[ The wave of irritation hits Astarion so heavily that he doesn't even have it in him to quip about how Iorveth is actually a rather exquisite blood bag. He throws his hands up, huffing. ]

Oh, please.

[ Wound down for the evening, the circus has thinned out, but there are still enough customers milling about to shoot raised eyebrows in their direction. It must look like some sort of familial quarrel to them, and in a way it is. Astarion lowers his voice to a hiss. ]

You should be thanking me! It's only because of me that you're still alive to complain.

[ "Stop telling lies," Petras says. "The master's Black Mass would have elevated us all, but you had to go and ruin it. Selfish, like always." Astarion can't argue against selfishness, but it rankles all the same. Sourly, he turns to Iorveth and scoffs. ]

Unfortunately, brains don't run in the family. [ His own red eyes slide back to Petras. ] And neither do looks.