[ Far be it from a vampire to refuse offered blood. He could be in the worst mood of his life and he'd still lap it up. He reaches for Iorveth's wrist, holding it up to his mouth while he laves his tongue over it, hoping that Damris didn't get a taste. It's a small amount of blood, and it doesn't exactly make things better, but it does make him slightly less on edge.

He pulls Iorveth's hand to his cheek next, resting his head against it. ]

Aren't you going to tell me I'm going to get wrinkles?

[ It's one of Iorveth's favorite little threats, after all. He knows how horrified Astarion would be if he woke up a wrinkly old crone someday. ]

...We were never going to get that cloak. I was foolish to hope that we would.