[ Wizards are so passive-aggressive. Iorveth doesn't quite step away from Astarion, but he unwinds his hands and pivots to face the projection, who doesn't seem to be fazed by the two elves' obvious ire. Instead:

"To turn in after a spot of meaningful adventuring, I'd imagine!"

All smiles, the shimmering image of Gale spreads his arms. Needlessly grandiose despite the simplicity of his answer. If it rankles a bit that they were interrupted by Gale needing a nap, it's smoothed over somewhat by how comical it is.

Iorveth folds his arms across his chest, snorts, and finally steps away from Astarion. ]

All this time, we've been accusing the wrong person for being high-maintenance.

[ Which isn't to say that Astarion isn't, but Gale is such a baby. Or, at least, Iorveth is allowed to think so now that he's demoted Gale to the bottom of the group hierarchy. Iorveth is awful. ]

Let him in. I don't want an accidental Netherese explosion on our hands.