essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Annoyingly, Iorveth does need a refresher on how simulacra transfer what they've seen to their creators. He couldn't care less if the spectral image of Gale has seen the shape of his dick, but his first instinct when it really sinks in that there's someone else in their immediate vicinity is to turn the ruined side of his face away from the illusory presence. He settles his palm over his missing eye, and presses the heel of his hand into the scar cutting into his lip.

Gale is so lucky that Iorveth's mood is currently impossible to sour, what with it being bolstered by the fuzzy, still-lingering feeling of being thoroughly obliterated by Astarion. Instead of getting up and hurling a throwing knife in the general direction of Gale's bed, Iorveth tips his chin, haughty. ]

State your purpose. Quickly, and to the point.

[ Again, Gale is so lucky. The warning here, unspoken, is "don't push it". At the very least, the apparition seems to pick up on said warning somewhat, even if it refuses to (or, perhaps more likely, simply can't) break jovial character.

"Ah, my purpose. A bit existential, don't you think?" Iorveth scowls; the simulacrum, miraculously, gets the hint. "Yes, well― I suppose you want to know the message I'm meant to relay. A simple one, I'm afraid: an invitation to investigate a rather mysterious slew of recent disappearances in the Lower City. With or without my maker to assist you in the endeavor."

Gale's facsimile lowers its voice, conspiratorial. "Though he doesn't relish the idea of being the 'third wheel', so to speak." ]

Edited 2024-10-10 14:18 (UTC)

[ Astarion notes the way Iorveth presses his hand to his face, concealing his scar and the hollow where his eye used to be. It's Iorveth's prerogative to hide himself from anyone he likes, but the fact that his immediate reaction is one of self-consciousness makes Astarion frown. He's not certain where he discarded the eyepatch last night, so he lets his eyes wander along the floor before he spots it and snatches it up, dropping it nonchalantly into Iorveth's lap. ]

Disappearances? [ His frown deepens. ] Recent disappearances?

[ "Yes, I'm quite sure I said it correctly," says the simulacrum. "It is, in fact, impossible for me to not have."

It could easily be more Bhaalists; they seem keen on kidnapping and murdering. Please, Astarion thinks to himself, don't let it be the wayward spawn. Bhaalists are already enough trouble, but vampires would be far worse. (For him, that is.) They'd need to nip the problem in the bud quickly before a throng of vampire hunters descended on the city.

And, of slightly lesser importance, he's not so sure he wants to deal with the consequences of the others finding out he freed thousands of hungry vampires. ]

We'll deal with it ourselves.

[ Just in case. If it's only some whack job cultist, they can handle themselves without Gale. If it's a vampire, he'd rather not have blabbermouth Gale be the one to figure it out. ]

I'm sure Gale is too busy combing his beard, anyway.

[ Teamwork. Astarion hands him the eyepatch, and Iorveth situates it over the gnarled hollow of his face, fixing it in place while he listens to the projection give its report. "Recent disappearances" doesn't sound promising, but it sounds understated compared to what he would expect from the release of several scores (hundreds? he has no idea) of hungry vampire spawn.

Still, the two events could be correlated. Iorveth knows to expect the worst, which means that they'll have to lug the anti-vampire pack around again; it might become a permanent fixture, at this rate.

Oblivious to the two elves' misgivings, Gale's simulacrum beams. "Hardly! In fact, I can assure you that he's been quite preoccupied with pretending not to exist," he chirps guilelessly, to which Iorveth responds with a soft snort. ]

Tell him to keep at it, then. We'll leave when we please.

[ The meanest elf in the world continues to be needlessly rude to the party's resident wizard. With that, Iorveth decides not to spare the projection any more of his attention, and glances back at Astarion to tuck a stray silver curl behind one pointed ear. ]

[ The idea of Gale having overheard everything isn't embarrassing—Astarion did a very good job pleasing Iorveth, in his opinion, and Gale should perhaps take notes so that his next lover doesn't leave him—but it is annoying knowing that it'll fuel future comments from him. Whether they're supportive of or discouraging the relationship, somehow Astarion knows they're going to irritate him either way.

He stares blankly at Gale's glittering outline, then shoos it away like a pest. ]

Well? Get lost. And do tell Gale not to fiddle with his wand about this, will you?

[ "Wordplay!" the simulacrum beams; how very unlike Gale, who'd probably respond with a huff and a well, I never! "I will be sure to relay the message."

And there Gale's double goes, popping out of existence in a glimmering, arcane flash. Astarion rolls his eyes, then flops directly back on the mattress. ]

I don't see why a few disappearances is anything to get up in arms about. People disappear in this city every day. It's a den of iniquity; that's one of its best features.

[ Despite his protests, uncertainty swirls in his gut. If not a vampire, it could be the work of Absolutist cultists. He's spent their time in this city trying to think of mind flayers and the Netherbrain as little as possible, and the idea that they could be growing closer to a final confrontation is daunting. ]

[ The projection disappears, and leaves behind a piece of parchment that flutters, gracefully, onto the floor next to the bed. Iorveth leans to pick it up, and finds a map of the Lower City with a specific location circled in red.

Interesting. He hums, thoughtful, before setting the parchment aside on the bedside dresser. ]

And yet you all choose to live here than elsewhere. [ So many people, cramped in small spaces and barely connecting to each other regardless. He thinks back to the question he'd asked Astarion way back in the vague days of "before", about whether Astarion has any love for Baldur's Gate, its subterranean crimes and all.

A low breath, and Iorveth takes it upon himself to climb on top of Astarion's supine form. Elbows on either side of his pretty face, chest to chest. ]

I expect this has something to do with Orin and her ilk.

[ Because they do still have the rest of the Dead Three and their Netherstones to worry about. Honestly, Iorveth half-expected to die in the process of killing Henselt, so it's a bit of a wonder that he's survived long enough to worry about having to destroy the Netherbrain.

Iorveth hums again, and presses his lips to the bridge of Astarion's nose. ]

[ Oh, great. A Bhaalist and an Absolutist rolled into one. They've won the world's most unfortunate lottery.

Discussion of an insane, murderous changeling who's instrumental to the plot threatening their very existence is no time to be as cute as Iorveth is being. In fact, it's probably terribly inappropriate timing. Astarion doesn't mind inappropriate, though, so his mouth quirks up faintly at the ridiculously sweet kiss to his nose, hand coming up to finger at the ring on Iorveth's chain. The grin would be far bigger if not for the frown that fights it at the thought of Orin. ]

I detest that woman. She smells of tenday-old meat.

[ And the other atrocities, sure, but the smell is definitely her worst quality. And that's coming from an undead.

With a sigh: ] I suppose we've no choice, if it gets us closer to those Netherstones.

[ The idea of anything related to the Netherbrain is unpleasant, but still less unpleasant than becoming a tentacled thrall. ]

[ How awful, to have his post-handjob bliss be interrupted by a wizard-shaped projection reminding him of obligations that have nothing to do with exterminating racists up north. Iorveth would have liked to stay in this utterly indulgent state of being for a little bit longer, but duty calls: they won't have any sort of future together, however temporary it may be, if they don't have a future at all. One last nibble to the jut of Astarion's jaw is all he allows himself before he peels back off, making a mental note to be more exasperated with himself later for not being able to better temper his own desires.

Un-straddling Astarion and peeling off his sweat-drenched shirt to change into a new one: ] Orin the Red may be a monster, but I prefer her over the human rat.

[ Gortash is every single thing Iorveth hates about humans in one: a power-hungry, overambitious pretender with an unwarranted abundance of self-importance and a penchant for taking things that aren't his. At least Orin has the decency to just be insane. Grimacing, Iorveth waves a hand as if to chase away even the memory of Bane's Chosen. ]

―Which reminds me. Should we ever find ourselves in a situation where we doubt each other's identity, we should have a way to confirm that we are who we say we are.

[ Not that they've been spending enough time apart recently for changeling-related swaps to happen, but still. Contingencies are good to have. ]

[ Astarion pouts, because he could have had Iorveth on top of him—or under him, or beside him, or in some Quarta Sune-like amalgamation of limbs—for a little longer, but his mood improves when he sits up and gets to watch Iorveth take his shirt off. If only Iorveth would strip slower and more sensually. ]

Trust me, my sweet. No changeling could ever emulate your scowl.

[ Said with the utmost affection. He'd found that scowl incredibly annoying for at least the first half of their acquaintance, but somewhere along the line he became endeared to it. Perhaps it's the fact that now he knows what Iorveth looks like smiling, or perhaps his heart has just grown softer. Ugh, how embarrassing. ]

And I do like to think of myself as inimitable as well.

[ Like Orin could ever copy his charm. Please! He's delightful, and she's a blabbering nutjob. Still, he dangles his legs off of the bed, peering at Iorveth curiously. ]

What did you have in mind?

[ In the distant lands of Before, Iorveth might have been annoyed by that curious look and Astarion's refusal to provide any sort of counterproposal. "Is there nothing in that pretty head of yours", he might have said.

Now, instead of wanting to punch Astarion for having no plans, Iorveth just kind of wants to punch his mouth with his own mouth. Softly. He also wants to punch himself, and he also wants to punch Lae'zel for not giving Astarion a single godsdamned day just to exist and do nothing but be utterly spoiled by the party's resident human-killing terrorist.

Iorveth's lost his mind. But he pulls his new shirt on as if he's not having an existential meltdown, and tips his head in a show of casual contemplation. Composed as anything. ]

You are infuriatingly singular. [ Agreeing, with similar affection. ] The only thing you and that woman have in common is how much the both of you talk.

[ A dry half-drawl, teasing. Iorveth glances to the side, and hums when he finds his hairbrush sitting on top of his bow-maintenance tools. ]

I'd thought we could have a code, of sorts. A set response to a set question or statement. One that only we would know.

[ Astarion would have taken the tease as an insult tendays ago. Maybe it really would have been. It's strange, how Iorveth can say the same things but seem so different. His words don't cut so sharply anymore, more a pleasant scratch with a dull fingernail than the knife's edge they'd been previously. He doesn't even mind hearing Iorveth's assessment of how frequently he talks. In fact, he thinks smugly to himself that Iorveth seemed to like the way he was talking when they were in bed; a private smirk flashes across his face at the thought. ]

Aren't you clever?

[ It isn't sarcasm; his tone is warm, praising. He kicks his feet absently, cocking his head in thought. ]

Mmm. Perhaps something like 'Who's the most annoying person in the group?' 'Gale, of course.' [ Said loudly enough so that Gale can hear. ] —No, that's too obvious.

Anyone could come to that conclusion.

[ "Come on, let's give Gale a break", said no one in the room. Instead, Iorveth accepts the comment with all the matter-of-factness that says that yes, he does agree that Gale is the most annoying person in the group, and there's not really any room for debate there.

(The reality is that Iorveth is probably the worst person in the group. He's semi-aware of this.)

Plucking his hairbrush from his supply pile, he nudges Astarion and maneuvers him into a position that makes it easier for Iorveth to brush his hair. Cashing in on his victory at the brothel, which is a nice bit of inspiration for the topic at hand. ]

"What would you ask for after winning a round of cards?", might be casual enough.

[ No one would ever guess that Iorveth wanted to play with Astarion's curls as a reward. ]

[ Iorveth gets a handjob, Astarion gets a hair-brushing. A fair trade, all things considered. He needs a good hair-brushing regardless; he hadn't thought of it in the moment, but he finds himself suddenly horrified at the prospect of Gale's simulacrum transmitting the image of Astarion with bedhead to its maker. From his trance to all of that rolling around, he looks horrifyingly untamed.

Eager to have his hair look respectable, he leans his head toward Iorveth, offering him easier access. He can't recall the last time someone brushed his hair for him. Not after Cazador turned him, and probably not often before that, too. He must have been a child the last time someone did such a small but significant thing for him. ]

Or I could just ask you how torrid our sex life is.

[ The answer is like, soooo torrid, of course. ]

[ Astarion's hair is novel. Nearly all Aen Seidhe have dark, straight locks that extend straight down unless braided or coaxed; their closest tribal relative, the Aen Elle, are high elves with lighter but similarly-straight hair. Obviously, Iorveth has been in the company of non-Seidhe and seen men and women of different shapes and persuasions, but he's never been compelled to do anything but idly take note.

Now, sitting behind Astarion and mapping the artful way his hair jumps and curls with each slow drag of soft bristles, he feels oddly at peace. The sentiment persists, warm and alien despite the direction that the topic of conversation veers towards. ]

Laughably un-torrid, all things considered.

[ A snort, as he fluffs more life into pillow-matted waves. Iorveth is a freak. ]

Your claims of being a hedonist become more and more unconvincing with each passing day.

[ Honestly, Iorveth just sees a big, fussy cat half the time. A low of meowing and mass destruction and biting, but also a lot of sweet nudging and curling up against something warm. ]

[ Astarion keeps his face forward, concealing the small frown he makes at Iorveth's comments. Perhaps it's true that he isn't quite the hedonist he purports himself to be, but it's also true that he doesn't want to be boring. He certainly doesn't feel like Iorveth is only interested in him for sex, but there's a small little voice in the back of his head that insists that his sparkling personality alone won't be enough to keep Iorveth—or anyone—satisfied with him. If their relationship is torrid enough, maybe he'll be enticed to stay. ]

I was only afraid to scare you off. Honestly, darling, I thought you might be rather vanilla.

[ Says the man getting his hair brushed. In truth, depravity became commonplace a long time ago. Even at his best moments, it still felt like more of a job than a pleasure. What's exciting is getting touched gently by someone who actually likes him, having nice things said to him. Gods, maybe he is boring.

He turns over his shoulder to face Iorveth, grinning his most roguish grin. ]

If it's hedonism you want, I can certainly oblige. I live to please— or, well. [ Whatever the undead version of that is. ]

[ Adding some finishing touches to stubborn curls in the back, Iorveth tries not to let the phrasing of that last sentiment sour his peaceful mood. Astarion lives to please. As much as he knows that it's probably not that deep, Iorveth hates the implication behind it, hates the idea that Astarion will mold himself to whatever is expected of him from any given person in order to feel safe.

It's something Iorveth can't relate to. All his life, he's been rebelling. Fighting for the right to be. The unimaginable degradation of being forced to submit twists his gut; he never wants Astarion to have to debase himself like that ever again, and especially not in front of him.

Two tendays ago, he would have pulled away and made space between them. "How dare you imply that I need you to please me". Now, he sets the hairbrush aside and loops his arms around Astarion's middle, chiding only with a squeeze and a sigh. ]

Idiot. I want you only as you are. [ A soft snort, and he adds: ] But I will grouse if you deny me your mouth for too long.

[ So he says. If Astarion tells him not to kiss again for a week, Iorveth is sure he could do it― it's the rest of the group that'll have to suffer his terrible mood. ]

[ I want you only as you are, he says. On a rational level, of course Astarion knows that Iorveth means it. On an emotional level, it's difficult to fully believe. Iorveth might think that he wants Astarion as he is, but what if that changes? He's the first person to truly care for Astarion in centuries, and the possibility that one day he'll wake and realize what a mistake he made looms large.

Astarion's insecurities aren't Iorveth's problem, though, and in fact he'd hate for Iorveth to know the extent of them. They're a horrible turn-off. Besides, what he said was sweet, intolerably so, and it deserves only to be rewarded.

He turns in Iorveth's grip, pressing their mouths together in a light, chaste kiss. Laughably un-torrid indeed. ]

I wouldn't dream of it.

[ Honestly, he really wouldn't. It would be denying himself attention, and then he might shrivel up and die. ]

Tell me, [ he says, running a hand over his newly-brushed hair, ] do I look beautiful enough now to go investigate mysterious disappearances?

[ Stifling the semi-frown that threatens to tug at his lips ("has it actually sunk in that I'd hate it if you felt like you have to be performative"), Iorveth accepts the peck and decides to leave it at that. He'll let himself be more annoyed if he still hasn't gotten through to Astarion in a few decades' time.

Anyway. Iorveth still kind of wants to tell Gale to fuck off and then spend the rest of the dwindling day kissing every inch of Astarion's body, but since he's been reminded that they have things to do: ] Too beautiful. There's no chance that whatever deranged individual we'll cross paths with today will appreciate your looks.

[ Like, it'd be nice if their enemies set down their arms simply because Astarion is too pretty to quarrel with, but Iorveth has also demonstrated in the past that that isn't the case. He lets go of Astarion grudgingly, adjusting one last curl so that it artfully frames Astarion's pretty ear, and gets up on his feet to change into a pair of trousers that look a little less slept in. ]

I suggest wearing something that you wouldn't mind getting blood on.

Darling, normal people don't have things they wouldn't mind getting blood on, [ he says with a crinkled nose, as if he's in any way 'normal'. Still, he hops off of the bed and crouches on the floor, digging through his pack for his least flattering outfit. The idea that Iorveth will see him in his least flattering outfit is horrifying, but he'll have to make do. He'd steal from Gale again if he weren't lurking around.

As he searches, he pauses contemplatively. ]

Mm, but I suppose blood stains are a sort of statement piece.

[ In a way. He fishes out a leather jerkin and his most worn pair of pants, standing and shedding his current clothing before slipping his new, less fashionable outfit on. ]

And the gods know I look good in crimson.

[ Astarion in his least flattering outfit is probably most people's idea of "traveler's chic"; it's less about what the person is wearing and more about how they wear it. Iorveth, on the other hand, unceremoniously tugs on an ill-fitting gambeson over his plainest shirt, attaching all of his straps and gear onto it with the aura of a man who hasn't cared about what kind of viscera he gets onto his clothes for far too long. ]

Mm. [ Vague assent, as he adjusts his collar and makes sure the ring on his chain is tucked securely under his clothes. ] Admittedly, the first time I ever felt attracted to you was when you were covered in blood.

[ Way back towards the beginning of their journey, when they'd killed the Zhents in their trap-infested hideout. Something he can still recall with alarming clarity. ]

Says something about the state of my sanity, doesn't it.

[ As he hefts his poor bow, which has remained largely unused the past few days. There really is no strategic advantage to having an individual ranger in an urban setting, but Iorveth refuses to go anywhere without his long-range weapon on principle. ]

[ Astarion steps into his boots and sheathes his dagger on his belt. Iorveth is right in his assessment; the urban landscape makes long-range weapons significantly more difficult to fight with, and Astarion has never been a fan of doing anything difficult. Besides, he rather thinks his dagger and Iorveth's bow balance each other out nicely. (And isn't that the most embarrassingly infatuated thought he's had all day? They complete each other, he thinks. Ugh.) ]

Gods, it really does! [ he replies, appalled for all the wrong reasons. ] You should have been attracted to me the moment you saw me.

[ One would think Iorveth lost both of his eyes, not just one. Astarion sighs, reaching out to fiddle with Iorveth's gambeson, taking it in at the waist. ]

You really should let me tailor your things.

Edited (sits up in a cold sweat realizing i used the wrong words) 2024-10-13 02:51 (UTC)

[ One of these days, Iorveth is going to have to sit Astarion down and show him, via tadpole connection, what he'd looked like at the site of the Nautiloid crash: eminently suspicious, posing dramatically and asking for help without actually looking distressed in the least. He really thought he was doing something, when, in fact, he was doing far too much.

(Like Iorveth is one to talk, though: Lae'zel could show Astarion her first encounter with a half-drowned wood elf caught under a Nautiloid tentacle, and Iorveth would have to admit that it was extremely humiliating.)

Anyway. Clothes fussed with, Iorveth tips his head and curls his lips into a sly grin. ]

I took this gambeson from a human who thought he could ambush me while I was bathing.

[ Ah, fond memories. He points to a stain on the garment's collar, a splotch of brown-red in dark green fabric. ] I broke his nose and left him unconscious by the riverbed, as naked as he'd found me earlier. A funny story.

[ Is it funny?????????? It is to Iorveth. ]

[ Iorveth has an interesting sense of humor. Astarion only quirks a brow, smiling faintly in amusement. ]

You should have killed him— but we all make mistakes.

[ At least Iorveth got some clothing out of it, but the affront of being interrupted during one's bath is unforgivable. Astarion hated having to bathe in front of the other spawn in that dingy old washtub. Never a moment of privacy. (Not unlike now, actually.)

He smooths the fabric down against Iorveth's muscled torso, partially only to have an excuse to feel him up and partially to improve the look of this wrinkled, poor-fitting gambeson meant for a stocky human and not a lithe elf. Oh, what he wouldn't give to be set loose on Iorveth's clothing with a needle and thread. ]

You still look handsome, but if I'm going to take you to a soiree, you really can't be wearing clothing stolen from a human.

[ Not that he's been invited to any soirees, but he can certainly invite himself. ]

[ Too big around the middle, too short at the sleeves. Half of Iorveth's forearms are left uncovered, and the angry-red bitemarks that Astarion'd left on his skin are visible from where the gambeson fails to hide them. A non-issue; Iorveth hadn't wanted to conceal them anyway. ]

I've already agreed to letting you dress me however you wish. [ Were those Astarion's card-game winnings? Iorveth was definitely too drunk at the time, and wasn't keeping track. ] As long as my prick is covered, do with me as you please.

[ He really has no attachment to his appearance, so whatever sparks joy for Astarion is what he'll allow in this hypothetical soiree situation. A quick half-smile, and he takes one of Astarion's hands to inspect. ]

Though there is an appeal in wearing something you had a hand in crafting. [ He notes, tracing over Astarion's knuckles and tracing along the bend of his clever fingers. ] Almost like being a weapon sharpened by your hand.

[ Astarion isn't a swooning noblewoman, so it shouldn't please him so much to simply be touched on the hand, but it does; his white cheeks color with satisfaction even as he tries to suppress it. It feels terribly intimate for someone to touch his hands like this, like they're something special, and not just because they're good at getting people off. ]

You are ridiculous, [ he says warmly. Iorveth is awfully strange, but somehow it's become charming rather than off-putting. He's more precious than a mere weapon, Astarion thinks, but perhaps Iorveth sees it differently. That bow of his is something cherished. Maybe he sees a weapon as something worthy of being loved.

With his free hand, Astarion combs Iorveth's hair to the side, out of his face. ]

You're plenty sharp already, but I don't mind keeping you in tip-top shape. You know, it came as a surprise, but I rather like caring for you.

[ Except for all the times that having feelings made him so distressed that he felt like retching, but he doesn't need to bring up those right now. ]

[ Ridiculous. Iorveth's heart does something stupid in his chest, a flutter-jolt that makes his next breath catch in the back of his throat. ]

Only you could.

[ Care for someone like him, Iorveth means. Astarion, sharp and shrewd and utterly without a plan, with self-destructive self-preservation instincts and a jaded outlook on life only matched by the boundless potential of his big heart. Astarion is a mess, a walking contradiction, a terrible judge of character.

Gods, Iorveth is smitten. "You shouldn't have hitched your wagon to this horse", he wants to say, but he can't. Instead, he kisses Astarion's palm, and doesn't mind at all that there's no pulse under pale skin. ]

A good thing, that I only want to be cared for by you. [ He means this sincerely; he's never wanted to be perceived as someone who needs a kind touch or any measure of care. Even now, he'll only accept it from Astarion: he murmurs I trust you in Aen Seidhe, and lets go. ] ...No more out of you, unless you want to be pinned to the bed again.

[ Poor Gale is just waiting for these two to leave. Iorveth, unfortunately, has not spared a micromoment of thought for the wizard's predicament. ]

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