[ Astarion is only just now in a mindset to be self-conscious; he runs his fingers over the tender area by his temple, bruising quickly thanks to his deathly pallor. The touch of his fingers hurts, and he winces. He must look 'a right mess', as Iorveth had called it, to match the situation they're in. He should be furious about the punch, but he can't muster up the energy to feel anything other than disappointed that Iorveth is seeing him this way. ]

I suppose you were right. I need to start guarding my face.

[ He makes a cursory attempt to fix the hopefully-charmingly-tousled mop on his head, but it's ultimately a futile endeavor, and he settles for it at least being out of his face. ]

...I don't want to spend the day here.

[ Then again, leaving could prove dangerous. He has no idea where they are relative to the road--although perhaps Iorveth does, man of the woods that he is--and making their way to civilization could prove too time-consuming. ]

We should-- [ He trails off, unsure. ] Well, I'm not sure what we should do. But we can't just hole up here like roaches hiding from the sun.

[ Because Iorveth needs medical attention, for one, but also because it's humiliating. ]