[ Residual contrition still rests in Iorveth's body language: if he were a fox, his ears might be slightly lowered. A rare moment for someone who makes it a point, usually, not to apologize for anything.

He breathes out, releasing some of that pent-up miasma of unpleasant feeling from the pit of his gut, and sways sideways to rest his forehead on Astarion's shoulder. It's so fucking stupid how instantly good it feels to be close again, like all it takes is proximity to make Iorveth relax. ]

Let them be jealous. [ Sullenly. ] I hope the strings on their lutes snap for gawking at us all this time.

[ The most toothless threat Iorveth has ever made in his life. More grumbling, as he nuzzles against Astarion's collarbone. ]

―And now they're pronouncing all the elven names incorrectly. Perhaps we should go, before I throttle the lot.