[ Astarion flashes a megawatt smile at the proprietress, glancing down at the name embroidered next to her bountiful cleavage--which he makes a CON save not to ogle, because he's not blind. 'Hyacinth'. Appropriate, given all the flowers. ]

And two glasses of your finest for my companion.

[ He is still very much intending on getting Iorveth incredibly, embarrassingly drunk.

The proprietress smiles winsomely, and Astarion tugs Iorveth over to a table in the corner, away from the action. Old habits are hard to break, and his habit is to gravitate towards the edges of a tavern to observe the patrons. Another habit: sitting with his back to the wall, facing the door. Paranoia also dies hard. ]

Not one complaint out of you about the venue. I fear you've gone soft.