nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ Iorveth's fingers feel nice sweeping away a strand of his hair. The gesture is soft, soothing. Something sweet done for someone who matters to you. For the first time in centuries, he feels important, and that feeling is intoxicating. ]

Valiant of you.

[ And unnecessary. Iorveth is the one who needs rest. He lost a not insignificant amount of blood last night, whereas Astarion tranced with a full stomach. Still, the idea of facing the day when he knows Cazador is out there and best dealt with sooner rather than later is... intimidating. Truthfully, he'd prefer if Iorveth didn't get up, either, the thought of which surprises him. There's rarely been anyone whom being with was preferable to solitude.

Iorveth could surely use some healing, though, and they can't ignore the others forever. Besides, the thought of asking him to stay is even more embarrassing than the act of cuddling him. Astarion pushes his face into the pleasant warmth of the pillow, voice muffled. ]

Go, then. If you must.

[ Iorveth's plans for the morning boil down to telling everyone to get a life, ignoring Shadowheart's attempts to keep him locked up for the rest of his life, and getting a new shirt. Maybe trying to kick Ciaran out of the city if he's still hovering. Not terribly pressing concerns compared to The Cazador Problem, which Iorveth is not going to exacerbate by attempting to hunt and torture one of Astarion's siblings for more intel...

...maybe. Astarion seemed not to care for the one called Petras very much, maybe Iorveth could get away with torturing that one. As a treat.

One more comb-through of fingers through hair, infuriatingly charmed by the way Astarion hides his face. ]

Needs must. [ Rising onto his feet, stretching long limbs. ] But let it be known that it's unwilling.

[ Says the terrorist who usually can't spend a moment without moving something along; Astarion really is going to be the death of him. He glances back briefly, sparing one last look before he can think to do something phenomenally stupid (like, say, kissing Astarion again in broad daylight)－ with that little luxury out of the way, he braves the scrutiny of their motley crew by stepping out from behind the safety of his partitions.

And, in essence, all Iorveth does is tell the truth. They sparred to blow off steam, got tired, fell asleep. Everyone is a little less skeptical this time, all things considered, and Shadowheart is mostly just angry at Iorveth, who she accuses of knowing better than to have let Astarion put himself in precarious positions. She says as much when she eventually makes her way to Astarion and sits next to him, wherever he might be, grumbling about Iorveth's poor attitude.

Meanwhile, Iorveth is pulling on a spare shirt, ready to head out. So much for house arrest. ]

[ Astarion agrees with Shadowheart, whining that he stabbed me, if you can believe it! "In all honesty," Shadowheart says with little sympathy, hand radiating warm, divine light over his wound, "I'm surprised it took Iorveth this long to stab you."

He stands after that, ignoring Shadowheart calling after him that "You two owe me for this, you know!" (In his defense, he does make a mental note to pickpocket her something pretty. A new circlet, perhaps.) His shirt is disgusting, torn and bloody, and he frowns at it as he removes it. It'll need more than tender loving care; maybe he can persuade Gale into spelling away the stains.

Slipping on a fresh, unbloodied shirt feels good, and he steps back into his shoes a moment later. He's done his damnedest so far not to even look Iorveth's way, dedicated to seeming casual, aloof, like what happened last night wasn't one of the more significant moments of his life. His willpower has always been low, though, and he glances Iorveth's way now. Dressed, ready to leave. It's not any of Astarion's business what Iorveth is going to do today—or any day—but he finds himself feeling strangely disappointed at the possibility that Iorveth has plans.

He sidles up to Iorveth, hands clasped behind his back, and clears his throat to get his attention. ]

I could mend your shirt. [ Then, nose tipped up haughtily, ] I detest seeing good craftsmanship go to waste.

[ He's still debating whether or not it would be wise to torture Petras when Astarion approaches him, and there's the barest flutter of wariness that flits across his expression when addressed, as if Astarion's read his mind somehow and is going to call him out on wanting to do acts of violence against his "sibling".

This, obviously, turns out not to be the case. Iorveth relaxes into the actual proposal, caution segueing into a half-amused hike of his semi-visible brow. ]

You'd mend it yourself? [ Recalling back to previous thoughts of Astarion making a good tailor. ] You could, though it has no sentimental value to be worth the trouble. I was planning on getting a new one.

[ First the Henselt incident, and now this. Iorveth's been losing clothes more quickly than usual, but he's found himself in the rare position of having enough coin for frivolities; no more having to raid the corpses of men he's killed for their gear or clothing. ]

Oh.

[ Of course. Iorveth wouldn't feel the same need to make his clothing last as Astarion does. He probably didn't have to wear the same shirt for decades. He frowns at the realization that the one nice thing he's ever offered to do for someone is useless. ]

If you don't want it, then fine. [ Prickly, as always. He crosses his arms, nose sticking up impossibly higher in the air. ] I was going to fix mine anyway, you know.

[ So Iorveth doesn't get the idea that Astarion was doing it for him. ]

[ An internal mirroring happens here: Iorveth's own oh in response to Astarion's, starting to put dots together, aligning this particular chin-hike with similar body language conveyed when Iorveth passed on the idea of being kept.

Hells, of course. Astarion has experienced two centuries of people taking from him, and here he is, attempting to give something of his own accord. What a brutish thing to do, to refuse it― even Iorveth isn't so cruel. ]

―I'd only meant to goad you into joining me for the shopping. [ Which is true, but less important. Turning on his heels, he bends and picks up his ruined shirt from its haphazard perch on his bedsheets, torn at the shoulder and the waist. ] But I do want it, if you would do it.

[ Astarion takes the shirt, holding it to his chest. It smells of dried blood, and he inhales the scent a little more than he strictly needs to. There's a strange pleasure in knowing he was the one to spill it. It isn't that he wants to hurt Iorveth, not really, but there had been something exciting about it regardless. ]

You might have just asked me. [ His tone is chiding, but the little upward tug at the corners of his mouth betrays that he's happy about it. ] You'd be hopeless shopping by yourself, of course. No sense of style.

[ Not Astarion's sense of style, anyway, which means it's objectively wrong. ]

Besides, I have some shopping of my own to do. It would only be practical.

Practical. [ Iorveth parrots, a semi-agreement interlaced with vague sarcasm. ] Right.

[ There's no practicality in it for Iorveth, but he'll set that aside and let Astarion pretend (he'll let himself pretend). He's still running on the muscle memory of resting peacefully with someone tucked under one arm, surprised by how much he prefers that someone being unmistakably Astarion.

One last bit of preparation, bow slung across his back, and Iorveth cants his head to the side. ]

We'd best avoid trouble, if we're to be seen walking out of this room together.

[ Lae'zel might kill them both if they come back bloody and bruised again. (Famous last words.) ]

[ Astarion's shoulders rise, expression almost sheepish, like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. One gets the impression that he often had his hand in the proverbial cookie jar, many years ago. ]

Ah, well—

[ There's little chance of staying out of trouble at the best of times, but an almost zero chance of it now. Now that Cazador knows he's back in the city—or perhaps he'd always known, if Astarion takes his siblings' word for it—time is running short, and there'll undoubtedly be more than just vampires keeping an eye on him if his presence is that crucial to Cazador's long-awaited ascension. The household staff, maybe. Nobles that Cazador has enough dirt on to make them report back to him. Anyone in need of a little extra coin. ]

When I said I had to do some shopping, I didn't mean clothing, exactly.

[ He could benefit from a new outfit, surely, and the thought of throwing money at all of the stores he'd never had the opportunity to buy from is enticing. Still, there's a more pressing (and troublesome) type of shopping to be done. ]

I thought I might find someone with experience killing vampires, and liberate them of their supplies.

[ "Liberate" inspires a brief huff, almost a laugh. ]

A vampire stealing from a vampire hunter in order to kill a vampire.

[ Funny when he lays it out that way, but not funny at all in reality. Iorveth, whose moral compass can be gray at best when it comes to dealing with external threats, keeps his head tipped in a thoughtful angle. ]

Have you anyone particular in mind that you want to rob, or will this be trial and error?

[ Note that Iorveth doesn't discourage the plan; he's nonchalant in the way that he always is when he suggests killing someone to solve their problems. If it works, it works. A beat, after he poses the question, and he appends it with another one before Astarion can answer. ] I should also ask if you need a second pair of hands.

You want to help me? [ A shake of the head, and he adds, quickly, ] Of course you do.

[ It isn't even close to the foregone conclusion he pretends it is. It's one thing to spar with him, or huddle against him at night, or even march into the Szarr palace and kill Cazador when the time comes. Helping Astarion with his plans of dubious premeditation and even more dubious morality is another thing entirely. That strange—but not unpleasant—warm feeling is back, spreading throughout his chest. ]

I was hoping I might just happen upon a vampire hunter in the wild.

[ So no, he hasn't planned anything out in the least. It's a big city, and Cazador made sure that his spawn knew there were monster hunters around every corner just waiting to behead them, should they wander too far. There must be someone. ]

Well. [ His lip curls in distaste. ] I suppose there are the Gur. But, ah— [ Distaste turns quickly to sheepishness again, tinged with the slightest hint of chagrin. ] I'm afraid they might recognize me from... prior disagreements.

[ A polite way to phrase kidnapping their children. ]

[ The Gur. Iorveth thinks back to whatever-his-name-was, the hunter that they'd met near the swamp hag's hut ages ago, back when keeping Astarion around or not was an actual debate. Eons ago, it feels like.

Arms folded across his chest, Iorveth hikes his shoulders in a brief shrug. ]

They don't recognize me. And I've no qualms with doing what needs to be done to make any one of them tell us what we need to know.

[ The presence of other vampire hunters in the area, if they've been approached by Cazador or his lackeys recently, anything and everything that would give them an advantage. All of this is delivered with the matter-of-factness expected from someone whose answer to "how fond are you of me" was "murder in your name would be simple".

A beat. ]

―And to take what they have. That too. [ He forgot about the stealing in favor of the interrogating, how silly of him. ]

[ The warm feeling in his chest burns hotter. He could kiss Iorveth right now, in the middle of their shared room with everyone watching— but he fights the urge. It's difficult to know what's allowed when this is the first time he's ever kissed someone who survived until morning, so he chooses to follow Iorveth's lead. There must be a reason he chose not to share the full truth of what happened last night with the others. A strong sense of privacy, a desire to take it slow. Hopefully not embarrassment or regret.

His mouth twists into a grin, fingers clutching the ruined shirt tighter to his chest. ]

My hero.

[ The thought of Iorveth hearing the Gur's perspective of what he's done is unappealing, but maybe he can lay the groundwork ahead of time for him to take anything they say with a grain of salt. If anyone has the tools necessary to take down a vampire lord, it's those brutes.

His gaze wanders, fleetingly, to Wyll. Not everyone will approve of preying on nomads unprovoked. Eyes flicking back to Iorveth, he says, ] Perhaps we should discuss the details elsewhere.

[ Right, the others. Iorveth has a feeling that they're all sympathetic enough to Astarion's cause that they wouldn't mind one or two individuals being questioned, but it's best to play it safe. He's already been threatened with being put in the bad kid's corner today, better not push his luck. ]

I'll meet you outside, then. [ Astarion can put the shirt down and get ready, and Iorveth can avoid being weird by choosing not to hover around like a dog waiting for scraps. He, too, is navigating unfamiliar waters, preferring to keep their business their business, gauging Astarion's level of comfort with this whole... thing. There's no word for it, not right now.

Still, he briefly touches his palm to Astarion's cheek. A friendly gesture, one that might be expected for wood elves who spend life and death together with close comrades; the touch comes and goes, and Iorveth slips outside of their room once it's done.

Halsin, from a few yards away, beams at Astarion. As if, as a fellow wood elf, he understands the subtlety of that gesture more than anyone else in camp. "Silvanus be with you both on this day," he says, and were Iorveth there to hear it, he would've scowled. ]

[ Astarion only wrinkles his nose at that, less at Halsin's stupid smile and more at the fact that, well, he couldn't really give a shit about Silvanus. As he lays Iorveth's torn shirt out on his bed next to his own and gathers his things to leave, Shadowheart stops him, imploring with her signature snark, "At least try not to get injured today."

He crosses his heart with a passive-aggressive grin before heading out the door and down the stairs. Once he and Iorveth have both made it out the door of the Elfsong, Astarion turns to him, hands on his hips. ]

You should know, the Gur are an underhanded and morally challenged people. We should be skeptical of anything they have to say, particularly on the subject of myself.

Edited 2024-07-12 00:51 (UTC)

[ Iorveth squints against the midday sun, the bloodloss from the previous night manifesting as a near-hangover. Everything feels too bright, technicolor－ Astarion's hair glints like knives in the light.

He leans back, observing Astarion from top to bottom, scarred lips hiking just a sliver when he's informed of the Gur and their supposed duplicity. ]

I'd hear what they'd have to say about you from you, and not from them.

[ Amused, barely trying to conceal it. ]

Though your past crimes hardly intimidate me. What you said about the Gur, I've heard applied to myself a thousand times over.

[ Iorveth may find this amusing, but Astarion doesn't. His crimes were nothing like Iorveth's. He wasn't a freedom fighter with a noble goal; he was more like a rat nibbling on someone else's corpse to survive. To the Gur, he's a horrible monster who took their children away by force to be drained for his master's enjoyment. ]

That's different. They aren't like you.

[ They are, perhaps more than Astarion would like to admit, but he doesn't need Iorveth to start identifying with the Gur. If he empathizes with them too much, the next time they share a bed it'll end in a surprise staking.

He places a hand on Iorveth's arm, eyes as big and innocent as he can make them. ]

Just remember. Whatever I did to them, [ he says, careful to omit any grisly details, ] it wasn't my fault. I had to. [ If he'd had the choice between him or them, would he have done anything different? Repeating, like he's uncertain whether he's convincing Iorveth or himself: ] It wasn't my fault.

[ Some would argue that a freedom fighter with a noble goal would choose nobler ways to earn their freedom, and that Iorveth is perpetuating the grand cycle of hatred and revenge; Iorveth isn't stupid, he's aware of the criticism. He is also aware that his position is far more similar to Astarion's than it is the Gur, backed into a corner, baring his teeth.

You asked for it is adjacent to it wasn't my fault. Iorveth doesn't need to be appealed to with big eyes and downturned brows, even if it looks pretty on Astarion's neat features. ]

You or them. [ To the tune of "I know". He swivels on his heels, turning to face Astarion more properly. ] Not a choice, as far as I know.

[ A tip of his head, an open invitation to answer a silent question: "was it your choice?" ]

[ Good. This is going well. He's going to get a good grade in turning Iorveth against anyone who might have something bad to say about him, something which is both normal to want and possible to achieve. ]

Exactly, [ he's quick to say, nodding; answering otherwise was never an option. Sure, he could have resisted in some way. His body had moved of its own volition, but he could have warned them, or hells, walked out into the daylight and stopped himself from hurting innocent people for good. He didn't, though, because he couldn't bear the thought of what Cazador would do to punish him and because, despite everything, he wanted to live. A choice, technically, but a shit one. ]

I'm glad you see it my way.

[ His thumb runs over Iorveth's arm before he drops his hand. ]

Just be careful not to let them persuade you otherwise. If they realize you're my [ He falters, uncertain what to call Iorveth. Friend? Perhaps. Paramour? No, that's humiliating— ] companion, I'm sure they'll try to drive a wedge between us. Ugh, and a stake into my heart.

Edited (tenses my enemy) 2024-07-12 05:27 (UTC)

[ A pause, a sigh. It's the expected response from someone who values choice and agency above most everything; the insinuation that he could be persuaded so easily twists his features into a light scowl. ]

If Henselt were to come back to life right now, right here, [ thank the Gods that he won't, because Iorveth would just kill him again, ] and told you about the villages I've burned and the men I've killed, would you hand me over for the noose?

[ He doesn't expect Astarion to say yes, mostly because it would immediately buy his enmity. But the point remains: your atrocities match mine. ]

I know what I see when I look at you. And I hardly need the Gur to tell me when I should or shouldn't feel annoyed by you.

Edited 2024-07-12 11:03 (UTC)

[ Astarion scoffs. Obviously he wouldn't hand Iorveth over; he has a very limited capacity for caring about others, and he certainly doesn't care about anyone that Iorveth has killed. His own crimes feel different. Humiliating, a reminder of his subjugation. He'd have done anything to survive. ]

All right, [ he says, because if Iorveth isn't going to shame him for his past deeds, he won't try to convince him otherwise. With a melodramatic sigh, he continues, ] If you're so resolved to trust me and believe in me, I'm powerless to stop you.

[ A pause, then: ]

This wasn't so much a plan as a... let's call it an impression. [ Vague, murky. He knows the start and the end, sort of. The middle is yet to be determined. ] The Gur have a camp set up on the outskirts of the city, but you wouldn't stand a chance against all of them.

[ Iorveth, slowly unwinding his arms from where he's folded them across his chest: ]

I hadn't expected you to have a plan. [ Without missing a beat. The meanest elf in the world is still, in fact, the meanest elf in the world. ] And I hadn't intended to walk up to the Gur and demand they hand one of theirs over for questioning.

[ Like, sure, he can, but that plan has such a small success rate that it isn't worth considering. He gestures for Astarion to start walking with him, down past the row of taverns and inns they're currently occupying, where most of the more practical shops and supply stands are coalesced to form a busy center. ]

I expected to do one of two things: one, we find a place in this city where monster hunters are known to gather, and pick one of them off to interrogate. Two, we use you as bait to lure a monster hunter to us, and we interrogate them for more information.

[ The latter is a riskier move, and dependent entirely on whether Astarion is amenable to the idea of being dangled like bait. Iorveth looks over his shoulder, gauging his companion's reaction. ]

[ His face twists into a pout immediately. It's necessary that he shows his displeasure with Iorveth's insults, no matter how true they may be. Gods forbid he let Iorveth get even more comfortable maligning Astarion; he's cheeky enough as it is.

He is, however, grateful that at least one of them has some foresight. If Iorveth weren't here, Astarion would have had to figure this out himself, and— well, he has many talents, but planning ahead isn't one of them. There's a nonzero chance he would have ended up in some monster hunter's dungeon by the end of the day.

Which, actually, seems like it might still be true. ]

Bait? [ He furrows his brow, wrinkling his nose. ] And what, exactly, would that entail?

[ Iorveth probably shouldn't be Astarion's first choice when it comes to planning a scheme together: there's something to be said for the fact that Iorveth hasn't been killed yet in the hundred-plus years that he's been on his crusade, but he's also what many people would call A Crazy Person. He's aware of this, at least.

Anyway― he shrugs. Smiles a bit, when he sees Astarion pout. ]

What would you consider bait?

[ A little patronizing, as if to say "flex your thinking muscles". Thinking back to all the times he's thought (and said) that Astarion is lucky that he's so devastatingly beautiful. ]

Get creative. I could feign being your next mark, and we could pretend to get day drunk in a tavern. You could feign feeling unwell in a marketplace, while I watch from a corner. You could sit in a park and look pretty for a few hours.

[ He waves a hand in an unspoken "the sky's the limit". ]

[ With the whininess expected of a spoiled child, not a centuries-old vampire: ] Ugh, hours?

[ The greatest issue he has with this plan. Astarion simply cannot be expected to have that sort of patience. What is he going to do in a park for hours, watch grass grow? It sounds painfully dull. But then, Iorveth's other ideas— he takes a moment to consider them, pout turning into something a little more thoughtful. ]

You know, I'm not sure you could handle being my mark. I'm really rather... persuasive.

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