[ Astarion raises an eyebrow, watching as Iorveth stalks toward the half-orc interloper with some sort of intent. What kind, exactly, he can't say. Iorveth might just as easily kill her as kiss her, he thinks. Hopefully he fears Astarion's wrath enough not to do the latter. Getting physical with someone else is one thing—a thing he's growing less and less ambivalent about the more he realizes that physicality can, in fact, mean something—but getting physical with a half-orc? At least make it another elf!
He follows Iorveth's lead and stands, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, ugly mustard bag mostly concealed at his side. As he steps carefully to the side, he reaches inside and wraps a hand around the decorative golden shortsword he'd pilfered. As his eyes flicker back to Iorveth's, he lets the tadpole transmit the mental image of him stabbing the half-orc in the back while she's distracted with Iorveth. A can I kill her, pretty please. ]
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He follows Iorveth's lead and stands, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, ugly mustard bag mostly concealed at his side. As he steps carefully to the side, he reaches inside and wraps a hand around the decorative golden shortsword he'd pilfered. As his eyes flicker back to Iorveth's, he lets the tadpole transmit the mental image of him stabbing the half-orc in the back while she's distracted with Iorveth. A can I kill her, pretty please. ]