[ 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. ]
[ 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. ]
[ 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. ]
[ 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. ]
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?
[ 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.
[ 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. ]
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. ]
[ 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. ]
[ 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.
[ 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. ]
[ Small comforts: the ritual doesn't seem to have started in earnest, not that Iorveth would know what that would even look like. If nothing else, the other spawn siblings are absent, and the braziers hanging from the cavern's ceiling are unlit; the stillness is deafening, the sound of his pulse in his chest the loudest thing in the sprawling space.
Astarion's grip around his wrist is bruisingly hard; Iorveth makes no attempt to dislodge it as he reaches inside his pack for the requested weapon, its unyielding light almost too bright in the oppressive dim. Iorveth hands it to Astarion, his focus resting on his companion's now-familiar profile before settling on the tilted, gilded coffin, the presence inside it like a void.
Is he nervous? Afraid? Maybe the former, but not the latter. Strange, considering that Cazador probably could vaporize him if given the opportunity. All Iorveth feels is revulsion, and the simmering desire to see something so malevolent dead. ]
A humbling moment. Not for you, but for him.
[ Will it be? Probably not. Monsters don't learn, don't reflect on their wrongdoings. But it won't matter once said monster is dead, broken and bloodied and bent, unable to do a single thing about its own demise. ]
[ Astarion takes a moment to look at the mace, emitting warm sunlight. After the Netherbrain, he probably won't ever get to feel the sun on his face ever again. Hells, depending on how things go down right now, he might never feel it again after this moment. He closes his eyes, holding the mace close, basking in its heat for one last second before releasing Iorveth's wrist and stalking up to the coffin.
It's funny. It looks so damn ordinary. Everything that has made him suffer is contained in it, and it's just a fucking box. He shoves the lid off with some effort, grunting as it clatters to the floor. Loudly. Astarion barely even notices the sound.
Cazador's pale face is peaceful, restful. His long black hair is splayed out behind him, his elegant hands crossed over his middle. Astarion tilts his head, staring. He's a monster, but lying here like this, he just looks like... a person. Who could imagine, looking at him, the terror he instilled? Who could imagine that Astarion's chest would tighten at the mere sound of his footsteps?
He's shaking, the light from the Blood of Lathander quivering visibly. He should just kill Cazador now, quietly and covertly. No muss, no fuss. Unfortunately, he's never been the quiet type. ]
Wake up!
[ Astarion grips the mace with both hands, as is necessary to muster up the strength to properly lift it. He swings at Cazador's unconscious form— and the mace slams into the wooden panel where he'd just been lying. Vampiric mist fills the area for only a split second before Cazador materializes again, forced into corporeality by the mace's light. He covers his eyes with the back of his hand, snarling as his skin scorches.
"You little rat," he growls. "You think I couldn't hear you scurrying around in the dark?"
He doesn't so much as acknowledge Iorveth's presence. He may think his spawn inferior in every way, but mortals are even more so. If Astarion is a rat to Cazador, Iorveth is only a gnat, so beneath him as to be unremarkable. "This is how you return to me?" he chastises, gritting his teeth as the daylight sears his skin. "You always did need a firm hand." He extends a hand, then, chanting perurē as he draws lightning down on them. It feels like being cooked, like being on fire; Astarion drops the mace out of shock, the weapon landing on the ground with a cacophony of clinks. ]
[ Do they give awards for self-sabotage? Iorveth hears wake up and thinks, rather ineloquently, oh no－ there goes the element of surprise, if they had it in the first place.
Cazador is... well. He's smaller than Iorveth expected him to be. Slight. Iorveth would expect to see someone of his stature working in politics or finance, not holding extravagant murder parties, wine in hand, with werewolf companions. Still, it remains that the shape of Cazador doesn't shift the balance of their current equation, and that they are ostensibly fucked if they aren't smart about how they act.
Maybe too little too late for that. Magic sears through Iorveth, his presence just collateral damage in the grand scheme of what's unfolding; he doubles over, the hand that he'd stuck in his pack for more vampire-related ammunition slipping, twitching, dropping the pitifully small vial of holy water that breaks, leaving a sad trail of moisture on grooved flooring.
Fuck is the correct sentiment. Iorveth echoes it in his own language, his heart seizing (is Astarion alright) as he drops down on his knees, scrabbling inelegantly for the mace that is rolling, dangerously, close to the edge of the elevated platform. If they lose Lathander's blessing, they lose the whole ordeal.
So. Maybe he is a gnat, grasping at straws by a vampire's foot. Iorveth doesn't care: he'll make sure that Astarion makes it out of here alive, or die trying.
Speaking of Astarion, though. While he reaches with one arm, trying to wind his fingers around the mace before it can be lost to the void, he unhooks his pack from his hip with his other hand and tries to blindly toss the thing to Astarion. Multitasking. ]
[ Astarion scrambles to catch the pack, helped along by the grace of dexterity being one of his few natural talents. Still aching from the aftershocks of Cazador's magic, he fumbles with the clasp to open it, he glances over at Cazador, who in turn is watching Iorveth reach for their only useful weapon with haughty amusement. He glides across the floor, as if his feet don't even touch the ground, digging a heel into Iorveth's back even as the corona emitted from the mace starts to make his skin sizzle.
"You're keeping a pet," Cazador spits, disgust and disdain in his voice. He cants his head toward Iorveth's eyepatch, tutting in disapproval. "I thought I taught you better than to take in a lame dog."
The clasp pops open, and Astarion plunges his hand inside, searching for anything— ]
Ow! Gods!
[ His hand collides with the hunter's dagger, the enchantment on it burning his undead skin. He snatches his hand back, shaking it out as he sucks in air through his teeth.
"I suppose it's the responsibility of the family patriarch to put it down." Cazador leans all of his weight—not a particularly sizeable amount, but unpleasant nonetheless—into the boot on Iorveth's back. Too arrogant to stop taunting, even with the smell of burnt flesh beginning to permeate the air.
Astarion unearths the small glass vial of holy water next. If there's anything he does have, it's good aim; he flings the ampoule without another thought. Cazador, unfortunately stationary, takes it to the face, the glass breaking into a multitude of shards that cut his nose and cheeks. The singe of holy water causes him to reel back, stepping off of Iorveth to clutch at his face and snap, "You impertinent brat." ]
[ Stepped on, derided, being called a dog― none of these things resonate. It's old hat, the sort of thing he's already endured in worse conditions, nose to mud, eye gouged out. Instead of being overtaken by fury, Iorveth remembers, as he looks up at Cazador's disintegrating face, that Cazador needs Astarion for the ritual; this, alongside the mace, is Iorveth's biggest advantage.
Or, well. It's something. It means that Cazador doesn't immediately decapitate Astarion for the offense, and in the few seconds that Iorveth is afforded while Astarion's tormentor breaks into dramatics, he closes his grip around their glowing weapon and slides it across the slick floor towards Astarion, leaving himself unguarded by its light. ]
Catch it, [ he warns, as he finds himself pinned by a set of glass-red eyes on a smoldering face. There's nothing to read behind Cazador's focus but the furious amusement of a predator, the peeled-back snarl of a creature that knows it could crush Iorveth without giving the act any measure of consideration.
"If only the boy wasn't necessary for my ascension," the vampire hisses. "I would have had him bear witness to your prolonged torture. It might have reminded the willful child to mind what I've taught him."
Needlessly theatrical. Iorveth opens his mouth to argue, but his next breath is wrenched out of him when Cazador crooks his fingers and sends a sheet of Blight down over his entire body; his vision blurs, cast in ghastly necrotic green, overtaken by nausea far worse than he'd felt when he'd jumped over the decaying corpse of that girl. He rolls onto his side, curling into himself, and heaves.
"Recite my rules, boy!" Cazador crows to Astarion, triumphant. "Speak them, one at a time!" ]
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no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
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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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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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.
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("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?
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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.
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[ 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. ]
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[ 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?
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[ 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.
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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. ]
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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?
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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.
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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. ]
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—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.
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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.
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[ 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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Astarion's grip around his wrist is bruisingly hard; Iorveth makes no attempt to dislodge it as he reaches inside his pack for the requested weapon, its unyielding light almost too bright in the oppressive dim. Iorveth hands it to Astarion, his focus resting on his companion's now-familiar profile before settling on the tilted, gilded coffin, the presence inside it like a void.
Is he nervous? Afraid? Maybe the former, but not the latter. Strange, considering that Cazador probably could vaporize him if given the opportunity. All Iorveth feels is revulsion, and the simmering desire to see something so malevolent dead. ]
A humbling moment. Not for you, but for him.
[ Will it be? Probably not. Monsters don't learn, don't reflect on their wrongdoings. But it won't matter once said monster is dead, broken and bloodied and bent, unable to do a single thing about its own demise. ]
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It's funny. It looks so damn ordinary. Everything that has made him suffer is contained in it, and it's just a fucking box. He shoves the lid off with some effort, grunting as it clatters to the floor. Loudly. Astarion barely even notices the sound.
Cazador's pale face is peaceful, restful. His long black hair is splayed out behind him, his elegant hands crossed over his middle. Astarion tilts his head, staring. He's a monster, but lying here like this, he just looks like... a person. Who could imagine, looking at him, the terror he instilled? Who could imagine that Astarion's chest would tighten at the mere sound of his footsteps?
He's shaking, the light from the Blood of Lathander quivering visibly. He should just kill Cazador now, quietly and covertly. No muss, no fuss. Unfortunately, he's never been the quiet type. ]
Wake up!
[ Astarion grips the mace with both hands, as is necessary to muster up the strength to properly lift it. He swings at Cazador's unconscious form— and the mace slams into the wooden panel where he'd just been lying. Vampiric mist fills the area for only a split second before Cazador materializes again, forced into corporeality by the mace's light. He covers his eyes with the back of his hand, snarling as his skin scorches.
"You little rat," he growls. "You think I couldn't hear you scurrying around in the dark?"
He doesn't so much as acknowledge Iorveth's presence. He may think his spawn inferior in every way, but mortals are even more so. If Astarion is a rat to Cazador, Iorveth is only a gnat, so beneath him as to be unremarkable. "This is how you return to me?" he chastises, gritting his teeth as the daylight sears his skin. "You always did need a firm hand." He extends a hand, then, chanting perurē as he draws lightning down on them. It feels like being cooked, like being on fire; Astarion drops the mace out of shock, the weapon landing on the ground with a cacophony of clinks. ]
Fuck.
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Cazador is... well. He's smaller than Iorveth expected him to be. Slight. Iorveth would expect to see someone of his stature working in politics or finance, not holding extravagant murder parties, wine in hand, with werewolf companions. Still, it remains that the shape of Cazador doesn't shift the balance of their current equation, and that they are ostensibly fucked if they aren't smart about how they act.
Maybe too little too late for that. Magic sears through Iorveth, his presence just collateral damage in the grand scheme of what's unfolding; he doubles over, the hand that he'd stuck in his pack for more vampire-related ammunition slipping, twitching, dropping the pitifully small vial of holy water that breaks, leaving a sad trail of moisture on grooved flooring.
Fuck is the correct sentiment. Iorveth echoes it in his own language, his heart seizing (is Astarion alright) as he drops down on his knees, scrabbling inelegantly for the mace that is rolling, dangerously, close to the edge of the elevated platform. If they lose Lathander's blessing, they lose the whole ordeal.
So. Maybe he is a gnat, grasping at straws by a vampire's foot. Iorveth doesn't care: he'll make sure that Astarion makes it out of here alive, or die trying.
Speaking of Astarion, though. While he reaches with one arm, trying to wind his fingers around the mace before it can be lost to the void, he unhooks his pack from his hip with his other hand and tries to blindly toss the thing to Astarion. Multitasking. ]
－Astarion!
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"You're keeping a pet," Cazador spits, disgust and disdain in his voice. He cants his head toward Iorveth's eyepatch, tutting in disapproval. "I thought I taught you better than to take in a lame dog."
The clasp pops open, and Astarion plunges his hand inside, searching for anything— ]
Ow! Gods!
[ His hand collides with the hunter's dagger, the enchantment on it burning his undead skin. He snatches his hand back, shaking it out as he sucks in air through his teeth.
"I suppose it's the responsibility of the family patriarch to put it down." Cazador leans all of his weight—not a particularly sizeable amount, but unpleasant nonetheless—into the boot on Iorveth's back. Too arrogant to stop taunting, even with the smell of burnt flesh beginning to permeate the air.
Astarion unearths the small glass vial of holy water next. If there's anything he does have, it's good aim; he flings the ampoule without another thought. Cazador, unfortunately stationary, takes it to the face, the glass breaking into a multitude of shards that cut his nose and cheeks. The singe of holy water causes him to reel back, stepping off of Iorveth to clutch at his face and snap, "You impertinent brat." ]
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Or, well. It's something. It means that Cazador doesn't immediately decapitate Astarion for the offense, and in the few seconds that Iorveth is afforded while Astarion's tormentor breaks into dramatics, he closes his grip around their glowing weapon and slides it across the slick floor towards Astarion, leaving himself unguarded by its light. ]
Catch it, [ he warns, as he finds himself pinned by a set of glass-red eyes on a smoldering face. There's nothing to read behind Cazador's focus but the furious amusement of a predator, the peeled-back snarl of a creature that knows it could crush Iorveth without giving the act any measure of consideration.
"If only the boy wasn't necessary for my ascension," the vampire hisses. "I would have had him bear witness to your prolonged torture. It might have reminded the willful child to mind what I've taught him."
Needlessly theatrical. Iorveth opens his mouth to argue, but his next breath is wrenched out of him when Cazador crooks his fingers and sends a sheet of Blight down over his entire body; his vision blurs, cast in ghastly necrotic green, overtaken by nausea far worse than he'd felt when he'd jumped over the decaying corpse of that girl. He rolls onto his side, curling into himself, and heaves.
"Recite my rules, boy!" Cazador crows to Astarion, triumphant. "Speak them, one at a time!" ]
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the thought of your default icon being astarion's reaction to iorveth's embroidery is sending me
fsjldkjfs DISGUSTED!!
area vampire testifies that he should've ascended
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