[ If Astarion were faced with a madman swinging around a rock in a bag, he'd probably run, too. Luckily for him, that madman is on his side. He smiles at Iorveth's catlike—foxlike—entrance, and grins wider at the sound of the rock colliding with one of the men's skulls. Good. Astarion hopes it hurt.

His grin falters, though, as he sees the leader approaching. It's not that he's scared, not with all this blood making his head fuzzy and his decision-making poor, but— ]

My pack, [ he all but growls, seething. Those are his things! He never had things before, but now that he does, he finds himself feeling very possessive of them. The thought of this human's grubby paws all over his shiny belongings makes him see red with rage, and he's throwing the knife before he even registers what's happening. It hits the man square in the chest, and he topples over in pain.

Astarion takes a few steps forward, freeing his pack from the thief and slinging it over one shoulder. The man grasps at the knife in his chest, but Astarion yanks it out, stabbing him a few more times for good measure. That's what you get, he thinks.

When he's done taking his anger out, he glances up at the lone remaining man, who's finally managed to draw his sword, stuttering, "St-stay back!". Not that it means much. He's outnumbered now. ]

Beg.

[ "Wh-what?" he asks, eyes wide. ]

Go on, [ Astarion says, twirling the bloody knife in his hand. ] Beg for your life. Maybe if you're convincing enough, my companion will take pity on you.

[ There's no way Iorveth would ever take pity on a human. Astarion is fine with that. ]