[ Now that Iorveth is back horizontal, Astarion strokes up and down his side, fingers following the curve of that tattoo Iorveth is so fond of. He must admit, he's fond of it, too. Tattoos have never been something he's given much thought to before, but watching it sprawl across Iorveth's neck and collarbone and lovely, lovely torso is strangely appealing and, to put it bluntly, very hot. ]

Well.

[ His shoulder shrugs, just slightly. ]

I left quite a bit of destruction in my wake.

[ So perhaps he didn't deserve as much care as Iorveth thinks. Case in point: the thought flits across his mind that he's glad Isengrim is dead, because it means he gets Iorveth's love all for himself. A terrible, awful thought — not because of the morality of it, but because of what Iorveth might think of him if he knew. Obviously, he can never, ever know. ]

But if all that is what you think of me, far be it from me to dissuade you.