nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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.

I suppose.

[ It's a bit too easy, isn't it? Anticlimactic? He wouldn't even be able to make Cazador scream in agony. This is about survival, safety, yes — but it's also about revenge. About proving to Cazador that he's surpassed him in every possible way. Whatever weak, pathetic creature Cazador once enslaved must have deserved it on some level, but Astarion isn't that person anymore. Despite everything, he craves the validation that Cazador could give him in his last moments. ]

But if we can't find more information about that ritual, we'll have to find out from him.

[ He stares darkly down the stairs. They might as well lead to a dungeon. ]

His private quarters won't be easily accessed, I'm sure.

[ Right. The ritual. Iorveth'd forgotten about it entirely, too preoccupied with Astarion's shift in demeanor and the overarching desire to see Cazador dead.

The look on his face as he turns to Astarion is, momentarily, "you're actually still thinking about that?" Muted, as everything in this palace forces things to be, but easy enough to interpret if Astarion cares to decipher it. ]

Be realistic. If he's not divulged the details of his ritual to you now, he won't divulge it when he's cornered. It's the way of things for creatures like Cazador, bloated on their own self-importance.

[ He gestures towards the hideous wallpaper, red and gold like the insides of a diseased beast. ]

[ Realistic. Astarion's frown deepens. Perhaps it is realism, but it's hard not to feel like it's pushback instead. ]

Well, I don't want to leave with nothing.

[ Which is what he'll have, should this ritual not pan out. Once they've dealt with the Netherbrain, he'll be alone, powerless, stuck in the dark. He already spent two hundred years that way. He's not sure he can stomach that for the rest of his eternal life.

Astarion starts down the stairs, descending into the darkness. The banister is ornately carved, a decadent show of wealth and power. As they move further into the belly of the beast, the smell of rot and decay grows stronger, mingling with the sickly sweet smell of the herbs and flowers kept around for their beauty. He can smell dried blood; he wouldn't be surprised if some of it was his, left over from tendays or months ago. ]

I know someone who'll have a key to Cazador's quarters.

[ If it feels like pushback, it's because it is: there's so much of this that Iorveth wants to push back on, now that he's seen the shape of it. If this is what Astarion will get as a reward for eternal power, this mansion and its rot and all of its fetid memories, he thinks "nothing" is a more apt descriptor for ascension.

But he won't say so. At least, not now. He'll radiate it with his straight-backed posture and his folded arms, his disinclination to touch anything as they meander deeper down into the palace. The air seems to get more oppressive the lower they go, like fog, clinging to his skin and wrinkling his nose.

Astarion doesn't belong here. "Come north with me" feels like a less ridiculous thing to say, now that Iorveth is in the literal thick of it－ this place is fucking miserable. Nothing can thrive here.

But he keeps that to himself for now, too. Instead, he tries to recall a name that he'd tortured out of a poor young monster hunter several days ago: ]

"Godey"?

[ Someone important enough in the Szarr mansion that others reported to, if he remembers correctly. ]

[ The mere utterance of the name Godey makes his shoulders tense more, practically hiking up to his ears. If there's anyone in this palace that he hates as much as Cazador, Godey is it. No one else matches Cazador's glee at causing suffering and torment. No one else is so intolerably smug. ]

Yes. The kennelmaster.

[ He can't bear to explain further. Iorveth will find out soon enough, although part of Astarion wishes he wouldn't. This is like walking through a museum of his own humiliation; Godey has seen Astarion at his smallest and weakest, and he wants to keep that part of himself hidden away from Iorveth.

As they reach the bottom of the winding stairs, they arrive next to a door that seems to emanate death, probably the main source of decay. Astarion shoots it a dark look. It's his second least favorite room in the house, which is saying something. ]

I hate that room, [ he says dismally, before turning away and continuing down the hall. Another servant feverishly cleans the glass display cases here, just as painstakingly diligent as the servant who came before him. As Astarion drags a hand across the wall, seemingly searching for something, the servant looks up at him, alarmed by the handprints he's making on the wall—

Then looks down, cowed. He'll be in trouble if there's fingerprints on the walls, but even more in trouble if he breaks his master's rules and speaks to Astarion. ]

Cazador enjoys illusions. He keeps the door to his worst room hidden away from prying eyes.

[ "Kennelmaster" says all it needs to say. Revulsion winds through him, serpentine, like bile in the back of his throat－ it makes everything that comes out of his mouth sound more pointed, sharpened by the acid that it has to claw through. ]

He's done a poor job of hiding its stench.

[ Literally and figuratively. This place reeks. The foreboding scent of death and old blood seeps from invisible seams in the wallpaper, particularly behind one arched indent in the wall: Iorveth blinks when the illusion melts like mist under Astarion's palm, revealing the iron-bolted door that it'd been hiding.

The servant behind them scurries along, whispering something under his breath about it happening soon, the preparations are complete, everything must be tidy. ]

Astarion. [ Iorveth calls out, his turn to tug Astarion back by his sleeve. ] I'll defer to you in the matters of how to act in this manse. If you need me to be silent, I'll be silent.

[ He frowns. ] As much as I'd prefer not to be. [ Iorveth always has a lot of opinions. ]

Silent? [ He furrows his brow for a moment, only for realization to wash over him. Yes, it has been rather quiet since they arrived. Astarion had hardly noticed, so used to the coffinlike atmosphere that anything but silence would feel strange. He hadn't even noticed until just now that he himself had lowered his voice.

He clears his throat, speaking up: ] No. You don't belong to him. You don't have to follow his rules.

[ It might be easier if Iorveth bit his tongue, but it angers him to think that his silence would please Cazador. He'd hate for Cazador to glean any satisfaction from Iorveth, even more than he'd hate it for himself. How very odd.

He turns back to the door to the kennels, then, foreboding even as an inanimate object. How many times has he passed through this door and endured Godey's torment? Too many to count. He pushes the door open, stepping in a few steps before being struck with the awful familiarity of it all. The stench of blood and sweat and tears. The stained and threadbare mattress. The chains on the wall. It all hits him like a slap to the face, and he feels himself nearly retch.

A moment later, he feels iron at his throat. Godey's longsword, and only one step behind him, Godey. "I could hear your yammering since you got here," comes from a reanimated skeleton clad in heavy, ornate armor. His skull looks unnatural, his teeth somehow pulled into a rictus grin. "You were never as sneaky as you thought you were." ]

There's the decrepit bag of bones I was just talking about, [ he says, scowling but not particularly threatened by the blade across his neck. It isn't as if Godey can kill him. Cazador will have told him that he needs all of his spawn in one piece. Then again, there's a lot of things Godey could do to him while keeping him in one piece.

"Ha! The lost dog comes running home to his master." Astarion's scowl grows. Godey visibly turns his attention to Iorveth, tilting his head. His bones creak with the movement. "And the doggie brought a new playmate for Godey. I wonder, does he scream as loud as you?"

Now that feels threatening. He spits, ] Don't even think about it, you rotten fossil. He isn't for you.

[ You don't belong to him either, Iorveth thinks. Is still thinking, when they're accosted by the skeleton in armor in the room that he presumes is the kennel. Godey, the creature of Cazador's making, isn't what Iorveth imagined－ it seems a slight, chattering thing, as fragile as the ego of the man who reanimated it. But he understands that it's also been Astarion's tormentor for centuries, and so he refrains from commenting about how unimpressive the thing looks. Anything can become a nightmare under the right (wrong) conditions.

It's certainly gruesome, at the very least. Patronizing. It calls Astarion a dog, and for that, Iorveth decides that they should kill it; his hand is already resting against the sword at his hip when its eyeless face swivels its hollow focus on him.

He barely registers the threat to his own person. Instead, he hears his own blood boil: this thing made Astarion suffer. Iorveth's sword draws from its sheath a moment later, fueled by cold, irrepressible indignance. ]

Say the word, and I'll remove its head.

[ To Astarion, voice low and inflectionless. Godey, without lips, seems to sneer. "No need to be so testy. Godey only ever did as the master ordered, and Astarion was so impertinent. Oh so impertinent."

It nudges Astarion with the flat of its blade, metal to the underside of his chin. Iorveth's frown deepens, and his grip tightens around the hilt of his own weapon.

"But master might forgive him yet, if he obeys." Godey continues. "And oh, the forgiveness will hurt so much more sweetly than all of Godey's punishments put together." ]

[ Astarion positively glowers. All of the physical punishment he doled out was awful, but the worst thing about Godey has always been the way he makes Astarion feel. Powerless, helpless, like nothing more than an animal. He grinds his teeth, the points of his fangs irritating his bottom lip. ]

You stupid skeleton, did you ever think that that's why I'm here?

[ All of his insults roll off of Godey's back like he said nothing at all. He's called Godey worse, and he's called him better, the times that he begged for Godey to stop his 'discipline'. It must be impossible to take someone seriously, he thinks sourly, after watching them blubber like he has.

"Back to lick the master's boots?" Godey asks, teeth chattering in an approximation of laughter. ]

I— [ He swallows down his disgust. ] Yes, obviously. I only came to ask you to let me see him so I can beg his forgiveness.

[ "You always were a nasty little liar," Godey chides. "Tell old Godey, if you came to rejoin the family, how come you brought a friend?" ]

[ They really should have rehearsed this better. Iorveth, his jaw tight and his fingers gripping his sword, doesn't look like a concession for Cazador, which is the only answer to Godey's question that would make his presence make any bit of sense. But it would also be phenomenally stupid to say something like "enough of this farce" and try to lop Godey's head off, so Iorveth stills his hand. Steps back.

His voice is steel when he opens his mouth. ]

－A tribute, not a friend. For the master of the house.

[ Sure, the pair of them'd lashed out at Godey, but what they said still holds true in the face of this new lie: Iorveth isn't for Godey, so Godey shouldn't get any ideas. It's a story that's full of holes, and the creature seems to think so as well: it clicks its teeth again, and waves both of its skeletal hands (the blade it's still holding only narrowly missing Astarion) in a dramatic flourish.

"A tribute that willingly walks to its death? And so brashly? Oh, Astarion should know what Godey does to lying tongues－ maybe this one should learn, and learn well." ]

[ Astarion is slowly realizing that Iorveth did, perhaps, have a point when he suggested that they have an actual plan. Anxiety spikes in his gut, and he swallows against the sharp edge of Godey's sword. Godey is the same as his creator, sadistic in every way, and the mere thought of him laying a bony finger on Iorveth makes Astarion flood with rage and fear in equal measures. ]

Master will be furious if you hurt us before he can do his ritual.

[ "The master needs you in one piece for his Black Mass," Godey says, sounding disappointed about the fact. Somehow, then, he eyes Iorveth with those deep, dark sockets. "But, oh, he didn't say Godey couldn't play with little lost pups that followed you home."

Astarion's thoughts are similar now to how they were way back when he'd fumbled their ruse in front of Henselt, albeit far more disorganized and muddled by the stress of coming back to his home and his prison. One thought rings out clear as day, though: yet again, fuck it. He grabs Godey's wrist, breathing out fulgor as crackling electricity travels through his palm and into Godey, running through his metal sword, his metal armor. He drops the longsword in surprise, and it bounces off of Astarion's boot and clatters onto the floor.

He steps away quickly, but not before Godey's skeletal hand curls around his forearm. "You insolent little brats!" ]

[ The satisfaction of finally having an excuse to draw his sword is short-lived; the fetid skeleton wraps its fingers around Astarion, and Iorveth reacts like a whipcrack, the tadpole in his head sending out an involuntary, eye-watering pulse of cold anger. ]

Don't touch him.

[ It's a hiss, accompanied by a forward surge, a vicious shove. No swinging sharp objects yet, not while Astarion can still be collateral damage: the aim is to send Godey staggering backwards (to make him let go), which Iorveth manages to a certain degree of success. The creature isn't sent flying, but it relinquishes its grip on Astarion to right its balance with obvious chagrin.

"Godey will string you up by your innards," the thing not-quite-spits. The eyeless holes in its skull swivel towards Astarion, the empty space glowing red alongside its fleshless hands; trying to exercise a power given to it by its master, trying to compel Astarion to stay put, to obey. Iorveth can only feel the magic it's wielding as malevolence, making the air in the putrid dungeon boil. ]

[ It feels just like the past again, his mind consumed with thoughts of Cazador, his whole being reduced down to an unimportant slave. Astarion wants to resist, tries to summon up every inch of willpower that he has to do just that, but he feels so small and insignificant compared to the ocean of Cazador around him. It's agony one moment and peace the next, his mind whispering soft, sweet assurances that he doesn't need to think anymore, only do what he's told.

Except Cazador isn't alone in his brain anymore, and even as tiny parasites, illithid don't like to share. A hot pulse of indignation shoots out from the tadpole, strong enough to be felt by its brother in Iorveth's brain; the anger doesn't belong to Astarion—although it certainly could—but to the worm itself, displeased at the magic attempting to take control of its home. Next, a strong wave of psionic power pushes Godey out of his mind and slams the door.

That's concerning, probably. It's a problem for another day, though, given that they survive this one.

For now, he only scrambles to grab Godey's longsword as the skeleton reels back, shocked and shouting, "You wretch! You have to obey the master!" It's one thing to be the utter ass Astarion expected him to be, but it's quite another to try to wrest control of his mind. He's spent long enough in that horrible state; he'd rather die than spend another second like it. The longsword is heavy, but he musters up all of his strength to lift it, eyes burning with rage. ]

I can't fucking stand you.

[ He's never been a swordsman, but he doesn't need to be. He whacks Godey in the face with the damn thing, the brittle bones of his face splintering. ]

Edited 2024-08-16 02:55 (UTC)

[ The spell breaks; Godey staggers backwards, looking as surprised as a thing with no face can look before finding itself on the wrong side of his own longsword. Not for long, obviously, since its face splits where it's been hit, a fissure that widens when it opens its rictus mouth for a scream that never quite manages to make it out of its nonexistent throat.

It's a strange maelstrom of things happening in disparate succession. Iorveth doesn't quite know what to make of it as it happens, the flash of red appearing and then disappearing, the anguished shouts, the crack of metal hitting bone. He gathers, though, that he should probably help make sure that the creature is down for the count－ a pivot and a forward lunge later, he hits the kennelmaster in his chainmail-clad side with his sword, not with the purpose to cut, but to overwhelm; it staggers on uneven footing, and keels over onto its back, writhing.

Iorveth is compelled to stand over Astarion's tormentor and put his foot through its broken skull, not that he really has to. It struggles on the stone floor like an insect flipped onto its carapace, and he drives his heel onto Godey's armored chest, pinning it in place. ]

Vile, [ he spits. ]

[ Astarion has dreamed about this so many times. What he'd say to Godey were he finally the kennelmaster and Godey the dog. What he'd do. The past two centuries have supplied him with an endless number of creative torture methods that he knows firsthand are agonizing.

But now that he's here, with Godey wriggling on the floor before him, he just wants him dead. It's intolerable to imagine him continuing to exist for even one more second. Astarion swings the longsword again and again, battering Godey's already fractured face until it shatters and crumbles, the wriggling stopped.

When all is said and done, he tosses the sword aside, panting with centuries of bottled up fury. He stares down at Godey's bashed in skull for a long moment before finally saying, distantly, ] My arms hurt.

[ He drops to his knees, rolling the skeleton over to search his belongings. ]

[ Iorveth has a fraction of an idea of the pain that follows the fulfillment of vengeance; he can recall the hollow of it in his chest, can feel it, still, when he thinks about Henselt. It guts him, privately, to see the same shape of it in the way Astarion blithely carries on, his focus a million miles away.

What to say? Nothing, probably. Worse than convincing someone of their culpability in something is trying to convince someone that they matter- more empty promises in a world already full of them.

So, instead of platitudes, Iorveth decides to kneel next to Astarion as Astarion rummages through the wreckage that used to be Godey. He's not sure if it'll do anything, to fling the parts of the creature across the corners of the room (do reanimated skeletons have the ability to re-reanimate?), but he does it: fragments of bone hit the wall, scatter on soiled mattresses where Iorveth leaves them.

Softly: ] The longer we linger, the more I wish to burn this place to the ground.

[ He'd expected to feel some kind of euphoria upon seeing Godey lying in shattered pieces on the floor, but he doesn't. He feels instead how he imagines a prey animal might after escaping a predator: relieved to be alive, but still furious at having been predated upon in the first place. Sure, one of his greatest tormentors is dead, but the torment still happened. ]

I hate this place, [ he murmurs as he digs through Godey's pockets. It's an awful realization to make. He'd planned to live here, to stay in the only home he's ever known, but ever since setting foot in this palace, he's felt suffocated. He hadn't realized before just how much easier it had been to breathe these past tendays. (Figuratively, of course.)

Unearthing a ring, he holds it up to examine it. A silver thing with sharp edges and a brilliant red jewel in its center, bearing the Szarr family signet. The inscription is in some flowery, archaic script that he can't comprehend. He tilts his head, thoughtful. ]

Cazador wears one like this. [ He called his spawn family, but this is the first time Astarion has ever held the family ring. ] And one of the doors in the main hall bears a depression of this same crest.

And you've never been behind that door, I expect. That must be where he is.

[ Stands to reason. Iorveth doesn't hand out his hand to inspect the item in question－ instead, his touch lands on Astarion's hair, sifting some fallen curls out of his face. He fully expects a swat or a flinch, given that there's no place for contact or affection in a place like this, but pushback is better than funereal silence.

He breathes a short sigh through his nose. ]

No ruses for our upcoming encounter?

[ It seems unnecessary for who they'll be going up against. They're not going to be asking Cazador to turn the other cheek, after all; they'll need to be exactly as they are, furious and exacting. ]

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