[ Astarion wrestles the pack out of Iorveth's hands, dropping it on the ground and unearthing the tent and its poles. There's little he hates more than pitching a tent, but Iorveth is right; he needs to rest. If this campsite was good enough for their attackers, it should be good enough for them.

Besides, he'd rather the reason they set up camp now be Iorveth's exhaustion and not that he has to hide from the sun.

He lays the tent out on the ground and gets to work diligently connecting the poles. Honestly, he's never been very good at this. He usually bribed Gale into magicking his tent up. ]

Was my face so ghastly you needed to waste a spell on it?

[ Iorveth should have cast that on himself. Stupid. ]

Find some ointment, at least, and I'll tenderly patch your wounds.