[ Astarion kicks Iorveth's shin with his, ankle scandalously exposed in his ill-fitting, borrowed trousers. Pointedly, he says, ] Careful what you say about the dead.

[ The corpse in front of Iorveth is plenty useful, thanks. The besweatered tabby worms its way between them, rubbing its furry head against the warmth of Iorveth's torso. And ignoring Astarion, he notes, although one can hardly blame it. The cold skin of the undead is no comparison to the warmth of the living, even when it's as lovely as his cold, undead skin. ]

Well, if we're going to sift through the rubble of some insane drow's workshop—

[ Gods. He can hardly believe he's going to do such a thing. He'd always suspected that love turned people into fools, but now he has proof. ]

—Did you want to do it now, or were you hoping to spend more time cuddling with these flea-ridden things?

[ They aren't flea-ridden at all. They're really rather cute, but he'd never admit it. ]