[ 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." ]
[ 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.
[ 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. ]
[ 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. ]
[ The downside of Silence, inevitably, is that it cuts off means of friendly communication between allies, which means that Iorveth has to avoid using projectiles in case Astarion decides to leap forward in the trajectory of his arrows. Hard to say "heads up" when all sounds are muted within their bubble.
So. Iorveth draws his blade. Still concentrating on the upkeep of the spell, knowing that he won't be able to divide his attention between the hunter and the shell around them for too long.
The human mouths something that's lost in their magical shroud; Iorveth, wasting no time, lunges forward and tries to catch the cross-guard of the man's dagger with the tip of his blade, swinging up and away to disarm him; the hunter disappoints him by being more agile on his feet than anticipated, and instead of dropping his weapon, he pivots neatly on his feet and throws the damn thing at Astarion, his other hand already reaching behind his back for a spare knife. ]
Astarion! [ The warning, of course, is inaudible. ]
[ The blade embeds itself in his left shoulder, not far from his heart, and gods, now he's mad. The enchantment burns, hot, and it's only by the grace of the magical silence that no one hears him yelp like a kicked dog.
In a fit of rage, he stalks toward the hunter, suddenly unconcerned with keeping him alive as he plunges his dagger into the man's abdomen before he can wrap his fingers around another knife. It's kill or be killed, clearly, and he nearly got Astarion in one blow. If he wants to live, he'll have to beg for healing, the way Astarion begged to be bitten two hundred years ago.
The hunter reels back, clutching at his gut as fresh red blood saturates his shirt. ]
[ Things've gone very south, very fast. Call it a cockiness on their part, assuming a man who frequents an insect-themed tavern won't be hard to detain― Iorveth drops his spell and lets the world come crashing back down around them, birds and laughter and distant conversations, ignoring all of it in favor of surveying the knife embedded in Astarion's shoulder. It's likely that the enchantment extends to the hilt of the weapon, making it difficult for Astarion to pull it out himself.
Iorveth wrinkles his nose. He whirls on the wheezing hunter, now leaning heavily against the nearest wall with his bloodied fingers searching tremulously through his pack for a potion to drink; Iorveth kicks him down onto the ground with calm aggression, pinning him onto the pavement with one foot dangerously close to the wound in his gut. ]
A lovely display of valor, and so little to show for it. You should've thrown your weapons away when you had the chance, human.
[ The man barely struggles. Smart enough to know that doing so would cost him more blood, but stupid enough to try to appeal to Iorveth's good graces. "You're in his thrall," he tries to explain. "You're being used, like all the others were." ]
[ Sound comes back with a startling suddenness, assaulting his ears with the titters of children and the shouts of shopkeepers hawking their wares. Dwarven-crafted handaxes, calls a distant man. Don't hit your sister, chides someone. How much for one? a customer asks. Combined with the searing pain in Astarion's shoulder, it's hell. ]
Shut up, [ he says, not angry because of the content of his words—they're funny, really, from an objective standpoint, considering Astarion is the thrall here—but because he can't bear to listen to the man's whining as long as this damn dagger is still piercing his flesh.
Wincing, he snaps at Iorveth, ] Hurry up and kill him already.
[ The world chatters on, but Iorveth remains silent in his evaluation. Considering the pros and cons of letting the hunter live, with the list of cons stretching much longer than the list of pros.
Experimentally: ] Have you ever been tortured before? [ A question he tosses as nonchalantly as anything, to which the hunter grits his teeth and throws back: "What information could you possibly torture out of me? My disdain for monsters? My promise to eradicate evil from this city?"
Iorveth hums under his breath. He interprets that response as a "no". ] Pretty words, but poor aim. [ The toe of his boot edges closer to the stab wound. Kudos to the hunter, Iorveth supposes, for not screaming to draw a crowd. ] We could let you live, if you give us your word not to bother us again.
[ If not, well. Iorveth is still the meanest elf in the world. ]
[ The hunter groans, the sound of it infuriating. He has no right to moan in pain when Astarion's the one with an enchanted dagger burning a hole in his shoulder. He grits his teeth, fangs digging into the flesh of his lower lip. ]
That's not enough, [ Astarion hisses through his teeth.
Gods, if he's going to live he could at least be useful. All the better, Astarion thinks, to make him useful and then kill him. No point in letting someone invested in 'eradicating evil' stick around. ]
[ Iorveth has no time for sympathy. If anything, the attitude of the hunter so closely resembles every bounty hunter that'd ever come for his own head, mirroring the privileged bewilderment of humans who'd used the word "robbed" when they were the ones that stole from him, first.
So. One foot still pressed against the human's torso, he reaches for the hilt of the dagger still sticking out of Astarion's shoulder. ]
You can do the honors. After I pull this out. [ Winding his fingers, carefully, around the enchanted weapon, head tipped to the side to ask for tacit permission to wrench the blade out. He's not sure if his rudimentary curing spell will do much to patch the magically-infused wound, but he doesn't imagine that Astarion wants to spend the rest of the day with a knife embedded in him.
The hunter tries to ask why a vampire would want items to hunt vampires with, but Iorveth silences him with a brief kick. ] Shut up.
[ The dagger is warm to the touch, as if heated from the inside, and thrums with arcane power, a gentle vibration in Iorveth's palm. Astarion glances at Iorveth, eyes trailing from his fingers to his questioning expression. He grits his teeth harder, if it's possible, grinding his molars together in anticipation of the pain; as desperate as he is to get this thing out, he can't help but dread the process of removing it. ]
Just do it already.
[ Despite his best efforts, a sharp cry of pain escapes him when Iorveth wrenches the knife out. Fuck, it hurts. The original wound was somewhat cauterized by the holy heat of the thing, but its removal rips the gash open all over again. He drops his dagger in the rush to press his hand against the wound to stem the flow of blood, spilling on his shirt and staining it a brilliant crimson.
The hunter is even worse off, though; he presses his own hands to the wound in his gut, but the blood is beginning to leak around his fingers. If Astarion weren't so damn focused on his own bleeding, he'd be hungry.
"Please," the hunter croaks, entreating Iorveth rather than Astarion, hoping the mortal will have more sympathy for his plight. "I need healing. You can't just let me die." ]
[ The knife twirls between Iorveth's fingers, its magic ineffective against a normal elf, lightweight and razor-sharp. A useful thing for the future, he notes, if the enchantment isn't contingent on the hunter being alive.
Which he might not be, in a few minutes. Tough luck. Iorveth can only spare so much of his empathy for others, and most of it is reserved for those he considers his. His clan, his motley crew of tadpole-infested companions, and...
...well, Astarion. His exception to many of his rules.
Crouching, one knee up and the other resting on the ground, Iorveth leans in towards the hunter and lifts his chin with an index. Coldly evaluative, patronizing in the way that elves and drow can be when they're talking to someone that they've far outlived. ]
I don't particularly enjoy being told what I can and can't do, dh'oine. [ The use of the Aen Seidhe dialect for "human" is intentional, though he doubts the hunter will understand how he's using it as a sign of authority. ] And I've already told him― [ a quick glance over at Astarion, who's losing blood far too quickly for Iorveth's liking. ] ―that I've no qualms with killing someone for harming him.
Your life matters little to me. The lives of anyone who may come to avenge you hereafter matter little to me. But his does. [ He smiles, wry. ] If you understand this, and if you understand that I'd do more than just let you or your comrades die, then we might let you live. Do I make myself clear?
[ Iorveth doesn't truly care, either way; they can still rob a corpse. ]
[ He leans back against the stone wall, dizzy. In the haze of blood loss, it's difficult to feel much besides lightheaded, but Astarion's dead heart musters up every last bit of energy it has to do a flip in his chest. Your life matters little to me. But his does. If not for the seeping blood making him feel cold from head to toe, he's certain he'd be experiencing that warm, pleasant feeling again. Happiness, he realizes belatedly. Iorveth makes him feel happy. So foreign is the feeling, he hadn't been able to put a name to it until now.
There's little time to ruminate on the realization. The hunter scowls at Iorveth's condescension but is in no place to retaliate. "You aren't enthralled," he says weakly. "You're just fucking crazy."
Despite the searing pain, Astarion barks out a laugh at that. He isn't wrong.
"Gods," he grits out. "Take what you want, demon." Funnily enough, it's no longer Astarion who he's calling names. The only thing worse than a monster is someone who's betrayed all that is good and right to ally himself with one. "Your potion—" ]
Take his things first.
[ Astarion isn't willing to risk a second wind, not when he's already at a disadvantage. He cants his head toward a pouch on the hunter's belt, then groans at the pain of moving. ]
[ Correctly called out on being crazy, Iorveth's first instinct is to smile. How nice for Astarion to mirror the sentiment with his laugh. ]
This does very little for the bounty on my own head.
[ A fun fact for the hunter to chew on while he's getting stripped of gear: not only is the elf robbing him a madman, but do a little research and he'll find out that said one-eyed elf a bona-fide terrorist, by some people's standards. Very fun. Iorveth isn't particularly gentle about unstrapping all the bits and bobs dangling from the man, and ignores all the subtle huffs and grunts of pain that accompany all the jostling.
Three scrolls, another dagger, a throwing knife, a crossbow, and a pack full of items that they can sort through on their own time. A considerable haul. Iorveth finds places on his own gear to hang the pilfered goods from, and steps back towards Astarion when he's done. ]
You look pale, [ he drawls, and it's meant to be a joke. Astarion is treated to a perfunctory Cure Wounds as a peace offering, though it doesn't seem to do much but stem the bleeding and partially close the gash that the dagger's made; with that done, he finally tosses a Potion of Healing at the man quickly losing consciousness on the ground, doing him the courtesy of loosening the stopper on the bottle for easier access. ]
[ Despite himself, Astarion smiles, the expression faint and fleeting but unmistakably there. It's something he'll blame on the blood loss, but in reality it's—gods below—fondness. He's lost their stupid bet. He very much wants to kiss Iorveth. Wants even more for Iorveth to want to kiss him. With all the meager self-discipline he has inside of him, he wills himself to focus on the situation at hand. ]
It's called an alabaster complexion, [ he quips, voice soft from weakness but still haughty.
Although it still aches something fierce, Iorveth's spell has dulled the excruciating sting of his wound considerably, and he can now remove his hand from his shoulder. His palm is wet with his own blood, and he has no choice but to wipe it on his shirt. Another day, another ruined article of clothing.
The hunter pours the potion in his mouth, some of it dribbling down his chin from sloppiness. Afterward, he simply lies there, the deep wound in his stomach slowly receding to a shallow lesion. Still nasty, but not life-threatening. "You're making a mistake," he rasps. "Vampires are manipulative creatures." ]
Let's, ah— [ He lets out a hiss of pain as he leans down to retrieve his dagger from where he'd dropped it on the cobblestone. ] Let's go. If you aren't going to kill him, you can at least leave him to rot.
[ The hunter isn't wrong. It's likely that vampires are manipulative monsters who care very little about anything but how to enrich the vast eternity of their undead lives, and Iorveth might have agreed with him if he'd met him in the immediate aftermath of the Nautiloid crash, when he was still wary of Astarion and his casual, pretty lies.
But Iorveth's been given the burden of context. For every detail that might've made him hate Astarion, he found two more that colored between Astarion's broad lines. Annoying, unconventional, impossibly compelling.
The hunter isn't allowed any insight into that, obviously. He's not even allowed to see the outline of Iorveth's concern, which he only shows when his back is turned to the human sprawled on the ground, his hand outstretched to steady Astarion against his pain. ]
Back to our room, then. Your wounds need tending to.
[ Hushed, so that the third party can't hear. Shadowheart might have left Elfsong for the day, but it's better to return to base for cleaning and changing. Halsin might even still be there, and he's a far more capable spellcaster than Iorveth is.
Slow steps, and Iorveth pulls Astarion closer to his side as they leave the alley and their assailant. Outwardly as calm as ever, but inwardly displeased by one of his own getting hurt; he tries to deflect any stares from passersby by waving them aside, and gives some real thought to carrying Astarion the rest of the way back to the inn. ]
[ Astarion has, with certainty, had worse. Godey has spent days in the kennel wearing him down emotionally and physically, and when Cazador was angry enough, he'd do it himself, taking advantage of his spawns' vampiric nature to brutalize them in ways no mortal would survive. Despite Astarion's poor pain tolerance, a gash in the shoulder and a lacerated thigh would be getting off lightly.
He pretends it isn't, giving himself an excuse to lean against Iorveth's shoulder and wrap a hand around his arm. For balance.
The pain, while unmistakably present, is hardly even noticeable under the strange sense of euphoria. Centuries with no one to stick their neck out for him, no one to care whether he lived or died. The feeling of being cared about is more potent than any drink or drug.
As they make their way down the street, the woman whose jewelry stall they'd stopped at not long ago furrows her brow at them. Understandable. From her perspective, they'd stopped at her shop in perfect health, disappeared down a side street for some time, then emerged bloodied and worse for wear. Astarion gives her a reassuring smile, something cocky that says you should see the other guy, before waving her off. The movement of his arm jostles his stab wound, and he grimaces, ruining the effect.
Oh, well. He turns his attention back to Iorveth. ]
That went well.
[ His tone is a little dry, but all things considered, it really did. He's alive and in possession of vampire-killing tools. A job well done. ]
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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. ]
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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.
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[ 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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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.
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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.
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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.
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[ 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.
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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. ]
iorveth... consider therapy
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. ]
this freak needs SO much help
So. Iorveth draws his blade. Still concentrating on the upkeep of the spell, knowing that he won't be able to divide his attention between the hunter and the shell around them for too long.
The human mouths something that's lost in their magical shroud; Iorveth, wasting no time, lunges forward and tries to catch the cross-guard of the man's dagger with the tip of his blade, swinging up and away to disarm him; the hunter disappoints him by being more agile on his feet than anticipated, and instead of dropping his weapon, he pivots neatly on his feet and throws the damn thing at Astarion, his other hand already reaching behind his back for a spare knife. ]
Astarion! [ The warning, of course, is inaudible. ]
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In a fit of rage, he stalks toward the hunter, suddenly unconcerned with keeping him alive as he plunges his dagger into the man's abdomen before he can wrap his fingers around another knife. It's kill or be killed, clearly, and he nearly got Astarion in one blow. If he wants to live, he'll have to beg for healing, the way Astarion begged to be bitten two hundred years ago.
The hunter reels back, clutching at his gut as fresh red blood saturates his shirt. ]
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Iorveth wrinkles his nose. He whirls on the wheezing hunter, now leaning heavily against the nearest wall with his bloodied fingers searching tremulously through his pack for a potion to drink; Iorveth kicks him down onto the ground with calm aggression, pinning him onto the pavement with one foot dangerously close to the wound in his gut. ]
A lovely display of valor, and so little to show for it. You should've thrown your weapons away when you had the chance, human.
[ The man barely struggles. Smart enough to know that doing so would cost him more blood, but stupid enough to try to appeal to Iorveth's good graces. "You're in his thrall," he tries to explain. "You're being used, like all the others were." ]
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Shut up, [ he says, not angry because of the content of his words—they're funny, really, from an objective standpoint, considering Astarion is the thrall here—but because he can't bear to listen to the man's whining as long as this damn dagger is still piercing his flesh.
Wincing, he snaps at Iorveth, ] Hurry up and kill him already.
[ "Silence, beast!" the hunter snarls. ]
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Experimentally: ] Have you ever been tortured before? [ A question he tosses as nonchalantly as anything, to which the hunter grits his teeth and throws back: "What information could you possibly torture out of me? My disdain for monsters? My promise to eradicate evil from this city?"
Iorveth hums under his breath. He interprets that response as a "no". ] Pretty words, but poor aim. [ The toe of his boot edges closer to the stab wound. Kudos to the hunter, Iorveth supposes, for not screaming to draw a crowd. ] We could let you live, if you give us your word not to bother us again.
[ If not, well. Iorveth is still the meanest elf in the world. ]
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That's not enough, [ Astarion hisses through his teeth.
Gods, if he's going to live he could at least be useful. All the better, Astarion thinks, to make him useful and then kill him. No point in letting someone invested in 'eradicating evil' stick around. ]
I want all of his things.
[ "You're robbing me?" the man asks, astounded. ]
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So. One foot still pressed against the human's torso, he reaches for the hilt of the dagger still sticking out of Astarion's shoulder. ]
You can do the honors. After I pull this out. [ Winding his fingers, carefully, around the enchanted weapon, head tipped to the side to ask for tacit permission to wrench the blade out. He's not sure if his rudimentary curing spell will do much to patch the magically-infused wound, but he doesn't imagine that Astarion wants to spend the rest of the day with a knife embedded in him.
The hunter tries to ask why a vampire would want items to hunt vampires with, but Iorveth silences him with a brief kick. ] Shut up.
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Just do it already.
[ Despite his best efforts, a sharp cry of pain escapes him when Iorveth wrenches the knife out. Fuck, it hurts. The original wound was somewhat cauterized by the holy heat of the thing, but its removal rips the gash open all over again. He drops his dagger in the rush to press his hand against the wound to stem the flow of blood, spilling on his shirt and staining it a brilliant crimson.
The hunter is even worse off, though; he presses his own hands to the wound in his gut, but the blood is beginning to leak around his fingers. If Astarion weren't so damn focused on his own bleeding, he'd be hungry.
"Please," the hunter croaks, entreating Iorveth rather than Astarion, hoping the mortal will have more sympathy for his plight. "I need healing. You can't just let me die." ]
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Which he might not be, in a few minutes. Tough luck. Iorveth can only spare so much of his empathy for others, and most of it is reserved for those he considers his. His clan, his motley crew of tadpole-infested companions, and...
...well, Astarion. His exception to many of his rules.
Crouching, one knee up and the other resting on the ground, Iorveth leans in towards the hunter and lifts his chin with an index. Coldly evaluative, patronizing in the way that elves and drow can be when they're talking to someone that they've far outlived. ]
I don't particularly enjoy being told what I can and can't do, dh'oine. [ The use of the Aen Seidhe dialect for "human" is intentional, though he doubts the hunter will understand how he's using it as a sign of authority. ] And I've already told him― [ a quick glance over at Astarion, who's losing blood far too quickly for Iorveth's liking. ] ―that I've no qualms with killing someone for harming him.
Your life matters little to me. The lives of anyone who may come to avenge you hereafter matter little to me. But his does. [ He smiles, wry. ] If you understand this, and if you understand that I'd do more than just let you or your comrades die, then we might let you live. Do I make myself clear?
[ Iorveth doesn't truly care, either way; they can still rob a corpse. ]
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There's little time to ruminate on the realization. The hunter scowls at Iorveth's condescension but is in no place to retaliate. "You aren't enthralled," he says weakly. "You're just fucking crazy."
Despite the searing pain, Astarion barks out a laugh at that. He isn't wrong.
"Gods," he grits out. "Take what you want, demon." Funnily enough, it's no longer Astarion who he's calling names. The only thing worse than a monster is someone who's betrayed all that is good and right to ally himself with one. "Your potion—" ]
Take his things first.
[ Astarion isn't willing to risk a second wind, not when he's already at a disadvantage. He cants his head toward a pouch on the hunter's belt, then groans at the pain of moving. ]
And have a little urgency.
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This does very little for the bounty on my own head.
[ A fun fact for the hunter to chew on while he's getting stripped of gear: not only is the elf robbing him a madman, but do a little research and he'll find out that said one-eyed elf a bona-fide terrorist, by some people's standards. Very fun. Iorveth isn't particularly gentle about unstrapping all the bits and bobs dangling from the man, and ignores all the subtle huffs and grunts of pain that accompany all the jostling.
Three scrolls, another dagger, a throwing knife, a crossbow, and a pack full of items that they can sort through on their own time. A considerable haul. Iorveth finds places on his own gear to hang the pilfered goods from, and steps back towards Astarion when he's done. ]
You look pale, [ he drawls, and it's meant to be a joke. Astarion is treated to a perfunctory Cure Wounds as a peace offering, though it doesn't seem to do much but stem the bleeding and partially close the gash that the dagger's made; with that done, he finally tosses a Potion of Healing at the man quickly losing consciousness on the ground, doing him the courtesy of loosening the stopper on the bottle for easier access. ]
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It's called an alabaster complexion, [ he quips, voice soft from weakness but still haughty.
Although it still aches something fierce, Iorveth's spell has dulled the excruciating sting of his wound considerably, and he can now remove his hand from his shoulder. His palm is wet with his own blood, and he has no choice but to wipe it on his shirt. Another day, another ruined article of clothing.
The hunter pours the potion in his mouth, some of it dribbling down his chin from sloppiness. Afterward, he simply lies there, the deep wound in his stomach slowly receding to a shallow lesion. Still nasty, but not life-threatening. "You're making a mistake," he rasps. "Vampires are manipulative creatures." ]
Let's, ah— [ He lets out a hiss of pain as he leans down to retrieve his dagger from where he'd dropped it on the cobblestone. ] Let's go. If you aren't going to kill him, you can at least leave him to rot.
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But Iorveth's been given the burden of context. For every detail that might've made him hate Astarion, he found two more that colored between Astarion's broad lines. Annoying, unconventional, impossibly compelling.
The hunter isn't allowed any insight into that, obviously. He's not even allowed to see the outline of Iorveth's concern, which he only shows when his back is turned to the human sprawled on the ground, his hand outstretched to steady Astarion against his pain. ]
Back to our room, then. Your wounds need tending to.
[ Hushed, so that the third party can't hear. Shadowheart might have left Elfsong for the day, but it's better to return to base for cleaning and changing. Halsin might even still be there, and he's a far more capable spellcaster than Iorveth is.
Slow steps, and Iorveth pulls Astarion closer to his side as they leave the alley and their assailant. Outwardly as calm as ever, but inwardly displeased by one of his own getting hurt; he tries to deflect any stares from passersby by waving them aside, and gives some real thought to carrying Astarion the rest of the way back to the inn. ]
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He pretends it isn't, giving himself an excuse to lean against Iorveth's shoulder and wrap a hand around his arm. For balance.
The pain, while unmistakably present, is hardly even noticeable under the strange sense of euphoria. Centuries with no one to stick their neck out for him, no one to care whether he lived or died. The feeling of being cared about is more potent than any drink or drug.
As they make their way down the street, the woman whose jewelry stall they'd stopped at not long ago furrows her brow at them. Understandable. From her perspective, they'd stopped at her shop in perfect health, disappeared down a side street for some time, then emerged bloodied and worse for wear. Astarion gives her a reassuring smile, something cocky that says you should see the other guy, before waving her off. The movement of his arm jostles his stab wound, and he grimaces, ruining the effect.
Oh, well. He turns his attention back to Iorveth. ]
That went well.
[ His tone is a little dry, but all things considered, it really did. He's alive and in possession of vampire-killing tools. A job well done. ]
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