[ If there's a point to be made, Astarion isn't certain Iorveth has made it. Or, if he has, it wasn't comprehensible, much less eloquent. It's a little funny—although he digs the point of a fang into his lip to stop from laughing—that Iorveth, who always expresses himself with such surety, has found himself tongue-tied on the very serious subject of Astarion's hair. ]

I'm me, am I? [ With teasing theatricality: ] Darling, desist with these flowery compliments or I'll have to ravish you right here.

[ It's really not his best work in the praise department. There's not many people Astarion has ever wanted to be less than himself, although... hm. For centuries, he would have exchanged his life (or lack thereof) with another's for a mere trifle, but now he's not so sure. He has an eternity of dealing with the curse of vampirism ahead of him, and that's only if he survives the parasite in his head threatening to turn him into a tentacled thrall, but there might be some appeal to being himself yet.

He leans back in his chair, eyes glinting with curiosity. ]

Honestly, I would have thought you'd prefer someone of your kind.

[ They share pointed ears but little else. His expression is impassive, purposefully blasé so as not to let his abject jealousy at how deeply Iorveth loves his people show. ]

Or is that a little too, ah, all in the family for you?