nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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.

[ A kiss. Iorveth hikes his chin again, this time less haughty and more contemplative, bare-faced consideration settled on his pointed features. ]

Hm. [ Best not to mention that he's been spending the past however-many weeks resisting impulsive urges to kiss Astarion to shut him up. Iorveth is a pro at repression at this point.

But, oh well. If they're going to be stupid (a running theme, he's noticed: allowing stupid things to happen when he's around Astarion), they might as well lean full tilt into it, both metaphorically and literally. Iorveth shifts his weight forward, reaches, and tips Astarion's chin up just a centimeter. ]

And I win if I make you want me to kiss you, despite your pretenses.

[ Probably not a thing Astarion will admit in words, but Iorveth thinks he might be able to tell. Possibly. ]

[ Another giggle escapes his lips. He's clearly pleased, as he always is when Iorveth deigns to engage in foolishness with him. It's more satisfying than it is when someone prone to foolishness, like Karlach, gets pulled into his schemes. There's a selfish enjoyment in knowing that he's the one who's persuaded stone-faced Iorveth to drink too much, to participate in a fight club, to spar with him in the middle of the night. To play a silly game while they try to root out monster hunters to corner and steal from. ]

Oh, you're going to seduce me?

[ He'd thought Iorveth's win condition would be to simply resist his charms. It's an easy enough bet to make, though; alluring Iorveth may be, but seductive, hardly. He seems more comfortable insulting than he does flirting. To flatter Astarion too much might actually cause him physical pain. ]

It's hardly a fair fight, but I'll allow it.

[ If only to bask in the attention. Astarion's eyes flit to the side, and he cants his head toward a nearby tavern. Rickety, worn down. A splintered wooden sign hangs above the door, depicting an unpleasant-looking insect with large, protruding eyes. The Ugly Bug, reads the slipshod lettering on the sign. ]

That's where we're likely to find our monster hunter. [ A Gur, even more likely. The more reputable establishments have a particular clientele that doesn't include wayfaring vampire slayers. ] Mercenaries and itinerants of all sorts drink their sorrows away there.

[ He speaks with the authority of someone who's made a point of knowing what sort of people he might find in which taverns. It was important to know where he'd meet people without many connections, people who wouldn't be missed. The Elfsong serves a good Marshwine, but that's exactly why it wasn't his regular haunt. Quality attracts people who matter. ]

[ The terms of their not-quite-bet laid out, Iorveth can focus on the actual challenge at hand: making sure that they're seen by someone who has meaningful information or useful supplies. He doubts that a hired mercenary would know anything about Cazador's intentions beyond "find Astarion and bring him to the manse", but they may be able to tell him anything at all about how to get in touch with the other spawn.

(And, well. What follows after that, he can do on his own time. Alone.)

A nod, and he glances over at the ramshackle tavern that they'll be spending their time in. It occurs to him to ask whether or not Astarion is comfortable with this whole thing, and if it won't bring back anything that he'd rather not think about, but he figures that this, too, is something he'd be able to identify if it happens; Iorveth can still recall how Astarion'd seemed to be miles away when he'd last talked about the sheer breadth of his trauma, and that'll be Iorveth's cue. ]

I look the part, at least. [ Of an itinerant. More points in their favor. He lets Astarion lead them beyond the threshold of the establishment, into the main hall where there are more tasteless insect-related themed paraphernalia lining the dirty walls. Their choice of table is one with a good vantage point of the tavern entrance, which would allow them to take inventory of the men and women who may wander in and out.

He hesitates when they sit, but decides to situate himself next to Astarion instead of across from him. Seems like something most men being lured by Astarion would do. ]

It smells like a sty in here.

[ It does smell like a sty. Attributed, perhaps, to the sweat and grime of many of its occupants, mostly rowdy types who look like they haven't had a proper bath in ages. A table in the back is smoking heavily, the thick scent of pipeweed permeating the air. The rubbish on the walls undoubtedly contributes, too; Astarion questions whether the tawdry tchotchkes have ever been dusted.

It is demonstrably not his type of place, but he sits at a table like he belongs, arms spread out across the back of his chair. ]

Does it? [ He knows it does. He nearly says I thought you wood elves liked that sort of thing, but stops himself. ] I guess I was too distracted by your lovely aroma to notice. Whatever is a charming elf like yourself doing in a place like this?

[ One gets the sense that Astarion lays it on very, very thick.

Before Iorveth has the chance to respond, they're approached by a stout half-orc, rough and grizzled. His beard is untamed, his head shorn short, and the sleeves of his stained shirt are rolled up to show the tattoos on his brawny forearms. The barkeep, if the soiled rag thrown over his shoulder is any indication. He takes one look at the both of them and grumbles.

"Not you again," he says, scowling at Astarion. His lemon-yellow eyes dart towards Iorveth for a moment before he adds, "Another one?" ]

Ah, it's good to be back, [ Astarion says with a sigh, ignoring the question. ] Get my bewitching companion whatever he wants, will you?

[ Well. This is interesting.

It feels like a bit of a regression to be on the other side of Astarion's acting, but Iorveth has always made it his business to know as much about someone as he possibly can, façades included. He glances up at the barkeep with unfeigned curiosity, body language tipped towards Astarion in an attempt to act the part of the mark. ]

Another one? [ He parrots the half-orc, just to heckle Astarion a bit. ] You said you rarely talk to travelers, and that you made an exception for me.

[ Break his stone-cold heart, why don't you. It's a bit unconvincing given that Iorveth's expression doesn't break from stoic neutral, but the barkeep is clearly uninterested in sticking around for any sort of quarrel. "Your drinks", he grunts, to which Iorveth asks for two pitchers of ale, which he's sure is going to be disgusting.

He keeps on rolling another one over in his head. It's not a happy thought, he finds. ]

[ Astarion laughs dryly before resuming the charade, leaning over to place an affectionate hand on Iorveth's knee. ]

The man must be mistaken, sweetling. [ Practically stage-acting, he rubs his hand over Iorveth's knee with enough conspicuity as to be seen from across the room. ] The only one I have eyes for is you, of course.

[ "...Right," the barkeep says, unconvinced but even more uninterested in getting involved. He turns around and heads back behind the counter to prepare their drinks, which Astarion is well aware will disappoint Iorveth. The ale they serve here is swill, its only saving grace the fact that it's cheap swill.

As they await their drinks, Astarion's eyes sweep over the other tavern-goers, searching for anyone who looks like the monster-slaying type. Most of the barflies here couldn't care less about them, too caught up in telling bawdy stories or arm-wrestling to notice Astarion's pale skin and red eyes. One man, a human with a dark, full beard and tanned skin, catches his eye for a moment before looking away. Impossible to tell, right now, whether the attention is from a monster hunter's suspicion or something more innocent.

The half-orc returns with their ale a moment later, plunking it down on the table without ceremony. Even from a distance, the sour scent of it is pungent. ]

Take a drink, darling, [ he says, projecting his voice a little. ] It's on me — but it won't be the only thing on me tonight, I hope.

[ The tavernkeeper turns away again, looking as if he's about to retch. ]

[ One thing Iorveth didn't account for before going into this is how stupid he'll have to act, as Astarion's mark. To be convincing is to feign being dumb enough to need saving, which might prove. Hm.

Difficult. Astarion really is laying it on thick, and the temptation here is to say "this actually worked on people???" Of course it did, though: a lot of marauders are creatures of instinct, not wisdom.

Fuck it. Commit to the bit. Iorveth swings his posture sideways and loops an arm around Astarion's waist, pulling him closer with the braggadocious swagger of a low-intellect individual swinging above his weight class. The gesture is accompanied by a long look at the bearded loner, a haughty glare that could be interpreted as a "keep your eyes to yourself"; mostly, Iorveth is trying to scope out the man's visible inventory.

Without touching his drink (yet), Iorveth whispers into Astarion's ear. ]

Don't get too carried away. [ "Concentrate", essentially. Iorveth has to busy himself acting like an idiot, and most idiots would be paying more attention to Astarion than anything else going on in the room.

He pulls away just in time to watch another tall, well-armed stranger walk into the space. A young half-elf with twin daggers on each hip, thin and lanky; he looks like he hasn't slept in a few days. ]

[ Astarion's gaze follows Iorveth's, trailing over the half-elf and the daggers on his belt. Silver? Hard to tell. As the half-elf walks by their table, he spares them a glance. A reason to be paranoid, perhaps — or maybe he's just taken with Astarion's good looks. He flicks his gaze back to Iorveth, eyebrow raised. ]

I can play hard to get, if you'd prefer.

[ He kindly doesn't make any quips about hard things, even though he could. Not getting carried away, indeed. The idea of revealing his vampiric nature is intimidating, but it is the entire point, so he's sure to bare his fangs as he talks. ]

Is that what you like? A challenge?

[ Another thing that Iorveth didn't account for and should have, as he surreptitiously watches the half-elf saunter away: the possibility of multiple vampire hunters converging on them at once. The hope here is that the mercenaries are all in positions of competition instead of cooperation, and they'll step on each other's toes instead of tacitly agreeing to split the bounty.

Oh well. Fortune favors the brave. Iorveth needs to juggle acting like an idiot without playing into Astarion's hand, with a side order of keeping bilgewater ale down and trying to make Astarion want to kiss him.

Multitasking. He pretends not to notice the fangs, or to be so enthralled that he doesn't care; it occurs to him that he doesn't quite know how to act the part of a paramour, but it's too late to show uncertainty now. ]

...That would depend on whether you prefer hunting, or being hunted.

[ Trailing his touch along Astarion's waist, kicking himself internally a bit for being too on-the-nose. He thinks he might've heard someone in the background snicker. ]

[ Astarion nearly laughs. He hadn't expected Iorveth to have any talent for pretending to be a drooling idiot, but this is even more unimaginative than he'd thought. Gods, what's next, he tells Astarion he wants to devour him like this pitcher of ale? It's endearing, he supposes, despite its clumsiness. ]

Mmm, [ he hums, pretending to think. Hunting, obviously, but he's always tailored his responses to what he thought his mark would like, not his own preferences. Building a fantasy, only for it all to come crashing down at the end of the night.

The hand he'd placed on Iorveth's knee slides up to his thigh, entirely obvious, and he croons, ] If it's you hunting me, darling, I might be tempted to let you catch me.

[ A halfling stumbles by their table and makes a face. "Ugh, get a room!" she moans as she drunkenly makes her way back to her friends. Astarion ignores her, leaning in closer. ]

But there's an appeal to hunting, too. Why, I'd love to sink my teeth into you.

[ Too obvious? ]

[ Probably too obvious. He feels eyes on them― presumably the human hunter who'd hastily looked away before― and identifies the scrutiny as pinpricks on the back of his neck. Evaluating how desperate someone has to be to play into the hands of a pale elf with red eyes and sharp teeth, most likely. The innuendo isn't even subtle.

An internal sigh, and Iorveth reaches for his sewer-water alcohol. Takes a sip of it to dull his aching pride, holds back the grimace threatening to skew his face. If he has to play the part to get what they need, well. He will.

A silent exhale, and he reaches to pluck Astarion's hand from his thigh. Seduction isn't his strong suit, no, but being honest is easy; he just has to be softer than he usually is. Annoying, but not unmanageable.

He presses his mouth to Astarion's knuckles, and traces each of them with his lips. Once that's done, he turns the hand over and kisses his palm, privately amused by the act of identifying Astarion's lifeline. Very long. ]

You'd be permitted. [ "You already have" is tacit. ] Tonight, even.

[ Everyone sitting at the halfling's table groans in unison, and the barkeep sighs as he wipes the same spot on his counter over and over. ]

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