[ Ugh. His sweet, eminently lovable cat. Iorveth gravitates back into his space, resting the pilfered book next to Astarion before sitting on the opposite side of it, scooting close and reaching to nest Astarion's head against his shoulder. That look of unfiltered, tentative hope twists something in Iorveth's chest, reminding him of younger elves who'd looked to him with the same sort of unblinking expectation, some sort of bettering of their current situation.

What can he say? The same thing he always does. ]

I think it's something that needs doing.

[ As in, he believes it's important, and that it should be acted upon. Terribly practical of him, as usual. ]

If there's anything in this world capable of giving you your freedom, you should pursue it. [ Obviously. Killing Cazador was a huge first step, and now Astarion needs to live; arguably just as difficult a task as murdering one's oppressor. ] ...You always looked happier in the light.