acquaintance! I trust that we'll all be on friendlier terms once we return to Waterdeep."
That sounds a bit like a warning. An I'm not keeping a hostage, you freak, in nicer terms.
"Now! Stand back, will you? Opening a portal is quite the task."
Astarion cracks open an eye in time to watch Gale waving his hands, fingers tracing esoteric patterns in the air before a swirling portal appears before him. It's fucking purple. ]
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His concussed head starts whirring again. It's giving him a migraine, but he doesn't care― he lets Gale work on the portal while he goes into the bedroom to gather the rest of their things, brushing by Astarion to give him a careful sift of fingers against sticky silver curls. Astarion seems far too exhausted and in pain to do anything but sit limply, which is far more worrying than breaking international laws.
The portal crackles open, and Iorveth helps Gale lug Damris through it first (still hog-tied and very disoriented by the fuckery happening around him); after that, Iorveth ushers Gale through next, promising they'll follow close after, tosses their packs through the violet light, then turns towards Astarion. ]
I can carry you, [ he offers. Not far, obviously, but three steps through the portal should be manageable. Crouching in front of Astarion this time, Iorveth nudges close. ] Wrap your arms around my shoulders.
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[ Tired, dry. He doesn't have the energy to resist. His arms snake around Iorveth's shoulders, and he winces preemptively, before Iorveth has even touched his leg. The adrenaline has worn off entirely now, and it throbs even while he's sitting still. It's probably beyond Iorveth's healing capabilities, especially when he has his own wounds to tend to, but he does hope they'll at least be able to dull the worst of the pain.
Speaking of Iorveth's wounds, Astarion says, lamely, ] Your face.
[ Gods, he hates that the hag had the gall to dig her claws into something he already had insecurities about. It's bled quite a lot—on Astarion's shirt, he suddenly notices—and it looks red and raw. Not so deep that it'll leave scars, he hopes. He'd find Iorveth infinitely desirable even if his entire face was scar tissue, but Astarion knows how much grief his maiming gave him. He couldn't bear if Iorveth had more ammo for his ridiculous belief that he's anything but perfect. ]
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It's no worse than it usually is.
[ Small mercies: the hag's claws raked the unmarred side of his face, which means that the sharp nails didn't rake over and destroy the gifted eyepatch. The angry-red gash extends from his earlobe and down, scouring his jaw and near where the branches of his tattoo extend up his neck; it pulls and bleeds when Iorveth strains a bit to pick Astarion up, but it's negligible.
Hefting Astarion's limp body sideways, bridal style, he tests his balance and starts making his way through the portal. The sinking, unsettling feeling of vertigo and rearrangement threaten to make him drop Astarion, but he holds fast until they're back in the familiar, book-drenched backdrop of Gale's living room.
Phew. A few teetering steps, and Iorveth deposits Astarion onto the biggest couch available. ]