[ Iorveth has honey in the form of blood in his veins― "tell me what you need and I can give you a drop"― but he doesn't plan on employing that tactic, so. Vinegar it is. ]

I'll not have you do anything that you don't wish to do. But if anything goes amiss, try to keep me from getting skewered by tiefling horns.

[ Astarion doesn't have to participate, if it means dredging up unpleasant reminders of the life he used to live in the Szarr mansion. That said, if he wants to reclaim a bit of power, Iorveth won't say no to that, either; it all depends on how Damris acts under duress.

Across the living room they go, past the bathroom and towards the corner office. Iorveth's expression transitions to icy neutral, all warmth and doting gone in an instant once he hears the scrabbling on the other side of the door and once he sees the struggling man hissing and twisting on the floor.

Sharp fangs have sliced through the fabric of the robe belt. Damris, red eyes glowing like knives in the dim of the room, glares up at Iorveth and growls something garbled in what might be Infernal. ]

Awake, [ Iorveth notes, dispassionate. Once upon a time, he spoke to Astarion in the same way, in the same tone. Unthinkable, now. ]