[ That's the face he loves, Iorveth's expression somehow all the softer for the frown lines etched into his skin from what must be a century of scowling. He'd been worried that, perhaps, he might not see this expression, that Iorveth would be upset with him for walking right into a trap and proving him right that Astarion should have just gone to Waterdeep to have tea with Gale. His palm rests on Iorveth's cheek, bloodstained and dirt-streaked, in a gesture that Iorveth has done to him countless times. There's meaning to the action, he thinks, and although he isn't quite sure what it is, he knows that it must be affectionate. ]

If this is any indication, [ he says, swiping some sticky blood from Iorveth's cheek with his thumb, ] you've already thinned out the horde considerably.

[ Iorveth must have slain more men in one day than they have in the last tenday. A massacre, by most accounts. He's quiet for a moment, images flitting through his head of Iorveth swimming through that river, setting that fire, killing those men. ]

I should thank you. You came for me.