[ Ah, there it is. There's something about Astarion wanting a dagger that stirs something in Iorveth, tugs that unhinged, primal part of him that'd first felt attracted to Astarion when he saw splashed-back blood on pale skin. Sharp, unapologetic, dangerous.

He takes the proffered hand, rolling his eye at the theatrical gesture but responding, in kind, by pressing a brief kiss to the back of it. ]

You really should have asked Dolores for pockets.

[ Maybe the storage room will have a bag of holding for them to use. An amused half-chuckle, and he spins the both of them away from the stairs in direct defiance of what the tiefling guard commanded. ]

She wouldn't have permitted us to go upstairs if there was anything of value there, [ he offers by way of explanation, as he heads them down a corridor that leads to an entirely different wing of the mansion. More tasteless marble busts on elevated platforms line the hallway alongside portraits of well-dressed aristocrats painted in discordant styles; there's a sharp corner at the end of the hall, where Iorveth can spot two amorphous shadows peeking out from beyond the bend.

One of the shadows sways, and Iorveth hears it complain in a gravel-deep voice: "can't believe they didn't give us any of that fancy wine. Got no respect for the hard-workin', the lot of 'em."

Interesting. Iorveth leans, and whispers against Astarion's ear: ] There's not a single reliable guard in this entire city.