[ Gods, Astarion is impossible. He's the one that asked. Iorveth thinks to say so, that he shouldn't have inquired into past lovers if he's just fishing for compliments about himself (which is what Iorveth now suspects this is all about), but it wouldn't satisfy him to ruffle feathers for the sake of making a point, either.

Still, he reaches up and pinches Astarion's nose between his thumb and forefinger. Chiding. ]

What sort of man, you ask. The answer: a silver-haired vampire with a penchant for testing my patience.

[ If Astarion really wants to know what kind of person gets Iorveth going. ]

I'd have no desire to bed Isengrim if he returned tomorrow, naked on a flaxen-haired horse. [ Letting go of Astarion's face, Iorveth flicks the tip of the nose he'd been pinching. ] Just as I'd have no desire to bed an elvish queen presiding over a kingdom of sterile elvish elders, or a golden-scaled dragon disguised as a beautiful human woman. None of these options are you.

[ However, all of these are actual "people" in his periphery, which is the wild part of this diatribe. ]

I admire strength and courage. I admire the quality of a man's character. All of these are things that Isengrim possessed, and all of them are things you possess. [ A wave of his hand, as physical punctuation. ] I also enjoy tangling my fingers in soft hair, if you want pettier details.