essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

Shoo, you little rat.

[ Astarion pushes at the cat's body with his unbloodied hand, but the dapper thing only gives him a look of pure disdain and nuzzles closer to Iorveth, almost as if out of spite. He shoots the cat an equally disdainful look before accepting his defeat and moving to unfasten Iorveth's stolen gambeson. He's reminded of having to undress and redress Iorveth after their confrontation with Henselt, not long ago at all yet ages ago at the same time; it's significantly less awkward now that he's gotten Iorveth undressed in other contexts, but significantly more distressing.

Despite Iorveth's warnings of his pouting causing wrinkles, he can't help but frown as he peels the fabric away from the stickiness of bloodied skin. Maybe he shouldn't have been so greedy this morning, feeding on Iorveth without thinking. Now he might not have the blood to spare.

Speaking of feeding, the intoxicating scent of Iorveth's spilt blood fills his lungs, and it's all he can do not to press the bloody gambeson to his face and inhale it. He grinds his teeth, smothering down his appetite as best he can; even having just indulged this morning, all of this blood is awfully distracting. A vampire, after all, is never full.

The woman comes bustling in a moment later, accompanied by yet another cat—this one in a tiny floral-patterned apron—and carrying a wicker basket containing her supplies. She removes a pestle and mortar from the basket and places it on an end table before filling it with yarrow and crushing the herb into paste. "Goodness," she says as she glances over at Iorveth's exposed wound. "I'm afraid I'm no healer, but I'll do what I can, love."

What she can is still more than Astarion is capable of. With no outlet for his anxiety, he resorts to manhandling Iorveth onto the mattress. It's a sizeable bed for a gnome, but too small for Iorveth's long limbs. He'll have to bend his knees to fit. ]

Lie down already before you bleed out.

[ Iorveth makes a poor patient; the look he flashes Astarion as he's being pushed and prodded is a carryover from the past, an obstinate, tight-lipped frown that's meant to convey "I'm fine". It relents after a few beats, however, as Iorveth takes note of the persistent (face-wrinkling) frown on Astarion's face, and realizes that perhaps this is all, well―

―Upsetting to him, maybe. He has to force himself to consider the situation if the roles were reversed, and Iorveth internally concedes that he would be furious if someone dragged a blade over any part of Astarion's body.

So. Down he goes and down he stays, grudgingly cooperative, feeling the weight of the tuxedo cat ("oh Max, behave," the gnome tuts at it) shift off of his lap and down to the crook of his now-bent knees. He thinks to say something and reaches to press his palm against Astarion's face, but is interrupted by the half-orc Kurug swinging into the room with bandages and two more prettily-dressed cats that mill around the bed.

"Where should I put these?" he asks helpfully, to which he's instructed by the lady of the house to wait until she's finished putting the poultice on. "Almost done― just a dash of celandine to soothe," she promises. "Did you run afoul of those dreadful Steel Watchers, dears? I swear, that Gortash boy has been finding every and any excuse to intimidate us with those dreadful contraptions."

Tottering over with her bowl, the gnome looks up at Astarion, sympathy clear in her expression. "We all need to be so careful nowadays." ]

Edited 2024-10-19 02:10 (UTC)

[ Gortash can't rightly be called a 'boy' when he looks more like a washed-up old man clinging to the vestiges of his youth, but Astarion keeps that thought to himself. Instead, he nods at the question, eager to take the chance to explain Iorveth's injury on something more innocent than being cornered by a Flaming Fist who hoped to arrest them. ]

Ugh, those hunks of metal can barely walk in a straight line without malfunctioning. It... must have mistaken us for some awful criminals. There are so many nowadays.

[ Kurug and the old woman gather around the bed, peering down at Iorveth with worry in their eyes. Strange; Astarion wouldn't care if a stranger was bleeding out, but he can't detect any deceit to their concern. With a sympathetic frown, the woman says, "Now, it might be a little uncomfortable when I'm putting it on, but I promise it'll soothe in only a moment."

Carefully, with gentle touches, she begins to apply the poultice. Astarion watches uselessly, fingers twitching with the desire to do something but his mind uncooperative. He's usually trying to get the blood out of people, not keep it inside. The awful feeling of helplessness swirls in his gut, and he crosses his arms over his chest in discomfort. ]

[ Sensing Astarion's discomfort, a rather rotund tortoiseshell cat with a bow around its neck comes to sit on his feet, meowing plaintively in what sounds to be commiseration. Iorveth watches out of the corner of his one eye, tempted to smile― a cat being accosted by other cats― but hisses when the woman rubs over the worst of the wound, muttering a low complaint in his language so as not to offend her. The cut is deep but clean, a neat arc from collarbone to tricep; Iorveth has to admit that Henrik had good aim. If he'd gotten the blade any deeper into muscle, it might have ruined Iorveth's bow arm for a good few days.

Humiliating to think about. Iorveth hates humans. He hates them and their lack of nuance, hates them for blindly believing that he's a terrorist instead of someone trying to preserve the last vestiges of his culture, hates them for making Astarion frown. A familiar, caustic rage simmers in the pit of his gut― he really does believe that two elven lives (his own and Astarion's) is worth more than a score of dead humans.

Not a tirade he should go on in the presence of a gnome and her assistant (?) half-orc. Instead of grousing about the state of humanity, Iorveth gestures for Kurug to give him the bandages, which he then hands over to Astarion once the woman finishes applying her persistently-tingling salve. ]

I want him to do the rest, [ he explains stiffly. ] Clear the room for us.

[ And, well. Since that sounds terribly ungrateful: ] ...Thank you. We interrupted your fitting, and now you can get back to it.

[ The lady shakes her head, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "It really isn't any trouble. I adore company, and you can both stay the night if you need."

It's a kind offer. Iorveth bows his head, still stiff but polite, and waits for the room to clear (mostly; the tortoiseshell and the tuxedo cats stay) before heaving a weary sigh. ]

You've gone from brooding to moping. [ Despite the content of his words, his tone is careful. ] Come closer.

Edited 2024-10-19 04:07 (UTC)

Don't be ridiculous.

[ Bandages in hand, he approaches the gnome-sized bed, kneeling beside it so that he can easily access Iorveth's wound. It doesn't look quite as gnarly now that it's covered in a mash of yarrow and celandine, but it's still far larger than he'd like. While he's never had to do it before, the basics of dressing a wound are something even an inexperienced fool like him can grasp, so he reaches out to begin the process of wrapping Iorveth's shoulder in the cloth.

The fat little cat follows behind him, its bright green eyes shining with curiosity as it watches the bandaging. Iorveth's new friend, the tuxedo cat, curls its tail around Iorveth's leg and begins to purr steadily. ]

I just— [ He lets out an exasperated sigh, folding the bandage over Iorveth's lacerated arm. His eyes are downcast in embarrassment, locked on the mix of blood-red and plant-green he's covering up. ] Well, I suppose I wanted to be able to protect you, that's all.

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