[ Almost visibly prickling, he says, ] Don't say that.

[ He doesn't want to hear it, because it's true and awful. From what he remembers of that very short portion of his very long life, he was ruthless and indifferent. He would have banged his gavel, sent Iorveth to the gallows for his crimes, and thought nothing of it. Even after the bite, he would only have seen Iorveth as a disposable tool to keep Cazador's boot from his own neck.

Shame pulses through him, and he sinks further down into his chair, the urge to chant invisibilis and disappear growing. ]

I just don't like that he changed me. That's all.

[ An understatement; he hates it. Perhaps it's for the best that he can't see his own reflection, because he'd undoubtedly spend hours agonizing over his sallow skin, his red eyes, his sharp fangs. Worst of all, the two pinprick marks on his neck. All physical reminders of having been irrevocably altered.

Astarion had thought Iorveth might understand feeling like he's been ruined by the cruel acts of someone else, but he can't bear the possibility that he won't understand, so he lets his gaze drift back to the sleeping man. ]

Shall I see if our unconscious friend has a deck of cards in his pockets?