[ It's not that Iorveth enjoys causing pain (or seeing it, really), but Astarion's violent reclamation of his things sparks something close to joy; a distant cousin of seeing Astarion make his first shaky attempts at weighty decisions down in the pits of Cazador's palace.
He approaches, makeshift flail in hand. Expression steely, with a humor that slants his scarred lip but doesn't reach his remaining green eye. ]
Well? [ Glancing at the still-twitching will-be-corpse on the forest floor, flicking that same focus back to the stuttering human. He tries to assess what he feels about the man, where his heart is, but there's nothing there but hatred, angry and glittering, as strong as it always has been. ] He asked you to beg.
[ Personally, he doesn't want to hear it－ a waste of time, a waste of his attention－ but if Astarion wants to play with his metaphorical food, well. Far be it for Iorveth to deny him.
The man splutters. Despairs. Iorveth can see it in the lines of his face: the man doesn't believe that Iorveth will spare him, because, unlike Astarion, the man knows about everything Iorveth has done in the past. Villages burned, soldiers slaughtered, caravans ambushed. Unlike Astarion, this man knows the shape of Iorveth's limitless capacity for cruelty, when pushed.
So he doesn't. Beg, that is. He takes the sword in his hand and slits his own throat, which is an act of pride that Iorveth might have respected in another life.
He still feels nothing, though. His expression settles back to cold neutral, void of discernible emotion. ]
no subject
He approaches, makeshift flail in hand. Expression steely, with a humor that slants his scarred lip but doesn't reach his remaining green eye. ]
Well? [ Glancing at the still-twitching will-be-corpse on the forest floor, flicking that same focus back to the stuttering human. He tries to assess what he feels about the man, where his heart is, but there's nothing there but hatred, angry and glittering, as strong as it always has been. ] He asked you to beg.
[ Personally, he doesn't want to hear it－ a waste of time, a waste of his attention－ but if Astarion wants to play with his metaphorical food, well. Far be it for Iorveth to deny him.
The man splutters. Despairs. Iorveth can see it in the lines of his face: the man doesn't believe that Iorveth will spare him, because, unlike Astarion, the man knows about everything Iorveth has done in the past. Villages burned, soldiers slaughtered, caravans ambushed. Unlike Astarion, this man knows the shape of Iorveth's limitless capacity for cruelty, when pushed.
So he doesn't. Beg, that is. He takes the sword in his hand and slits his own throat, which is an act of pride that Iorveth might have respected in another life.
He still feels nothing, though. His expression settles back to cold neutral, void of discernible emotion. ]
The nerve of him, to not do as you bid him to.