[ A nice little sleight of hand. Iorveth doesn't miss it, but doesn't skip a beat: he's by Astarion's side before the men can get their dizzy bearings, calm and neutral again. ]
Beloved. [ He says, to mirror "darling". He takes Astarion's envelope and slots it into his pants pocket, freeing that hand to hold Astarion's. ] It's good that you've found me.
[ A tinge of sarcasm, here and gone again. Their marks look torn between offense ("did he call us clods?") and vague admiration ("oi, that's one pretty high elf"); either way, Iorveth is tired of them already. In his eye(s), they deserve to have their partying rights revoked. ]
We'll go, [ he murmurs against Astarion's hair, and tugs him along to the wrought-iron gate. He only relaxes once he's out of earshot of the drunks, and sighs under his breath. ]
no subject
Beloved. [ He says, to mirror "darling". He takes Astarion's envelope and slots it into his pants pocket, freeing that hand to hold Astarion's. ] It's good that you've found me.
[ A tinge of sarcasm, here and gone again. Their marks look torn between offense ("did he call us clods?") and vague admiration ("oi, that's one pretty high elf"); either way, Iorveth is tired of them already. In his eye(s), they deserve to have their partying rights revoked. ]
We'll go, [ he murmurs against Astarion's hair, and tugs him along to the wrought-iron gate. He only relaxes once he's out of earshot of the drunks, and sighs under his breath. ]