[ He tortures people, and he gets Astarion new clothes. Iorveth is his dream man, truly. Astarion grins as he sits up to kick off his dirt-caked shoes; they clatter on the floor, begging to be cleaned. Tomorrow, he promises them. They are, after all, his favorites. He peels off his bloody shirt, too, folding it neatly and placing it on the nightstand beside the bed. ]

I'll ask around about a healer for your wrists, [ he says as he sinks back into the mattress, pulling the covers up over his filthy trousers. ] Since I'm such an incorrigible gossip, as you say.

[ One of the fairest assessments Iorveth has ever made, probably. Astarion reaches out to curl around Iorveth, then withdraws. ]

Will you mind terribly if I— [ He never seemed to mind before, but that was before Iorveth started waking from flashbacks of dead bodies. ] I know that I have a certain... corpselike quality that some may not be able to— appreciate.

[ To say the least. ]