nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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.

[ Caught between a rock and a hard place, forced to say one embarrassing thing or accept a similarly embarrassing predicament. He opens his mouth, closes it－ swallows a sentence that he thinks is poorly-formed, then grinds out another one through his teeth. ]

The assumption was that I'd be the one buying clothes for you.

[ Credit where credit is due: he doesn't say "I hate that you're making me admit that I wanted to do something nice for you, you insufferable vampire." Trying to salvage an already-doomed relationship by not being a complete jackass. Figaro looks to be on the verge of providing running commentary, but Iorveth silences him with a look that could wither grass; he steps away, promising to come back with an armload of selections that the gentlemen can peruse, leaving Iorveth to contend with Astarion and his not-quite-puppy-eyes.

Ugh. Iorveth feels that familiar urge to throw his companion out of a window, but not before kissing him. Insanity continues to keep Iorveth in its vicegrip.

After a low, long sigh: ]

A pity that I owe you my life. [ Fine, in Iorvethese. ] I'm not taking the scarf off while the dwarf is in the room.

I wouldn't dream of it, [ Astarion agrees, pleased by the thought that the removal of Iorveth's face covering will be just for him. Funny, because he's rarely ever been excited by the thought of anyone removing any article of clothing for him, much less such an innocent one. ] I'd have to stab him to defend your honor, and then we'd have to get rid of the body — it's just too much work.

[ He waves a hand, scrunching up his nose as if the idea is simply inconvenient and distasteful rather than cold-blooded murder. ]

I must admit, I rather like the idea of dressing you. [ A pause, and he tilts his head, peering at Iorveth thoughtfully. ] Perhaps you'll see what I see.

[ Not conventionally beautiful in the way elves so often are, but appealing all the same. Intense, piercing. Features sharp like a knife's edge, rather than the soft, ethereal look one might expect from a wood elf. One could get cut on his glare, but that only makes his smiles more valuable.

Figaro bustles through the double doors, arms stacked high with various articles of clothing in a rainbow of shades. He sets them down on a table, separating them into two piles. "The left for the, er, fair-skinned gentleman," says Figaro, seemingly thinking better of blurting out pale. "And the right for..." A beat, as Figaro considers what descriptor to use for Iorveth. "His stony companion." ]

[ See what Astarion sees. Iorveth rolls that over in his head, contending with his own discomfort with his own face. On one hand, even if he were given some sort of magical fix for his face, he wouldn't accept it― he earned his scar, and he wouldn't replace it for the sake of vanity― but on the other, looking at it is a constant reminder of the humans who inflicted it upon him. Every time he sees his missing eye, he thinks of the man who'd taken it, his sour breath, his promise to make Iorveth ugly.

A deep breath, and he slams the door shut on that memory. Focuses on Astarion instead, on the way Astarion makes him feel, on the realization that he, for whatever reason, believes Astarion when he says that there's something worth looking at under Iorveth's scarf. It settles the familiar nausea in the back of his throat, and he leans in to press his lips to silver curls before Figaro interrupts them with his stack of colorful new clothes.

Stepping two strides away from Astarion, Iorveth offers the shopkeep a curt nod. His turn to be irritated by Figaro's inability to read the room. ]

...The black and red would suit you.

[ Glancing over at Astarion's pile, spying a decadently-embroidered jacket and pants combo in deep burgundy and satin black. Maybe a little too on-the-nose for a vampire spawn; Figaro assures him that all outfits come in different color combinations, if the style is right but the hue isn't.

Iorveth, meanwhile, picks through his selection of eyepatches. There are traditional ones with no adornments, some with gold patterns etched into them, and a few that are more like strips of cloth, like the one the little tiefling girl from the Grove'd been wearing. ]

Thoughts?

[ Astarion looks over the selection with the discerning eye of a couturier. He's immediately drawn to the embellished styles, and he picks up a patch with delicate gold chains and glittering embroidery. He looks from the patch to Iorveth and then back again. It's really more his style than it is Iorveth's, and as much as he'd love to make Iorveth sparkle against his will— he finds that, shockingly, he'd rather make him happy. That soft press of his lips to Astarion's head had felt good, and he wants it again.

He puts the eyepatch down and plucks up another one by the strap. It dangles from his fingers, far more understated but of fine make all the same. Judging by his own ensemble, Figaro would sell nothing less than the highest quality. The eyepatch is a brown so warm as to be almost cinnamon, made from a durable leather—"That's full grain, you know," Figaro points out helpfully—and only adorned by a tasteful embossing around the edge. Not nearly flashy enough for his taste, but suited to a woodland fox. ]

Figaro, darling, do get lost.

[ "I— excuse me?" Figaro furrows his brow, as if unsure of what he just heard. ]

We want privacy. Surely you've heard of the concept.

[ Figaro understands the concept, yes, but storms off in a bit of a huff, mumbling something about attitude. It's a little funny, the clash of two fussy personalities, but Iorveth can also appreciate that Astarion's haughty display was done for his benefit. He listens for the door closing behind him, and relaxes slightly for it. ]

Surprisingly good at herding sheep.

[ Amused, as he works on removing his scarf from his head. Ears first, then the rest; he shakes out his hair once it's freed from the confines of tightly-wound fabric, sifting grown-out bangs from his remaining eye. He might need a trim, soon.

Setting the shed scarf aside, he moves to where Astarion is holding his pick. Inspects it over his shoulder, humming in consideration under his breath. ]

Hm. [ A sensible choice, and probably not Astarion's first. He tries not to look as endeared as he feels, to variable success. ] Put it on me, then.

[ Aside from giving blood, it's the greatest concession that Iorveth can make: offering the ruined side of his face to someone else, not just to look at, but to interact with. Almost like a wild animal letting one specific individual scratch behind its ear. ]

[ This is all so ridiculous, this expression of intimacy through innocent gestures, but Astarion could purr regardless. He'd seen Shadowheart and Halsin before, crouched down on the outskirts of their camp with this or that woodland animal eating out of their outstretched palms. He'd never understood the appeal of gentling a feral creature until now.

An amused smile tugs at his lips. What would Iorveth think, he wonders, if he knew that Astarion imagined him as an untamed animal licking offered food from his hand? ]

Let me look at you first, [ he says, although it's closer to a docile request than his usual firm demands. He knows what it's like to have scars. Holding the eyepatch to his chest, his eyes run over Iorveth's exposed face, his dark hair.

Iorveth has nice hair, he finds himself thinking. A little long, a little unruly, but the strands look soft and inviting as Iorveth pushes them away from his face. The idea of pressing his lips to Iorveth's hair and inhaling the scent of him flits through his mind, and he's thankful their tadpoles aren't connected to transmit it unbidden. ]

Delectable, of course. [ Offered casually, as if it's a foregone conclusion.

He secures the eyepatch around Iorveth's head, taking care not to muss up his hair more than he has to. Afterward, he arranges Iorveth's hair out of his face, smoothing it down. ]

Terribly dashing. Ah, my taste is impeccable.

[ Yes, Iorveth entrusted Astarion with the task of putting on the eyepatch, but there's still a not-small part of him that goes on the defensive when Astarion opens his mouth for comment. Not a flinch, but a bracing that slowly eases as Iorveth reminds himself that this isn't a game being played, that he has no reason to believe that Astarion is flattering for gain.

"Vampires are manipulative creatures", the monster hunter'd said. Maybe so. But Iorveth leans into Astarion's clever fingers anyway, permissive, and swallows back the temptation for disbelief. (Astarion is better than what most assume about him, he thinks.) ]

Your taste is worrying. [ Iorveth corrects, though he's smiling despite it. The eyepatch doesn't cover all of the marring on his right side, and he wonders if the scar that runs from his cheek to his mouth doesn't look gruesome when he curls his lips; oh well.

The leather feels soft and comfortable on his skin. More importantly, it feels comfortable to be seen by Astarion, and that makes something in his chest ache. He leans closer, brushing their noses together before chancing a brief kiss. Who knows when Figaro will decide that his embargo has been lifted and bustle into the room with more trinkets for them to try on? ]

...Now choose something from your own pile, while I think of synonyms for "fetching".

[ He really can't stand here letting Astarion compliment him for longer than this, he might die. ]

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