[ Iorveth is slowly easing the broken lock off the hatch when he hears "more than friendly", and something about "tonight". It makes him want to stop exploring and slit the young Fist's throat, not for being the target of Astarion's false attention but for making Astarion wear that metaphorical mask again.
He'll have to hurry. The scorched wooden hatch gives way with a low creak, but the recruit doesn't notice it this time; he's surprised that shooting his shot actually worked, and devoting all of his attention to maintaining his false sense of bravado, like he totally expected the good-looking high elf to give him the time of day.
"Well... I gotta be protecting the city, and all that." Doubtful. "But I can make some time, since you seem so keen."
Iorveth wrinkles his nose (Gods, humans are the worst), and the expression deepens once he smells the fetid scent of death emanating from the hidden basement.
Under his breath: ] Is every cellar in this foul city a tomb?
[ He drops down, eye watering from the overwhelming stench of blood and rotten viscera, meandering past piles of mangled corpses that are impossible to identify as male or female or human or elf. An explanation of at least some of the disappearances in the area, he thinks, as he plucks a few stained research papers from a filthy desk and pockets another vial, this one full of blood. No way of knowing whether it's his, but it feels better not to leave it.
He can't stay down here. He hurries back to the ladder, and hears the Fist saying something about how he knows a good place that serves great calamari. ]
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He'll have to hurry. The scorched wooden hatch gives way with a low creak, but the recruit doesn't notice it this time; he's surprised that shooting his shot actually worked, and devoting all of his attention to maintaining his false sense of bravado, like he totally expected the good-looking high elf to give him the time of day.
"Well... I gotta be protecting the city, and all that." Doubtful. "But I can make some time, since you seem so keen."
Iorveth wrinkles his nose (Gods, humans are the worst), and the expression deepens once he smells the fetid scent of death emanating from the hidden basement.
Under his breath: ] Is every cellar in this foul city a tomb?
[ He drops down, eye watering from the overwhelming stench of blood and rotten viscera, meandering past piles of mangled corpses that are impossible to identify as male or female or human or elf. An explanation of at least some of the disappearances in the area, he thinks, as he plucks a few stained research papers from a filthy desk and pockets another vial, this one full of blood. No way of knowing whether it's his, but it feels better not to leave it.
He can't stay down here. He hurries back to the ladder, and hears the Fist saying something about how he knows a good place that serves great calamari. ]