[ Iorveth looks handsome even with a too-big frilly shirt and a harsh expression, and although his rare softness is Astarion's favorite of all, he hardly minds if he gets wrinkles by looking like that. His words are a bit less appealing, though, and Astarion furrows his brow a little. He'd thought—or perhaps hoped—that it was petty jealousy. Something fun and light, not indignation at an assault on Astarion's honor.
Ha. Iorveth's mistake. He doesn't have any honor left to tarnish. ]
Gods, I'm not a victim.
[ His chin tips up, prideful. That's the last thing he ever wants Iorveth to see him as. ]
I used the tools at my disposal to best him.
[ At least, that's what he tells himself. It's what he's been telling himself for two hundred years. ]
no subject
Ha. Iorveth's mistake. He doesn't have any honor left to tarnish. ]
Gods, I'm not a victim.
[ His chin tips up, prideful. That's the last thing he ever wants Iorveth to see him as. ]
I used the tools at my disposal to best him.
[ At least, that's what he tells himself. It's what he's been telling himself for two hundred years. ]