[ Funny, how so many humans and creatures who live far shorter lives accuse them of being "boys" when, in fact, the reality is that they're tired elves who have seen far too much shit in two hundred years than most humans will ever perceive in a lifetime. Iorveth lounges, still fuzzy around his edges when Astarion returns, and submits himself to the cleaning with the docility of a wild animal who has found one person it likes being brushed by.

The robe looks nice on Astarion. Iorveth admires it as his stomach gets wiped down (thank the gods), and huffs a soft laugh. ]

Look at you, planning.

[ Iorveth has maybe three brain cells working at full capacity right now, so obviously Astarion is picking up the slack. His fingers travel over the bare crest of one knee peeking out through purple fabric, idle and affectionate. ]

As godsless as this city seems, it has a temple district－ surely we'll be able to pilfer some holy water from an ill-visited place of worship or other.

[ A hum. ] Are you worried?