[ When Iorveth enters, Astarion glances away from the bookshelf he'd been rifling through, hoping to find something of interest. (The next volume of Nicholas and Edgar's adventures, perhaps.) Iorveth is of greater interest, though: clean, healed, groomed. He smells like fancy soap, and his damp hair drips onto his fresh, soft clothes. Best of all, he's in a good mood, the walls he'd constructed to protect himself in Flotsam lowered. Astarion wants their tongues to make friends immediately. ]
Hello, handsome, [ he croons, and Gale clears his throat to remind him of his presence. It's suddenly very annoying that Gale has the gall to hang around here, in his own tower, and Astarion shoots daggers his way.
"...The Waterdhavian style does suit you," Gale offers, fixing his hair after Iorveth so rudely mussed it. ]
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Hello, handsome, [ he croons, and Gale clears his throat to remind him of his presence. It's suddenly very annoying that Gale has the gall to hang around here, in his own tower, and Astarion shoots daggers his way.
"...The Waterdhavian style does suit you," Gale offers, fixing his hair after Iorveth so rudely mussed it. ]