[ Be patient, Iorveth tells himself. Astarion has suffered two hundred years of indignity; be patient, he tells himself again.

He tells himself, but doesn't manage it entirely. The last addendum is like sandpaper to someplace soft, and it twists Iorveth's expression into a frown. ]

Those "ingrate tree huggers" are the reason I am who I am now.

[ Delivered more coldly than Iorveth would've liked. He breathes through his teeth, aggravation sharpening his already-obvious edges. ]

...I adore you, you stupid cat. If you asked it of me, I would follow you to the edge of Toril to keep you safe.

[ A dry laugh, and a shake of his head. ]

But you don't see me clearly.