[ It guts Iorveth to see Astarion shrink away from the light, but it also renews his determination to get the cloak from the pawnshop as quickly as possible. Drawing the curtains closed again, he crouches back by a whimpering but still-glaring Damris's side. ]

Not you, then. Fine. [ A concession. Damris looks truly confused by the fact that he was accused of this at all, anger and hate and vexation clear in the way he grinds his teeth. Why me is painted all over his put-together features.

It should spark empathy. It does, to some extent. He's just better at compartmentalizing and justifying it under the banner of keeping someone he loves safe. ]

Another question. [ Relentless. He ignores the way Damris struggles weakly, flexing and unflexing sun-raw fingers behind his back. ] Your master's been eyeing an item that belongs to an old crone who sells oddities. Tell me everything you know about it.

[ Red eyes widen at the question, and then－

－surprisingly, Damris laughs. A thin, shrill thing, near-hysterical. "Oh hells, the cloak? Gods, I should have known－ there's only one reason why a foreign vampire would journey all the way to Athkatla."

Another reedy, panicked huff. "You're out of luck! Master Alkam has tried and failed to get that cloak from that hag, so so many times already!" ]