nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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!

[ 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!" ]

Edited 2024-08-20 11:18 (UTC)

[ Stop making me catch things, his mouth is open to say, but it gets strangled in his throat as he watches the sickly arcane energy surround and consume Iorveth, draining his life force with every ticking second. This is exactly why he'd been worried about bringing Iorveth along. Cazador could torture him, kill him, inflict so much suffering that he begs to be turned. It makes Astarion feel sick with rage.

He drops Iorveth's pack on the ground, daggers and spell scrolls rattling around, and picks up the Blood of Lathander with both hands. It's weighty, solid. Fueled by hate—for Cazador, for his stupid rules—he stalks forward and swings at Cazador's back. He's never truly seen Cazador be injured before, not without healing immediately, but the spikes of the mace rip through the fabric of his embellished tunic, bloodying his skin.

Both of them must be surprised by it, because Cazador whirls around, more incensed than Astarion has ever seen him before. His eyes are practically ablaze with indignation, his teeth bared, face reddening with radiant burns. Astarion swings again, the mace colliding with Cazador's torso, leaving a large, bloody tear in his clothing.

Cazador actually cries out in pain, for perhaps the first time in a long time. Astarion can tell it humiliates him, because he reaches into his pockets and unearths a dagger, the very same that was used to carve the infernal symbols on Astarion's back. Sharp edges, with a stake of wood down the center. "Enough with this tantrum," he roars, plunging the dagger into Astarion's shoulder. "If I didn't have use for you, it would be your heart." ]

[ Cazador keeps evening the odds. Iorveth hears, in his post-spell haze, the pained yelp followed by the rage-fueled growl, and registers the attack to Astarion's person once he's back up on his feet.

Not a fatal wound, by any means. But a wound. Iorveth's blood boils; his sword is in his hand before he can even think to temper his anger, his blade aiming for the back of Cazador's neck.

It doesn't quite land. His target pivots on his heels (without turning into mist, Iorveth notes; a further realization, that Cazador can't when Lathander's light is on him), letting go of the hilt of his dagger to attempt a dodge, which also doesn't quite happen. Iorveth's sword cuts across Cazador's shoulder, and Cazador retaliates with a swipe of pointed claws to Iorveth's side.

Chest heaving, clothes tattered and torn, Cazador tries to make another villain speech. Men like these are always full of them. Something about Iorveth being a puny mortal who has no hopes of winning against the immortal Cazador Szarr. He's tired of it, so he lunges forward again and interrupts with another half-dodged attack that cuts right across Cazador's throat, albeit not deep enough to do anything but leave a thin red line on pale skin.

The vampire looks appalled. "An impertinent son keeps impertinent pets," he hisses, turning towards Astarion to see if he can pull the dagger out of his spawn to make further use of it. ]

[ Cazador reaches out to yank the dagger from his flesh, and Astarion's blood soaks the top of his shirt. (How many fucking clothes of his are going to get ruined?) He yelps in pain, and Cazador laughs. The sound echoes in his mind, setting his blood ablaze. Gods, he's so tired of being laughed at.

He swings the mace again, arms burning and shoulder throbbing but too angry to really notice it. He can't say how he does it, or if he's even the one to do it at all, but as the mace swings, the corona of light around its head glows brighter until it explodes in a brilliant ray of light, irradiant and hot. Astarion has to close his eyes at the brightness of it, but the sound Cazador lets out is inhuman, the sound of someone being cooked alive. When he opens his eyes again, the sight is disgusting and wonderful at the same time: Cazador's skin is scalded, charred.

Then, in an instant, Cazador is gone, the dagger dropping to the ground. A bat floats in his place for only a moment before it absconds to the coffin to regenerate. ]

No, no, no. You don't get to hide from me!

[ He slams the mace down on the coffin before summoning up all of his strength to topple it entirely, Cazador's body crumpling on the floor, skin sloughing off. "I command you to stop," he groans, as if Astarion has to follow his commands anymore. ]

What's the matter? You don't feel like laughing anymore?

[ The look in his eyes is faraway as he strikes again, the impact of the mace scraping off bits of scorched face flesh. "Wait," Cazador rasps, changing tack. "I can give you more powerful than you ever—" ]

Isn't this funny?

[ Whatever Cazador says, he isn't listening anymore. A man possessed, he strikes him again and again until it's just a bloody gurgle that Cazador lets out, until he falls to the ground, and then he keeps going. Destroying his smug face, bashing in his ribcage. Blood and viscera spatter him, on his clothes and in his hair. ]

[ A beam of sun in a tomb, poetic if not for what happens in its wake. Sometime between Astarion thwarting Cazador's efforts to retreat and Astarion starting to bash Cazador's head in, Iorveth manages to sheath his sword and tread silently towards the ongoing execution; he's silent throughout, unsure if the chill he feels is a shiver of satisfaction or morbid detachment.

It doesn't matter, he supposes. This is for Astarion, and his peace of mind.

Eventually, the blows peter out. They have to. The mace is heavy, and there's not enough of Cazador left to maim. What's left isn't even a shred of a person, not a vampire or a lord or much of anything: just blood and scorched flesh. The immortal Cazador Szarr, made humble. Two hundred years of torment, reduced to this.

Iorveth lingers. He remembers his own compulsion to scream his head off after his own revenge, and wonders if Astarion's current state of mind echoes it. A pain too deep to quantify; Iorveth can neither say nor do anything with the weight of it hanging over them, so he stays three steps behind Astarion, poised for anything. ]

[ The difference between them is thus: Iorveth felt the urge to scream, and Astarion actually does it. It's a primal, guttural scream that escapes him as he mashes the last bits of Cazador to unrecognizable mush; after that, his tired arms give out and the mace clatters to the ground. Exhausted from exertion and pain, he collapses on the ground next to the red pulp that used to be Cazador, shaking from adrenaline, fear, and hatred.

Killing Cazador was the thing that was supposed to make everything in his life right. He should be elated, but he just feels empty. Astarion has spent two centuries despising him, and now—

Now what?

Awareness of his body comes back slowly. A sharp, pulsing pain in his shoulder. Lightning scorch burns. Arms that'll probably ache for a tenday. Whatever he feels, he realizes, Iorveth must feel it worse. That necrotic energy was potent, far more powerful than whatever miasma emanated from that little girl. ]

Are you all right?

[ Haunting, Iorveth thinks. There have been times when he'd wanted to burrow out of his own skin, the anger and grief felt like too much. A vestige of that returns here, watching Astarion's bent shoulders heave with the effort of persisting.

All that pain, housed in one body. The world is so senseless. It's not enough that a wretched monster is snuffed out of existence, even when it should be. Iorveth moves to crouch next to Astarion, similarly-scorched and bleeding, but by all other accounts, fine. Paler and more pinched than usual, but alive.

It guts him most that Astarion asks him if he's alright. ]

We've both been better.

[ A bitter understatement, but Iorveth isn't in the habit of lying. He reaches to wipe blood from Astarion's face, using his sleeve to scrape off bits of Cazador still lingering on cold skin. ]

But it's done. You saw it through.

[ You, he emphasizes. No great consolation, perhaps, but Iorveth hopes that Astarion can hold to the reality that he earned his own future. ]

[ Iorveth shouldn't be the one wiping blood from his cheek when Cazador drained his life energy, but Astarion is selfish enough to accept it anyway, even as shell-shocked as he is. He stares down at the pile of blood, guts, and flesh that he made, feeling somehow both overwhelmed and entirely distant, like watching himself from outside of his body.

His arms hang limply at his sides, jellylike, useless. Lae'zel was right to doubt his ability to wield a mace. ]

I can't bear to spend another second in this rotted, decaying place.

[ This was supposed to be his eternal home. He'd imagined what it would be like to take it for his own so many times. Now that he's actually here, the palace masterless and yearning to fill the void, he could crawl out of his burnt skin. It feels like being inside the carcass of some long-dead creature. ]

We'll go.

[ A nod, to indicate assent. There's still the problem of the imprisoned spawn and what to do with them, not to mention the other six siblings who will no doubt have realized, to some extent, that their immortal souls have been unbound. But those things can wait at least another day or two, resolved by another trip down to the crypt, with or without Astarion in tow. Iorveth would understand if Astarion never wants to set foot in here again; he can take the signet ring and remember the incantation himself, he thinks.

He wills tired legs to straighten, and offers a hand to help haul Astarion up. They look a frightful mess, stained and tattered and bruised, and the trek back up the stairs to the long hall leading to the elevator seems almost insurmountable at this point, but they'll have to persist.

The worst of it is, predictably, having to pass by the cells. Pale arms stretch from between bars in a silent plea for attention and absolution.

Instinctively, Iorveth says: ] Later. [ But he pauses, giving Astarion space to protest or contest if he wants to. ]

Edited 2024-08-21 03:42 (UTC)

[ These poor creatures are innocent. Or, at least, whatever crimes they might have committed aren't severe enough to be punished like this — no crime is, no matter how sinister. Despite the knowledge that he damned them to this existence, Astarion wants little more than to forget about them. They're walking, talking symbols of his disgrace and humiliation. ]

Come on, [ is all he says, grabbing Iorveth's hand and smearing Cazador's blood on his palm. He pulls him weakly along, eyes downcast, unable to look at the horrors he wrought. Later, Iorveth says, but gods, not right now.

Out in the foyer, the same servant still cleans that same damn spot. Pretending to look busy. He knows what that looks like from experience. She can't help but gasp as they appear in the doorway like a horrific vision, her hands clasping over her mouth to muffle any sound lest she be caught breaking a rule again. He should tell her that Cazador's gone, that she'll never get her wish for eternal life, that she can stop following his rules. ]

Don't worry, [ he says instead, voice dark and dry. ] I didn't tell on you.

[ She drops her feather duster and bolts past them into the palace proper, calling, "Master! Master!" ]

[ A kennelmaster in pieces, a missing chamberlain, a dead master. The Szarr mansion is bereft, dismembered, defunct; good riddance, Iorveth would think, if the platitude didn't ring so hollow. Instead, he watches the servant scramble away, followed by a cloud of feral bats and displaced, stale air. The last of Cazador's empty legacy, infamy that was never built to last. It feels good, in some measure, to leave it all behind.

The sun is slowly relinquishing its position in the sky when they return to the rest of the world, like a giant head cocked in idle curiosity. It stains the city in fading red, and despite the overwhelming relief of feeling clean, unsullied air against his grime-covered skin, Iorveth finds that he's sick of the color for today.

Turning his hand in Astarion's grip, he shifts the point of contact down so that their fingers wind together. He keeps his eye ahead of him, ignoring horrified-looking passersby to beeline not towards Elfsong, but towards the Spearhead. He has neither the patience nor the energy to explain anything to anyone at this point, and most of all, he doesn't want Astarion to have to explain anything to anyone unless he's ready to.

They track blood behind them as they walk; the city can deal with it. When they pass through the front door of the inn, the young human manning the visitor's desk looks like he might refuse service, but shuts up when Iorveth tosses grime-covered gold onto the counter. Housecleaning is going to have a hell of a time. ]

[ It's a good thing Iorveth is able to bring them back to the inn, because Astarion walks the streets in a dreamlike daze. It's almost incomprehensible that none of the people passing them by with concerned looks know what just happened. It had felt like the whole world stopped when they entered the palace, but it had kept going on without them, regardless of what was going on inside that mansion.

He'd expected to return to the Elfsong given the state of their injuries, but it's a relief not to. As beaten and broken as his body feels, it's nothing compared to the anguish of having to answer to the worried, questioning looks of their companions. Hells, he can't even answer to the worried, questioning look of the inn employee, staying uncharacteristically silent all the way up to their room, save for the pained grunts he makes while walking up the stairs.

Once the door closes behind them, he slumps against the wall, smearing a line of wet blood down it. He stares at Iorveth, the only thing he can focus on. ]

Now you know me.

[ The real him. That whole fiasco was more exposing than stripping himself bare. A place filled with his subjugation, his humiliation, his shame. Don't think differently of me, he wants to beg. ]

[ Silence, as Iorveth slowly starts to unload himself of all of his packs (including one with the holy mace that saved their asses, because of course he remembered to pick it up). It takes a moment for him to respond to what Astarion says, his expression set in a grim semi-frown, almost irritated but not quite. ]

Good of you to tell me how I know you.

[ A jab and a chide. Not at all sharp, all things considered: it's not like Iorveth has been at all forthcoming about the details of his own past. Just the bare outlines of it, as opposed to all the blood-soaked indignity that Astarion has had to put on the table for scrutiny. Iorveth understands.

But in the same way that he couldn't bear "are you all right", he can't bear this. His palms find themselves on either side of Astarion's face, bracketing him, keeping him in place. Iorveth's one eye is tired, but clear. ]

I see you as I've always seen you.

Did you think more clarity would make me care less?

[ Stupid, if that's the case. Foolish, shortsighted vampire. Iorveth is devastatingly fond of him. ]

[ Yes. Yes, he did think that. Every bit of what Iorveth saw was unappealing, something no sane person could care for. His weakness, his wretchedness, his selfishness, his rage. Iorveth is no sane person, of course, and he should have known that; he cracks a tired smile, reaching up to run a thumb across Iorveth's cheek. Wet redness streaks across his skin, and Astarion looks down at his bloodied hands, his ruined clothing. ]

Oh.

[ His eyebrows raise, as if he's noticing for the first time that he's drenched in gore. ]

I must look ghastly.

[ A half-smile for the one he gets, brow similarly hiked. ]

Red is your color, [ he ventures casually, ] but not this shade.

[ Astarion has had Cazador under his skin for too long; it's time to wash himself clean of him. Iorveth backs off, tiredly surveying his own state of affairs, slowly doing away with his own dirtied top with some difficulty. ]

There's a washroom across the hall. I'll go see if it's empty.

[ No need to traumatize the rest of the clientele, not that Iorveth is actively keeping track of who he terrorizes. Again, he just doesn't have the patience to deal with people who aren't Astarion at this point. ]

—Yes, ah, that might be for the best.

[ Not because he has any qualms with traumatizing anyone, but because he really doesn't want to get on anyone's bad side right after ridding himself of the person who most wanted to kill him in the world. Walking into a crowded washroom covered in blood and guts could give someone the idea that he's worth looking into, and he's not interested in dealing with someone out to get him again. Not this soon.

Still slumped against the wall, he works on the buttons of his own shirt, muscles weak and protesting with every movement. The fabric sticks to his open wound and burns, and peeling it off is entirely unpleasant. Ever the complainer, he makes no attempt at concealing his displeasure, hissing and whining ow, ow. ]

Don't take too long. I'll worry you've collapsed.

[ Not a lot of energy left for spellcasting, but Iorveth spares a te curo for Astarion's trouble: it only really manages to seal the gaping knife wound and soothe over the worst of the burns, leaving Astarion to contend with all of his less major wounds and muscle pain, but Iorveth figures that it's better than nothing.

With that, he leaves to check on the washroom. Blessedly empty and surprisingly tidy, the space is occupied by two tubs and a dresser stocked with toiletries and fresh towels; there's a scroll of Create Water sitting primly on a tubside bench, and Iorveth uses it to (messily) fill one of the baths, which then requires him to heat the newly-created water with a separate spell. A lot of fucking work on the customer's end, Iorveth grouses privately.

With that done, exhausted, he plods back. Makes sure to right his posture and realign his expression to calm neutral before he opens the door- force of habit. Leaders of guerilla operations don't look tired. ]

You can use the washroom. It's been prepared. [ Iorveth tips his head. ] Speak up if you'd rather use it alone.

-And be honest about it.

Edited 2024-08-21 23:08 (UTC)

[ He can't very well roll around on the bed covered in pieces of Cazador's insides, so Astarion slides down the wall and sits there, legs splayed out in front of him, waiting. Even with the worst of his pain gone, he's still worn out, a bone-deep tired that's more psychological than physical. He'd thought he was strong enough now that returning to the mansion wouldn't affect him. How embarrassingly wrong he was.

His head is tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, when Iorveth returns. He opens his eyes to peer up at him, eyebrow quirked at that last comment. Does Iorveth think he'll pretend to want company when he doesn't, or that he'll claim not to when he really does? Being called out for a lie he hasn't yet told is embarrassing either way.

Looking up at him now, he feels like he must look about as pathetic as he'd looked when asking Iorveth what he was in his eyes. ]

I want you there.

[ The last thing he wants is to be alone with his own thoughts. Ever, but especially now.

A light addendum to undercut his pitifulness: ] I said I wanted to see you naked and wet, didn't I?

[ A mess of red and dull silver hunched in yellow lamplight. Astarion looks positively miserable, and it does something to Iorveth's stomach to see it, but what good is calling attention to something so obvious? He offers his hand again, the same way he'd done back in the pits of Cazador's palace, and helps Astarion back to weary upright. ]

Barely a consolation prize, after what you've endured.

[ A tenday ago, he would've sounded more sarcastic. Tonight, he undercuts all of his potential pointedness with gestures meant to be grounding, though Iorveth can't be sure of how successful they are; laced fingers might feel patronizing, but he winds their hands together again as he leads Astarion to the washroom, grip firm.

He doesn't want to be cloying. Softness has always been reserved for the most devastating portions of his life's history, and in recent memory, he's been asked to be soft less and less; most look to him for steadiness, for firmness.

So Iorveth has to relearn his old tenderness. Or what passes for it, whatever of it he still has left in him. He sits Astarion by the edge of the tub and encourages him to take off whatever is left of his blood-covered clothes, finding him a basin and a handtowel to scrape off the worst of the offending gore before he can sink into warm bathwater. Some people may call this fussing, but he tries to think of it as being practical. (He's fussing.) ]

[ Astarion likes the fussing. Moments of fussing in his life have been so rare as to be nearly nonexistent. He remembers feverishly scouring the dirt from his fingernails the night he crawled out of his grave; no one was there to help him then, and that pattern continued. It feels special and warm to be cared for by someone now. Iorveth got it just as bad as him, if not worse, but he lets it happen anyway, too selfish to deny himself.

He does, however, wring out the towel and reach out to scrub the smear of blood from Iorveth's cheek. Lightly, gently. ]

Aren't you a mother hen?

[ His tone is as gentle as his hands, affectionate.

His boots come off, the soles of them caked in crypt grime and blood, followed by his pants and too-fancy underwear. He's too tired to strike a pose and ask Iorveth if he likes what he sees. Instead, he quietly cleans Cazador's entrails from his hair, his face, his body. He scrubs vigorously, even when it hurts, like he'll be able to scrub away every inch of himself that was ever in that palace.

When he's rid himself of enough gore, he lowers himself into the water, cupping enough in his hands to wet his hair. ]

I should thank you. For— [ Gods, where to begin. ] Well, for everything, I suppose. [ He looks down at his hands, submerged in the warm water. ] I know I've been... a lot.

[ Too much, some might say. ]

[ Iorveth is less gore-soaked, so he takes it upon himself to wait his turn, naked from the waist up and sitting on damp floorboards next to the tub. The long scratch that Cazador left on his torso is blessedly on the side of him that isn't tattooed, so he isn't too pressed about not having tended to it yet; he lounges with his arms folded and his elbows resting on the edge of the bath, watching Astarion with quiet focus. Like a wolf curled up by someone's feet.

At thank you, he lifts his head from the cradle of his elbows. Just a fraction of an inch. Not surprised by the sincerity of the statement, but by the timing. To extend anyone the grace of a "thank you" after such a catastrophe is admirable. ]

Nothing new, I should think. [ As gentle as Astarion's observation about Iorveth being a mother hen. Iorveth unwinds one arm from his tangle and reaches for Astarion's hair, picking a stubborn piece of blood from his bangs. ] There's no reason to thank me. I only did exactly as I wished to, no more and no less.

[ Not about balancing scales, or about owing anyone anything. Iorveth huffs, tired and amused, as he sinks back into the nest of his forearms. ]

To borrow your words, "I did it because I liked you".

[ There's every reason to thank him, but Astarion doesn't push it. He only draws his knees up to his chest, resting his temple against them as he watches Iorveth. For a second, he's quiet, the only sound the gentle sloshing of bathwater. Then: ]

The, ah, the way I acted last night.

[ He squirms a little, obviously uncomfortable. His experience with genuine contrition is even more minimal than his experience with gratitude. He's rarely received an apology, and the ones he's given were inauthentic at best, coerced at worst. ]

It was... foolish.

[ Lifting his head, he stares into the water. Perhaps he might drown himself. Spare himself the humiliation. ]

[ Another little lift, mirroring the previous one, but not matching it in sentiment. This time, Iorveth is surprised. Last night seems like ancient history, and he remembers it more as his overreaction to a very stupid but very unintentional misstep on Astarion's part. It's actually more mortifying for him to reflect back on it; the impulse to defenestrate himself is what he recalls most vividly.

So. ] And I misjudged you for your foolishness, which was more offensive.

[ They, apparently, are pros at making each other mad. Iorveth smiles about it despite himself, a thin sliver that he tucks into his folded arms. ]

You were sweet, afterwards. Think nothing of it.

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