[ Astarion is pretty enough to warrant desperate admirers, Iorveth thinks, but this development sits poorly with him; he watches the halfling― masking her own displeasure under supposed contrition― duck and weave around Astarion's barbed words to the best of her ability in stern silence.

"I... He may have given up for the night. I apologize, Master Blackmane― perhaps you can wait a bit at the bar and see if he returns. Drinks will be on the house, of course."

Poor creature, looking for some way to appease what seems to be two very un-appease-able elves. Iorveth would love to corral this woman against the wall and grill her about what specifically was said in reference to wanting to see Astarion, but he notes that the other strangers in the room (as well as the rather large half-orc also clad in purple) are starting to look over towards them to see what the half-commotion is about.

Hm. He steps closer to Astarion and winds his arm around his waist, rocking sideways into his partner's space with imperious ease. ]

Love. [ Avoiding the use of 'Astarion', only partially because he's not sure if Gale offered a pseudonym for their first names to go alongside 'Blackmane'. ] Perhaps you could ask what your admirer looks like, so I know who to remove the eyes of if and when I see them.

[ Joking. (But also like, not really.) ]