[ No judgment. If anything, Wyll is the answer that Iorveth expected. He leans back, scraping his chair an inch or two away for a better vantage point from which to observe Astarion from. An imaginary Wyll situates himself beside Astarion in Iorveth's mind's eye, and his simple assessment of it is: ]
You two would make a pretty pair.
[ An understatement. Wyll is everything that Iorveth isn't: handsome and kind and generous, high-born, slotting nicely in social situations. No one would look at Wyll standing next to Astarion and think him to be a valet, the way most would when they look at Iorveth.
Rocking back in his chair, Iorveth takes another sip of wine. ] He would treat you well, too. [ For all of Astarion's talk of debauchery, Iorveth likes to think that he knows where Astarion's true priorities lie. A brief smile, and he waves one hand. ] An ideal arrangement.
no subject
You two would make a pretty pair.
[ An understatement. Wyll is everything that Iorveth isn't: handsome and kind and generous, high-born, slotting nicely in social situations. No one would look at Wyll standing next to Astarion and think him to be a valet, the way most would when they look at Iorveth.
Rocking back in his chair, Iorveth takes another sip of wine. ] He would treat you well, too. [ For all of Astarion's talk of debauchery, Iorveth likes to think that he knows where Astarion's true priorities lie. A brief smile, and he waves one hand. ] An ideal arrangement.