nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ This place is a madhouse. The worst part is that Astarion is hardly surprised by any of it. Cazador hadn't employed—or, more accurately, enthralled—werewolves before, but it's almost strange that he hadn't. Anyone with any lick of power appeals to Cazador; monstrous beasts are all the better to enslave.

The werewolf reels back at being hit, Iorveth's arrow embedding itself in a massive, hirsute paw. It doesn't seem to hurt, which is concerning, but it does at least hamstring his movement. "You die," the ugly thing snarls at Iorveth, expelling spittle from its snoutlike mouth. Then, to Astarion, "Then I give a present to the master."

It's a relief in some ways. At least he'll only be trying to kill one of them, since he can't very well bring a dead, chewed-on Astarion back to Cazador. It irritates him regardless, though, the idea of getting brought back to Cazador in some overgrown dog's mouth. And worse, the idea of that overgrown dog killing Iorveth for the sake of his master. Astarion unsheathes his dagger, scowling.

The lycanthrope staggers forward, foot dragging behind him, smearing the bloodstains left on the floor. He's a huge target, so Astarion aims for his abdomen, sticking the dagger right in his gut. On any nonmagical creature, it would be a devastating injury. The werewolf simply growls, annoyed by the attack more than truly harmed, and makes a sweeping gesture with its large paw, swatting Astarion away and onto the ground like an irritating gnat.

Astarion's dagger is still fixed in the wolf's flesh. The thing picks it out with a colossal claw, tossing it on the ground like nothing more than a thorn, before swiping at Iorveth with a paw. ]

[ Gods, he'd hoped that they'd be able to get to Cazador without having to fight half the mansion first. Still, there's a mirrored relief that Astarion isn't in any real danger of being killed halfway through their journey; as long as they play their cards right and Iorveth doesn't get himself killed, they might still win this thing.

Might. The lycanthrope knocks Astarion down onto the ground like a ragdoll, and before Iorveth can even react with proper anger, there's a paw in his immediate line of sight, the dull glint of coal-black claws threatening to rip his face clean off.

He only narrowly dodges the swipe. Feels something sharp nick at his jaw, drawing blood. The pain is delayed, a dull throb, still entirely ignorable－ he tries to check on where Astarion is in his haze of adrenaline, if he's alright, but his assailant is in the way.

Vexing. Iorveth ducks under the next swipe, but the momentum of the werewolf's swing knocks him heavily back against the wall (gods, his ribs), causing him to drop his bow in his momentary daze. Grunting, he scrabbles inside his pack for the borrowed mace as he listens to the click-drag of an injured foot drag against the floor, and manages to slam The Blood of Lathander into his opponent's clavicle before he gets decapitated by its next strike. The combination of the light and the pain causes the lycanthrope to roar and step backwards, covering its eyes with its heavy paws in protest and surprise. ]

[ Maybe it should be concerning that he clocks the smell of Iorveth's blood instantly. The scent is sweet and woody, mouthwatering even in these circumstances. He shakes his head, willing himself to focus as the creature slams Iorveth up against a wall. Fury rears its head with the loud thud of Iorveth's back against the wall; he'd said the other night that he takes good care of his things, and he doesn't take kindly to others playing rough with them.

The mace strikes the wolf's collarbone, and he stumbles backward. Astarion squints in the sudden light in this dark, dusty place, pushing himself up off of the floor. He holds out a hand, chanting ignis as flame manifests from nothing, shooting out toward the beast.

The mote of fire strikes true, scorching the werewolf and igniting his fur. With a howl, he lashes out blindly with yellowed fangs and bloody claws. ]

[ Apologies to Lathander for previously thinking that his spiky mace wasn't worth the trouble of getting it: against a werewolf with a tough hide, a bludgeoning weapon is much more effective than an arrow or a sharp blade. Iorveth maneuvers around the struggling creature's clumsy attempts to swat at him, dodging embers of fire that threaten to set his own clothes aflame and finding, after a moment of observation, an opening to wind back and-

-swing.

The mace slams against the lycathrope's skull with a wet, dull thud, denting its already-misshapen head. Iorveth grunts with the effort of tugging the weapon's spikes out of the creature's head, feeling his ribs strain in the process; the monster drops onto the floor once Iorveth frees himself, facedown in a puddle of its own blood and viscera.

Ioveth breathes around the ache in his chest, and rasps: ] Astarion. [ A cough, and a dry laugh. ]

Are you in one piece?

Yes.

[ The smell of blood in here is overpowering: not just Iorveth's, but the werewolf's now too, mixed with the stale scent of old, drying blood. Astarion swallows the thirst down, approaching Iorveth by stepping gingerly over the werewolf's battered skull. ]

You're gorgeous when you're murdering.

[ It's probably the wrong time, for a lot of reasons, to tell Iorveth that watching him bash a wolf-man's head in with a holy relic of Lathander got him a little hot under the collar, so he leaves it at that.

Instead, he lets his eyes wander over Iorveth: his nicked jaw, the labored rise and fall of his chest. The sight of it makes him scowl. ]

That wretched beast hurt you.

Edited (astarion: *forgets to answer iorveth's question*) 2024-08-18 04:47 (UTC)

[ Please, don't threaten a freak while he's running high on adrenaline with a good time. Iorveth, who finds thrills in situations where he might die, because those are the ones that he feels most useful in; the last free Aen Seidhe, but also not what anyone thinks of when they think of serene, nature-loving wood elves. Nothing like warm, open-hearted Halsin who would rather employ diplomacy before violence.

And really, Iorveth is glad for anything that comes out of Astarion's mouth that sounds more like how he is when he isn't in the context of this oppressive house. Iorveth narrows his single eye in vague fondness when Astarion says gorgeous, not at all concerned by the ache in his chest when he laughs. ]

He didn't do a good job.

[ A scratch, and a fracture. Iorveth can fix them with a quick Cure Wounds; instead of spellcasting, he runs a thumb over his wounded jaw and smears the blood on Astarion's lower lip, craning forward to press his mouth against that stain if Astarion doesn't flinch back first. ]

We'll go to the bathhouse if we leave here alive.

[ If we leave here alive. Gods, this really could be his final moments alive, and it's enough to make him want to lean in for a much more lengthy kiss than the one he got. It still feels like Cazador is here, though, watching, and he can't bring himself to do it. Instead, he licks the blood from his lips, savoring what might be his last meal. ]

With the reward of seeing you naked and wet on the line, I don't see how I could fail.

[ His tone is dry, though, a little more bittersweet than he intends.

Astarion turns, then, stepping over bloodied corpses as he wanders the ballroom. Those that haven't been torn to shreds are in their finery, and shattered wine glasses litter the floor. All of them led back to the palace by one of his siblings, he's sure. He scowls. Is this what became of every unfortunate soul he brought back here?

Darkly: ] Looks like he threw a party.

[ His eyes search the ballroom for their next step, landing on a door in the corner of the room. ]

Come on. This must be the way to his quarters.

[ A party that they very narrowly missed, by the look of things. It all seems so senseless, all this death: at least feral monsters have the decency to consume what they kill.

Iorveth casts his healing spell, then offers the corpses a quick word of solace in his language. Not a prayer, but a farewell－ it rings hollow in the bloodied violence of the banquet hall, so he quickly follows Astarion through the side door to leave his own lingering voice behind.

The new area they step into is more of the same. Red wallpaper, ornate chandeliers. There are two paths to take, and both of them are abandoned: a long hall with a desk at the end of it, flanked by officious-looking bookshelves, and a curious, poorly-lit side-room with nothing but an octagonal dais set into the floor.

Iorveth lingers in the latter section, smoothing his palm over the panel and its scuffed markings. To his surprise, it seems functional. ]

Astarion, [ he calls. ] It seems this manse has a basement.

[ Astarion stares down at the dais, dumbfounded. Two centuries, and he never knew about an entire other level of the palace. What else was Cazador keeping him in the dark about? (A lot of things, probably.) ]

No one ever told me about this.

[ Maybe no one else knew, either. Cazador kept secrets from all of them, even the ones who had no choice but to obey him. He couldn't trust them even when he pulled all of their strings. ]

Come, let's take a look. Perhaps he keeps his coffin underground.

[ The dais lowers with a loud creak, like something ancient protesting its use. As they descend, the smell of blood and viscera fades to something stale and old. It comes to a stop in the middle of a dimly lit hallway; the 'basement', as it were, consists of a smooth stone path stretching out in front of them, with shiny gold strips paved into the floor that leads to several gates. Urns flank each side of the hall, with sparse light fixtures hanging from the ceiling to illuminate their path. ]

This is no basement. It's a crypt.

[ The smell of death seems to take on physical shape once the dais stops and they're left in the aquamarine dark of the underground crypt. Not just the acrid tang of blood-copper, but something else－ Iorveth, nose to an non-existent wind, tries to decipher the base note of this particular mix of eau de mort.

It actually kind of smells like a bunch of unwashed people, though faint. Iorveth's nose might stay permanently wrinkled if he stays down here for too long. ]

The perfect place to hide a coffin. I assume we're on the right track.

[ Are they??? He has no idea, honestly, but he's trying to manifest some good fortune after the werewolf run-in. Down they go, past more gold-plated gates and another door that opens with Cazador's signet ring, cutting through a thick miasma of arcane mist and fog－

－until Iorveth is suddenly aware of eyes on him. Red eyes, scores of them, peering at him from dark cells built into either side of the corridor they're traversing. The prisoners behind gilded bars say nothing, but Iorveth can see their despair written plainly on their gaunt, pale faces; he presses a palm to his face, warding off the oppressive smell. ]

Astarion. ...More spawn.

[ Wasn't it supposed to be only the seven of them? There are dozens of them here, corralled like livestock, unblinking. ]

[ Astarion stares through the bars at the wretched creatures within. Sallow faces, dark circles under their eyes, skin and bones. They look worse than he did after a year underground. There's so many of them, different races, ages, walks of life. All of them equalized by the heavy fatigue in their features. ]

More fodder for the ritual, I suppose.

[ Seven souls does seem a small price to pay for unlimited power, doesn't it? But to have all of these spawn hidden away for the gods know how long is grim, even for Cazador. Astarion can remember how awful it had felt to live on the rat carcasses Cazador saw fit to feed him, but these people must have had nothing at all down here. They must be ravenous.

"You," comes the voice of a little girl, weak. She curls her small fingers around the bars of her cell. "I know you."

Astarion's eyebrows raise, and he lets out a surprised, ] Oh, gods.

[ "You did this to me!" she wails, shaking her gilded cage. ]

—There's nothing here for us. We should go.

[ Oh.

The implication of "you did this" isn't lost on Iorveth: at least some of the spawn here, it dawns on him, are people (and children) who Astarion had brought to Cazador as prey. Tributes, slaves, fodder. Iorveth is reminded of elves being corralled for slaughter, shut in dungeons to wait for the gallows; it's an unfair comparison, he knows, but it makes something in his stomach turn regardless.

He's told that they should go, but he lingers. Curls his fingers around one of the bars, and retreats quickly once small, sharp teeth try to bite his digits off. An obvious mistake in hindsight－ he must be the first warm-blooded thing these spawn have seen in decades, if not centuries. He's food.

Tension pulls at his shoulders. Flexing his hand, Iorveth steps back. His empathy can only extend so far: his people, his traveling companions, and Astarion. Still, there's a war that goes on inside him, and he frowns through the process. He thinks of justice, dignity, freedom; more importantly, he thinks of being without. ]

A problem for after Cazador is dead.

[ He finally decides, as he steps back. The wailing child seems to respond to the statement about murdering Cazador with some measure of furious assent, "kill him and let us go"; Iorveth says nothing in return, and turns towards Astarion again, still frowning. ]

[ "Get his staff," she pleads with Iorveth. "Please, you can open the doors. I want to go home."

Looking at his victims, much less hearing their pleas, makes bile rise in Astarion's throat. He grabs Iorveth by the arm and yanks him away from the cells before using him as a pillar to lean on while the room spins. These cells are filled with his shame personified, every awful thing he ever did at Cazador's behest. If not for Cazador still lurking somewhere in this palace, he would run away and never return. ]

I didn't know this was what he was doing with them, [ he says, voice lowered. ] I thought he was only killing them.

[ Death would have been a mercy. Whatever they've been through here has turned them into little more than starving animals.

A sigh, then— ] They'll be dead before long anyway.

[ No moral grandstanding, on Iorveth's part. A man who has burned human camps and turned his back on pleas from brothers and wives can't turn around and then make sweeping statements about the weight of atrocities; he could wax poetic about how his crimes continue to be justified, but he supposes Astarion will say the same.

("I thought he was only killing them" is convincing enough, coming from an undead spawn who must've prayed for death many times over.)

Iorveth keeps Astarion steady with a palm to his shoulder, looking back and forth between the unnatural pallor of his companion's face and the twin dots of red light still looking at him from between the gloom of the prison. ]

If you were in their position, [ he ventures, with unrelenting focus, ] would you wish for freedom or death?

Edited (editing twice smh) 2024-08-19 02:38 (UTC)

[ The question feels pointed. Astarion looks out at the sea of glinting red eyes staring back at them, so many of them too wan and bleary to so much as approach the bars. How many days, years, centuries have some of them been locked away in here? Forgotten by the world above, subsisting on the rare vermin that wanders down this far. After the year he'd spent locked in a coffin, Astarion had felt feral. He would have begged for a taste of fetid rat. ]

I— [ He frowns. ] I would have known better than to wish for anything at all.

[ He knows what Iorveth is asking, whether death is what he truly would want in their circumstances. Whether it's what they deserve. But hope is dangerous, he's learned. Astarion did wish for freedom, so many times that, for a while, those wishes were the only thing that could lull him into his trance. Time went on, though, and no one came, and he realized that hope only makes it hurt more when you inevitably get let down. ]

If you have something to say, Iorveth, say it plainly.

Then I'll speak plainly. And to the point.

[ Calm, measured. He's reserved righteous indignation for those in his inner circle, and, if they die, this isn't the thing that Iorveth will spend the last moments of his dwindling life dwelling over.

So: ] Whether these spawn live or die matters little to me. [ Well. That's maybe not entirely true, but there's no space for gray area here. ] They're not my own, but you are.

[ In a manner of speaking. In terms of closeness, of where Iorveth places him, near his heart. ]

My only concern is whether you'll look back on this with regret. I agreed to do this on the condition that we do what's in your interest.

[ In his words, the acquisition of the mace was a must, but everything else would be as Astarion wishes it. He still wants this to be the case. ]

Edited 2024-08-19 03:51 (UTC)

Well— [ Astarion throws his hands up with an exasperated huff. ] Obviously, it doesn't feel great.

[ All of these people. Innocent, some of them. Unfortunate, all of them. There's a fair number in these cells that he's sure he wouldn't mind selling out to a devil, but even he isn't the type to feel proud of damning children's souls to the Hells. And a rare few of his victims were— sweet. Well-intentioned. Lonely enough for him to prey on, anyway. ]

But what alternative is there?

[ Sure, maybe he'll regret what he's done. Maybe he'll lie awake at night and see that little girl's eyes, starving and scared and all his doing. What good is the satisfaction of having done the right thing, though, if his life afterward is still miserable? Doesn't he at least deserve to be miserable with power? ]

Lurk in the dark like a roach again? Something to be rooted out and stepped on?

You can't possibly think yourself as weak as that.

[ So who does? Cazador? Obviously. It's been two hundred years of reinforcement, the patronization dripping from the parchment that Astarion'd ripped to shreds this morning. Boy, son, child. Skeletal teeth forming the word dog, a lycanthrope saying that Astarion smells like his master.

And what's Iorveth, in all of this? A man that Astarion has liked for maybe two tendays. Someone that Astarion assumes will leave after the business of the brain is done, and maybe he isn't wrong－ maybe their paths will diverge. But it aches to think of Astarion cloistered in this death-shaped mansion and all of its putrid secrets, believing himself fortunate when all the world stretches out beyond its borders.

It's not the most productive thing in the world, fighting before their actual fight, but Iorveth will be Iorveth. ]

You're no roach, you fool.

[ Sometimes he feels like one, small and easily squished under the heel of people bigger and stronger. Iorveth once said that Astarion was afraid of everything, and although it had irritated him to hear it, he was right. He's afraid of what his future holds, scared of all the possibility. He's been burned so many times that his emotional skin has been charred clean off; every touch has the potential to hurt.

It isn't Iorveth's responsibility to make him feel better. In fact, he shouldn't rely on anyone to make him feel better. Despite knowing this, he looks at Iorveth with the most embarrassingly pathetic frown he's ever worn. ]

What am I, in your eyes?

[ Fishing for compliments, even now. ]

[ His brow hikes at the bluntness of that well-aimed question, and he surveys their surroundings, glances at the red eyes still glowing in the near distance, his expression pulled into a suggestion of a question: what, here? But a closer look at the shape of Astarion's frown makes him reconsider the pushback, and the pallid cast of the cavern's blue-green light over Astarion's stark features reminds Iorveth that if not now, when?

Still, he starts with a familiar protest: ] Words. [ They never encompass the fullness of truth; that's why diplomacy fails so often, in Iorveth's opinion. He takes one of Astarion's always-cold hands, and plays his thumb over the ridges of pale knuckles. ]

You're vexing. [ Not a compliment, but he continues. ] A contradiction, in every sense. Afraid and courageous in the same breath, unthinking and clever. You've been taught to doubt your worth, but you cling to your inherent value with furious indignation.

[ Thinking aloud, like a hawk circling its prey. Boiling his point down, gradually, to its core components. He doesn't want to admit this, based on the simple truth that an elf with no future should be reticent to give his heart to someone with all the future in the world, but Astarion asked. ]

You defy definition. Furthest from my expectations, and closest to my heart. [ Slowly, as if saying this is an ache in the back of his throat. A scary thing to admit. ] Resilient and beautiful, you're you. What else could you wish to be?

[ Yes, here. There's hundreds, maybe thousands of captives watching them with anticipation, praying to whatever god will listen that they'll decide to free them, but they don't matter. What matters is what Iorveth thinks. It's always mattered, even when Iorveth thought of him as nothing more than an idiot with a nice smile, his scolding irksome even though Astarion had done nothing to earn his praise. He'd spent centuries having everyone he met take his facade at face value, but Iorveth saw right through him.

In the dim light of the crypt, the tips of his ears glow pink, and he casts his gaze to the side bashfully. His mouth quivers, the sort of wavering smile that happens when one wants badly to suppress their pleasure but can't quite do it. ]

When you put it that way, I suppose I have no choice but to keep amazing you.

[ Being on the brink of a catastrophic decision with hundreds of starving souls waiting for deliverance is probably not the right time to want to kiss someone. Then again, it might be curtains on this whole affection business if ascension does happen, so Iorveth leans forward to press his mouth against the tip of one pale-pink ear, nosing it gently. ]

Don't ascend.

[ Finally, in plain terms. Murmured against Astarion's ear, before he pulls back. ]

This place will kill your heart.

[ I can't bear that, is implicit. An embarrassing thing to say, from someone who professed to disliking poetry; Iorveth glances to the side, brows slightly furrowed. Not embarrassed, but prepared to be laughed at for his choice of words, at the grandiose expression of something so small and personal. ]

[ Astarion would have laughed only as recently as a few tendays ago. Sincerity isn't something that comes easily to him, but it's the thing he most longs to see in others. Despite every protest, there's little that sets his heart alight as much as receiving the softness and kindness he's been deprived of for so long. Just like drinking blood for the first time after starving for centuries, he wants nothing more than to swallow all of that affection down with greedy gulps, afraid that it'll be taken away from him. All of that is to say that he melts, reduced to a puddle of fond goo. ]

—All right.

[ He feels a little surprised at saying it himself, silver eyebrows raising even as he speaks the words, but he also can't imagine denying Iorveth when he's entreating him so earnestly. His heart may be cold and unbeating, but it isn't stone. Iorveth continues to defrost it. ]

If you think I can face the world without it... [ There's a slight nervousness to his voice, like he's not positive himself. Of course he isn't — the world is a dark and scary place.

But it's also where he met Iorveth, so it can't be all bad. ] I'll have to believe you.

[ Concession and belief doesn't solve the problem at hand, and Iorveth wanting Astarion to live a full, free life doesn't guarantee his future. Look at the current state of the Aen Seidhe as an example: what, in Iorveth's almost two centuries of fighting, has he really protected?

He always wants more than the world is willing to give. Funny, he thinks－ he should be the one sort of person that Astarion can't stand. But Astarion says all right, and absorbs Iorveth's opinion like a proud animal offering something soft and previously untouchable.

It's untenable, liking someone this way. Instinct tells Iorveth to pull Astarion to his chest, so he does: a brief, two-armed embrace that leaves him feeling both bolstered and vulnerable. Open. ]

...I'm amenable to stroking your ego, now and again. When it's warranted.

[ "I believe in you", roughly. He lets go of Astarion, and looks over his shoulder at the corridor still extending into the darkness. ]

You'll kill Cazador. The rest of the world will be yours to find, once the deed is done.

Okay.

[ It's all there is to say. He has to believe that it's true, that he'll lop Cazador's head off or drive a stake through his heart or burn him to cinders. The alternative, that Cazador consumes everything Astarion is—including his very soul—and comes out the other side even more powerful than before, is unbearable.

He curls his fingers around Iorveth's wrist to lead him further into the crypt, through that darkened hallway and down the steps until they come to a suspended platform, ornate and elaborate in design. Pillars jut from the floor, encircling the perimeter, giving the room a menacing aura. In the center of it all lies a coffin propped at an angle, just as ornamental as the rest of the crypt, its embossed design dark and shiny.

Cazador is in there. The thought grips his heart like a vice, the muscles in his throat tightening. He feels last night's blood coming up his esophagus, and he claps his free hand over his mouth to suppress it. His other hand grasps Iorveth's wrist so tightly that the area blanches. Fear and fury swirl in his mind, muddying his thoughts. ]

Hells, [ he whispers, ] I can't believe I'm here.

[ At the end and the beginning of everything. No plan, save for 'hit him until he stops moving'. Astarion swallows. ]

I want that damn mace.

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