[ It's incredibly difficult to not pull a Gale and do the whole well actually spiel about wood elves and their separate cultures, but Iorveth reels it in to avoid creating actual conversation; he has a feeling that Gale might be earnestly interested in learning things. While that's a virtue of his (a refreshing trait, especially in a human), Iorveth would rather not engage in cultural debates with his dick out.

So. ] It must be tiresome, being a creature that overreacts to the slightest suggestion of bare skin.

[ "Why are you booing me? I'm right." Iorveth tosses the bottle of sink cleaner onto a pile of freshly-laundered towels, and slinks up towards a still-pink Gale, tipping his chin up with one finger (the other hand has a very secure grip on the towel covering his front). ]

Your head is always in the clouds. I doubt you've ever experienced what it means to inhabit yourself.

[ It's satisfying, watching Gale transition from pink to crimson. There's a few spluttering retorts about how he's had a very sensible and fulfilling relationship with himself, thank you very much, and a scandalized "Mr. Dekarios!" from poor Tara, who has backed out of the washroom and back onto the stairs, her fur standing on end.

"No more humoring this nonsense! Gale, we are going back to our room," she demands, with a sense of maternal finality. Iorveth, as always, is public enemy number one. ]