[ If anyone else on Toril accused him of having brain damage, Iorveth would shove them away and walk right out, clothes unpaid for; if a human accused him of having brain damage, Iorveth would shove a knife through their skull and say something to the extent of "who has brain damage now?"

The compulsion to be offended flicks across his face, just a moment of prideful ire, before it recedes. A wrinkle of his aquiline nose, a furrowing of his brows. Quick to smooth over, as he slots the ring on Astarion's index. ]

One more hard hit to my head away from being unwell enough to attend parties, I wager.

[ He steps away from Astarion, cape fluttering behind him. ]

Is there more of this, or are we properly gilded?