nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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." ]

Edited 2024-07-16 00:19 (UTC)

[ 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.

[ "Silence, beast!" the hunter snarls. ]

[ 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. ]

I want all of his things.

[ "You're robbing me?" the man asks, astounded. ]

[ 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. ]

And have a little urgency.

[ 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. ]

As well as anyone would expect from us.

[ They broke the "don't get hurt" warning in record time, which seems on-brand for them. The response is offhanded, but Iorveth's light frown lingers. ]

You'll need to rest. I could give you blood, but later in the night.

[ Implying that he still has plans for the day (maybe he should get Astarion a new shirt), and that Astarion should hang back and sleep some of this pain off. Iorveth is no nurse, but he can anticipate Shadowheart doing worse than kicking if he keeps dragging Astarion outside only to keep finding new ways to hurt him.

He glances sideways, taking in Astarion's unusual-for-him-pallor. It's vexing, how something in his gut twists when he sees all that blood staining Astarion's shirt. ]

[ He's made happy all over again by the offer of blood, even though he's too tired from his own blood loss to really salivate over it. The prospect of having blood on demand when he spent centuries starving and begging is strange, but not in a bad way. ]

Pity. I wanted to go shopping.

[ He really did. Stupid hunter, ruining everything. Perhaps there'll be another opportunity to dress Iorveth up in stylish, too-expensive clothing. In truth, though, it's probably not for the best that he wander around the city in this state. He doesn't quite trust that leaving the hunter alive was the best idea; who's to say the fellow doesn't tell his friends and form a mob looking for him?

The thought makes his head hurt, and he can't tolerate more pain right now. He brushes away the idea, engaging in sillier, more inconsequential thoughts. ]

Are we going to play doctor?

[ "I wanted to go shopping" is cute in a disarming way. A strange thing, considering that most non-Aen Seidhe don't exactly jump at the opportunity to spend time with him; stranger still, considering his relative inexperience when it comes to spending time with someone in a city as big as Baldur's Gate. It makes him wonder, briefly, about all of these elves integrated into different societies, living peacefully with other races, doing something as benign as shopping without their presence being questioned.

He'd like that sense of peace for Astarion, at least. Privately, it staggers him to think of it, so he puts it in a neat box to be unpacked later with the rest of his weird, unhinged thoughts. ]

I could be persuaded. Though my bedside manners are entirely dependent on how well you behave.

[ Shooing away a gaggle of kids who are trying to ask them if they've been fighting monsters, trailing after Iorveth and trying to touch the pilfered scrolls hanging from his belt. They're half a block away from Elfsong, and every step is proving to be a struggle.

When they finally return, it's to an empty room. Understandable－ it would've been nice for Halsin to have stuck around, but the druid's seemed uneasy being constantly cloistered between walls and a ceiling. After some consideration, Iorveth decides to guide Astarion over to his own bed, which is still stained with his own blood from the night prior. Better to only ruin set of bedsheets instead of two. ]

Stay put. I'll go get water and washcloths.

[ It's somewhat of a relief to find out Shadowheart isn't around. Helpful as she'd be right now, he imagines her yelling would only exacerbate the pain. Maybe someday soon, he thinks, he and Iorveth will do something together that doesn't end in bloodshed. As quickly as the thought comes, it's shooed away. They're like a pair of feral cats; bloodshed is in their nature.

He lowers himself onto Iorveth's bed as carefully as he can, although he still whines ] Ow. [ out of displeasure when the cut on his leg is disturbed. Astarion is anything but stoic in his pain.

The bed smells of blood, his fresh bleeding mixed with Iorveth's day-old stains, and the scent isn't unpleasant to his senses. He curls up on his side to wait for Iorveth, almost childish. ]

Mm. I'll try not to miss you too much.

[ A big, white, finnicky cat. Iorveth rolls his eye at the whining, but the expression skews slightly soft, like he doesn't mind the overblown theatrics of it all too much anymore.

He casts a shadow over Astarion for a moment, standing next to him by the edge of the mattress. Debating, assessing. Finally, he leans to press his lips to Astarion's temple, the contact blocked, in part, by the tangle of Astarion's silver curls. ]

I'll take my time, then.

[ Mean elf, mean joke. The delivery lacks barbs, though, and contrary to the actual content of his words, Iorveth is quick about fetching a basin of water and fresh handtowels from the tired-looking innkeep who, no doubt, is kind of fed up with the weird shenanigans his new tenants get up to. Why are people coming into the inn covered in blood all the time, and why does it sound like there's an owlbear cub constantly running around up there?? He won't ask, because he doesn't get paid enough to.

When Iorveth eventually returns, he sets his items aside and places a palm to Astarion's forehead. Instinct; he's forgotten that vampires probably don't get fevers from possible infections. ] Does it feel like the enchantment on the weapon did anything beyond making it easier to wound you?

[ Any numbness or nausea or poison-adjacents? If so, this is above Iorveth's paygrade, and he'll have to actually go out and find Shadowheart. ]

[ His head is cold, just like the rest of him. Iorveth's palm is warm, though, and the feeling is surprisingly soothing. He'd always thought he would hate the feeling of being taken care of, too used to licking his wounds in a dark corner all alone, but it feels— nice, for someone else to give a damn that he's hurt. He has half a mind to play it up and really make Iorveth fuss over him, but he's hesitant to push it in case Iorveth's empathy runs out. Instead, he closes his eyes for a moment to savor the feeling before pushing himself up to sit, depending on his uninjured side to do all the hard work. ]

I don't know.

[ He wasn't paying a lot of attention to anything besides the fact that he got stabbed for the second time in as many days. Going quiet for a second, he focuses on the sting of his injuries, searching for any unusual qualities to it. Focusing on that hurts, though, and he can only tolerate it briefly. ]

It just burned.

[ A soft sound in the back of his throat, thoughtful. ]

Doubtful, that normal ointments will do much for burns on undead skin. But I've some in my pack.

[ Just in case a placebo will help Astarion feel better. Iorveth's best attempts at playing doctor. He reaches sideways for his bag of supplies and fishes out some antiseptic and bandages, a must-have for elves who run around and get hurt in forests.

For the second time today, his weight sinks next to Astarion's on a shared mattress. A dangerous thing to get used to, a feeling he'll miss if and when Astarion decides to stay in Baldur's Gate after all is said and done. ]

I've never tended to a vampire before.

[ Coaxing Astarion to swing his leg up and over Iorveth's thighs for better access. It takes a little bit of maneuvering and balancing to get all these limbs in the right place. ]

I suppose I've never really been tended to before, [ he confesses. A quick, efficient healing spell, certainly, or a healing potion pressed into the palm of his hand—and those, too, have been a kindness—but no real tending. For the undead, healing and comfort is a privilege reserved for people who matter to someone else.

He wonders, fleetingly, if this is the sort of thing Iorveth's clan would do for each other. Perhaps he can understand, if only a little bit, why Iorveth is hung up on them. Being cared about is addictive, he's finding.

He splays his leg across Iorveth's lap with some difficulty, grimacing with the movement and exhaling with relief when it's done. ]

Do be gentle. [ A sarcastic quip. ] This is only my first time.

[ Never-s, on both sides. A greater benchmark on Astarion's end, one that's far more significant than just an expression of inexperience: a confession of a void. Iorveth has always had a palpable reason for his pain, a place for him to return to with bloody hands, however dwindling. Astarion hasn't even had that.

The revelation makes it easier for Iorveth to be patient. To be gentle, even, with the dip of handtowel to water, the light warning that "this might hurt", the press of damp fabric to the open gash on Astarion's thigh.

The starched-white towel immediately reddens with blood. There's been a lot of this, recently. ]

A privilege, to be your first time. [ He says, and it's not as facetious as it could've been. Not flippant, either－ almost a verbal nudge, elbow to side. Almost a tease, to keep things from feeling too funereal. ] Feel free to be open with your criticism, though I'll not guarantee that I'll listen.

[ As he watches his blood seep into the cloth, Astarion wonders if he should have offered to do this for Iorveth last night. The thought of taking care of him hadn't even crossed his mind. Cazador's spawn could never trust each other enough to be vulnerable like this, so they'd all dealt with their pain alone, like animals finding a private place to die. He's unpracticed in being gentle with another person in the ways that nursing someone's wounds requires.

The wet washcloth smarts against his injury, but he tries his best to keep his complaints on the inside — unusual for him. If he complains too much, Iorveth might stop, and he doesn't want that. He can't stop thinking about the things Iorveth said earlier, like someone out of the sort of ridiculous fantasies Astarion had before he stopped believing anyone would give a damn. He'd wished someone cared enough to tenderly cleanse his wounds back then, too. If not for the blood loss, he's sure he'd feel hot with embarrassment at the idea of Iorveth of all people fulfilling his wildest dreams. ]

You know, you've been far too nice.

[ A rarity for Iorveth. It's unnatural, the way he's barely upset Astarion all day. ]

—You're going to give me hives.

[ He is, after all, allergic to kindness. ]

iorveth... consider therapy

this freak needs SO much help

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