I do love to hear those three little words. 'If you wish', [ he echoes dreamily. It's partially teasing and partially true. There's little that feels more satisfying than Iorveth giving into him, whatever form that might take. When he'd offered Astarion his blood for the first time; when he'd agreed to acting foolish on the night before Henselt's murder; when he'd let Astarion shove his hand down the front of his pants at Facemaker's despite his protests of making a mess.

Astarion makes his way over to their singular, slumbering companion, steps quick and light-footed. The man is snoring softly, face squished against the wooden table. If Astarion ever gets to the point of passing out face down in his own saliva at a brothel, he'll stake himself.

As he slips his hand into the sleeping man's pocket, he begins to stir, drowsy confusion in his tone as he tries to ask Astarion what he's doing and ends up saying something that sounds more like whuhhh. ]

Shhh. [ Astarion pats his back comfortingly. ] You're only dreaming.

[ "Oh," the man slurs, head dropping back down onto the table heavily. "OK."

When he returns, it's not with a deck of cards in hand but a folded piece of paper and a very nice ring. Burnished gold with a moss agate inset. A little on the woodsy side for his taste, but he tosses the jewelry onto the table with a flick of his thumb. ]

No deck of cards, but a gift for you.

[ As he sits back down, he unfolds the note, scanning over it with raised eyebrows and a wicked grin. ]

And a very explicit love letter addressed to one of the courtesans.

[ He rolls his eyes, then furrows his brow as he examines the last lines of the letter. It dawns on him that the note and ring go together, and that the man is drowning his sorrows after a rejected proposal. He shuts the note quickly as if somehow Iorveth will know that he just gave him an engagement ring. ]

The barkeep will have some cards, I'm sure.