[ Not a bloodbag. Well, all right, maybe a bloodbag, but not just a bloodbag, and a beloved one at that. It's strange to think that Iorveth's initial blood offering—the first time he'd ever drank from someone willing and not just a cultist or goblin in the midst of battle—was so long ago. There's a lifetime of difference between then and now. He imagines he must have been embarrassed at how much he had enjoyed it, but such a feeling seems foreign and impossible now. Although there are many things still infused with the shame that Cazador gave him, Iorveth has all but rid him of shame for his vampiric proclivities.

The spawn, though— he doesn't like thinking about them. Astarion frowns, a wrinkle forming between his brows. ]

I suppose it would be... nice to spare the spawn, given the chance.

[ Something he does still feel a little shame about: acts of mercy. ]

—But don't worry. I have no compunctions against killing them, if the need arises.