nibbling | open post pt. 2.

Yes, [ he agrees, preening at the observation, ] I am rather special, aren't I?

[ He shifts in place, settling in, arranging Iorveth's limbs how he'd like them. His long arm pulled loosely around Astarion's middle, his leg tangled with Astarion's just slightly at the ankle. Something that feels safe and warm but not constricting, something he could escape from if he felt trapped. ]

Don't worry. [ Teasing: ] You're a very special boy, too.

[ A beat passes with him staring at Iorveth. It's going to be challenging, he realizes, to fall into a trance when he's pressed up against someone whose fingers were in his mouth only moments ago. From here, Astarion can watch the rise and fall of Iorveth's chest, hear his pulse. He shifts again, restless, before turning over. ]

Well. Good night.

[ He rolls his eye at special boy, but refrains from comment. Too fond and too drained of blood to offer something scathing, too comfortable to move even for a moment to drink a potion before attempting to trance. Distantly, he feels the way Astarion tenses for a moment before turning over, and attributes it to possible discomfort with the idea of too much intimacy. ]

Just this, [ he assures vaguely, not elaborating. His arm recedes just an inch, giving Astarion more space to move. ] Rest.

[ A lot to meditate on, tonight. Iorveth has planned assassinations before, but Astarion is correct in asserting that vampire lords may be slightly above his paygrade; humans can be alarmingly easy to kill, and they don't come back. His potential next course of action is to find someone who knows a way to connect him to one of Cazador's mortal, day-walking henchmen, and see if he can't unearth this "Godey" from whatever rathole he's hiding in.

Ciaran might be able to help, if he's still slinking around instead of listening to Iorveth's many warnings about going into hiding. Remnants of Henselt's entourage haven't stopped looking for Aen Seidhe in Baldur's Gate, and Iorveth would also do well to keep his head down, but. Well.

He's an unhinged elf on a never-ending mission. Hours pass in semi-restful and bloodsoaked contemplation－ it's early when he starts to stir, pulling back from where he'd been meditating with his face buried in the back of Astarion's neck. The sun is still trying to hide under the horizon, reluctantly peering out from the inexorable distance.

Softly: ] Stay in bed, if you'd rather. [ A slow untangling of limbs, as Iorveth winces against a headache. Now's a good time for the potion. ]

[ Just this, Iorveth says, and Astarion feels disappointed, relieved, and somehow ashamed at feeling both of those things. He presses his face into the pillow and tries to do what he does best: not think about it.

At some point in the night, he does manage to trance. He is, as he almost always is, barraged with thoughts about Cazador that make it less than restful. His thoughts often drift toward the past, but this time around it's the future that he worries about. By the the time Iorveth's weight lifts beside him, he's been stewing for hours. Being awoken is a welcome distraction, really.

Except— ]

It's the crack of dawn, darling.

[ Turning over, his fingers close loosely over Iorveth's wrist. Not forcefully enough to stop him from going, but enough that he hopes to entice him to stay. ]

What could you possibly have to do this early?

[ "Entice" is the right word. Iorveth flits his focus down to the grip around his wrist, considering it for a moment before allowing it to stay. ]

Doing what a ranger does best. [ Is his roundabout answer, which he elaborates on with an equally-vague: ] Scouting.

[ Obviously, he's up to no good. Given everything that's been going on with the Cazador Problem, Iorveth thinks that it should be obvious what he's snooping around for. Embodying the worst of Astarion's anxieties, probably, by not just sticking his head into the vampire lord murder business, but actively, voluntarily, and full-bodied-ly wading through it. ]

My eyes and ears might still be in the city. I may be able to hear something useful from him.

[ Only after getting dunked on for a long time for getting invested in Astarion's cause, but Iorveth will give Ciaran that. He deserves it. ]

Edited 2024-07-23 04:20 (UTC)

[ Astarion's eyebrows raise, unbidden. Everything Iorveth has done has been a way to prove his loyalty, but it still comes as a surprise, every time. He keeps expecting the inevitable let down where Iorveth shows that he was never what Astarion thought, that he was a fool for ever believing Iorveth really gave a damn, and yet it doesn't happen.

It's never been so pleasant to be wrong. Astarion wants to kiss him again but doesn't. Last night was overwhelming enough; better not to start the day out that way. Instead, he flops on his back, groaning like a child that's just been woken up early. ]

Ugh. [ A beat. ] Fine.

[ With significant effort, he pushes himself up to sit, only to slump against the headboard. Still not a morning person. ]

I'll come with you, of course. [ In fact, he's a little annoyed that Iorveth didn't think to tell him about it beforehand. It's his vampiric master they're after. He deserves a seat at the table. ] I'd rather hear it straight from the horse's mouth.

Edited (my crime: excessive use of commas) 2024-07-23 04:49 (UTC)

The horse, [ Iorveth warns, ] is Ciaran.

[ Clever, disciplined Ciaran, who understands that Iorveth needs to linger in Baldur's Gate to resolve the issue of the tadpole in his head, but is going to be flabbergasted by his Aen Seidhe brother's taste in non-Aen Seidhe elves. Iorveth pushes himself off of the bed to reach for the pack he'd left on the floor, and fishes out a potion to fix the dehydration-bloodloss dizziness threatening to tip him back onto the mattress.

Wiping his mouth: ] Try not to test his patience too much. Though, [ a light laugh. ] The last time I spoke to him about you, he had kind things to say.

[ Words of incredulity that Astarion stayed long enough to see Henselt dead, followed by a sincere statement of gratitude. Iorveth, in the tempest of post-revenge, had forgotten to let Astarion know that he's been appreciated. Didn't seem like something Astarion was interested in, anyway, "The Elf Rights Cause". ]

Get ready. Lae'zel will need some convincing before we leave.

[ "Why are you idiots leaving together again when you can't go 5 hours without getting stabbed????" A valid argument, certainly, but Iorveth also doesn't care. ]

[ Oh. That horse. Astarion remembers their first meeting well; the closeness between Ciaran and Iorveth had given him such an ugly flare of envy, knowing he'd never had anything like that, not even with his 'siblings'. He doesn't harbor any ill will towards Ciaran, save for the general ill will he harbors toward anyone that isn't part of this ragtag group, but the requirement of being polite to someone nearly equally as smug as Iorveth does make this a little more challenging. ]

With any luck, she's still asleep.

[ If anyone in their group were to rise at dawn, though, it'd be Lae'zel, ever disciplined. What he wouldn't do to watch her with a few drinks in her. ]

Besides, [ he adds, shrugging, ] I've been tuning her out since we met. [ Affectionately! (Now.) ] You could stand to learn how to do the same.

[ But he highly doubts Iorveth will. He and Lae'zel both share a razor-sharp focus. The centuries have made sure that Astarion has no such thing.

He does as instructed regardless, pulling on his boots and exchanging his shirt for a slightly too big tunic pilfered from Gale's pack. It won't matter if this gets bloodied and ripped. By the time he's done, Lae'zel is, of course, not asleep. She's warming up for the day when she spots them and frowns. True to his word, Astarion tunes her out. Something about letting their minds become clouded and allowing the enemy to strike. At some point in her scolding, she gives Astarion a pointed look, saying, "Chk. Your mind wanders already." ]

I heard every word! Iorveth, tell her I'm listening.

[ Does Iorveth harbor complicated feelings about Astarion wearing Gale's clothes? Something to examine later on in the day, if and when Iorveth gets an urge to derail their proceedings to buy new clothes. Until then, he can be grumpy about Astarion looking cute in his slightly-oversized tunic.

Speaking of grumpy: ] He isn't listening. [ Just in case anyone ever accuses him of going too soft. ] But, in his words, your "excessive input's been noted".

[ Lae'zel is, what, 22 years old? An infant, in Iorveth's eyes. Her accomplishments are undeniable and her capabilities aren't in question (which is why he's followed her lead thus far), but she can only lecture him for so long before it starts to sound farcical. She seems to sense this, and despite the frown cutting across her strong features, she relents. Iorveth has had meaningful conversations with her before this about his circumstances and his ideologies, and she's smart enough to know when to let him be.

"It would be difficult to replace you two," is her way of saying "be careful". Iorveth nods at her in acknowledgment, and with that implicit warning and permission to leave, gestures for Astarion to follow him out.

The streets are mostly empty, the city still asleep and waiting for the sun to creep higher in the sky. It's the quietest time of day in a place that's always alight with activity and commerce; there's a strange sense of peace in spending the minutes walking side by side with Astarion, heading to Bloomridge Park where he knows he'll find Ciaran tucked away in the greenery.

Eventually, to break the silence until they reach their destination: ]

Do you intend to go ahead with this without consulting the others? [ A measured glance sideways, evaluative. ]

It's my master we're killing. [ A pause, then, a belated correction: ] Former master.

[ Despite all the freedom he's enjoyed since getting snatched up by mind flayers, it's difficult not to think of himself as a slave and Cazador the indomitable master. What was it that Iorveth had said? That he's still bound to Cazador by fear. The memory of those words makes indignance flare up in his chest, made worse by the fact that they aren't entirely false.

He shakes his head. No, they are false. There's nothing tethering him to Cazador but these scars on his back, and soon even those will just be a distant memory of someone who tried to hurt him and failed.

A little snappish, he says, ] I didn't know I had to consult the collective intelligence. Or lack thereof, in some cases. [ Said by the group's biggest smoothbrain.

A moment later, though, he relents, voice softening. ] I haven't yet decided.

[ It's what he's wanted this entire time, a group to help him defeat his greatest enemy and worst fear. He'd expected them all to be disposable, but they've put a wrench in that plan. Cazador could use any of them against him. He always did have a way of pinpointing weaknesses.

On the other hand, the thought of killing Cazador on his own—or even with Iorveth at his side—is daunting. ]

I suppose you have an opinion on that.

[ Iorveth has an opinion on everything. ]

[ There's something divinely ironic about the fact that Astarion's one grand plan backfired on him spectacularly, but again: it hasn't yet been 48 hours into their emotional fumbling, and Iorveth is trying to set records.

Besides, it's a serious matter. Emancipation or death. This is, after all, the thing that drew Iorveth to Astarion in the first place, though he'd phrased it unkindly in the past: "intrigued by his desperation", or something close to it. The joke's on Iorveth for letting it get personal.

He turns his focus back onto the street, minding where he walks instead of meeting Astarion's moods full-on. Giving him space, if he wants to indulge in the illusion that Iorveth isn't looking. ]

Assuredly. [ Iorveth does, in fact, have an opinion on everything. ] One of them being that I'm capable of many things, but not spellcasting.

[ Not to downplay his wide range of abilities; it's just the truth. Gale would simply make a better ally in a fight against a vampire. ]

As I said before, I'll not stand idly by while you fight your foe. But it's likely that my usefulness will have its limits.

[ Unless they raid Sorcerous Sundries and steal a bunch of magical weapons and armor that Iorveth can pad himself with, which is technically an option. Impractical, but an option. ]

Edited 2024-07-23 23:56 (UTC)

[ Astarion crosses his arms, glancing off at nothing in particular. A streetlamp, a storefront, a squirrel scampering down the street. ]

Well, if we invite Gale along, there's always the risk that he blows up. [ If Cazador or his cronies decide to kill him. Then again, at least that'd take Cazador out with them. ] Or worse, tries to make some sort of rousing speech.

[ He rolls his eyes, but the truth is that he doesn't want Gale to be at Cazador's whims any more than any of the others. It's irritating how they've managed to make him like them. A weakness that he should be eager to expunge. Should. ]

I seem to recall you rejecting the idea of involving the others in your little plan. Don't tell me it was only because you wanted to spend alone time with me.

Henselt was one man. And we'd been planning his death for a while.

[ Before the Nautiloid snatched Iorveth up and interrupted his very urgent assassination crusade. The reason he'd been in Baldur's Gate in the first place. ]

I'd chosen you, back then, out of necessity and the certainty that you'd run if you had to.

[ A self-assurance, of sorts, that Astarion would mind his own safety before Iorveth's mission, and therefore wouldn't be an unnecessary casualty in Iorveth's war. He'd already made it clear that Astarion's death would've weighed heavily, so he doesn't press that point.

The wrought-iron gate that sequesters the park from the city loom in the distance. The silence of dawn makes the place look slightly sinister, like a held breath. ]

That said, I've no intention of dictating how you get your revenge. My point is that if you intend to keep this from the others, I'll have to learn more tricks.

[ 'The certainty that he'd run if he had to'. Astarion can't help but snort. Sure, he's not exactly heroic, but it's rather blunt to come out and say that he was only chosen for his selfishness, especially when that's not why Astarion chose Iorveth.

Oh, well. Fat lot of good that 'certainty' did, anyway. ]

The others might not understand.

[ Understand what, he doesn't clarify. The need to stab his former master until he's an unrecognizable pulp? His desire to sacrifice the rest of his family to ensure his future safety? —Well, Iorveth might not understand that one, either. An agitating complication, considering he still hopes that Iorveth will change his mind about staying with him in his soon-to-be palace. ]

But don't worry. If it comes to that, I'll buy every spell scroll in the city.

[ "Buy", he says. "Steal", he means. ]

[ "Understand" is an interesting word to use. Iorveth stills before he can walk up the few steps leading to the closed gate, looking over his shoulder at Astarion as he tries to parse what Astarion thinks Iorveth understands. Being backed into a wall? Needing retribution? Wanting, despite everything, to live?

Shared points of connection that most people would find ugly, no doubt. Iorveth considers them, and feels compelled to turn towards Astarion again. His palm finds the flat of Astarion's chest where his heart should still sit, unmoving, between his ribs. ]

And I'll use every last one of them.

[ Loyalty in the face of terrible odds. He cranes forward, almost as if he's going to lean for a kiss－

－but he pauses mid-motion, and glances up at the nearest tree standing just beyond the gated wall instead. ]

I can feel your judgment, Ciaran. Come down.

[ Silence reigns for an extended beat, before it's broken by a sigh and the rustling of overhead branches; Ciaran is just as put-together as he was when they met in the tavern, ethereal and handsome in his green sashes and soft leather, hopping gracefully from the tree when summoned.

"I was waiting," he tries to explain, "for an opportune moment. Apologies." He turns towards Astarion after he offers his excuse, and though his chin remains slightly hiked in caution, the nod he gives him is less curt than it could've been, made softer still by his hesitant but relatively well-intentioned "...greetings." ]

[ Astarion goes far enough as to slip his eyes shut in anticipation of a kiss, eyes opening to irritated slits only once Iorveth has said the name 'Ciaran'. As he turns to face the aforementioned interloper, he grinds his teeth together, jaw clenched, suppressing the urge to throw a tantrum at being cockblocked for the second time in as many days.

Scowling: ] Oh, wonderful. Kevin's here.

[ Another purposeful misnaming, of course. But Iorveth told him to behave himself, so he quickly corrects himself as if it was an honest mistake, running a nonchalant hand through his hair. ]

Or, ah, Ciaran, was it? [ A dismissive wave. ] I'm positively abysmal with names. Charmed to see you again, of course.

[ Now he's probably laying it on a bit thick. He glances at Iorveth. ]

Well. Don't let me stop you two from catching up.

[ Ciaran, who has no idea how grave of an offense he's committed with his innocent (?) cockblocking, looks obviously appalled by what he perceives to be Astarion's poor manners. He turns to Iorveth and says what basically amounts to "what in the nine hells is his problem???" in their shared tongue, to which Iorveth replies with a light, partially amused "I'd be here all day if I tried to tell you."

Ciaran, in his muted wood elf way, frowns. Iorveth, now with his hands back at his sides and a polite step-and-a-half away from Astarion, chuckles under his breath. ]

I didn't force you to come. [ "Behave". ] －Ciaran's been using this park as his escape from the city streets. And, as well you know, [ a vague wave of one hand, ] this place is within spitting distance of the Szarr manse.

[ Ciaran raises a brow, but doesn't interrupt. ]

If there's been any unusual activity along these ramparts and walkways, he'd know. [ Tilting his head towards his fellow Aen Seidhe, with a look that says wouldn't you?

Ciaran, who looks vaguely confused, mirrors Iorveth's headtilt.

"I wouldn't know what the goings-on in the Szarr mansion would have to do with your current predicament, Iorveth." ]

[ Like an unruly dog called to heel by its person, he does behave. Mostly. He listens quietly as they speak what sounds like gibberish in their Aen Seidhe dialect, although he does raise an irritated brow and cross his arms at being left out of the conversation. So very rude.

His initial instinct is to reply to Ciaran's confusion with something like that's for us to know and you to never find out, but Iorveth's reminder to behave lest he anger Ciaran rings in his head. A pout spreads across his face at the realization that he's going to have to be, ugh, polite. A second later, he forces the corners of his mouth upward into a mild smile, the sort he wore back when he was pretending to be nothing more than a privileged magistrate with the bad luck to run into mind flayers. ]

I've had dealings with, ah, Mister Szarr in the past and I thought it would behoove you to keep an eye on his household. ...The particulars don't matter, of course.

[ Because there's no believable reason why a Baldur's Gate local who rarely leaves his estate, much less the city, would have anything to do with the Aen Seidhe. Astarion breezes right past that. ]

But I assure you, its relevance can't be overstated. Tell him, Iorveth.

For once, he's right. [ Very Rude, if not for the slight lilt of his tone that makes the jab sound fond, not sharp. ] There's something that needs doing, and knowing the goings-on surrounding the Szarr mansion is integral to seeing it done.

[ A non-answer, Iorveth knows. But Ciaran has been with him through the worst of his years, and Iorveth knows when Ciaran will defer to his judgment. This is one of those times.

Sure enough, the muted puzzlement on his brother-elf's handsome features recedes. Ciaran deliberates only for a moment before lowering his head in concession, moss-green eyes flicking up to settle first on Iorveth, and then on Astarion.

"Understood. I'll share what I've observed thus far, which may not be much." Ciaran looks to Iorveth for permission to continue, which he grants with a nod. "Around the same time you disappeared, Iorveth, visitors to the Szarr estate started increasing. Not the kind one would expect― armed, mercenary-looking types instead of painted, peacocking nobility. Still, none of them seemed to be affiliated with Henselt, so I'd not paid them much mind."

This time, Ciaran swivels his attention onto Astarion, his expression turning slightly dubious, as if he suspects that Astarion might now have something to do with the increased activity surrounding the mansion. "I've had dealings" contextualizes things for him.

"It seemed that these mercenary types were patrolling the city on behalf of the manor lord. Keeping people out, I'd assumed, but..." The frown returns, pensive this time, and Iorveth takes this as his cue to interject. ]

Astarion is blameless in the matter. [ Cutting off speculation. Ciaran looks a bit embarrassed, and tips his posture back as if to rear away from his own half-formed accusations. "I... yes, I know you trust him." ]

[ Astarion grins smugly, looking like the cat that ate the canary. How terribly satisfying it is to see accusations shut down before they've even been made. ]

Yes, [ he croons, clasping his hands behind his back, ] I'm the very picture of innocence.

[ Only a heartbeat later, though, his smile drops. He's not sure what he'd been hoping to hear, exactly, but this hardly does anything for him. Astarion could have guessed as much; it's obvious that Cazador would have people scouring the city for him, if not beyond city limits as well. It must have infuriated him to lose one of his possessions, even ignoring that getting Astarion back would be instrumental to his ascension. With the ritual in mind, Cazador must have been enraged.

A prospect he'd find amusing, if not for the little voice in his head that wonders what Cazador will do to him in revenge. He's waited centuries to make this sacrifice. He'd wait a little longer if it meant punishing Astarion's disobedience. ]

None of this helps me. I already knew he had lackeys to do his dirty work.

[ Uh oh. Iorveth watches as Ciaran's posture whipcracks into defensiveness, like the baring of teeth without his lips actually curling back.

"And? Am I meant to be helping you?", followed by a muttered something under his breath, to which Iorveth responds with a warning hiss of his name and a firm "calm". The chiding is obviously a hard pill to swallow, and Ciaran counters with a rare: "I know we owe him a debt, but hells, Iorveth."

Iorveth folds his arms across his chest, and with his stillsame obstinacy: ] I chose him.

[ Ciaran does the wood elf equivalent of throwing his hands up, which is to hike his chin with graceful chagrin. Iorveth smiles at the expression; it's been a while since his right hand's been so angry with him.

"In that case," pointedly, at Astarion this time: "what would help you?" ]

[ Ciaran and Iorveth are far too alike, the only difference being that Astarion—for some godsforsaken reason—likes Iorveth. Everything that's amusingly prideful or, at the very least, ignorable when Iorveth does it is irritating when it comes from someone else. So much time with his tadpoled crew has made him forget just how much most people rankle him without even trying. ]

I—

[ He falters. With no plan in mind save for marching right in and facing Cazador head-on, it's difficult to say what would be helpful. He glances at Iorveth for a second, uncertain, before turning his attention back to Ciaran. ]

I wouldn't say no to names. Descriptions. Schedules.

[ If they're lucky, maybe one of these mercenaries can be bought out. If not, well. Back to Plan A, he supposes, and marching in the front door. ]

Where they enter and exit the palace from, if there's any secret passages that I— that the public doesn't know about.

[ It's becoming more and more apparent to Ciaran that this has absolutely nothing to do with Aen Seidhe business and everything to do with personal business. A strange, near-novel thing. It would be slightly more vexing if not for the fact that he thinks Iorveth might deserve a bit of a break, which is the crucial difference between him and his brother-in-arms.

"I see," he says, releasing some of the tension keeping his spine ramrod-straight. "Give me three days, then. I will try to see what I can find."

Iorveth frowns a bit, glancing towards Astarion to gauge whether they have three days to spare, but it's Ciaran's time to cut him off with a reminder: "The Northern Forests aren't inviting us back, Iorveth. At least, not until the shift of power takes, and holds. So..."

A gnaw against his perfectly-smooth lower lip. "...None of us shall think less of you for staying in this city for a bit longer. Even for the sake of a strange High Elf."

Surprise flits across Iorveth's calm features, before he tempers it; he shakes his head a moment later. ]

We'll speak on our business later. [ To Astarion: ] Can we afford the time?

[ His eyebrows lift. The Northern Forests aren't inviting us back. What, is Iorveth persona non grata even after what they did to Henselt? He glances at Iorveth again, eyes questioning, but he doesn't look angry. Not like Astarion would be, if he were in his position.

He can almost hear Iorveth telling him that it isn't the time to have that conversation, so he bites his tongue on the subject, turning his attention back to Iorveth's question. Three days. Any number of things could happen in that time. His siblings could come back, or maybe Cazador's hired mercenaries. If not that, then it's only a matter of time until this brewing problem with the Netherbrain boils over. If that doesn't kill him, he'll be left without the tadpole's protection, helpless against Cazador's commands again. He'll have to hide in the dark like a rat and pray Cazador never finds him. ]

I guess there's little choice.

[ He doesn't hide his displeasure at the prospect — at least until he shrugs, waving his hand nonchalantly, as if it doesn't really matter. ]

We've gone this long. What's a few more days in the grand scheme of things?

[ "Then I won't waste any more time. I'll find you again, when I've more to say."

Quick, decisive Ciaran. Iorveth grips his elbow in thanks before Ciaran allows himself to slip away, stepping through the wrought-iron gate and back into the hushed silence of the park with its marble statues and half-broken structures slowly dappling with sunlight.

Three days. Short enough to feel inadequate for extensive planning, but long enough for other, potentially world-ending catastrophes to happen. Time has become relative and malleable over the past weeks; lifetimes lived in hours. It's enough to overwhelm most, so Iorveth turns to Astarion and gives him a slow, deliberate once-over. Checking in. ]

Tell me what's going on in that meandering head of yours.

[ Iorveth-ese for "you ok?", essentially. ]

[ Drily: ] I thought I had nothing going on in my pretty head.

[ That would be preferable, probably. If having to wait three days wasn't anxiety-provoking enough, having to depend on someone he barely knows to come through is. What if, after all this wasted time, Ciaran has nothing to offer? Perhaps he should make his move now; striking fast might throw Cazador off, if he expects Astarion to still be floundering. Then again, the humiliation of losing everything to Cazador because he acted too quickly out of fear would be too great to bear.

His gaze drifts to the side. Rays of sun are just barely peeking out in the sky, giving everything a soft, golden glow. Deliberately airy, he says, ] I was only thinking that this place looks different in the light.

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