nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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. ]

[ He'd always felt disgusted when his victims started to slobber on him. He watches Iorveth kiss his knuckles with rapt attention, swallowing; he doesn't feel disgusted now. Iorveth's fingers radiate a pleasant heat against Astarion's cold hand, his lips soft on Astarion's skin. A nervous little thrill shoots through him.

A charged moment passes before he reminds himself that they're only playing their parts, that the real Iorveth wouldn't be so reverent. He clears his throat, thumb gliding across Iorveth's smooth jaw. ]

Good. I've been starving for a delicious morsel like you.

[ If the monster slayers don't pick up on his vampirism now, there's no hope for them. He glances, just briefly, to the side where the human sits; his finger traces a sheathed knife on his belt, almost absentmindedly. Astarion tries not to imagine what it might feel like lodged into his throat, turning his attention back to Iorveth. ]

I've a mansion in the Upper City. Come back with me, and let me... savor you.

[ "Some people have no damn shame," the halfling grumbles from her table, turning away. ]

[ Maybe Iorveth's lost the bet on a technicality, as they never specified which part of Astarion he wasn't meant to kiss, but there are more important things to consider: like, say, the human hunter with his hand at his hip, and the half-elf trying to hide his smile while checking his coinpurse.

The former seems a more promising target to rob, the latter seems more likely to yield information under the threat of pain. A good thing, really, that they have options.

Iorveth lets go of Astarion's hand after briefly resting his face against it, one eye fluttering shut for a breath of a second. The swipe to his jaw feels better than any of Astarion's verbal provocations, and it makes Iorveth look almost docile for the moment that it lasts. ]

We'll go, then. We don't have to wait for nightfall.

[ With apologies (not really) to the poor barkeep, who mutters something under his breath about how they could've done him the decency of buying more drinks if they were going to come in and be gross in his establishment. Iorveth gets up slowly, untangling himself from Astarion's side to pick up his mostly-untouched drink; he sets it on the table where the presumed hunter is pretending to look at a map. ]

On me, [ he offers with a patronizing half-smile. The man looks up at him, and Iorveth can see the way his expression hardens in a silent warning. You're making a mistake, in not so many words.

Iorveth turns away, and returns back to Astarion's side. ] Come. I don't like all of these eyes on you.

The jealous type, are you? [ Astarion smirks, a practiced expression meant to look both lordly and charming at once. His hand runs down Iorveth's bicep to his forearm before he tangles their fingers coyly. ] Don't worry. I have no intention of sharing you.

[ As he tugs on Iorveth's hand to lead him out of the tavern like an executioner leading him to his demise, Astarion's eyes flit over the presumed hunters once more. The human, looking ready to grab his things and follow them out. The half-elf, now pointedly looking anywhere but at them. He turns to open the door and guide Iorveth out, but not without quirking a brow at the barkeep as if to say that's right, another one.

He doesn't linger at the doorway, stepping out into the street and pulling Iorveth along. The walk from here to Cazador's Upper City palace is still etched into his brain, and it's easy to set down that path without even thinking about it. As they weave past pedestrians and stalls hocking their wares, he leans in, voice quiet. ]

Did we pick up any tagalongs?

[ To look himself would be to let them know he's onto them. A risk he's not willing to take, if it means they lose their tail. ]

[ It's all so-called fun and games, except for the tiniest stutter of his pulse when Astarion winds his fingers around Iorveth's. He keeps his reaction to it as muted as possible, but he's aware of the blink-and-miss beat of surprise that'd flit across his face, the half-second of reluctance before returning the grip.

Holding hands. Far more intimate than pet names or invitations. His concentration dials into that point of connection, warm to cool, and he almost forgets to check if they're being followed. Mortifying, that Astarion has to remind him.

Gathering himself, he steps to the side (Astarion in tow) and feigns interest in a stall selling handmade jewelry; it gives him an excuse to glance down the street, where he notices the human hunter quickly sidestep behind a stack of empty crates. ]

―The bearded human with the silver knife, [ he murmurs, picking up a pretty bracelet that might be to Shadowheart's taste. The young woman manning the stall beams, assuming that Iorveth must be shopping for the handsome man he's holding hands with. ]

[ Drawn as he is to pretty, shiny things, Astarion takes a moment to inspect one of the rings on display. A simple thing with a silver band and a small garnet gemstone. Nothing luxurious, but still more fancy than anything he'd ever been allowed to own. He watches it glitter in the light as Iorveth mutters next to him before placing it back down, gaze on his paramour-slash-victim. ]

Darling, you're the only precious thing I need. Come along.

[ He tugs Iorveth by the hand again. Uncertainty swirls in his gut, the first time he's really considered what they're actually doing. Astarion has spent the last two centuries avoiding monster hunters with silver daggers and wooden stakes at all costs. Now he's going to willingly let one get close, and for what?

A risk that will bring even greater rewards, he reminds himself. If he can't take care of Cazador, he's as good as dead regardless. He realizes, belatedly, that he's nearly crushing Iorveth's hand with the strength of his nervous grip, and softens his grasp. ]

I know a shortcut, [ he says, lightly. ] Side streets where we can be alone.

[ Alone with their prey, that is. He cuts down an alley, pulling Iorveth along with him. ]

[ The white-knuckled grip is a flashback to the sharp end of a sword cutting into Iorveth's shoulder, his side. Reminders of risk and threats, of fear, of uncertainty. Astarion rarely projects anything but grandiose wellness; the threat of finger-shaped bruises along his knuckles doesn't bother Iorveth much, in the grand scheme of things.

A light squeeze, for Astarion's trouble. Acknowledging, affirming. Iorveth's fondness comes with teeth and claws, and he's fought worse than one human with a knife. ]

Relax. [ Led sideways into a narrow space between two abandoned-looking buildings (a shop closed for business a while ago, a house whose previous tenants couldn't afford the rent), Iorveth turns and corrals Astarion against the nearest wall, back to a poster lauding Gortash's recent accomplishments in the city.

Their foreheads touch. Iorveth smiles, the expression wry. ] I thought you'd be more excited by the prospect of robbing a man blind.

[ Hard to relax when Iorveth's so close that Astarion can feel his breath on his face. His tongue darts out to wet his lips unconsciously. ]

I am relaxed, [ he says, you know, like a liar. ] And you're supposed to be the victim.

[ His hands find Iorveth's shoulders, fisting in the fabric there for a moment before mustering up all of his (8) strength to flip their positions, pushing Iorveth's back against the wall, the stone scratching against the fabric of Iorveth's shirt. Better. From here, Astarion could lean in and sink his teeth into the soft flesh of his throat — if he were really a predatory monster.

"You know not what you trifle with!" comes a booming, theatrical voice, and Astarion can't help but roll his eyes. Heroes are always so derivative and hackish. It almost makes the likes of Wyll seem original. He turns his gaze to watch their hunter friend appear at the end of the alley, dagger drawn. "Step away from your innocent victim, fiend." ]

Well, at least we've found our monster hunter.

[ Gods, don't give him a concussion before he's meant to beat up a guy. Their positions flip, and Iorveth is about to scowl about it (same old) when the valiant hunter arrives with his weapon drawn, backlit by the midday sun in a perfect storybook picture of a hero coming to save the day.

Kind of hilarious. Ironic, too, given Iorveth's entire history with humans. His hands are looped around Astarion's waist now, shoulderblades to the dusty wall. Paint a picture of this scene, and it'd be titled "Two Elves Bored by Human Interruption". ]

He called me innocent. [ Genuinely amused. ] That's new.

[ The hunter, who is obviously high on his own drama, appears not to notice that Iorveth looks very much unperturbed by the goings-on; he steps forward with a flourish, confidence overshadowing whatever uncertainty one might feel when squaring up against a non-human. Either he has the skills to match the bravado, or he's incredibly stupid.

"Evil wears a pretty mask tonight! ―Er, today." The man gestures for Iorveth to run and hide, shaking his head in overblown disappointment for the state of the world. "Face me, wretched creature! You've run from your crimes for long enough!"

Iorveth lets go of Astarion, and chuckles. ] Incredible.

And he thinks I'm pretty.

[ His voice is more confident than he feels, as is common. It drips with the sort of vanity one would expect from a vampire, particularly one so clearly concerned with appearances. He takes a step away from Iorveth, eyes on the glint of the hunter's dagger. He's a fool, obviously, but it doesn't take a Gale-level genius to know how to stab someone. Even an animal can kill.

"I've heard tell of you, monster," the hunter says, grandstanding. "A spawn that can walk in the sun. Leave your quarry and come with me, and you might live another day." ]

Oh. That's interesting.

[ What could a monster hunter want with him alive? Information about fellow vampires, perhaps. Or maybe they just want to torture him for the things he's done. No matter — he has no intention of coming peacefully. He unsheathes his own dagger, rolling his eyes. ]

Honestly, I'm not sure you're in a position to make demands.

[ Abruptly, he winds an arm around Iorveth, pulling him close, his back to Astarion's front, not unlike a meat shield. The dagger goes up, then, pointed at Iorveth's throat. A bold move, and probably one he should have discussed with Iorveth earlier, but he's always acted on impulse. Iorveth will forgive him — maybe. ]

Drop your weapons or I'll slit his throat.

[ Knife pressed to the soft skin of his neck, the blade poised and parallel to the puncture wounds that Astarion left the night prior― it's funny how this is what Iorveth finds surprisingly attractive about Astarion. Being on the serrated end of his struggle is a weird exercise in being seen.

Iorveth will unpack that later. Now, it's the same swallowing of pride he did when he let Astarion shackle him, and a deep reach into himself to keep up with the farce. His hands draw up in the universal sign for surrender, though the action coupled with Iorveth's expression is far too calm to be interpreted as fearful. His verbal follow-up is just as measured: ]

I'd do as he says, if I were you.

[ The hunter rears back, frowning at the turn of events, but decides to call Astarion's supposed bluff. "You wouldn't, not in broad daylight. Anyone could turn the corner and bear witness, and that would be the end of your days in this city."

Iorveth tries not to snort, given how false that statement is. But he keeps it to himself, and stays limp in Astarion's hold, watching as the hunter approaches on slow, even footing.

"You'll come with me, and lead me to your lair." Knife drawn, the human starts to reach for something else that's strapped to his hip: a scroll, Iorveth identifies, and starts to weight the pros and cons of his next decision.

Oh well. Fuck it. Before the hunter can unroll his parchment, Iorveth casts a definitive, intentional: ] Silencio. [ A curtain of impenetrable silence falls around them, invisible but thick. ]

[ The chatter of shopkeepers, the pitter-patter of footsteps, the tweeting of birds and mewing of stray cats — it all comes to an abrupt, unnatural stop. Astarion realizes, slowly, that the bubble of silence has even quieted Iorveth's heartbeat and the sound of blood rushing through his veins. Across from them, the hunter's brow furrows, and he mouths, unable to truly speak, why? Confused, surely, at why anyone would protect a monster, much less one with a knife inches away from their carotid artery.

Astarion releases Iorveth in one motion, pushing him aside so there's nothing standing between him and the hunter. He tried the path of nonviolence. Now it's time for him to change tack.

He swings his dagger in a wide arc, aiming for the hunter's shoulder. This city would be better off with one less idiot vampire slayer, but Astarion is hesitant to outright kill the man — before he shares everything he knows about slaughtering vampire lords, that is. Unfortunately, the hero routine wasn't all for show. Astarion's dagger only clips him, tearing through the sleeve of his shirt but missing skin as he ducks and retaliates with a quick slice across Astarion's thigh, his dagger glowing with arcane energy.

Fuck! gets muffled in the inexorable silence as Astarion stumbles back, his leg burning far more than a simple laceration should. The dagger is enchanted, of course, with some sort of radiant magic to wound the undead with. No monster hunter worth his salt would take on a vampire without some sort of magic. ]

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iorveth... consider therapy