[ A long moment passes before Astarion sheathes his dagger, taking Iorveth's arm and slinging it around his shoulders so that he can bear his weight on Astarion's comparatively steadier body. He hates physical labor, but the thought of complaining doesn't even cross his mind (for now). If they were still in possession of the tadpoles, and their illithid parasites reached out for each other, all that Iorveth would hear would be a constant refrain of Iorveth, Iorveth, Iorveth. There's no room for any other thoughts right now. ]

—Of course.

[ He couldn't give a rat's ass about this tiefling right now. If all goes according to plan—which, you know, it hasn't so far—Alkam will die, and his hold on the spawn will happen to snap. If not, well. The tiefling will still be under Alkam's control, and he won't risk himself (or Iorveth) to save one pathetic spawn.

But he can certainly say he will. ]

I'm all for the, ah, liberation of the oppressed. Positively mad about it.

[ A reassuring pat on Iorveth's back. ] One foot in front of the other, my love.