[ A hop, a skip, and a skid. Iorveth stops and turns towards Astarion, head tipped, caught between being severely amused ("really?") and exasperated ("are you drunk???").

Sigh-laughing: ] Oh? Do you like our odds better now?

[ He hadn't liked them before back at the campfire, when it was one hungry vampire with a bruised face and one deranged acid-splashed elf with a dagger in a man's throat. Maybe Astarion is more confident now, with his stomach full and a blade in hand. ]

If you want to press our luck, [ he huffs, ] we can see how many of them you can bite before we need to run again.