nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ Nothing good ever lasts, so Astarion isn't surprised at an answer that makes this arrangement ephemeral. It's disappointing nonetheless. After all this is said and done, Iorveth will go back to his real life, and Astarion will still be right here.

Lightly: ] Bold of you, to assume a catch like myself will be waiting around for you.

[ Two hundred years and thousands of people, and he's only ever liked one enough to show his soft underbelly. He'll wait, even if it isn't of his own free will.

All of this talk of the future is putting him in a poor mood. He slips off the stone wall, standing and dusting his trousers off. Better, he thinks, to avoid having to deal with it until the moment that it actually happens. After all, avoiding unpleasant feelings is what he does best. ]

I don't know about you, but I've had quite enough of all this nature.

[ Iorveth lingers on his ledge, watching Astarion realign himself on his feet. Still sitting, he mutters something under his breath in his language, low and melodic; a tendency to say the things he finds most important in the dialect that he feels most comfortable speaking.

The temptation here is to not translate, but he decides to do it just because Astarion seems eager to drop the subject. They can breeze quickly on by. ]

Fickle cat. I'd ask you to come with me if you would.

[ Patting dust from his leg, he looks towards the brightening city, its streets slowly filling with early risers heading to work. He can smell the beginnings of breakfasts being prepared, sounds of children yelling at parents to wake up. Normalcy, under all this chaos. ]

Where are you headed today?

[ They've had this conversation before, Iorveth making the decision for him without asking. It's not farfetched, he supposes. His entire life has been within the confines of this city, for good or bad. While he doesn't belong here, necessarily, it's difficult to imagine anywhere he would belong more. Astarion opens his mouth as if to say something— then closes it, thinking better of it.

He glances out toward the wrought iron gate that trails along the perimeter of the park. A woman hurries to set up her wares at a table nearby, eager to catch passersby before the other shops are open. A man waves to her as he heads toward the harbor, fishing pole in hand. ]

Honestly, I'd hoped we would get more useful information than that, and I'd be murdering my maker today.

[ Then again, he'd also hoped he wouldn't. It's an inevitable confrontation, but one he can't help but dread. ]

I suppose all I'll be killing today is time.

You'd meant to kill him today, [ is slightly incredulous, observed with a hike of one brow. ] Points for ambition, I suppose.

[ He imagines Astarion running into a mansion with three spell scrolls and a dagger in his hand, which might have been funny if Iorveth didn't, you know. Like him so much. He still looks bemused after the first waves of "you can't be serious" recede. ]

Given that I can't trust you not to do something foolish, [ says Iorveth, who is the true clown in this scenario, ] I'll be coming along.

[ A little meaner than he should be; Astarion's been surprisingly resourceful thus far, but desperate people do dumb things. ]

It wouldn't have been foolish if your man had more to say.

[ Throwing the blame on Ciaran is easier than accepting responsibility himself. Iorveth is the one who'd asked if three days was too much; surely, then, he must realize that they're on a time limit. So what, if today would have been a little hasty? Perhaps it would have thrown Cazador for a loop, caught him unawares. ...It's all pointless, anyway, because Ciaran didn't tell him a damn thing he doesn't already know. Astarion sighs, turning his back to Iorveth. ]

But if you want to follow me around like a lost puppy so badly, I won't stop you.

[ His nose is in the air as usual, but he smiles privately once his back is turned, secretly pleased that Iorveth will be spending time with him. An inconvenient feeling that he should be stomping out, knowing that Iorveth has no intentions of sticking around. Easier said than done.

He pauses, thoughtful. It's rare, to have 'time to kill'. That sort of thing was never allowed as a spawn. If he wasn't out hunting for Cazador's next victim, he was by Cazador's side. Hard to say which was worse. ]

You know, [ he says, tapping his chin, ] it's been two centuries and I'm still not sure what passes for fun in this city.

[ Huh. Iorveth hangs back, arms folded across his chest in his default thinking pose, obviously reflecting on the immensity of what it means to spend two centuries anywhere without actually knowing it. Astarion's lived (or rather, unlived) experiences color everything about him, Iorveth realizes. Much like the previous remark about seeing the park more clearly, it occurs to him that Astarion hasn't seen people get up in the morning to get ready for the day since the night he died.

More subtle things that make him more patient than he would be. That, and it also dawns on Iorveth that he, too, has no idea what to make of peacetime.

So. Because he also has no clue what fun in a city looks like: ] Well.

What do you enjoy doing.

[ Putting Astarion on the spot. If Astarion turns this question around on him, he is going to be so annoyed. ]

[ Without a moment of thought, he turns back to face Iorveth, throwing out a disingenuous ] Oh, you know. Stabbing people, stealing things.

[ Astarion hesitates, then. He's learned from his 'family' that this sort of question is often a set-up for scorn and mockery, and in return he's become reticent about sharing anything truly personal. Will Iorveth laugh, tell him how frivolous and foolish he is?

No, he thinks a moment later. Iorveth can be harsh, but he isn't cruel. Not to Astarion, anyhow. ]

—But if that isn't an option, I guess I... [ He quiets, briefly pensive. ] Well, I used to enjoy looking in the fancy shop windows.

[ He'd imagine what it would be like to go inside and throw his money around like the sort of powerful, wealthy man he must have been in his past life. Even in the dark, through the windows, he could always pick out the shiniest thing in the shop. Embarrassment at how pitiful he was wads up inside him, sitting uncomfortably in his chest. ]

And I enjoyed trouncing you in cards.

[ In a different timeline, a different white-haired man will happen upon a magic stone that reveals Iorveth's deeply-held dream to be to sit in front of a fire with a table full of food, smoking the elf equivalent of weed, alone. Said ambitions remain largely the same, in this timeline; Iorveth has no room to judge any other damaged elf about wanting frivolities.

But, first things first: ] You cheated. [ A reminder that Iorveth might yet win if they played without counting cards or using spare ones, but it seems moot at this point. With that out of the way, he unfolds his arms and rests his hand on the pack hanging from his hip, weighing it through touch to assess how much coin he has left after killing a man with more gold than he ever had any right possessing.

Enough to buy something very shiny, he wagers. It's fine to spend it, since he's sure he won't have enough money to buy all the magical artifacts he needs from Sorcerous Sundries, and he wasn't planning to put money in Lorroakan's pocket anyway. ]

...Fancy shops, then. A debt paid for one owed― you made my potential last night alive memorable.

[ So. He might as well do the same, over the next three days. ]

[ If these are to be his last days alive, Iorveth has already made them memorable. He's given Astarion something he's never had: brief moments of respite. There's never been a person he'd rather spend time with than be alone, never someone whose arms around him didn't make him feel sick. Even if this sacrifice turns him into a lowly lemure in the eighth layer of the Hells, he'll remember how it felt to kiss someone and like it.

Which, gods, of course he can't say that. ]

Oh, I'm sure you'll find a way to make it memorable.

[ He can't help himself; he presses a quick kiss to Iorveth's mouth, praying Ciaran isn't waiting above in the trees to interrupt them again. ]

Although, if it's all the same, I'd really rather it weren't my last days alive. But, ah, we can discuss that unpleasantness later.

[ Iorveth risks the kiss, even on the heels of their fraught conversation about the future. It's as foolish as the rest of everything he's been doing since his poorly-planned regicide, but feels just as pleasant.

He steps away, but not without smoothing his hand over Astarion's shoulder. He traces the fabric of the borrowed shirt, then pinches at its sleeve with a short huff. ]

A trial run before you've earned your peace of mind, then. [ Recontextualizing. ] First, you need a better shirt.

[ Not that Iorveth is the jealous or territorial sort; Astarion is free to do with himself as he damn well pleases, and be attached to whoever he wants, Gale included. Still, he's going to take the excuse to have Astarion wear something that doesn't constantly remind him of someone else. ]

[ 'A trial run'. Trying on frilly shirts with Iorveth probably isn't anything like his life will be after performing the ritual for himself. It'll be dangerous for the vampire lord of Baldur's Gate to spend too much time among the public; after all, there's a reason Cazador hardly ever leaves his palace. Just like when he was a spawn, he'll be restrained to the manse.

...Well. He'll have people to do his shopping for him.

His thoughts don't make it out his mouth. Instead, he picks at the tunic, scrunching up his nose. ]

Oh, I know. This one is awfully frumpy. [ He takes it in at the waist, looking down to appraise the improvement. ] Gale's quite a bit rounder around the middle than I am, don't you think?

[ Gale's just human-sized, their frames bigger than willowy elves. Still, he'll never miss an opportunity to knock Gale down a peg, even when he isn't present to see it. ]

I only thought I might get stabbed again today, and I'd rather not ruin my things. [ The implication being that Gale's things are perfectly fine to ruin. Honestly, it's not even a flattering cut on the person it's supposed to fit — Astarion is doing him a favor. ] But if we're putting that off, there's no reason not to look fashionable.

[ It's his turn to touch his fingers to Iorveth's sleeve, although this time it ends in a gentle tug at the hem, encouraging Iorveth toward the iron gate of the park. ]

I do expect you to tell me how fetching I look in everything I try.

[ It is demonstrably too early in the morning for Iorveth to be thinking about Astarion's waist size, but thankfully, that mental image is ruined by the comparison to Gale's stature. Crisis averted. It's almost like Astarion doesn't remember Iorveth's confession that he isn't immune.

Horrible, to be attracted to someone like this. Iorveth is a century too old to care terribly about what gets him riled, but it's been a while since he's felt inclined. When Astarion tugs at his sleeve (a surprisingly sweet gesture), there's a moment where he thinks to corral the both of them against the gate with his hands gripping Astarion's aforementioned waist, and take his time kissing him for a while.

He blinks the stupid fantasy out of his single eye, and clears his throat. Before, he would've made a comment about the sorry state of Astarion's ego for wanting so much praise so constantly, but. Well. He actually knows the sorry state that Astarion's ego is in, so. ]

Don't expect my praise to be poetic.

[ His attempt at neutrality fails: he smiles after the last syllable, and lets Astarion take him through the entrance of the park and along its walkways. The closest boutique, he recalls, is Facemaker Fashion, just on the other side of the grounds.

Man, wouldn't it be terrible if a Bhaalist murderer were slinking around, trying to ruin their quest to look fashionable??? Good thing Iorveth isn't thinking about that, though, and is, instead, focused on glancing towards the direction of the Szarr Mansion, glaring at it in intervals. ]

Not even a little waxing poetic about my ivory curls and porcelain skin? Hm.

[ Disappointing! But expected nonetheless. Iorveth isn't exactly effusive. Paradoxically, it's something Astarion finds... not unappealing. It makes it all the more satisfying to receive his praise when it's difficult to come by.

He leads Iorveth up the stairs to the Facemaker boutique entrance; it is, in every way, fancy. Light blue walls, pots of greenery outside by the chestnut double doors, a twisting tree that provides shade from the sun's rays as dawn breaks. It's the kind of place he would have gone to as a magistrate, and the kind of place he never got to set foot in as a spawn. Astarion swings the double doors open, eyes bright, mouth curled into an excited grin— only to come face-to-face with an empty room. Hm. The room is nice, of course, with a soft rug sprawled out across the floor and red drapery on the windows. No one behind the counter, though, which is odd.

Tilting his head: ] Perhaps they're not open yet.

[ The sound of voices comes from within, past two more double doors. A wealthy client being helped by the owner, maybe. Astarion presses a hand against the door, pushing it open to reveal two dwarves, one finely dressed in deep blues and glittering golds and the other, well, holding a knife to the former's throat. Although he doesn't turn around, the knife-wielding dwarf glances toward their reflections in the mirror. (Iorveth's reflection and Astarion's lack of one, that is.) ]

Oh. [ Astarion takes a step back. ] This seems like a private affair.

[ Either this is someone's idea of a good time, or it's an attempted murder. Three guesses, and the first two don't count. ]

Just our luck, [ is the verbal equivalent of a tongue click, as Iorveth reaches for the sword at his hip. The dwarf in red― the one poised for an impromptu surgery― turns to the pair with his wet, nearly-unfocused eyes, and pulls his lips into a smile that stretches too far for comfort.

"A challenger," he hisses, weapon brandished. "Another offering for my lord."

Iorveth frowns. ]

Is there anyone in this city that isn't a cultist?

[ Genuine question. So much for not getting stabbed. The dwarf in red clearly doesn't care about Iorveth and Astarion's "avoid unnecessary drama" protocol, however, and sprints towards them, surprisingly fast. Iorveth only narrowly avoids getting disemboweled on the first strike, blocking metal with metal with some difficulty; Iorveth can tell that the dwarf easily outclasses him in brute strength alone, which isn't ideal.

"Bear witness to my sacrament!", the dwarf crows. Gritting his teeth, Iorveth rolls his eye. ] Oh, shut up.

[ Not a good suggestion, it turns out: the dwarf, the grotesque rictus still plastered on his gummy face, takes Iorveth's advice and vanishes in a blink.

Iorveth pulls back, mildly furious as he tries to corral Astarion towards a more strategic position. ] Invisibility. Only good when you use it.

[ Astarion really doesn't feel like dealing with a Bhaalist assassin on one of his potential last days alive; he'd intended on just turning his back on whatever horrors are happening in here and letting the victim die. It wouldn't be his first time letting someone die to save his own skin. When the dwarf turns on them, though, he has no choice but to get involved.

The assassin makes a hand gesture and mutters an incantation before disappearing into nothingness. A spell Astarion knows well. As Iorveth bullies him into a tactical position, Astarion takes the opportunity to follow suit, chanting invisibilis and vanishing from sight.

Part of him wants to stay at Iorveth's side, but it would be wiser to strike from a distance. Invisible now, he takes several large steps back, pulling his bow from his back. In a moment, the dwarf becomes visible again—to Astarion, at least, if not his companion—and makes a move to stab Iorveth in the back. The instant he appears, Astarion looses an arrow, materializing again. ]

[ The arrow lands, thunk, sounding the familiar dull noise of something sharp embedding itself into dense flesh. The dwarf falters mid-attack and manages only to graze Iorveth's back diagonally with his knife, splitting fabric and the top layer of his skin superficially; Iorveth, on instinct, pivots on his heels and viciously slashes at the figure behind him, overshooting the dwarf's height (whoops) and accidentally cutting him right across the neck instead of across his torso, the way he'd intended. A feat he wouldn't have managed without the assist.

It would've been nice to get some information out of the assassin, but with an arrow growing from his back and a steady pool of blood leaving his jugular, well. Iorveth steps back and away from the soon-to-be-corpse, and spots another armored figure in the room adjacent, knife drawn and frozen in place.

He looks kind of freaked out by the whole thing, really. But Bhaal's will must be done, so he charges at Astarion, shedding his human form mid-swipe of his dagger to reveal it as one of the lanky doppelgangers that've been plaguing them for a while now.

Ugh. To buy Astarion some time to switch weapons, Iorveth reaches for the nearest thing he can throw at the doppelganger― which happens to be a rather nice-looking chair. Red velvet armrest, gilded backing. ]

Dodge! [ He yells, and throws the hopefully-not-priceless-antique. ]

[ Astarion has just enough time to think about what a nice chair it is before it's hurling at him.

Iorveth shouts, and he instinctively steps back, narrowly avoiding the airborne furniture. It collides with the monstrous creature, knocking it away for enough time that Astarion can exchange his bow for a trusty dagger. The thing is persistent, and it's back as soon as Astarion has his weapon in hand, swiping with its sharp claws and shredding through the sleeve of Gale's tunic when Astarion extends his arms to defend himself. A bright idea after all, to wear something disposable. Gale won't miss it. Probably.

He slices with his dagger in retort, the blade carving a long trail across the doppelganger's chest, and reaches out to shove the thing away before it can retaliate. These delicate arms are only meant for show, though, and the doppelganger resists. Neither giving way, they stand there grappling with each other like some sort of awkward slow dance.

Quickly growing weary of actually having to use his strength, he calls, ] A little help wouldn't be amiss!

[ Gods, the creature is grotesque. Up close, its skin seems almost chitinous, pale in a way that isn't the alabaster-white of Astarion's complexion, but the ash-gray of skin that seems to only have been halfway formed before the body gave up on it altogether. Its hinged elbows are bent at an odd angle, clawed fingers grappling with Astarion as if it wants to tear him open and―

―ugh, what, wear him like another layer? Disgusting. Revulsion propels Iorveth forward, sword in hand, and he lodges the sharp end of his weapon parallel to the vertical stack of the doppelganger's back, and pushes in.

The monster screams, flecking Astarion with blood and spit as it writhes on the end of Iorveth's blade. Whoops. Grimacing, Iorveth takes a few steps backwards, bringing the still-struggling doppelganger, still impaled, with him. ]

Revolting.

[ Doppelganger saliva dapples his face, blood speckling his hair. Astarion shudders in disgust, lip curling and nose wrinkling. As Iorveth backs away, skewered monstrosity in tow, he wipes delicately at his spit-flecked cheek with the sleeve that's still intact. ]

Eugh, [ he moans, ] keep your sputum to yourself.

[ The doppelganger still struggles, even now, so Astarion takes a step forward and brings a hand up to its face. With a muttered venenum, a small puff of acrid gas gusts from his palm. The noxious vapor makes the creature's eyes water and it sputters momentarily, the mist burning its lungs. After a moment of seizing, it falls limp, hanging heavily off of Iorveth's blade. ]

[ Helped along towards death thanks to Astarion's spell, the corpse shrivels, deflating like a balloon until it slides down Iorveth's sword and falls, desiccated face first, onto one of the boutique's many ornate rugs. It, along with the now similarly-dead dwarf making a red stain on veneer flooring, are two very incongruous additions to an otherwise tastefully furnished establishment; Iorveth hadn't gotten much of a chance to take stock of the place until now, but it seems a very strange place for a Bhaalist to set their sights on.

Lae'zel probably has a better perspective on all of this. She's the one that's been looking into assassin aspirants running amok in the city. All Iorveth wants is a shirt.

A few yards away, the proprietor of the shop, still presumably paralyzed by some poison or other, gurgles impatiently in his seat. He's ignored for the time being (what's he going to do, run away?), and Iorveth approaches Astarion instead, inspecting Gale's spit-flecked and torn tunic for hints of injury underneath fabric. ]

And I thought we were dramatic. [ We, meaning their traveling party. ] The cultists have us beat.

[ The storekeep (Figaro, the multiple awards celebrating his years of service in sartorial excellence claims), clears his throat again, and, again, Iorveth ignores him to fix Astarion's hair. ]

[ It's a small gesture, one with likely little to no thought put into it, yet the feeling of Iorveth's hands at his hair makes warmth flourish in his chest. A strange, wonderful feeling, to be preened over by someone who isn't himself. Like something valuable worth keeping in good condition. He fights to suppress the smile spreading across his face, but fails to do so completely; the corners of his mouth turn up in a faint but unmistakable grin. ]

Beat in dramatics only. At least we're still better-looking.

[ Even bespeckled with spittle and blood. Astarion can smell the metallic scent of their adversaries' blood seeping from their wounds, and the aroma makes him salivate a little. He takes an unnecessary breath in and out, willing himself to focus on the present moment. With his hands at Iorveth's shoulders, he tries to turn him to get a better look at his back. ]

Did that awful thing get you?

[ A very loud clearing of the throat from Figaro. Astarion stomps his foot. ]

We're having a moment, [ he informs Figaro, peevish. ] Honestly! The manners of some people!

[ There's a thin diagonal rip along the back of his tunic, and a similarly-thin scratch where the assassin's knife'd grazed Iorveth from shoulderblade to hip. Something a potion would mend instantly, though the same can't be said for the shirt.

No problem. He can buy a new one, if he ever thinks to free Figaro from paralysis. Wiping a fleck of blood from Astarion's jaw (sharing in the ire of being interrupted, and expressing it with his reticence to pull away), he glances over his shoulder at the petrified dwarf with his face still frozen in horror. ]

Hm. He may struggle himself to death if we spend too long on our moments.

How will you get your pretty clothes, then?

[ Figaro would argue that his life is more important than a new doublet for Astarion, but Iorveth, the meanest elf in the world, could reasonably debate that. A quick I'm fine later, and he peels himself away from Astarion and steps over the Bhaalist assassin, rummaging in his pack for one of the antidotes that he always keeps on his person. And they say that paranoia doesn't help anybody.

Unceremoniously, he uncorks and jams the mouth of the bottle into Figaro's mouth, urging him to swallow the liquid as he pours it directly down his throat. Practical as ever, highlighting how differently he approaches Astarion compared to other people. No soft touch for Figaro, unfortunately. at the very least, the dwarf seems to splutter to life a few moments later, wheezing around some antidote that's gone down the wrong pipe.

"What in the hells－ Gods, we're all lucky to have survived whatever... that was!" ]

[ Monotone and apathetic, he drawls, ] Mm, certainly.

[ They've survived worse. You should see Ketheric Thorm, he thinks. The well-dressed dwarf hops up from his chair a moment later, smoothing out the wrinkles in his striking ensemble. An image-conscious man even in near-death. Astarion can appreciate it.

"The savagery!" Figaro exclaims in his lilting accent, then points to the assassin's corpse. "I mean, those shoes with those trousers? That's the real crime here."

Astarion glances at the aforementioned crime against fashion, then cants his head as if to say, you're not wrong. The assassin's outfit is mostly untarnished, but it isn't even worth looting. Pants and shirt the exact same color? Gods, it's a travesty.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Figaro continues, although it's suspiciously directed more toward Iorveth, who actually healed him, and less toward the elf who griped about him seeking help. Astarion, in all of his emotional maturity, decides not to take it as a slight. Mostly because, well, he would have happily left Figaro paralyzed (and stolen as much fancy clothing as his grubby little hands could carry) if not for Iorveth.

"You can expect a hefty discount on all my wares for your fortuitous interruption! ...It looks like you could both stand to use it now."

Astarion's face lights up. Yes, Iorveth's tunic is ruined. He'll have no choice but to let Astarion dress him in finery like his own personal doll. How delightful. ]

Oh, yes. I think my lovely companion would look very fetching in your goods.

[ There's something slightly impressive about watching a man go about his day to day business as flippantly as Figaro does, even after having been exposed to the dangers of death only minutes before. He immediately starts rolling the doppelganger up in the soiled rug ("better to buy a new one than try to salvage this wreck"), and uses bits of the broken antique chair to poke the dead assassin into the nearest closet ("the Fists'll know what to do with him").

Meanwhile, Iorveth glances over at Astarion. Slightly wary, if the squared shoulders are any indication. ]

I only need a shirt, [ he reminds Astarion, to which Figaro interjects:

"Oh no, I think you need a complete upheaval of your current outfit. Red and green? No, no. And that scarf... well, I don't mean to be impolite, but－" ]

My scarf is fine, [ Iorveth snaps. Figaro, who has built his entire legacy on disagreeing with people about what they think looks good, doesn't back down.

"－I think we could do better. Don't you agree, sir?" Appealing to Astarion this time around, as he looks like someone who has more of an eye for these things. ]

[ Unfortunately for Iorveth, Astarion very much wants to participate in a 'complete upheaval' of his outfit. It's just that Iorveth's get-up is so drab, better suited to blending in with the forest than standing out in the city. And that well-worn scarf only serves to hide his face, not accentuate his sharp features. Already, Astarion is imagining a plethora of striking outfits for Iorveth. Warm browns, deep greens, dramatic blacks.

He happens to think Iorveth looks nice without any scarf at all, but that may be more because of what it represents than any true sense of fashion. His full face is something special, hidden away from the rest of the world, but Astarion gets to have it. Like any spoiled brat, he enjoys having things others don't have.

Innocently: ] Perhaps we should listen to the man. Fashion is his specialty.

[ "That it is, for over a decade running!" Figaro pipes up.

Eyes as big and round and guileless as he can make them, Astarion adds, ] I think you'd look very ravishing in an eyepatch.

[ A bejeweled one! But that may be pushing his luck. ]

You did say we would do what I enjoy — mmm, more or less. [ Pouting like the badly behaved child he is: ] You never know. It could be my last days alive.

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