Another time, [ Astarion promises, although it's really more of a treat for him than it is for Iorveth. He'd love nothing more than to tie Iorveth up and empty that too-full mind of his, but not when he's this level of exhausted, and not in some dingy old tent that's lumpy and misshapen due to his poor attempt to pitch it. It doesn't really set the mood. ]

You've been bound enough for the day, I fear.

[ A scowl crosses his face, but it's brief and fleeting. No need to think on unpleasantness when revenge has already been doled out. Sat beside Iorveth, feet tucked underneath him to make the most of this small space, he pops open the tin and gathers a generous amount on his fingers. He's no cleric, not even close, but he tries his best regardless, applying the cool, slick ointment over the raw skin of Iorveth's wrists with as light a touch as he can manage. ]

This will sting, but not as badly as the acid, I imagine.