[ Damris and Petras, twin youngest-brother-energy terrors. Iorveth tries to imagine it around a mouthful of egg, and finds himself mildly entertained by the thought of them hissing and spitting (harmlessly) at each other.
"I have manners," Damris huffs, "unlike you," to which Gale, the diplomat, tries to implore: "come now, Astarion. Surely we can extend him the same grace we extended you when we found you bent over Lae'zel with that lovely jaw unhinged?"
Stupid move. Reginald guffaws into his omelette, and Iorveth shoots Gale the most exasperated look he can muster. ]
Gods, which layer of Avernus is this? All this useless quibbling in the morning is giving me a headache. [ Chewing, swallowing. ] You'll all defer to Astarion's judgment. Gale, portal the gatekeep to Waterdeep tonight, and we'll discuss this further then.
[ "Gatekeep? Who?" asks Gale, and Reginald pipes up with "if you have a headache, I should take a look!" This really is like being in the hells. ]
[ 'Defer to Astarion's judgment' is the funniest thing someone could ever say, considering Astarion has no judgment to speak of, but Gale is seemingly intimidated enough by Iorveth to agree. (Thank the gods.)
"He's—" Damris turns a little red again. "I'll tell you about him later, Gale." ]
Oh, I'm sure Gale would love for you to braid each other's hair and talk about boys.
[ Unironically. As much as they've inconvenienced Gale, he's hardly complained. Astarion has to imagine it's out of a happiness to have companionship. Before they leave for the north, Astarion will have to take him to the opera again. (Ugh. More of that softness.)
That seems to be that, for the moment. An argument probably just postponed until after Linus gets here, but that's a problem for future Astarion. For now, he leans in toward Iorveth, murmuring at a volume that's definitely still too loud for the breakfast table, ] Mm, that stern voice does make me all atingle.
[ Iorveth is used to bossing people around. He was the de facto leader of his freedom-fighting guerilla group after Isengrim left, and he can still shift into that role when he feels he needs to make an executive decision (about letting Astarion make executive decisions). Right now, he's prioritizing finishing breakfast and moving swiftly on to testing the cloaks in their packs; depending on the results of their test, he'll stay inside with Astarion and hold him through his disappointment and let the others figure Damris out, or...
...he hasn't actually thought about what would happen if they succeeded. Call it cynical of him, or call it a desire to let Astarion dictate what he does with his freedom. True freedom.
Finishing up the contents of his plate (and finishing up the contents of what would have been a second and third person's plates), he huffs a laugh under his breath. ]
So you say. You'd pout if I were stern with you.
[ Literally ignoring everyone else at the table to coddle Astarion a bit and press his lips lightly against Astarion's temple. Damris gags. ]
[ Oh, he'd absolutely pout if Iorveth were stern with him, but it's very attractive to watch him be stern with other people. It makes Astarion love him even more for his sweetness, that he can be harsh with an idiot one moment and then soft with Astarion (also an idiot) the next. He does so love to be coddled.
Astarion responds to Damris's gagging with a malicious little smile, then presses a kiss back to Iorveth's cheek. Absolutely sickening PDA happening here at the breakfast table today. ]
As I'll ever be.
[ Which is to say, he's not really ready, but he doesn't have much of a choice. Then, to the rest of the table: ]
Iorveth and I will be busy for the next hour or so. Don't bother us.
[ "Oh, disgusting," Damris says. "You don't need to announce that to the table."
It's clear what Damris has interpreted 'busy' as (and one can hardly blame him for it), but Iorveth doesn't correct him. Instead, he gets up after he wipes his mouth, downs his water, then gives Gale a nod. Conspiratorial. Gale seems to get it, and－ finally happy to be included in his two unhinged friends' plans－ gestures for his guests to keep eating, suggesting that they all keep away from the back patio for the next hour or so.
("I couldn't go, even if I wanted to," is Damris's sullen complaint. He really is kind of a brat.)
With that done... well. It's off to the back patio they go. It doesn't take long to traverse the diameter of the tower to get to the cozy nook overlooking the water, separated from the second sitting room (how many sitting rooms can one wizard have? the answer is many) not by a door, but an open walkway. Light is pouring in from that space, bright and warm: it extends as a strip of gold from the threshold to the middle of the sitting room, a catwalk from indoors to outdoors.
Iorveth reaches for Astarion's hand, then squeezes it gently. The pack of cloaks is slung over his shoulder, and he lets it slide down to where their fingers are linked. ]
[ Astarion wishes they were doing what Damris suspects instead. The knowledge that everything they just went through could very well have been for nothing looms large, and he takes the pack with a heavy sense of dread. He doesn't want to be pessimistic, it's just that everything that's ever happened in his life has taught him to be a cynic. Good things don't just happen to him.
Except one good thing. With the pack in one hand, he reaches out to squeeze Iorveth's again with his other.
He crouches by the strip of sunlight, pack beside him as he rifles through it for the cloaks. They look the same as they had in the hag's den: plain, unassuming. He runs a hand over the black velvet one first, desperately hoping to feel some sort of arcane pulse that would suggest it's the one he's looking for. Nothing. He dons it anyway, tying the strings around his neck. It must look ridiculous; he feels ridiculous, wearing a black velvet cloak like some kind of—
Well, vampire. But a really on-the-nose one.
Slowly, he reaches his hand out, dipping it into the sun's rays. It's warm, and then hot, and then blazing. He can see the skin of his hand scorching, blistering in the sun, but he keeps it there out of some delusional hope that maybe it's a delayed effect, or maybe it'll heal, or maybe—
Finally, he can't take it anymore. The pain is too great. He snatches his hand back into the comfort of darkness. ]
[ Pale skin roils, burns. Iorveth feels compelled to reach and pull Astarion away from the light far before Astarion makes that decision for himself, sickened by the sight of it; still, he waits until he hears that fuck to pull Astarion further into the shade around them, hovering for a quick Cure Wounds that only makes the worst of the scorching fade into a less angry red.
Horrible. He'd thought― well, the cloak even looks like it would have been the one, on-the-nose styling and all. It's the kind of disappointment that might make one reconsider trying the remaining item altogether, preemptively mortified by the possibility that it, too, will fail them.
Iorveth unwinds the strings around Astarion's neck, and hastily moves to peel the offending item off. ]
Cursed thing― [ He snaps, curt and furious. How fucking dare this cloak, honestly. A few more choice curses in his native language as he inspects the injured hand, frowning hard enough to make his already-angular features look even more knife-sharp. ] ―Shall I go call the halfling?
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"I have manners," Damris huffs, "unlike you," to which Gale, the diplomat, tries to implore: "come now, Astarion. Surely we can extend him the same grace we extended you when we found you bent over Lae'zel with that lovely jaw unhinged?"
Stupid move. Reginald guffaws into his omelette, and Iorveth shoots Gale the most exasperated look he can muster. ]
Gods, which layer of Avernus is this? All this useless quibbling in the morning is giving me a headache. [ Chewing, swallowing. ] You'll all defer to Astarion's judgment. Gale, portal the gatekeep to Waterdeep tonight, and we'll discuss this further then.
[ "Gatekeep? Who?" asks Gale, and Reginald pipes up with "if you have a headache, I should take a look!" This really is like being in the hells. ]
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"He's—" Damris turns a little red again. "I'll tell you about him later, Gale." ]
Oh, I'm sure Gale would love for you to braid each other's hair and talk about boys.
[ Unironically. As much as they've inconvenienced Gale, he's hardly complained. Astarion has to imagine it's out of a happiness to have companionship. Before they leave for the north, Astarion will have to take him to the opera again. (Ugh. More of that softness.)
That seems to be that, for the moment. An argument probably just postponed until after Linus gets here, but that's a problem for future Astarion. For now, he leans in toward Iorveth, murmuring at a volume that's definitely still too loud for the breakfast table, ] Mm, that stern voice does make me all atingle.
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...he hasn't actually thought about what would happen if they succeeded. Call it cynical of him, or call it a desire to let Astarion dictate what he does with his freedom. True freedom.
Finishing up the contents of his plate (and finishing up the contents of what would have been a second and third person's plates), he huffs a laugh under his breath. ]
So you say. You'd pout if I were stern with you.
[ Literally ignoring everyone else at the table to coddle Astarion a bit and press his lips lightly against Astarion's temple. Damris gags. ]
―I'll finish in a moment. Are you ready?
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Astarion responds to Damris's gagging with a malicious little smile, then presses a kiss back to Iorveth's cheek. Absolutely sickening PDA happening here at the breakfast table today. ]
As I'll ever be.
[ Which is to say, he's not really ready, but he doesn't have much of a choice. Then, to the rest of the table: ]
Iorveth and I will be busy for the next hour or so. Don't bother us.
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It's clear what Damris has interpreted 'busy' as (and one can hardly blame him for it), but Iorveth doesn't correct him. Instead, he gets up after he wipes his mouth, downs his water, then gives Gale a nod. Conspiratorial. Gale seems to get it, and－ finally happy to be included in his two unhinged friends' plans－ gestures for his guests to keep eating, suggesting that they all keep away from the back patio for the next hour or so.
("I couldn't go, even if I wanted to," is Damris's sullen complaint. He really is kind of a brat.)
With that done... well. It's off to the back patio they go. It doesn't take long to traverse the diameter of the tower to get to the cozy nook overlooking the water, separated from the second sitting room (how many sitting rooms can one wizard have? the answer is many) not by a door, but an open walkway. Light is pouring in from that space, bright and warm: it extends as a strip of gold from the threshold to the middle of the sitting room, a catwalk from indoors to outdoors.
Iorveth reaches for Astarion's hand, then squeezes it gently. The pack of cloaks is slung over his shoulder, and he lets it slide down to where their fingers are linked. ]
Well. Time to test our luck.
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Except one good thing. With the pack in one hand, he reaches out to squeeze Iorveth's again with his other.
He crouches by the strip of sunlight, pack beside him as he rifles through it for the cloaks. They look the same as they had in the hag's den: plain, unassuming. He runs a hand over the black velvet one first, desperately hoping to feel some sort of arcane pulse that would suggest it's the one he's looking for. Nothing. He dons it anyway, tying the strings around his neck. It must look ridiculous; he feels ridiculous, wearing a black velvet cloak like some kind of—
Well, vampire. But a really on-the-nose one.
Slowly, he reaches his hand out, dipping it into the sun's rays. It's warm, and then hot, and then blazing. He can see the skin of his hand scorching, blistering in the sun, but he keeps it there out of some delusional hope that maybe it's a delayed effect, or maybe it'll heal, or maybe—
Finally, he can't take it anymore. The pain is too great. He snatches his hand back into the comfort of darkness. ]
Fuck. Fuck.
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[ Pale skin roils, burns. Iorveth feels compelled to reach and pull Astarion away from the light far before Astarion makes that decision for himself, sickened by the sight of it; still, he waits until he hears that fuck to pull Astarion further into the shade around them, hovering for a quick Cure Wounds that only makes the worst of the scorching fade into a less angry red.
Horrible. He'd thought― well, the cloak even looks like it would have been the one, on-the-nose styling and all. It's the kind of disappointment that might make one reconsider trying the remaining item altogether, preemptively mortified by the possibility that it, too, will fail them.
Iorveth unwinds the strings around Astarion's neck, and hastily moves to peel the offending item off. ]
Cursed thing― [ He snaps, curt and furious. How fucking dare this cloak, honestly. A few more choice curses in his native language as he inspects the injured hand, frowning hard enough to make his already-angular features look even more knife-sharp. ] ―Shall I go call the halfling?