[ What, as if the answer to that question isn't abundantly clear. There's a brief flicker of temptation to say something completely unrelated, like "taking Scratch out for a walk while the owlbear cub trails along", but going that route feels a little too twee.

The soapy hand feels nice. Everything does. Astarion's velvet voice against his ear, and the warm scent of vanilla suffused with just a trace hint of undead sharpness. Almost like mulled wine. Iorveth almost forgets to reply to the question still hanging in the air, soaking and luxuriating in the safety of their hard-earned space, but he finally gets there. ]

Quiet. A table full of food. [ He smiles, finding his mundane dreams very droll. ] You, in soft clothes, sitting by a fireplace. Reading.

[ His voice lowers to a murmur. ]

I've wanted to die for many causes, but you're the only thing I'd like to live for.