Bloodbag, you mean.

[ Wry humor, at his expense. He still remembers those starved, drained spawn staring at him with hungry eyes in the pits of Cazador's castle; how they seemed to see through him and into his veins instead of anything about him that made him sentient. It would've been chilling if not for Astarion's steady presence there, too, with his cold grip around Iorveth's wrist, tugging him through the crowd.

Struck, again, by how much he loves this silly vampire. Iorveth leans on Astarion far more than Astarion knows, he thinks. ]

I'm not afraid of you.

[ He states, simply. Almost insultingly. But the bluntness comes with an addendum, as usual: ] You would never do anything that would harm me.

[ Hurt him, sure, but only because Iorveth is the kind of freak that asks Astarion to hold him at knifepoint during intimacy. His lips curl upwards at the thought of that (very enticing), and he nudges the side of Astarion's head with his own. ] I don't trust the other spawn milling about in this cursed city, however. Be watchful, will you?