[ Astarion watches Iorveth dress with an appreciative hum; not as much fun as watching him undress, but still enjoyable. The knives sort of ruin the silhouette, but he does like the look of Iorveth holding something sharp, so he's forgiven. Once he feels reasonably put-together, wiping the sweat from his brow, he scoots up to dangle his feet over the foot of the bed. ]

Oh, well, I'd hate for you to be cross with me. That's never happened before.

[ Sarcasm, of course, but he really would hate it. Iorveth was right. Astarion can't tolerate being spoken to sharply, especially when the person doing the sharp-speaking is the person he relies on to coddle his sensitive feelings.

He'd rather not dwell on this any longer than they have to, so he cants his head toward their belongings, saying, ] Pick me out something handsome to wear.