essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ Iorveth winces through the treatment of the injury, shifting and raising his wounded arm to allow the bandages to wrap around his body. The pain is a steady pulse, made more tolerable by the poultice; he'll have to get his arm looked at by a proper cleric sometime soon, if he doesn't want that cut to scar permanently.

Later. Now, he's taken off-guard by the assertion that Astarion wanted to― of all things― protect him. Instinct tells him to snap back with a "do I look like a man who needs to be protected", but objectivity lets him see the absurdity of that statement and understand that, without Astarion, he really might have been arrested today.

It's not a happy realization. His expression twists into a grimace, the sentiment aimed inwards. ]

My injury is the result of my own sloppiness. Not a failure on your part.

[ He places a palm on Astarion's cheek, tracing the edge of his frown. ]

...Something like this happening would usually make one reconsider staying with a terrorist.

[ Again: Astarion deserves better. Being with Gale in Waterdeep or learning how to garden with Shadowheart would be far less complicated than being chased by racists with sharp weapons. ]

[ Not long ago, Astarion would have taken this as a hint that Iorveth wants to get rid of him. 'Do you want me to reconsider?' he'd snap, made insecure by the mere suggestion of ending their relationship. He'd be lying if he said part of him didn't still feel that way, didn't doubt that Iorveth could really care for him the way he claims to. Time and time again, though, Iorveth has been there, consistent in his affections. It's enough to almost make Astarion believe that he really is someone who somebody could love.

He ties off the end of the bandage, then folds his forearms on the edge of the mattress and rests his chin atop them, red eyes watching Iorveth with just as much interest as the tortoiseshell's green ones. ]

And seeing the cadre of starving spawn in Cazador's dungeon might make one reconsider staying with a vampire.

[ Nobody's perfect. They've both got flaws. ]

The last thing I want is to leave. I— [ He stumbles over his words, ears turning red. Funny how he can say all sorts of depraved things without feeling the slightest bit embarrassed, but saying something nice makes his whole face feel hotter than Avernus. ] I do love you.

[ Saying so makes him feel like a foolish little child playing at adulthood. Iorveth, at least, knows what it feels like to give and receive love. Astarion doesn't. Is this what it feels like? In truth, he's not certain, but it does feel like a terrible understatement to say I like you. ]

—Well, [ he says abruptly, pushing himself up off of the floor. ] I'm going to go see if that old biddy has anything for you to eat that isn't cat food.

[ The tortoiseshell meows, as if offended. ]

[ Slumped in a too-small bed with a cat slowly making its way up onto his stomach, Iorveth almost misses the shape of "I do love you" in his bloodless haze. It's not the answer he was expecting to hear, and it takes the wind out of him in a way he's entirely unprepared for.

Oh, his mind whispers. His face mirrors that dumb reaction, single eye opened a little too wide, lips parted but breath held.

Iorveth could kill Astarion for dropping that word on him, love, when he's too weak to grab the hem of Astarion's shirt and yank him back onto the bed. He seethes, and the emotion is adjacent to anger only in its intensity; forget punching Astarion's mouth with his own mouth gently, he wants to pummel Astarion's mouth with his own mouth. ]

To hell with the food, [ he hisses. ] Come here.

[ His fingers wind around the fabric of Astarion's trousers, tugging with humiliating shakiness. If Astarion thinks he can drop that word on him and dip away, he should think again. ]

[ He'd wanted to escape the uncomfortableness of vulnerability as quickly as possible, but when Iorveth reaches out for him with that weak, tremulous grip, Astarion doesn't have it in himself to shake him off. Even as he returns to Iorveth's side, perching carefully on the bed beside him, the mattress dipping underneath his not-a-gnome weight.

A sudden wave of self-doubt crashes over him; perhaps he shouldn't have said it, maybe he's done this all wrong. Although he's a stranger to romance, even he knows that bleeding profusely in a gnome-sized bed in the guest room of a stranger and her cats isn't a romantic setting. It had just come out impulsively, thoughtless like everything he does. He's never told someone he loves them before—not while meaning it, anyway—and his inexperience got the best of him.

Part of him wants to blurt out that he was only kidding, of course, and laugh at Iorveth for believing him. Instead, he uncharacteristically says nothing, staring down at the bedspread and picking at a loose thread. ]

[ Gods, Astarion looks so unsure. Iorveth could throttle him. It would've been so easy to hate Astarion if all the pomp and circumstance and provocation had anything to do with the actual shape of him; instead, all Iorveth sees is a nervous-looking vampire fiddling with a bedspread after dropping the most powerful combination of three words in any spoken language.

Iorveth could kill him. "At least let me say it back", is mostly where the anger is coming from, even if Iorveth doesn't really have the mental energy to unpack every emotion passing through him in the moment. He sits up, displacing the cat on his stomach in the process (it retreats with a meow that sounds like an indignant huff)― he touches bloodloss-cold fingers to Astarion's chin, and makes Astarion turn his head towards him. ]

I upset you. [ This first. He knows it would likely be kinder to ignore it, but he's never fancied himself kind. ] For that, I apologize.

[ No promises to be less cavalier about his own life; Iorveth doesn't make promises that he can't keep. A whisper of a sigh, and he presses their foreheads together. ]

But know that I wish to keep you from harm's way as well. [ It's impossible and insane, but he wishes it all the same. He presses the sentiment into Astarion's mouth, not quite pummeling him the way he would've liked― it's a coaxing of their lips to part and an insistent press of tongue to tongue, clumsy and ungraceful. Not the most romantic kiss in the world, but Iorveth doesn't care; it's just a prelude to what he wants to say, which he's sure Astarion is expecting by now. ]

―I love you. This, I'll not apologize for.

[ Low and purposeful, fingers loosely tangled in Astarion's hair. ]

[ Iorveth hadn't said those exact words, but he'd nearly said as much before; even so, hearing the words 'I love you' directed at him makes his whole body warm instead of just his face. No one has ever said such a thing to him, not that he can remember. His family might have loved him, but he can't recall even their faces, much less anything they ever said to him. Did they ever tell him they loved him? Did anyone?

It feels strange to hear it now. Glorious, but strange. Cazador had always made him feel like nothing more than a lowly worm, unworthy of being cared for by anyone. It's hard to feel worthy of it now, too, but he's spent his whole life taking things that he doesn't deserve. He presses his mouth back against Iorveth's, reaching out to tug Iorveth closer by the arm—

—The same arm that he just bandaged. He withdraws quickly, sheepish. ]

...I really should get you something to eat. You're in no shape for me to do the things I want to do to you.

[ Pain shoots up the injured arm when it's tugged, making Iorveth wince; still, he's audacious enough to huff a laugh and roll his eye at the withdrawal and the statement posed to him. ]

I'm injured, not dying. [ Just a run-of-the-mill sword wound. The blade wasn't even poisoned. But he isn't looking to rip Astarion's clothes off in a stranger's guest bedroom, with or without the fatigue that comes from bloodlessness, so he lets go and slumps back onto the mattress with a drawn-out sigh. ]

I'll be fine. Instead of wringing your hands, go speak to the mistress of the house about tailoring something pretty for you.

[ She'd probably be amenable, not to mention that Iorveth owes it to Astarion now to find a party or two to crash after putting up with this debacle. They'd been too late to the wine festival when they first arrived at the Lower City, but Iorveth assumes that there must be similar fêtes going on all over in a place like this.

Meanwhile, the tuxedo cat hops back onto the bed again and primly nests itself in the crook of Iorveth's elbow, intermittently craning to bump its head against his hand to demand pets. Spoiled rotten, this one. ]

[ If Iorveth were dying, he'd already be out on the streets tracking down Henrik so that he could rip his throat out with his teeth. He still wants—and plans—to end Henrik's miserable life, but he decides not to share that information with Iorveth just yet. No need for him to start insisting to come along, wounds and all. ]

Perhaps I'll see about her tailoring something pretty for you.

[ The only thing more satisfactory than imagining his own wardrobe is fantasizing about dressing Iorveth up like his own personal doll. A deep red would flatter him, Astarion thinks. He'd make sure the collar was cut low to show off Iorveth's tattoo and the curve of his throat. Already pleased by the mere mental image, he sighs dreamily.

His hand flits to Iorveth's uninjured shoulder, and he presses against it, more gentle than his usual touches but still just as insistent. ]

The least you can do is rest. You've lost rather a lot of blood today.

[ He presses a light, chaste kiss to the tip of Iorveth's nose before standing, the small bed creaking slightly as he does so. While the tortoiseshell cat follows behind him, clearly afraid of missing out on anything interesting, he tries not to feel jealous of its sibling getting to cuddle up with Iorveth. ]

I'll return before long, but feel free to miss me terribly.

[ And isn't it wild, really, that Iorveth would miss Astarion if his body wasn't busy shutting itself down. He hums something vague in response, not wanting to confirm nor deny to make it easier for Astarion to leave the room without worrying about Iorveth's state of affairs, though there's something unbearable about letting Astarion go after trading loopy confessions pertaining to love and protection.

Certifiably in too deep. It wasn't too long ago that Iorveth'd said something to the effect of "our overlapping paths are temporary" and meant it with his entire chest, which feels fucking ridiculous now that his freak mind keeps vacillating wildly between "how many atrocities will I have to commit to make sure that Astarion is kept safe for the indefinite future" and "how hard is it going to be if or when I lose him".

Again: wild. He falls into a restless trance not long after Astarion slips out of the room, leaving him frowning and sweating under his blankets; it's likely how Astarion will find him later, turned onto his good side with his cat companion similarly-curled and nested under his chin. Kind of suffocating him, actually.

On the bright side, Kurug (who is still here, despite everything) and the gnome woman are all too happy to accommodate whatever Astarion asks for, all the while harmlessly gossiping about how Facemaker's provides quality clothing but subpar tailoring: "the man is trying to wear too many hats! He's an excellent salesman, but a couturier he isn't."

The tortoiseshell cat (Maisie, the lady calls her) happily rubs herself all over Astarion's trousers, leaving orange hair all over his leg. ]

[ Astarion, gossip that he is, appreciates the opportunity to talk shit with Kurug and the gnome seamstress, who he learns is called Dolores. He tells her that they've a swanky party to attend and that Iorveth simply has nothing to wear; she insists on doctoring something up for 'the poor dear' at a discount, and Astarion acts as if the offer surprises him even though it's the exact one he was hoping for. They discuss fabrics and styles until Dolores makes dinner, providing him with enough cheese pie and onion soup for two.

He returns to the guest room with the tray, setting it down on the nightstand before crouching beside Iorveth and waking him with a gentle nudge to the shoulder. ]

Darling, you're positively... moist.

[ And even hotter than usual. He presses the back of his cold hand to Iorveth's neck. ]

Are you all right?

[ He starts awake when touched, alarming the cat curled under his chin; he presses his lips to the crown of its little head to calm it down, momentarily mistaking it for the owner of the hand to the back of his neck. Once lucidity sets in, enough for him to piece together that Max the tuxedo cat is not, in fact, Astarion, he grunts and ushers the furry creature onto the floor to make more space for his cat on the mattress.

Sitting up: ] Seems I don't trance well without the right cat by my side. [ His voice is a low croak, but his posture is steady. ] ...Was I out long?

[ An hour? Two? He's lost all sense of time, but the way his stomach growls at the scent of food tells him that it's been long enough since his last meal. The fact that he has an appetite despite his light fever is a good thing, at least. ]

―I would say that we should leave after I finish eating, but I've no idea what the state of affairs is like outside.

[ Astarion isn't one to fetch food for someone, but he settles beside Iorveth on the bed and reaches for a bowl of soup regardless. It smells nice enough, but it doesn't whet his vampiric appetite in the slightest. He scoops up a piece of broth-soaked bread on the spoon and holds it to Iorveth's mouth, less like a caretaker feeding someone and more like a little girl playing at feeding her dolls. There's nothing deferential in it, and in fact he knows Iorveth would probably rather feed himself, but there's something almost fun about doing something so ridiculously soppy. He was telling the truth: he does enjoy caring for Iorveth. He's never had anyone he wanted to tend to before. ]

Don't worry about Heinrich. [ Is that his name? Whatever. ] I plan to tie up that loose end as soon as possible.

[ His tone couldn't be more casual, as if he's talking about the weather and not murdering a member of the Flaming Fists. Underscoring his complete lack of gravitas, he adds, ] —Oh, by the by, you've a fitting for a new soiree outfit next tenday.

[ Predictably, Iorveth's expression turns unmistakably sour when he's prompted to open his mouth for the incoming spoon, but resigns himself to the feeding with grudging acceptance. He'll give this one to Astarion, who hasn't had much to smile about all day.

On the flipside, he's about to comment on the ominous nature of Astarion having a plan regarding Henrik ("there's no way you actually have a real plan") when he's interrupted by yet another bit of similarly-ominous news.

Swallowing his mouthful of soup: ] ...I'm not wearing it if it has frills.

[ The hard line that Iorveth will draw in the sand. With that said, he opens his mouth for another bite of caramelized onion, and after it's given to him, he chews thoughtfully. ]

Do you know how to dance?

[ Astarion makes a displeased face at Iorveth, annoyed that he's putting his foot down about frills. In his opinion, he should be allowed to dress Iorveth in all the frills he wants, but he supposes he can allow him a little input. He wonders how deep he can request the collar be cut before Iorveth refuses to go outside wearing it. ]

It does seem like something I would know.

[ Which isn't quite an answer. Astarion has an inkling that he might have known once, back in his old life. He remembers being important, and important people get invited to fancy parties with wine and dancing. What he can't remember is actually dancing, although that doesn't mean he never did. Hells, he can't even remember his own family after two hundred years of torture. High society soirees didn't make the memory cut.

All of that is to say: no, he doesn't know how to dance, not anymore. How embarrassing. Defensive, almost like he expects to be ridiculed: ] I'm sure I can figure it out.

Edited 2024-10-21 01:43 (UTC)

[ Iorveth, a weird gremlin, draws the line at frills but wouldn't care about his nipples showing at a fancy function. That's a conversation for a tenday later though, when he's getting shoved into whatever absurd outfit Astarion conjures up for him.

Now, he reaches for a piece of cheese pie and breaks off the very end of its crust, holding it out for Max the cat to nibble on while he mulls over the implications of Astarion having to figure the act of dancing out. Yet another example of something from his old life that was irrevocably stolen, Iorveth assumes.

He doesn't want to reopen more of those old wounds－ gods know that Astarion has so many of them, still bleeding. ]

That makes two of us. [ Stretching stiff limbs cramped on his gnome-sized bed, Iorveth takes a deep breath. ] No matter. Everyone will be too busy looking at your face to notice the state of your feet.

[ Pretty privilege. ]

[ Of course. Iorveth wouldn't mock or ridicule him for his shortfalls. Two centuries of scorn have made him expect the worst, but Iorveth is too unbearably sweet for that. It's part of why Astarion— well. Loves him, he supposes. What a terrifying word. Even so, his mouth twists into a pleased little smile, lips pressed together tightly in a failed attempt at suppressing it. ]

Only if I rid myself of this hideous hair.

[ He's still horrified that Dolores and Kurug saw him like this. They'd been polite enough not to say anything, but that didn't stop him from continually arranging and rearranging his hair in the hopes of hiding the scorched strands. ]

Once I've purchased a new dagger, I'll trim those lovely locks of yours, too.

[ Iorveth's had enough of the food for now, and motions for Astarion to free his hands for Iorveth to nudge against with his fever-warm forehead. The worst of his flareup came and went during his nap while the poultice set into his wound, but it still feels good to press his flushed skin against cool, undead palms regardless.

An indulgence. He wouldn't be caught dead doing this in front of anyone else. ]

You couldn't be hideous if you tried.

[ Ridiculous, that Astarion is so self-conscious over slightly-scorched ends. If barely-singed bangs makes him hideous, there's no hope for anyone in any Plane of being attractive. ]

But yes, I'll allow you to clean me up. I could even feign being your exotic northern elf who doesn't speak a word of Common.

[ Mostly because he wouldn't want to talk to anyone. And because it would be funny. He smiles at the thought of it, and murmurs a string of diminutives against Astarion's palm in his language, low and melodic. ]

[ Astarion allows himself to be used as a humanoid ice pack, pressing both of his hands against Iorveth's forehead, his cheek. He's no cleric, but even he knows that it isn't good for Iorveth to be flushed like this after an injury, no matter how appealing it is when he's all hot and sweaty. That unpleasant helpless feeling flashes in his chest again, although he tries his best to stuff it back down. ]

Mmm, you are thoroughly tantalizing when you speak your language.

[ Is this a bad time to ask him to talk dirty in the Aen Seidhe dialect? Probably. He cups his hands around the back of Iorveth's neck, cooling it as he playfully quotes Iorveth's Aen Seidhe I like you, just as botched as the very first time. Not once has he ever said it correctly, but he says it with confidence anyway. ]

All of the debutantes would be atwitter. And seething in jealousy, of course.

[ Cute, he thinks, instead of being offended by Astarion's terrible pronunciation. Let him be wrong, if he's going to be endearing about it. ]

Jealous of who? You, for keeping a strange foreigner, or me, for being kept by you?

[ Likely the latter. Iorveth chuckles under his breath, listing sideways to rest his head against Astarion's shoulder, amused by how own choice of words. He'd already expressed his disdain for the concept of being anyone's trophy elf, but he wouldn't mind playing at it for one night if it pleases Astarion to indulge in a bit of theater.

(It's actually being confined to the prison of Cazador's palace that would've made Iorveth resent Astarion― this, he's still sure of.) ]

I expect you'd enjoy it if I answered every idiot who approached me with "don't speak to me, I'm his."

[ His, meaning Astarion's. Another half-laugh as Iorveth imagines two mean elves making a fool of everyone else in whatever soiree they show up uninvited in. ]

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