[ "Charming", Astarion claims about potential drunkenness. A funny notion, that. He's spent so long being a bent bow with an arrow nocked on its string, eternally taut; how novel, to have someone enamored by his inefficiencies instead of his abilities. It's a symmetry of sorts, Iorveth supposes－ he, too, likes Astarion the most when Astarion isn't trying to play the role of a perfect archetype.

They walk, carefully staying to one side of the main road that weaves a clear path through the Lower City's most important landmarks. Despite attempts to be discreet, many passers-by give the pair a second, sometimes a third glance, inquisitive eyes flicking up and over the both of them, evaluative and curious.

Whatever. Iorveth continues their conversation, taking note of certain locations that look suitably ritzy enough to return to once they have their stolen wares tucked safely away under one of their beds (probably Iorveth's; Astarion's poor bed hasn't been seeing much use lately). ]

You want me to drink, [ he says with some incredulity, ] but you don't want me to fight.

[ Where's the fun in that!!!!!! What is a deranged elf to do if he's forbidden to start a ruckus!!!!! Honestly, Astarion is just playing himself if he thinks this is a good idea, in Iorveth's professional (?) opinion. ]

Well, I suppose the only thing left for me to do is to embarrass you in my drunken stupor, then.

[ Read: "I'll probably be overtly affectionate, which is not going to end well for you." Everyone in the bar is going to hate them so much. ]