[ This is what happens when a junior monster tries to contend with two full-fledged monsters, perhaps. While Damris gapes, offense mixing with the realization that no, Astarion isn't joking, Iorveth turns over a bottle of unidentifiable liquid labeled "for undead" in his hand and makes an educated guess. ]
Love, [ is casual, as if he's merely asking Astarion to hand him a book. ] Make sure he doesn't struggle too much, will you?
[ Striding over, trying to find a position that won't get him headbutted by a horned head. He uncaps the bottle and holds it at the tiefling's lips, but Damris refuses to yield; his mouth remains shut while he makes soft sounds of protest, which doesn't feel... good, really. A bit of revulsion crawls up the back of Iorveth's throat again, but he steels himself against it, reminding himself that this is a man who would have grievously harmed Astarion if given the chance.
Ugh. Can't even do the 'pinch his nose until he has to breathe' thing, since Damris is undead. Grudgingly, Iorveth dips his fingers in the contents of the bottle and smears it over the tiefling's mouth, forcibly breaching past the barrier of his knit lips to scour his index against sharp fangs. A fortuitous accident has him pricking the pad of his finger, and the tiny bead of blood is enough for the starved spawn to part his lips to run his tongue over it alongside the acrid-smelling solution. ]
no subject
Love, [ is casual, as if he's merely asking Astarion to hand him a book. ] Make sure he doesn't struggle too much, will you?
[ Striding over, trying to find a position that won't get him headbutted by a horned head. He uncaps the bottle and holds it at the tiefling's lips, but Damris refuses to yield; his mouth remains shut while he makes soft sounds of protest, which doesn't feel... good, really. A bit of revulsion crawls up the back of Iorveth's throat again, but he steels himself against it, reminding himself that this is a man who would have grievously harmed Astarion if given the chance.
Ugh. Can't even do the 'pinch his nose until he has to breathe' thing, since Damris is undead. Grudgingly, Iorveth dips his fingers in the contents of the bottle and smears it over the tiefling's mouth, forcibly breaching past the barrier of his knit lips to scour his index against sharp fangs. A fortuitous accident has him pricking the pad of his finger, and the tiny bead of blood is enough for the starved spawn to part his lips to run his tongue over it alongside the acrid-smelling solution. ]