nibbling | open post pt. 2.

Astarion.

[ A warning, in those few syllables. He doesn't move from where he's standing, three swift steps away from Astarion and his boiling rage; it's hard, when he understands how it feels to want to kill someone beyond rationality or practicality. Despite all the softness and sweetness that Iorveth finds impossibly enchanting about Astarion, this is what he relates to the most.

Frowning softly, he tips his head. ]

You still don't have a plan, do you.

[ The courage, however, is commendable. He's reminded of his own cockamamie plan, of his own manacled hands and Astarion dropping his lockpicking tools. They really aren't so different, him and Astarion. ]

[ He looks up, finally, crossing those three steps to stand toe-to-toe with Iorveth. Every muscle in his body is tense, shoulders a rigid line. Their tadpoles don't need to be connected for Iorveth to sense the heavy hatred emanating off of him in noxious waves. He despises Cazador, despises how even now just reading his words on a page makes him feel so small.

As he lists his 'plan', he counts off each step on his fingers. ]

Wait until sundown, walk in through the front door, let Cazador think he's won before ending his miserable life. [ His hand clenches into a fist. ] Enthusiastically.

[ It scares him to think of seeing Cazador again, but hate is even stronger than fear. He wants to make Cazador beg for mercy. Wants to bury him under a pile of dirt and laugh as he tries to crawl his way out. He wants the very last thing Cazador ever sees to be his face. ]

That sounds like a plan to me.

[ Most people would likely try to talk Astarion off this ledge. They'd say something like "be practical" or "consider your options", and they would be correct, if not for the fact that most people have not suffered systematic oppression and torture for centuries. Iorveth has survived for a century because he's been careful, but he's also had the weight of an entire clan resting on his shoulders; even then, the only reason he'd escaped the gallows is because he'd been angry enough, furious enough, to act.

He looks at Astarion, red eyes like twin knives, glittering murder.

Still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, Iorveth thinks.

So: ] Fine.

[ Iorveth can only validate that anger, because it's correct. And, as far as Iorveth is concerned, every single individual in the Szarr mansion asked for it; they requested the fight to be brought to them. They declared war, with the now torn-up letter littered under Astarion's feet.

So they all have to die, Iorveth figures. ]

We'll have to get The Blood of Lathander from Lae'zel first, but the rest will be as you wish it.

[ Astarion expects Iorveth to dissuade him. To be, as he so often infuriatingly is, reasonable. Sensible. Practical. He's all ready to throw his hands up in frustration, to say that if Iorveth won't help him, he'll just have to find a way to do it by himself. He's had to survive with no one to hold his hand for centuries already. But then—

Fine, Iorveth says.

With his emotions running as high as they are, he can't resist the impulse to throw his arms around Iorveth, squeezing tightly, clutching the fabric of his vest in his fingers. He buries his head into the crook of Iorveth's neck, breathing him in. It's not befitting of a fun, purely physical tryst. He really has to stop this, but just this one more time, he tells himself. One more time, and then he swears he'll finally be able to cut Iorveth loose before Iorveth cuts him.

After a moment, he steps back, letting his arms fall awkwardly at his sides. ]

I— [ He's embarrassed. That's starting to happen a lot around Iorveth. ] Thank you.

[ His hands remain settled on Astarion's waist, even when Astarion pulls back. Holding him where he is, trying to feel the intensity of his emotions under his palm. It's a ridiculous compulsion, but Iorveth wasn't being facetious when he'd said, all those days ago, that he was drawn to Astarion's feral desperation. Drawn to his compulsion to live, despite all odds.

Gods, he really has lost the script. From "this is the only reason I can tolerate journeying with this stupid vampire", to "this is why I want this stupid vampire to be happy and free".

He leans forward, resting forehead against forehead for a precious beat before he finally lets go. ]

Mm. Thank me if we make it out alive.

[ A soft smile, as confident and reckless as ever. Iorveth is a madman. ] Will you come with me to speak to the others, or would you rather not?

[ Iorveth is a madman, but Astarion finds himself (against his better judgment) finding it endearing. Charming, even. The corners of his mouth curl up into a small echo of Iorveth's expression, his hard edges softened so quickly by one kind gesture from him. It's difficult to sulk for long when Iorveth is around, which is ironically the reason he even feels like sulking in the first place. Ridiculous, to be upset that someone in this world actually makes him happy.

As he stuffs down the feelings that rise when he hears Iorveth's voice saying the words 'come with me' again, he says, ] I'll come.

[ He answers a little too quickly to be entirely casual. He wants to spend time with Iorveth, even now. One more time. Then he'll be detached and unconcerned.

Tilting his chin up: ] I'm not afraid of Lae'zel.

[ Much. ]

[ There he is, the haughty cat. Iorveth wonders if it isn't exhausting to kaleidoscope so quickly between sour, sharp, and sweet, but Astarion wears all of it as well as anyone ever could. Very cute, in the kind of way that makes Iorveth want to step on his own foot to snap himself out of it.

A low laugh, offhanded; Iorveth sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for his abandoned basket from the day prior, and roots inside of it for the few remaining pastries that he'd wrapped in paper. ]

You shouldn't be. For all that she bites and hisses, she's soft on you.

[ Every member of their party is, if Astarion hasn't noticed. Lae'zel has groused about Astarion to Iorveth many times in the past, but all of their conversations have ended roughly the same way: "I haven't killed him yet, so I doubt I ever would." It's as close to "he is my friend" as Lae'zel can get right now, Iorveth fancies.

Iorveth demolishes two cakes in quick succession, and licks crumbs off of his fingers. ]

We'll leave when you're ready. Say the word, and we'll go.

[ Gods. Astarion watches Iorveth's tongue on his fingers and tries not to think about him licking things. He, of course, fails; it's all he thinks about as he crouches down to rummage through his bag of clothing and pull out a clean pair of pants. Dark, slim cut, nicely tailored — exactly his style. ]

Stop that. It's distracting.

[ Astarion has never been shy about his body, at least not since the hundredth or so person who saw it, but it feels somehow awkward to take his pants off in front of Iorveth with this lingering tension between them. He keeps his eyes glued on the floor while he changes instead of trying to alluringly strip tease like he might otherwise. ]

...And unseemly, of course, [ he appends, not finding it unseemly in the least.

Pants on, he searches through his pack for a comb and uses it to meticulously arrange his curls, gently running a hand over them to check how they look. Afterward, he straightens his collar and smooths down any wayward wrinkles, acutely aware of his appearance. ]

All right. [ Habit leads him to tug at the hem of Iorveth's sleeve. ] I'm ready to go.

[ He laughs, when chided. "Excuse my wood elf manners," is breezy, followed by another bite of a third pastry; he takes care not to be so messy that he has to clean himself off again, lest he scandalize.

Ridiculous. He had Astarion's cock in his mouth not even a full day earlier― too little too late for shyness. If anything, the knifepoint anger that Astarion'd deigned to show Iorveth up close has only made Iorveth want him more, which is likely something he should keep to himself.

Still, when Astarion tugs at his sleeve, Iorveth looks at him with the intensity of someone thinking very hard about whether or not he could get away with a kiss. He stares at Astarion's mouth for a hovering moment, head tipped, jaw angled...

...before he draws back and readjusts his bow against his back. ]

To Elfsong, then.

[ And that's that. Out they go, back into early morning daylight, through familiar streets and past the park, where, beyond raised bridges and walls, the Szarr mansion sits like a lesion in the landscape. An infuriating reminder of words that make Iorveth sick: "the boy is his, and all of his things, inevitably, yearn to return".

Arriving at Elfsong is a semi-welcome reprieve from dark thoughts of slitting a faceless Cazador's throat. They walk up familiar steps, and are greeted by the pitter-patter of paws on wooden flooring: Scratch, the best of them all, spends their first few moments upon arrival monopolizing their attention with plaintive kneading against both of their legs. ]

Ugh, get off of me, you mangy mutt, [ Astarion complains, while scratching behind Scratch's ears. He can't help it. He likes the slobbering thing. Astarion has never had someone who regarded him with such unconditional affection before; there's something incredibly endearing about Scratch's enthusiastically wagging tail whenever he sees Astarion.

But he won't say that, of course. At least, not when others are around.

Shadowheart is holding a handheld mirror with one hand and applying her ghastly smoky eye makeup with the other. When they arrive, she glances up at them with a raised brow. "Where have you two been?" she asks, like she already knows exactly what they've been up to. (Minus the murder and plotting to kill his former master, anyway.) ]

Out, [ he replies childishly. ] Surely you've heard of it.

[ Gale pops his head out from his bed, where he's preparing his spells for the day. "Might I say, you're both looking quite dapper." ]

I always look dapper. [ Crossing his arms, eyes wandering the room searching for the yellow-green of a githyanki: ] I need to speak with Lae'zel.

[ Returning to the casual familiarity of what he's come to know as "The Group" is somewhat jarring after the events of the past few hours. He leaves Astarion to manhandle his way through his current conversations, assuming that he doesn't need (or more importantly, doesn't want) to have his hand held through the entire morning: he gravitates towards his space in the room and finds it exactly as he'd left it, stolen goods for killing vampires and all. The extra pack gets clipped onto his belt, another unyielding weight against his hip.

Speaking of unyielding. Lae'zel, summoned, slips out from under her privacy curtains and approaches Astarion with ambient wariness, like she's aware that these weird elves are up to Something and she can't tell if she needs to pummel the bad ideas out of them or just let them walk it off like a flesh wound.

"Speak," she tells Astarion, with a warning attached: "Without embellishment." The impatience is characteristically gith, but also purely Lae'zel.

Iorveth watches from an insignificant distance, ready to chime in if necessary; he momentarily locks eye(s) with Jaheira, who looks at him with what feels like half-maternal amusement. He ignores it. ]

[ "Hey, Iorveth!" Karlach calls from a far corner of the room, where she and Wyll are doing morning calisthenics. Eugh. You couldn't pay Astarion to do a one-armed push-up ever, much less right after getting up. "New threads? You look snazzy as hells!" A moment later, she returns to her exercise, counting out one-hundred and one, one-hundred and two...

Astarion ignores all of that nonsense and focuses on Lae'zel peering up at him. For such a fearsome warrior, she is rather small. ]

Life without embellishment would be horribly drab. [ Lae'zel doesn't seem to agree, if her scowl is any indication. ] —Fine. Do you recall that rinky-dink old mace we found in that monastery?

[ "I recall a legendary relic fit for a warrior." Just not her, apparently, since maces aren't her style. "It remains in my possession until I find one worthy of wielding its power." ]

Mm. Right. Well, I just thought that since I was nearly disintegrated to obtain it, you might let me... borrow it. Just for a day! You won't even notice its absence, honestly.

[ Lae'zel's eyes narrow, tiny nose crinkling like she can smell the stupidity in the air and it smells foul. "You're surprisingly competent with the weapons you already have." As rude as this is, he's pretty sure it's meant as a compliment. What she says next, however, is not. Eyes dipping to look disparagingly at his arms, she adds, "And I question your ability to swing a mace effectively."

"What could you need the Blood of Lathander for?" asks Shadowheart, not even trying not to insert herself in the conversation.

"Yes," Lae'zel says, arms crossed and eyebrows raised expectantly. "State your purpose, and I may grant your request."

Gods. This is why he just wanted to steal it. Astarion huffs, fumbling over his words. She certainly won't give it to him if he spills that he plans to impulsively murder a vampire lord with it. She'd say something about how a true victor strategizes, and he'd groan. ]

I— things. [ A beat passes with her looking at him. ] Private things.

[ Tableau vivant: a vampire, bullied into submission by unrelenting girlfriends. Iorveth could frame it and put it up on a wall, Astarion lit in brilliant chiaroscuro, looking beautifully frustrated. He contemplates letting everything unfold without interference, but reconsiders. The past few hours have been all about putting Astarion on the spot, and he could use some reprieve before it'll happen again, more savagely, after sundown.

He can hear the "I knew it" that permeates the room when he steps forward to speak. Karlach, still holding herself up on five tented fingers, lets her grin split her face from ear to pointed ear. ]

It was my idea, [ he says, because it was. ] After our run-in with the other spawn, I suggested it would be in our best interest to take safeguarding measures.

[ A very ranger thing to say. Also a very Iorveth thing to say, as a professional terrorist with decades of experience in setting up traps and sleeping (trancing) with one eye (the only eye he has) open. The hike of his brow is an open invitation for anyone to question the wisdom of warding against enemy vampires using light, but it's also a challenge for anyone to say anything stupid about, you know. Wanting to safeguard Astarion.

Halsin takes up the challenge; he comments, with infuriating sincerity: "it takes courage, Iorveth, to allow yourself intimacy after all your troubles. I congratulate you."

Iorveth considers killing him. Wood elf solidarity wins by a slim margin. ]

Whatever would I have done without your congratulations, I wonder. [ As dry as desert sand. ] The mace, Lae'zel.

[ 'Intimacy'. Astarion frowns at the comment, but says nothing. Whatever he says will be more revealing than what their companions think they already know.

Lae'zel stares back, expression contemplative. She, at least, has little interest in commenting on their relationship. Why should she have any? In her mind, it's just two strange elves becoming even stranger together. Nothing special. "Yes, I can see why you would be concerned for his protection." ]

Oh, Lae'zel. Do you mean to say you worry about me? I'm touched—

[ "After all, Astarion's skill with a blade is counteracted by his impulsivity and capriciousness."

Astarion scowls. ]

Are you going to give me the damned glowy mace or not?

[ All Lae'zel has to do is give him a Look, and he knows she thinks he's being impertinent. Well, good. He is impertinent. She ignores his whining, which is possibly the most offensive thing she's done so far, and turns her attention to Iorveth.

"I would see it entrusted to you instead," she says, imperious in her way but affording Iorveth a sort of regard she doesn't give to Astarion. A warrior recognizing a warrior. "Your acumen in battle has proven you worthy." ]

I'm right here.

[ Being deemed worthy in battle by a githyanki is likely a high honor, but really, Iorveth just wants the mace. Which isn't to say that he doesn't take the acknowledgment and return it with his own－ a little nod that's more for her own benefit than his－ which seems to convince her, if not placate her. Enough for her to move to retrieve the weapon in question from her crate of valuables, a rather sinister-looking thing despite what it's meant to embody; it warms the room when brandished, suffusing the space with gold-amber light. ]

Conspicuous.

[ Letting Astarion take a look at it, knowing that the only thing protecting him from radiant damage is the tadpole lodged in his skull. Shadowheart looks up from where she's adding the finishing touches to her makeup, and twists her mouth in a mischievous arc.

"At least you're guaranteed not to lose the thing," as if they're two misbehaving children with the penchant to misplace precious artifacts. Iorveth rolls his eye. ]

I'll not hear any more talk of loss from you.

[ "Iorveth!" Karlach gasps. "Too soon!" He huffs in return, and starts looking for a good place in his pack to jam the spiky weapon into as Lae'zel shuffles her focus over to Astarion.

"Rarely do I allow valuable allies to act in a way that jeopardizes the survival of the group. Do not disappoint me." ]

[ That quip, 'too soon' as it might be, earns an involuntary twitch of the mouth from Astarion. He does so enjoy when Iorveth is mean. The amusement is short-lived, though, as Lae'zel practically starts scolding him before he's even done anything. He resists the urge to roll his eyes dramatically. ]

I wouldn't dream of disappointing you, darling. I'd hate to see a frown on that face.

[ He boops her on the nose condescendingly, and Lae'zel actually growls. Time to make his great escape.

Astarion slips over to where Iorveth is wrestling with his pack. A few of the others are looking, as if they expect something interesting to happen. He can't blame them, really. If not for Iorveth's impending departure, he'd be subjecting them all to positively obscene displays of public affection.

Instead of doing that, he leans in toward Iorveth's ear and lowers his voice, hissing, ] Let's hurry up and get out of here before they try to recruit us into one of their ridiculous misadventures.

[ Unlike the very sensible misadventure they're about to get up to. ]

[ Sure enough, at least one member of the group has an errand that they'd love a ranger and a rogue for: Wyll, ever the champion of those in need, interrupts his however-many pushup streak to suggest, brightly, that he's found some Hag Survivors that the two of them might be interested in hearing out－

－to which Iorveth replies, rather blithely, ] They'll survive one more day without us.

[ Gripping Astarion's elbow with one firm hand: ] We've things to do.

[ You know. "Things". Halsin, with his soft bear eyes, nods sagely; Iorveth pointedly refuses to look at him as he guides Astarion out of the room, not quite offended by the group's general interest, but slightly soured by the fact that none of this is as easy or simple as the rest seem to think it is. Not that they know, or have any right to know.

Whatever. Iorveth lets go of Astarion once they're down the stairs and back out into the street, looking significantly more geared up than when they'd arrived. ] Your negotiating skills need work.

[ It's still morning, the sun having risen enough now to bathe the city in a warm glow. A young boy waves around issues of the Baldur's Mouth Gazette, extolling the virtues of staying informed in this rapidly changing society. He holds out a paper as Astarion walks by; he sidesteps the boy and ignores him completely. ]

I don't know about that. I got you to do my dirty work for me.

[ Negotiating with Lae'zel, that is. He pauses then, tilting his head thoughtfully. ]

Although perhaps that has more to do with my natural charms.

[ He shrugs, then adds, ] It hardly matters. We have the mace now, so let's go turn a vampire to ash.

[ An unlikely mission, on a morning like any other. Iorveth hasn't forgotten the vehemence with which Astarion'd torn the note into pieces, and so, he doesn't level a complaint. ]

No need to wait until nightfall.

[ Hot irons, striking, etc. He lets Astarion lead them this time around, trailing half a step behind him like a steel-faced shadow; this is usually when he'd run over strategies and contingencies in his mind, but he doesn't have any. The plan is, still, just to walk in and try not to get killed.

He laughs under his breath, low and smoky. ]

I've been thinking of what to caution you against in this endeavor, [ he says, apropos of nothing. ] But it boils down to the same thing I said when we were about to face Henselt.

[ "Run, if things get too hairy". Their parameter for success is clear: "kill Cazador". Their parameters for failure are also simple: "don't die" is the obvious one, but it also comes with the caveat of "don't let Cazador ascend". Even if Iorveth dies today, if Astarion walks out, it's still a win. ]

Edited 2024-08-14 04:27 (UTC)

[ The same thing he said when they were about to face Henselt. Funny. Astarion didn't listen then, either. He'd planned to, really, but when the chips were down... it's as he said. He liked Iorveth far too much to let him be subjugated, tortured, and killed. If he'd left him behind, Astarion would have spent the rest of his miserable life (or undeath, as it were) trying to repress the memory of Iorveth standing before Henselt in chains.

Tension or not, it's the same now as it was then. No, it's worse. Iorveth has infected him with something far more deadly than an illithid parasite.

He whirls around to face Iorveth. ] For someone who's supposed to be smart, you really do say stupid things.

[ He doesn't deserve to be snapped at, and deep down, Astarion knows that. It's just that his noble offer to be left behind spikes a horrible anxiety in Astarion's gut that he has no clue how to handle. ]

If I run and leave you there, you won't get the luxury of death. [ Astarion could list all of the terrible, horrible things that Cazador would do to him, but there's an easier way to phrase it: ] He'll make you his.

[ And that's the worst possible outcome of all. At least in death Iorveth would have peace. He glowers at the thought, then turns back around. ]

He'll do it to punish me.

[ To lure him back under any circumstances. Astarion can hear Cazador now, gloating. This is what happens when you try to keep pets. ]

[ Easy enough for Iorveth to say something like "I'll slit my own throat before I let Cazador bite me," when he has no frame of reference for what vampire lords are capable of. "More than Astarion" is a broad yardstick.

So he doesn't. Trusts, instead, the man who spent two hundred years subjugated by the vampire in question to make the call on whether or not it'd be stupid to linger, even if he doesn't love the answer. How very phenomenally stupid of Iorveth, really, to take away Astarion's option to cut his losses.

He follows in silence, after that. Up the ramparts circling around Bloomridge Park, past a few guards with glazed-over eyes that identify Astarion and Iorveth with distant recognition and let them pass without conversation. Thralls, most likely. Iorveth wonders at what point the inhabitants of the Szarr mansion decided it would be a good idea to reach out to him, directly, to return Astarion to them; whether they truly believed that Iorveth would do it, or if they believed that he cared enough about Astarion to at least share the letter.

Sickening, either way. He doesn't relish being something that could be used to punish Astarion, though he knows that the opposite also holds true: some part of him would break if Astarion were caught because of him.

More gates, more walkways. The palace looms, its front entrance waiting unguarded, like a grinning threat. ]

[ This is, by all accounts, incredibly stupid. They could have bought better armor. More spell scrolls. Some damn potions, maybe. Astarion is too keyed up to think of any of that as he approaches the manse for the first time in tendays. Part of him had hoped never to come back here again. Another part of him dreamed that he might one day take it for his own. As he stares up at it now, tall stone walls with carved statues flanking the doors, he feels the urge to burn it all down with everyone inside.

He wordlessly pulls out his lockpicking tools, approaching the thick wooden doors with a grim expression. To his surprise, though, the door has been left unlocked. It opens with a creak, the door heavy and hard to push as if urging him to stay out. He enters regardless. This is, after everything, still his home. He should be welcome here.

The effect of entering what amounted to his prison for two centuries is immediate. The tall ceilings, the chandelier hanging above them, the gaudy art on the walls — it's just as he left it. Even the way it smells, like dust and death, brings back memories he'd buried away. He'd thought it would feel different returning here, now that he's been on this journey. Instead, it feels like nothing at all has changed. Like he hasn't changed. He finds himself unconsciously staring at his shoes, shrinking in on himself in an attempt not to be noticed.

On the other side of the foyer stands a servant, meticulously dusting every centimeter of a gilded vase. Her movements are frenzied, anxious, but there's no glassiness in her expression. She isn't a thrall; she's here of her own will. "Master Astarion!" she whispers when they step through the door. Her voice is awed. "The master said you'd be back."

He probably said a lot of things. Instinctively, Astarion lowers his voice, too. Master likes the quiet rattles around in his head. ]

Yes, well, I suppose I missed my darling family.

[ "He's been so angry with you," the servant says, smiling. It comes as no surprise; Astarion's abrasive attitude made him no friends at the palace. Then, suddenly, her eyes snap to Iorveth. "You brought someone." ]

Keenly observed, [ he snarks. He's always hated these damned servants. Sycophants, every one of them. ] He [ —Astarion struggles for words for a moment— ] longs to join me in eternal life.

[ "Master Cazador said I would be the next one to receive his gift!" she hisses. Pathetic. He's probably been saying that for decades. ]

[ There's something humbling about seeing the shape of Astarion's prison. Gilded, velvet, like the inside of a coffin. Maybe a bit too on-the-nose. Worse, still, than the stifling death that hangs like drapes in the air, is the way Astarion seems to wilt in the sunless space of this dreadful manse; if the place weren't unsettling enough, seeing Astarion fold into himself is a cold vice around Iorveth's heart.

Don't, he almost thinks to say. But that would cast suspicion on the both of them, and it's as much Iorveth's fault as it is Astarion's that they didn't think to rehearse their lines before jumping into the play.

So he keeps a polite distance from Master Astarion. Infers, from the bit about desiring eternal life, that he's meant to play the part of someone currying Astarion's favor; he remembers Henselt and the manacles around his wrists, drawing inspiration from that particular moment of feigned deference to offer, quietly: ]

I do as Master Astarion wills.

[ It isn't difficult to say. Anything, as long as Astarion stops looking so defeated. Iorveth hates it, despises it, would rather Astarion tip his chin haughtily and lord this moment over Iorveth's head than look so sheepish in front of anyone. His proud, rakish cat. ]

[ Astarion might find Iorveth's complaisance amusing under other circumstances. As it is, he barely reacts, only canting his head toward Iorveth and looking at the servant as if to say see? ]

Take it up with Master Cazador, if it bothers you so. Speaking of, where is he?

[ The servant, clearly aggravated by the idea that Iorveth is going to walk in and receive the blessing of everlasting life while she's been toiling away to earn it for years, crinkles her nose. "The master goes where he likes."

Astarion frowns, then says, voice dripping with passive-aggression, ] You know, Master won't be happy if he learns that you spoke without first being spoken to.

[ The annoyed look on the servant's face suggests that this is a tactic Astarion has used often to get his way. The vampiric equivalent of I'll tattle on you to daddy. She looks even more annoyed by the fact that it actually works. Everyone in this mansion lives in fear of the master's wrath; 'telling' is a weapon in itself.

"It's daytime," she whispers. "The master is likely resting. It'll be your funeral if you disturb his trance."

If only she knew that there are far worse things than a funeral. He doesn't bother to thank her for the information, simply brushing past her into the manse proper, down a winding hallway decorated with ornate rugs and unlit candles. Astarion had forgotten how oppressively dark it is in the palace. He never had the sunlight to compare it to before.

He hates it here.

Turning to a painting on the wall that depicts a pale, stern-faced, dark-haired woman, he reaches out to straighten the already-straight frame. Instinct, the desire to 'look busy'. He steps back and frowns. ]

A vampire lord has to rest in a coffin by day, but I've never seen Cazador's.

[ The conversation is enlightening. A glimpse into the kind of paranoia you need to keep handy in order to survive a fastidious tormentor with a bad temper; worse yet, the kind of "better-you-than-I" culture that that particular brand of paranoia encourages.

Iorveth is glad to step away from it. He follows Astarion, keeping the same deferential two-steps-behind distance, trying not to wrinkle his nose at everything about Cazador's inner sanctum. The heaviness, the mutedness, the stench. Its thin veneer of opulence doesn't do much to hide the fact that the place has bats in the ceiling.

(Behind him, in the other room, he can hear the servant muttering under her breath about keeping everything clean, spotless, pure.) ]

―I'd expect there were certain parts of this mansion that you weren't allowed access to.

[ Something to the effect of "don't go to the North Wing of the Second Floor"? Iorveth has no idea. He runs his hand over the smooth corner of a nearby banister, and glances down at what he assumes is the even-darker downstairs area. ]

Staking him while he sleeps would make things easier for us.

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