[ A shame that Astarion tugs him away when he does: there's a rather lovely-looking pecan tart that he would've loved to sample. But he follows, chewing on a scone as they make their way out of the kitchen and past the pantry, out of the back door and out into the yard behind the mansion, less elaborately decorated than the front gardens with its statues of gods and goddesses in various states of undress. The area is clearly designed for labor, with large tubs and washboards sitting in neat rows under tautly-pulled clotheslines; the only decoration on this side of the property is a modest-sized fountain with flying tressyms carved in stone, situated just off to the side opposite the path that leads to a small wrought-iron gate out of the premises.

It feels nice to be outside. Perhaps Iorveth, a wood elf, is designed to feel uncomfortable when he's cloistered between walls. He breathes in, a deep, indulgent inhale, and glances sideways at Astarion, who seems to be...

...in a bad mood? Iorveth can't read his expression too well, and wonders if it's because he pointed out the fact that they do not, in fact, have mansions and luxury in their immediate future. A lupine tip of his head, and Iorveth moves to take the not-quite-bag of items from Astarion to hold on his behalf. ]

We should stop by Elfsong and leave this in our room before we set out again. [ Hm. ] Unless you've had enough excitement for the night.