[ This is probably the life that suits Astarion most: gilded to the teeth, weaponizing himself like a finely-sharpened blade. Beautiful, and liable to make someone bleed if they came too close. Iorveth tips his head, wondering briefly if Astarion wouldn't prefer being a tailor in Baldur's Gate to more adventuring in the wilderness.

Well. He'll see how the party goes. Iorveth is planning on purchasing or stealing some pretty bauble from the less-than-reputable members that will show up to the auction-fête; perhaps that'll keep Astarion pleased enough to be around a weird wood elf for another tenday or two. ]

Don't test me, vampire. [ A low hum, too warm to be breezy. ] The proprietress would have my head if I tore your pretty clothes under her roof.

[ Putting his own hands on Astarion, both palms bracketing his toned waist. He's so attractive, and what for!!!! Iorveth is angry about it every single day, which one would assume would be a negative thing, but by Iorveth's deranged standards is extremely positive.

Another formless sound, and Iorveth rests his forehead against Astarion's. His palms slide down, tracing shapely thighs. ]

Mm. Your pants don't have pockets. [ A problem, if he's planning on having sticky fingers tonight. ]