[ Iorveth draws his blanket over the both of them this time, loosely covering their still-naked selves and insulating residual heat before his sweat-damp skin can cool off too much. The shift in conversation is cause for slight surprise－ he'd assumed that Astarion wouldn't care to know about past partners－ and he makes a sound of half-consideration, wondering what the intent of the question is before he decides that it doesn't matter. There's nothing that he's experienced that he feels he needs to hide from Astarion. ]

Isengrim Faoiltiarna. [ A name he hasn't spoken in a while. The syllables are still familiar; he enunciates them with slow care. ] The Iron Wolf. As beautiful as he was dangerous.

[ So, yeah, maybe Iorveth has a type. He thumbs along Astarion's lip at "dangerous", huffing an amused breath. ]

What do you wish to know? The man was many things－ a commander of our brigades, an unforgiving enemy to the humans. I fought under his command, like so many others did.

[ To the tune of "but I doubt the politics of it all don't interest you". None of it is particularly pleasant: a long line of painful lessons strung together by loss and bloodshed and atrocity. Astarion had called him depressing, once, and Iorveth is reluctant to ruin this moment with talk of heartache. ]