[ Astarion, in his blood-drunk haze, thinks little of shelter, or plans, or really anything except immediate desires. Be close to Iorveth, grind everyone who would ever threaten them to dust. You know, normal things. He satisfies the first by following behind Iorveth and grasping onto his sleeve so that he doesn't stray too far. The second is yet to be determined. ]
Where are we going? [ he thinks to whisper, although his voice somehow ends up quite a bit louder than he intends. ] We should go finish off the rest of those humans.
[ He has a knife now, after all. What more could they need? ]
no subject
Where are we going? [ he thinks to whisper, although his voice somehow ends up quite a bit louder than he intends. ] We should go finish off the rest of those humans.
[ He has a knife now, after all. What more could they need? ]