nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ "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. ]

[ Astarion does flinch, an involuntary reaction to the unexpectedness of soft touch in this place. The only time someone ever touched him kindly here was as a cruel trick. He closes a hand over the ornate ring, its sharp points digging into his skin painfully. The Szarrs would find a way for even their jewelry to cause harm. ]

He would see through it.

[ Said with the decisiveness of fact. Cazador is a god in his domain, with all of the omniscience and omnipotence that implies. As farfetched as it is, Astarion can't shake the feeling that Cazador knows exactly where he is and exactly what he's doing, even in his trance. It's always felt impossible to escape his all-seeing eyes.

Astarion stands, looking down at the desecrated remains of one of his greatest fears for the last two hundred years. He kicks Godey's iron-clad torso. It doesn't make him feel any better; it just makes his foot hurt. ]

I suppose it's time we get on with it.

[ A miserable den of cruelty. Following Astarion's lead, Iorveth also straightens and adjusts the eyepatch over his face, conscious of his own presence in this tomb bearing all of Astarion's worst memories. He wonders, briefly, if Astarion isn't regretting having brought him here. It seems a soul-baring thing to have to do, to show others the place of one's prolonged torment.

Some part of Iorveth still thinks it's better that they burn the place down and leave it at that; let the daylight sun take care of the rest. ]

We'll get on with it, [ he promises. He doesn't spare Godey a second glance, still swallowing back the bitter bile that the creature'd left in his mouth, trying to dissect his own emotions about how it'd felt to hear someone calling Astarion a dog. ] But, Astarion－

[ Because he isn't expected to be silent: ] －This place doesn't suit you. [ He'll say it another hundred times if he has to. This place fucking sucks, and the thought of Astarion confining himself to its rules and bindings for the rest of eternity is horrific, even if Astarion becomes the one dictating them.

Iorveth turns to leave the dungeon, and tries to wind back the way they came; he thinks he saw a door that fits the description for what looks like an entrance to a forbidden part of the castle, a floor-to-ceiling monstrosity that's as unsubtle as it is tasteless. ]

[ Astarion doesn't reply, only lets the comment rattle around in his head. Perhaps it doesn't suit him, but this way of life, however miserable, also feels familiar. Cutthroat, everyone out for themselves, the strong preying on the weak. Maybe being miserable here is better than being scared out there.

He wills those thoughts into the background of his mind as he steps toward the large, ornate door. Decorated with gold plates depicting an entanglement of rats bound together by the tail and the same sort of foreign script inscribing the signet ring, it crackles with a magical energy as he approaches. Astarion squares his shoulders and presses the emblem on the ring into the matching indentation on the door.

Nothing happens. ]

Perhaps it's been sealed with some sort of arcane lock. Cazador does love his spells.

[ Which either means that it won't open for them at all, even with the ring—a prospect he doesn't want to consider—or that it's been bound to some sort of passphrase. ]

Open, [ he tries, pressing the ring to the hollow once more. Nothing. ] ...Unlock, [ is another failed attempt. He stomps his foot. ] I said open, damn you.

[ Thwarted by the most obvious obstacle of all: a door. Iorveth, a warrior and not a scholar, draws up to the plated surface of the obstruction and runs one palm over the winding, circular text embossed on it.

Not a language he recognizes. Not dissimilar to the shape of the scars on Astarion's back. ]

An obvious taunt, if the phrase necessary to opening the door is written on the door itself.

[ Giving the gilded nonsense a flick with one nail, he steps back. Hums, thoughtful. ]

A shame that I didn't find it prudent to read more books.

[ Dryly. They'll have to find someone else capable of deciphering this and do a little torture-persuasion, or try to use their tadpoles in creative ways, he figures. ]

Are there more members of Cazador's inner circle that we can capture?

[ Frowning at yet another roadblock, Astarion pockets the ring and crosses his arms, contemplative. Inner circle is an interesting concept when it comes to Cazador. He's a paranoid megalomaniac who trusts no one but himself — and perhaps the reanimated corpse created to do his bidding. He does have staff, though, and it's possible one might be high-ranking enough to gain entrance to private wings of the manor. ]

The chamberlain, perhaps. Dufay. I wouldn't mind breaking out the pliers for him.

[ There's some bad blood there, obviously. Astarion traces the elaborate script with a finger, brow furrowed. ]

Or... you know, I'm sure I've seen this text elsewhere in the house.

[ He stares at the decorative plating on the door, eyes narrowing before he finally comes up with: ]

A book in the guest bedroom. I saw it when I was [ —A split-second pause. Iorveth can infer the sorts of things he got up to in the guest room, surely— ] in there. Cazador forbid me from reading it.

[ A glance Iorveth's way. ]

What do you think?

[ He thinks a lot of things, but chiefly on his mind is: ]

We'll find the book. I can't stand the thought of struggling through another worthless conversation with the denizens here.

[ A pause, as he considers whether to make this addendum; he decides to, after a brief deliberation. ]

I don't enjoy you talking to them, either.

[ Or, rather, Astarion being talked at. It leaves him angry, unsettled- as unsettled as the implication of the guest bedroom. ] But you know best about this place.

Honestly, I'd prefer you to meet as few of the ghosts from my past as possible.

[ A meaningless servant was one thing. He spent enough of his time hassling the only people lower on the totem pole than he was. But Godey, gods — it's humiliating to think that Iorveth now knows some of the darkest parts of his life so intimately. (He'd commented once about Astarion's desperation. Well, he's getting a look up close at it now.) And Dufay is no fan of Astarion—although no one in this mansion is, really—so having Iorveth meet him would no doubt mean he'd hear endless criticisms of Astarion's pathetic, self-serving behavior. He'll pass. ]

We'll look for the book.

[ A short trip back downstairs and they're standing in front of the guest room door. An awful smell wafts out from underneath it, like rotting meat and putrid fruit. Astarion's nose wrinkles, lip curling in disgust, but he turns the knob and opens the door anyway.

Immediately, necrotic energy pulses out from inside the room. It's a heavy, oppressive magic, as if feeding on the vitality of all who are unlucky enough to cross its path. ]

Gods, [ Astarion exclaims, stumbling back and away from the door. Inside the room lies a child, a girl, motionless and pale. It's her the magic stems from, spreading out from her body like tendrils. ]

—Well, that wasn't there before. [ Obviously. ] I've seen this girl before. She would hide away in the nicer quarters, away from the rest of us riff-raff. [ Raising an eyebrow: ] Fat lot of good it did her.

[ Gods. The miasma of death is stifling, even worse than the scent of putrefaction in the kennels, and emanating from a singular source that must have died in a horrible, unthinkable way. It's staggering to think of how little anyone's life means in this manse, how little dignity anyone enjoys here.

Iorveth misses breathing. The paltry excuse for nature that the city proper offered with its gated parks feels like a faraway luxury; he flinches back, visibly offended by the sight of the decay, before he steels himself against it. Cruelty is nothing new to him. ]

Ignobility in death. This place gets worse by the second.

[ A deep breath, followed by a steady macte virtute. His natural dexterity, bolstered by a spell: Iorveth takes a few steps back for his semi-running start, and leaps over the corpse and the magic emanating over it in a graceful arc.

Not without some consequence, though. He lands outside of the immediate circle of the foul aura, but the sheer oppressiveness of it causes him to double over for a moment and retch. He spits thin stomach acid onto the carpet, but quickly recovers. ]

...Where should I look?

[ The only investigable items are on the side of the room that he'd jumped to: three large wardrobe dressers and a desk. Wiping his mouth, Iorveth turns to Astarion and tips his head. ]

—Iorveth, [ he whines as Iorveth vomits, disgusted and concerned in equal measure. Irritated by his own distress: ] As dashing as that was, at least try to be careful.

[ If that little girl's corpse manages to harm Iorveth, he'll find a way to bring her back and kill her all over again. He peers around the doorframe, keeping his distance from the necrotic aura. He's already dead enough; he doesn't need to die a second time. ]

The wardrobe, I think. [ There are three of them, though, and it's hard to remember the contents of each one. He bites his lip in thought. ] The one under that ugly painting— no, wait. The one near the bed.

[ Should Iorveth look in the indicated wardrobe, he'll at first find little besides elegant clothing like the kind they bought from Figaro. A little digging, though, and he'll find a weathered old book, its pages yellowed by time and its spine bearing the same sort of foreign script as the door. Inside the book is more of that strange language, Kozakuran, accompanied now by its Common translation. Someone has taken ink to paper and underlined the words which appear on the elaborate door in the main hall. ]

[ Jackpot. Iorveth takes his findings and leaps back over the circle of necrotic energy, managing not to get hit by a wave of nausea this time around: instead, it's a rather ungraceful collision of one shoulder against the doorframe, having overshot where to land without slamming into Astarion in the process.

A stagger and a re-balancing later, he smiles. ]

One step closer to your goal.

[ Brandishing the book in his hand, before handing it to Astarion with the proper pages marked. Sometimes it pays not to be careful, though he decides not to say so lest it give Astarion more things to worry about.

A pat to Astarion's tension-taut shoulder, and they go upstairs again. It's finally time to open that stupid door and pass through into what Iorveth hopes is a room with a giant coffin, if they're lucky; it's satisfying to see the angry-red glow of the door give way and concede authority to Astarion, if nothing else. ]

[ A quick translation of the symbols on the door and another press of the signet ring, and the door unlocks, sliding open. Astarion's heart is in his throat now, stomach churning at the thought of Cazador standing on the other side of the door. That's not what he finds, though, and he's unsure if that's a relief or a disappointment.

Instead of a vampire lord snoozing in his coffin, the door opens up to a grand ballroom. Red and gold decorates every inch of the room, the lit sconces that flicker on the decorative pillars illuminating shiny pools of dark red blood on the wood flooring. There are bodies strewn everywhere, some in one piece and some virtually indistinguishable from half-eaten meat.

In the center of it all stands a large, hairy, canine creature dressed in savage tatters. Upon their entrance, his beady eyes lock onto them, narrowing in anger. "You aren't supposed to be here," he growls. "No one is supposed to be here!" ]

Gods. I'm gone for a few months and the whole place goes to the dogs.

[ Ha. ]

[ And Iorveth thought that the dead girl emanating pure necrotic energy was weird. He stands by the entrance to the hall, his foot nudging against a pool of blood and what might have been a limb attached to a human at some point, and stares, blankly, at the wolf-man with his bared yellow teeth.

He sighs. ]

This place is a madhouse.

[ Just stating the obvious, in case he's gone completely insane. Accompanying the very unnecessary observation is a reachback and a quick flourish to pull his bow out of its cradle, a fluid motion followed by a similarly-practiced retrieval of an arrow from his quiver. ]

I can just shoot the thing, can't I?

[ The lycanthrope, nose wrinkled, is muttering something about Astarion smelling like its master, which Iorveth finds frankly appalling; he remembers burying his face against Astarion's neck, breathing in the faint scent of bergamot and blood: something unique to Astarion, and no one else.

Ugh. Without waiting for the beast to make more threats, Iorveth makes the executive decision to release his arrow, which, surprisingly, gets swatted down by an oversized paw before it can land between wet, beady eyes; he makes a low sound, annoyed, and loosens another shot, this time to the creature's foot. Killing mobility, but making it angrier in the process. ]

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