[ It isn't the knock that wakes him but Iorveth's movement; he's jostled into consciousness, groaning in protest as Iorveth sits up and he slides off of his chest. Reaching for one of the down pillows, he flops back onto the mattress and shoves it over his head in the hopes of muffling any sound. It's only once Iorveth whispers to him that his ears properly perk up and catch the soft sound of conversation outside their door, and he finally sits up himself, brow furrowed.
Iorveth sure as hells can't answer the door when there's probably posters bearing his likeness in the city—wanted: dangerous elven terrorist—so the responsibility falls to Astarion. He swings his feet off of the bed and rises, swiping his shirt to pull it on, still unbuttoned, to hide his scars. ]
Stay, [ he says quietly before making his way to the door. He opens it just enough to poke his head out, expression expectant and impatient. ]
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Iorveth sure as hells can't answer the door when there's probably posters bearing his likeness in the city—wanted: dangerous elven terrorist—so the responsibility falls to Astarion. He swings his feet off of the bed and rises, swiping his shirt to pull it on, still unbuttoned, to hide his scars. ]
Stay, [ he says quietly before making his way to the door. He opens it just enough to poke his head out, expression expectant and impatient. ]
Can I help you?