[ Dolores looks unconvinced, and Iorveth can't blame her: if this happened in his own home, Iorveth would be far less charitable. That said, it hasn't even been a tenday since Astarion won his freedom, and it would be a bad look if his new life started off as a prisoner in Wyrm's Rock.
So. Before the gnome can voice her skepticism, Iorveth interjects with the same cover story he'd told back at the Water Queen's House, hoping the lie will contextualize the collectively awful manners exhibited by the both of them. Iorveth will have to hear the truth about Henrik later, and whether Astarion really might have left him alive. ]
He's telling the truth. [ Etch that one into your brain folds; Iorveth may never say this again. ] We've had much to defend ourselves against. I was a prisoner in the north, captured by racists, and he risked his life and profession as a magistrate to defend me and bring me south.
[ Sufficiently romantic enough, Iorveth hopes, despite the fact that he isn't painting a very poetic picture of their tragic life as vagabond lovers. He reaches back, putting his palm on the back of Astarion's blood-crusted hand (finally seeing that awful bruise in full, trying not to scowl at the thought of a pommel hitting Astarion's face), gauging Dolores' expression for a reaction.
It's... surprisingly positive. Sympathetic, even. "Oh", she murmurs, and lowers her hands from their defensive position. "Oh, I see. You poor dears, I can relate. My husband, he's a duergar..." ]
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So. Before the gnome can voice her skepticism, Iorveth interjects with the same cover story he'd told back at the Water Queen's House, hoping the lie will contextualize the collectively awful manners exhibited by the both of them. Iorveth will have to hear the truth about Henrik later, and whether Astarion really might have left him alive. ]
He's telling the truth. [ Etch that one into your brain folds; Iorveth may never say this again. ] We've had much to defend ourselves against. I was a prisoner in the north, captured by racists, and he risked his life and profession as a magistrate to defend me and bring me south.
[ Sufficiently romantic enough, Iorveth hopes, despite the fact that he isn't painting a very poetic picture of their tragic life as vagabond lovers. He reaches back, putting his palm on the back of Astarion's blood-crusted hand (finally seeing that awful bruise in full, trying not to scowl at the thought of a pommel hitting Astarion's face), gauging Dolores' expression for a reaction.
It's... surprisingly positive. Sympathetic, even. "Oh", she murmurs, and lowers her hands from their defensive position. "Oh, I see. You poor dears, I can relate. My husband, he's a duergar..." ]