[ He should avert his eyes, but he can't. Memories rip through him of being ordered to burn his siblings, to carve their skin and bloody their faces. The sweet smell of Iorveth's blood mixed with the sour scent of acid makes him gag, and Astarion holds back the urge to vomit the blood he drank earlier, finally past 'feeling sick' fully into 'being sick'.

Step away, Iorveth says, and he wants to argue. He wants to stay and look at the damage he's done so that he can brand his brain with it. He also wants never to look at it again, so he absconds from the hay cart without another word, eyes downcast until he reaches the campfire. Then, as if a switch has just been flipped, he looks up, eyes keen. ]

Gentlemen! Did you hear that rustling over there?

[ He cants his head in the opposite direction from Iorveth, through the woods. ]

I'm not saying it's a group of wood elf guerrillas come to enact vengeance, but... weeellll, it would probably be prudent to check, don't you think?