essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ A little snort, when Astarion mentions his exclusion from Iorveth's eye-for-an-eye principle. He'd be long dead if any of it even remotely applied to him. ]

If she took three steps to her left, I could kill her from here.

[ An arrow right through her skull. Quick and neat. He sighs as if it's the most annoying thing in the world that Araj won't just stand in position to be shot (Iorveth is not a nice person), and tips his head.

After a moment of consideration: ] Give me your dagger.

[ Hand out, palm up. This is how they can jointly murder a person－ they share weapons. ]

[ Killing a woman with a sudden thrown dagger isn't very sporting. Astarion approves.

Wiggling his fingers: ] You mean the weapon sharpened by my lovely, lovely hands?

[ Not exactly what Iorveth said, but close enough. It's been whole minutes since Iorveth said something flattering to him, and he's starting to wilt, so he has to take matters into his own hands and compliment himself.

He has no real attachment to his dagger beyond appreciation of its shiny steel and embossed handle, but he still doesn't relish the idea of giving up his only defense in the world, even temporarily. It not only makes him vulnerable, but it means giving someone else power. It's Iorveth, though, who already holds a dagger to his throat in all the ways that count, so he unsheathes the weapon, turning it over in his hand to hold it out to him handle-first. ]

Don't miss.

[ He doesn't want to find out what other alchemical concoctions Araj has dreamed up. ]

[ Funny, how Iorveth can tell exactly when Astarion is fishing for compliments; funnier, that he doesn't even mind it at this point. He takes the weapon from Astarion's graceful grip, hefts it with a snap of his wrist and a flourish. Iorveth isn't half as good at knife tricks as his companion is, but he's watched Astarion do it enough times to get the outline right.

(It says too much, probably, that Iorveth can even half-emulate it.) ]

Head, or heart?

[ Tossing the dagger in the air, catching its hilt. Single eye as sharp as a hawk's, purpose and confidence etched into his posture. When he smiles at Astarion, the expression is a bit too toothy, like a wild animal with its prey caught between its teeth. ]

Whichever would please you more.

[ Astarion needs something to smile about. Iorveth takes a few steps towards the open entrance to the scorched building, and tries to find the best place to line up his throw. ]

[ Ugh, Iorveth killing an awful woman to Astarion's specifications is so romantic. At least, it feels like peak romance to Astarion, who delights in gore and has never experienced his preferences being taken into account before Iorveth. His mouth twists into a nasty, malicious little grin as he watches Iorveth do that knife trick, pleased by the effort to be showy. Maybe he should try to teach Iorveth more tricks -- entirely selfishly, of course. Iorveth looks good doing them. ]

You're so handsome when you're plotting murder.

[ He's always handsome, but there's something wonderful about that glint in his eye, sly, like a fox stalking a rabbit. The only time he's more appealing than when he's violent is when he's sweet, and he doesn't need to show his soft side in front of Araj. ]

The heart, I think.

[ Get rid of the thing pumping that rotten blood. ]

Edited (phone tag formatting...) 2024-10-15 22:43 (UTC)

[ The world is begging Astarion to have better taste in men, but here they are, bonding over how best to kill a woman. To be fair, Iorveth is fairly certain that the woman in question has been doing incredibly heinous shit for the better portion of her overextended life, so he has no compunctions about what he's about to do. ]

The heart, then. [ More difficult than the head, but Iorveth's hit smaller targets from farther away. Granted, it's usually with an arrow and not a knife, but he's an excellent assassin－ many, many angry humans in the north can testify.

He tosses the dagger again, testing its weight, its balance. Once he's convinced that he knows how it'll fly when thrown, he takes the shot: a deft flick of his wrist and a forward lunge that sends the blade sailing, spinning, and thudding right under the drow's collarbone, through the mesh of her leather armor and into her skin.

It hits, but doesn't kill her instantly like Iorveth'd hoped. Araj screams, something between a groan of pain and a shout of surprise-fury, staggering and gripping the wooden banister for balance. Messy. ]

I didn't miss, [ he states matter-of-factly, as he watches Araj trip and roll down the stairs that she'd been so intent on blocking. If the knife didn't kill her, he hopes the fall does. ]

[ Astarion watches with glee as Iorveth throws his dagger, grinning like a child opening midwinter presents as the blade pierces Araj's flesh and nestles itself between her ribs. He raises his hands, poised to applaud Iorveth's efficient killing, but stops with his hands an inch apart as Araj stumbles down the stairs, knocking into a table and sending bottles of alchemical supplies clinking onto the floor.

Astarion's smile twists into a scowl. ]

Honestly, [ he chides, ] the woman can't even die right.

[ Iorveth threw the blade beautifully. It's Araj's fault for not simply keeling over. She writhes in agony on the floor, grasping out for one of her errant bottles. Her fingers wrap around it, and with what must be her last vestiges of strength, she tosses it up the stairs. ]

Ugh, [ Astarion gets out before the entire building bursts into flame in front of them. ]

[ Oh.

The entire building goes up like a powderkeg, and it's a small miracle that Iorveth doesn't get blown up with it. Thankfully, he manages not to be obliterated by the sudden conflagration (how funny would that have been), but has to brush off the beginnings of a fire starting on the hem of his shirt as he staggers back and away from the now-roaring inferno; a gaggle of passersby scream in alarm at the sudden turn of events, fanning out like scattering ants away from the center of the disaster.

Iorveth, a little dazed, instinctively reaches to grab a hold of Astarion's arm and pull him away from the flames as best he can. Broken bits of wood and fragmented tiles rain down on them, with one offending chunk of brick bonking Iorveth on the forehead before clattering down onto pavement. ]

Ugh, [ he parrots Astarion, blinking acrid smoke out of his eye. The fire smells terrible, like a dozen rotted corpses being burnt to ash. Coughing, he turns towards what he hopes is a still largely-intact Astarion, and croaks: ]

Your dagger.

[ Gods!!! Araj is the worst. ]

Ah.

[ That's not ideal. Astarion tilts his head as he stares into the licking flames, contemplative. There's a possibility that, if they manage to put the blaze out, the ground floor would still be intact enough to recover his weapon and—less importantly—evidence of Araj's misdeeds, should they be willing to climb through the wreckage. That sounds like a lot of work, though. ]

I suppose I was in the market for a new one.

[ Not really, aside from window-shopping, but he is now. Maybe instead of investigating Araj they can simply go shopping for fancy daggers. Lae'zel might explode if they return to the Elfsong with nothing to show for their efforts save for new weapons, but he's gotten quite used to Lae'zel's ire.

He sniffs, smelling something even more off than the rotted smell of Araj's creation. His fingers fly up to his hair; the very tips of his face-framing curls must have been singed in the initial burst of flame, turning them dark and brittle. Astarion gasps, his palm flattening over the hair in an attempt to hide the horrors Araj has wrought. ]

Oh, gods! Avert your eyes, darling.

[ The Fists will probably descend upon the site soon, and Iorveth plans not to be around for when that happens. He's about to suggest that they hightail it out of there before anyone can ask them about what happened, but－

－Gods, Astarion's hair. The exclamation of distress prompts an arc of Iorveth's brow, an instinctive reach to brush fingertips against the back of the hand that Astarion is using to hide his forehead. ]

Let me see, [ he coaxes, surreptitiously trying to guide Astarion away from the building and towards the street. Panicked civilians mill around them, some of them trying to get a better look at the house-turned-bonfire. ] －Come here.

[ Tugging Astarion's arm, pulling him towards an alley bracketed by stacked crates. A good place to hide until the crowd thins enough for them to slip away. ]

[ He's too anguished by the insult to his hair to do anything but limply go along when Iorveth tugs him past the gathering crowd of onlookers and into the alley. Distantly, he thinks he makes out a few of the rubberneckers' conversations, questions and exclamations of surprise and accusations along the lines of I think those men just set that fire! Did you see where they went?

In the privacy of the alleyway, he keeps his hand pressed to his head as he says, ] That awful woman really ruins everything, doesn't she?

[ Astarion closes his eyes, taking a deep and unnecessary breath before removing his hand, quick, like he has to gather up the courage to do it. ]

How bad is it? Am I still beautiful?

[ It's only the ends that were closest to the flames that are damaged, but gods, his hair was one of his best features. ]

[ "Don't be dramatic", Iorveth might have scoffed in the past. Now that he doesn't have to assume the worst about Astarion, he assumes that the distress isn't just for theater.

The din continues just beyond the alley, and Iorveth pulls Astarion closer to him in the shadows. Anyone passing by and glancing in will just see two forms pressed together, and hopefully assume that they're looking at something that they don't want to interrupt.

Combing his fingers through silver bangs: ] Vexingly beautiful. [ Offhanded, almost. Like it doesn't even need saying, because it's so obvious. ] ...Just a slight singe. Requires barely a trim.

[ Two careful snips with a scissor, he gauges. ] Will it grow back?

[ He remembers Astarion saying that his hair won't grow out, but Iorveth wonders if his physical form returns to the state it was when he went into stasis all those centuries ago. Unsure what capabilities of regeneration a vampire spawn has, Iorveth tries to soothe frayed nerves by pressing his lips to Astarion's forehead. ]

[ It's good one of them is still conscientious enough to keep them in the shadows, because Astarion's hair has taken all of his focus, any concerns about being caught by an angry mob fading into the background. He holds a curl between two fingers, frowning. Iorveth's reassurance is soothing, at least; he'd have had to throw himself in that fire if Iorveth found him ugly now. ]

I don't know.

[ Even if he'd wanted to, Cazador's spawn didn't have the freedom to change their bodies like that. No one in the palace ever cut their hair, all of them the same from the day they walked in to the day they finally left, save for the scarified souvenirs Cazador left on their backs. ]

I know I'm rather incredible, but even I can't cut hair without a reflection.

[ He'd never risk that disaster. ]

[ It's not funny, but Iorveth has to breathe a soft sigh-laugh at the thought of Astarion attempting to cut his precious hair without a visual aid. Sometimes, Iorveth thinks that Astarion would rather be dead than be ugly. ]

If you trust me not to shave you bald, [ is distinctly not reassuring, ] I'll see to trimming the offending bit once I find a pair of scissors.

[ Araj probably had one; (not) too bad she's dead. ]

Now stop pouting, unless you really are fishing for idle compliments.

[ A gentle flick to Astarion's ear. Iorveth is willing to dole some out for free given everything that's happened in the past few days, but probably not now, when people are still trying to find the two incredibly suspicious elves that were at the literal scene of the crime when a house blew up. As fun as it might be to flirt in jail, this really might be Lae'zel's last straw. ]

I'm not pouting, [ he protests, pouting all the while. ] I'm brooding at the very most.

[ Astarion winds his hands around Iorveth's middle, clasping them together behind his back and pulling him closer so he can peer at those sharp, strong features. The corners of his mouth tug up despite himself. ]

But it is terribly difficult to feel sour around you. [ Except for all the times Iorveth has made him feel exasperated or foolish or otherwise emotionally compromised, but those times aren't important right now. ] And watching you twirl that dagger did make me all atingle.

[ "I think they went that way, sir," comes a distant, muffled voice. "Two elves, one missing an eye."

"Oh?" answers back another voice, distinctly masculine, somehow familiar. Astarion's ears practically twitch with recognition, but he can't quite place it. "The Fists appreciate your service to Baldur's Gate." The clinking sound of armored boots against cobblestone grows louder as Astarion raises his eyebrows in recollection. The Fist from Sharess' Caress. The one who'd caught Astarion with his teeth in Iorveth's neck, and whose allegedly dysfunctional cock Iorveth had slandered. ]

—Ah.

[ From one unpleasant encounter to another. Iorveth freezes with Astarion's arms around his middle, glancing sideways at the direction that the voices and footsteps are coming from and noting that they're zeroing in, converging at the entrance to the alley. He hears the familiar clattering and clanging of metal on metal, sees bright red and silver backlit by the sun.

The outline of the Fist regards them from a distance. Iorveth pulls away from Astarion, ready to bolt with him in tow; he can't see the sneer on the new threat's face, obscured as it is by shadow, but he can hear it in the man's voice.

"Two elves, one missing an eye," Henrik parrots. "Still getting yourselves into trouble, I see." ]

Astarion, [ Iorveth murmurs, giving him a nudge with an elbow to coax him further into the alley. Henrik, emboldened by the potential for revenge, steps forward with a gleeful flourish.

"I finally figured out who you are, one-eye. You're the terrorist from the north, which makes your companion a co-conspirator." ]

[ They should have expected this eventually. A tall, tattooed, one-eyed wood elf is hardly indistinct, and they've been getting up to an awful lot of legally questionable shenanigans lately. Part of Astarion—a rather large part, really—still thought they'd get off entirely scot-free. It's Baldur's Gate, after all. Crime isn't exactly rare.

He goes right back to frowning, displeased by the way the Fist speaks to Iorveth. One-eye, he'd called him, as if that isn't the least interesting thing about him. Co-conspirator, he'd called Astarion. If only Henrik knew how little Astarion gives a shit about the north. Well, how little he gave a shit. Annoyingly, Aen Seidhe presence in the north seems intrinsically tied to Iorveth's happiness, so he has no choice but to care about its continued existence now. ]

And that makes you the impotent attack dog. Wonderful! We all know our roles.

[ That irritates Henrik, as insults to one's virility so often do; he takes a step forward, hand on the pommel of his sword. "If you know what's good for you, you'll shut your mouths. I haven't yet decided whether to take your lives now or to let you hang."

Obviously, he has to go. Astarion reaches for the handle of his dagger. ] I had something else in— [ His fingers grasp at nothing, and he glances down at his belt. Empty, his dagger still embedded in Araj's chest, if it hasn't been burnt to smithereens. ] —Oh.

[ "We all know our roles" is incredibly stupid in the sense that it now leaves no room for Astarion to use the "I met him three days ago and I'm just sleeping with him" card, but it also rattles Iorveth's brain again in the same way that Astarion standing his ground back in Henselt's mansion did: it's not that Iorveth expected Astarion to bolt, but the reality of him staying is another nail in Iorveth's rapidly-sealing coffin.

His affection grows teeth. The shift of his weight and the bracing of his balance on the balls of his feet is every bit the kind of thing a wild creature does when cornered, hair standing on end and claws digging into dirt. Sharp and uncompromising, he belatedly notes Astarion's lack of a weapon (fuck, Araj continues to be the worst) and shoves the anti-vampire pack into his companion's arms.

(He has definitely forgotten that Astarion can't use the blessed daggers. Fuck, Part 2.) ]

If you know anything about me, human, you'd know that every attempt to hang me has failed thus far.

[ The Woodland Fox, an elf-shaped cautionary tale. Grief-stricken and utterly merciless, some say. A demon with no reservations when it comes to slaughter for the sake of what he deems is his to protect.

He pulls his bow out of his cradle and braces it in his hands. Henrik sees the gesture and hisses a warning: "one wrong move and I'll make sure the entirety of this city mobilizes against you, elf."

Funny. Iorveth scoffs, and glances over at Astarion. ] Do you fancy our chances?

[ Honest answer? 'Not particularly.' Iorveth may have forgotten, but Astarion is acutely aware of what those holy daggers will do to him if he tries to use them. Aside from them, there's little in this pack that will be of help against a garden-variety human, and Iorveth--skilled as he is--is using a ranged weapon in close quarters.

Holding the pack uselessly against his chest, he rolls his eyes and quips, ] There's no way in the hells that this entire city could mobilize to do anything.

[ If there's anything Astarion knows, it's this city. Mobilizing them would be like herding cats. Most in the Gate are only out for themselves one way or another, and that's not even including the cultists and murderers who-- well, admittedly, they'd probably be excited for an opportunity to go elf hunting, but he doubts they'd cooperate with the Fists.

This doesn't seem to dissuade Henrik. Astarion has always hated the self-righteous, holier-than-thou attitude of the Flaming Fists, and he's certainly no exception. He takes a step forward, unsheathing a large steel sword that glimmers in the light. Show-off. He points it at Iorveth as he approaches, warning in his voice as he says, "Drop your weapon, elf, or I'll strike you down before the executioner gets to." ]

[ The holier-than-thou attitude and the flashing of the sword rankle, but even beyond that, Henrik is a human; Iorveth dislikes him on principle, and feels justified in assuming the worst about him. Elf, the man almost spits, and the familiar revulsion and rage against the entirety of the human race creeps up again. The city and its casual acceptance of different races and creeds has almost lulled Iorveth into a false sense of security, but Henrik reaffirms what he already knows to be true: humans will always rub him the wrong way.

So he responds to the threat with retaliation. A lightning-fast pullback of bowstrings, followed by a fluid nocking of an arrow seguing impossibly smoothly into a released shot. It's the kind of warning shot meant to kill a man who isn't paying attention; fortunately for Henrik and Henrik only, the man isn't all bluster. His lover's accusation that he does nothing but work is a point in his favor this time― instinct and training are what allow him to deflect the arrow in time and retaliate with a lunge and an upward arc of his sword.

Annoying. Iorveth prefers when humans are all talk and no technique. The narrow space of the alley doesn't leave him with much options for escape, and a ranged weapon offers no defense; he's hardly going to step aside and let Astarion take the hit. So he shoves his companion backwards towards the dead end, putting more distance between Henrik and Astarion while catching the sharp end of the human's sword, unfortunately, with his gambeson-padded upper arm and shoulder.

The weapon cuts through fabric, and Iorveth can feel the firebrand pain of skin splitting. He grits his teeth against it, and kicks Henrik away from him with a low curse under his breath.

Henrik, pleased by the turn of events despite the viciousness of Iorveth's kick, staggers back and rights his stance. "Consider this your last warning, rat," he huffs, and glances at Astarion with a smug smile. "Why don't you talk some sense into your commander? Without his trees and caves to hide in, he's hardly a threat." ]

[ He knows Iorveth is bleeding before he sees it, the scent of his blood as familiar as the smell of Lae'zel's sword oil or Gale's nightly tea. Usually, the smell of Iorveth's blood makes his mouth water, and he'd be lying if he said it didn't still entice him, but now it mostly makes him feel angry. It isn't Henrik's blood to shed.

The image of Henrik's bloodied and mangled body lying on the ground flits through his mind, a pleasing but fleeting fantasy. He wants Henrik dead for harming Iorveth and calling him a rat, but even he knows when circumstances aren't on his side. They can always track him down and kill him later, Astarion reassures himself, as long as they survive this encounter.

Raising an eyebrow, he laughs dryly. How utterly wrong Henrik is — firstly about the idea that Iorveth is the one giving commands in this relationship, and secondly about the concept of Astarion talking sense into anyone. ]

Yes, but only one of you has a functional cock, so I suppose it's a trade-off.

[ Immature but impossible to resist. Astarion slings the pack over his shoulders, freeing his hand to flick an arcanely-inclined finger at Henrik. His previously smug expression breaks as he's overcome with an uncontrollable bout of Hideous Laughter, and Astarion yanks on Iorveth's arm to urge him along lest their assailant recover. ]

[ We love to see a man fail a Wisdom saving throw: no virility and no awareness, a winning combination. Iorveth barely has time to celebrate that small victory, however, as the slight state of bloodloss from the morning combined with the newly-opened wound proves to be a dangerous combination; his grip turns slack around the handle of his bow, and he has to shove it back into its cradle as he bumps by Henrik to make sure that he doesn't drop his remaining weapon.

Henrik, plagued by laughter, cackles as his fugitives slip by him. Really funny that he got this far but failed to follow through (the story of both his life and, perhaps, his sex life). Iorveth would have jammed an arrow through the human's eye if he had better motor controls right now.

So, escaping it is. Through the still-gathered gaggle of onlookers watching a group of less-armed Fists trying to put the blazing fire out (what was in that bottle, gods), bumping a few shoulders and getting murmurs of alarm as a result. A kind-looking halfling tugs on Astarion's sleeve, trying to get his attention before he can slip away.

"You two look like death! Were you caught in that hellish explosion?"

Iorveth, feeling his vision double: ] In a manner of speaking, [ he manages, and stumbles into a tiefling child who squeaks in alarm and shoves him away. ]

[ Politeness has never been Astarion's strong suit, and he doesn't employ it now, ignoring the well-intentioned halfling. The smell of Iorveth's blood grows stronger, and he looks distinctly unwell. A problem for him, considering he relies on Iorveth to make decisions and know what to do in difficult situations much like this. He wraps a hand firmly around Iorveth's wrist to keep him balanced and, after a moment of debate, presses his palm against Iorveth's shoulder in a clumsy attempt to stem some of the bleeding. ]

Out of my way, [ he snaps at the poor halfling and anyone else unlucky enough to be loitering around them, shoving through the crowd and pulling Iorveth along with him. He hears murmurs of discontent from behind them but pays them no mind, lumbering forward with Iorveth in tow until he suddenly stops in the middle of the street, frowning when he realizes he has no destination in mind.

The Elfsong is too far from the Lower City, but he's no healer. Perhaps he could raid a shop, or hope that a passing cleric takes pity on them. Finally, he decides to lead Iorveth into the closest building, a quaint thing with a sign out front that simply reads TAILOR. Inside is less a shop and more a private residence, inhabited by a grey-haired gnome woman and what must be at least six cats dressed in perfectly sewed little outfits. The woman herself is in the middle of measuring the waist of a hefty half-orc who looks to be sucking in his gut; the both of them startle at the elves' sudden appearance in the entryway.

"Oh, dear," she says, gaping a little before patting the man on the stomach, which promptly expands as he lets out the breath he was holding. "I'm afraid we'll have to continue this another time, Kurug." ]

[ A sturdy-set gnome woman with half a dozen cats doesn't exactly scream "underground surgeon", but what does Iorveth know? She seems amenable enough to humoring the both of them, if the fact that she doesn't throw them out immediately is any indication: Iorveth leans heavily against Astarion's side for balance, willing the world to spin a little less as he avoids careening into a half-orc-shaped mannequin dressed sharply in a maroon doublet.

"Kurug" steps back and away with his hands up as if he's bearing witness to a robbery, while three cats in three different outfits mill around the pair's feet, more curious than afraid. Iorveth shifts, trying not to bleed all over the tabby trying to rub up against his leg. ]

Not the best time to be taking my gambeson in for a fitting, [ he manages with a soft exhale, almost a dry laugh. Slightly limp against Astarion's side, trying to peel Astarion's hand off his shoulder. It must be getting sticky.

From upstairs, the voice of an elderly man just on the verge of senility trickles down to where they're standing: "do we have more customers? Oh dear, it'll take me ages to get downstairs..." ]

[ His hand is getting sticky, but he presses it back to Iorveth's shoulder anyway; it's the only thing he's capable of doing to help, and by the gods, he's going to do it. ]

We need, ah— [ Astarion looks to Iorveth, uncertain. Every wound he and the other spawn sustained before the Nautiloid was left to heal on its own, their regenerative factors doing the hard work. Every wound he sustained after the Nautiloid has been dealt with magically. He hasn't the slightest idea what one requires to fix this sort of injury, but he hopes the woman does. ] Things.

[ "You poor dear," she says to Iorveth, and then to Astarion, "There's a guest room down the hall." She points down a corridor lined with kitschy knick-knacks. "Sit yourselves down and I'll be in shortly."

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?" comes the doddery voice from upstairs. ]

[ Things. Iorveth almost laughs, but it's natural that Astarion wouldn't know how to patch someone up in a pinch; by all certainty, he's never done it or had it done for him. Doesn't matter, though, as the gnome woman seems to get it, and offers them a place to rest instead of casting them back out to fend for themselves.

It's a little humiliating, though. Being seen like this, and having had this done to him. Iorveth is uncharacteristically silent as he makes his way down the hall to the guest room that the woman indicated, followed by a black tuxedo cat wearing a cat-sized tuxedo. The room in question seems like it might have belonged to a son or daughter that left home: most of the previous inhabitant's personal affects have been removed, but stray traces remain in the form of a pile of books and a poster of a Baldurian bard that still hangs on the wall, faded by time.

Iorveth makes his way to the gnome-sized bed, grunting softly as he sits down with Astarion in tow. The world remains fuzzy around the edges, and he struggles to get his companion in focus when he slowly turns his head to look at him. ]

Help me out of my gear, [ he murmurs. ] ...I'd do it myself, but my hands aren't cooperating.

[ In the background, he can hear the gnomes yelling their conversation: "where did you put your poultice ingredients, dear?" "POULTRY? WHEN DID WE GET CHICKENS, LOVE?" Charming. He tries to shift to move his limp limbs, and is interrupted by the tuxedo cat jumping up onto the bed beside him to sit comfortably on his knee. ]

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