[ Before this journey, Astarion had struggled to tolerate other people, full stop, with little of his difficulty to do with anything about Iorveth's person. (Iorveth had been particularly vexing, true, but it's that vexingness that made him interesting in the first place.) He far more than tolerates Iorveth now, and he considers saying so just to eliminate any doubt that Iorveth is more than merely a tolerable person, but then Iorveth tells him to pick up the pace, and suddenly he doesn't feel quite as affectionate.
He groans, trudging behind Iorveth at roughly the same pace he's been walking, but now with more melodrama. Iorveth might be used to trekking through the forest, but he isn't, and by the time they're approaching the gates of Waterdeep, he looks nearly as exhausted as Iorveth has since they woke up. He's complained numerous times that his feet hurt, probably because one's favorite shoes are not necessarily one's best traveling boots.
The Crown of the North, Waterdeep is a glorious contrast to the gritty, seedy Baldur's Gate. Outside the tall, imposing gates stand members of the City Watch, dressed in shiny steel armor and wielding shiny steel swords. The Flaming Fists never wore anything quite so... gleaming. Two men—a human and a dwarf—flank the gate, and as they approach, the human raises a gauntlet-clad hand, golden hair flowing behind him like a knight of yore.
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He groans, trudging behind Iorveth at roughly the same pace he's been walking, but now with more melodrama. Iorveth might be used to trekking through the forest, but he isn't, and by the time they're approaching the gates of Waterdeep, he looks nearly as exhausted as Iorveth has since they woke up. He's complained numerous times that his feet hurt, probably because one's favorite shoes are not necessarily one's best traveling boots.
The Crown of the North, Waterdeep is a glorious contrast to the gritty, seedy Baldur's Gate. Outside the tall, imposing gates stand members of the City Watch, dressed in shiny steel armor and wielding shiny steel swords. The Flaming Fists never wore anything quite so... gleaming. Two men—a human and a dwarf—flank the gate, and as they approach, the human raises a gauntlet-clad hand, golden hair flowing behind him like a knight of yore.
"No entrance until morning, I'm afraid." ]