nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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.

[ Clearly, Astarion has never just been out in nature to enjoy being out in nature. As expected of a high elf. Iorveth keeps that thought to himself, aware that it makes him sound a little too much like Halsin for comfort (with apologies to Halsin, who is not actually wrong for liking being surrounded by trees).

Instead, he hikes a brow at Astarion's claim. Almost stops mid-step, even. ]

You think I'd turn into some slobbering fool by your feet?

[ Please, give him a little more credit. Iorveth would look more offended if he didn't choose exasperation instead, chin angled and his posture straight. ]

[ Astarion would be offended right back, if it weren't more irritating to simply double down. (And irritating Iorveth is, he's coming to realize, a large motivator for many of his actions.) Still, he can't help but quirk an eyebrow, as if to say you mean you wouldn't??? Meanest elf in the world, indeed.

What he actually says, though, is ] Well, I wouldn't mind you at my feet.

[ His expression morphs into a vain little grin, and he inspects his fingernails, like he really couldn't care less. ]

It wouldn't be your fault, of course. I've had two centuries to refine the art of seduction.

[ Mostly with drunks and good-for-nothings, but it still counts. ]

And, well. [ He gestures to himself with a narcissistic flourish. ] Beauty doesn't hurt.

[ This is bait. Half a second passes where Iorveth considering being snide enough to point out that Astarion does possess the intellectual capability to provoke someone into doing something, but the snide comment would only out himself as the one who's half-reaching for said bait, so. For the millionth time, Iorveth is the one losing the battle against Astarion, here.

He actually does stop walking. One, because most of the taverns that are open are around here, and two, because he is so angry at himself (what else is new) that having positive feelings for Astarion affirms Astarion's claims, in part.

Horrible!!! Absolutely terrible. Iorveth takes a step away, and it's his turn to be the one to angle his nose towards the sky. Haughty. ]

You'd be selling me lies.

[ He hasn't thought with his dick for over a century, thank you very much. ] We can go through with this, but it'll be to your disappointment.

[ There's something quite charming about Iorveth's proud nose in the air. Astarion's grin spreads, fangs peeking out, and he takes a step closer to close the gap Iorveth just created. Like a buzzing gnat. Annoying as always. ]

Will I? Hm.

[ He crinkles his nose doubtfully, even though the truth is that he's not entirely certain he could beguile Iorveth. None of his marks were ever so unbearably difficult — by design, because he couldn't take the risk of failing and incurring Cazador's wrath. If he'd seen Iorveth in a tavern, he would have taken one look at his scowl and walked the other way, toward someone a little more lonely and desperate.

But it's no matter. He'd only admit his doubts under the penalty of death. ]

Perhaps you should put some thought into what I might win if I'm right.

[ This, on the heels of having admitted that he's not immune the night prior. It takes more effort than he'd like to shoo away recent events in favor of retaining composure, memories of things like flirting and leaning against Astarion's shoulder serving as great reminders that Iorveth the Woodland Fox is not, in fact, completely impervious to a pretty face that he's come to be fond of.

Ugh.

At the very least, if anyone has chosen this exact moment to drop in and stalk Astarion from afar, they'd see him sidling up to another elf that looks very much dubious about following him into a nearby bar. Points for starting off on a good (?) foot. ]

And what would you consider winning? If I lose myself in a fit of passion and bend you over the table?

[ Because, well. That is demonstrably not going to happen, which means Iorveth's won before they even started. ]

[ Astarion claps a hand over his mouth to muffle the immature, squawking laugh that bubbles up in his throat. He's laughing with Iorveth, not at him! Mostly. ]

As adorable as that is, darling, there's more chance of me talking in Thieves' Cant, [ he says, echoing Iorveth from last night.

Iorveth just doesn't strike him as the fit of passion type. More repressed, restrained. Astarion can certainly work with it, of course, but it doesn't inspire any confidence that Iorveth is going to be overcome with desire. The most passionate thing he's done in public is press his hand to Astarion's cheek, which is hardly salacious. ]

Were you a real mark, taking you home would be a win. [ To be entertained before being exsanguinated, he doesn't feel the need to say. ] But here— oh, I don't know. I'm sure you could muster up the passion to kiss me, at least.

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