[ They leave the siblings behind to confer amongst themselves about their big brother and his intentions; the closer they get to the barred cages lining the corridor leading to Cazador's now-empty coffin (Iorveth vaguely wonders if his remains are still there, a congealed mess of blood and gore), the stronger the scent of huddled masses become. More death, more misery.
Keeping himself within Astarion's reach, Iorveth lets his eye settle on the hand on his arm, on its white-knuckled grip. ]
They'll want your head. [ Not reassuring, but the truth. ] You should worry about your own safety, not mine.
[ His gaze slides upwards, trying to read the outline of Astarion's expression; anxiety? Dread? Embarrassment? ]
What are you afraid of?
[ If Astarion is afraid, which Iorveth assumes he is. His tone is soft despite the bitingly blunt nature of the inquiry, his shoulders turned towards Astarion to telegraph attentiveness. Astarion doesn't have to answer, but as always, Iorveth wants to know. ]
no subject
Keeping himself within Astarion's reach, Iorveth lets his eye settle on the hand on his arm, on its white-knuckled grip. ]
They'll want your head. [ Not reassuring, but the truth. ] You should worry about your own safety, not mine.
[ His gaze slides upwards, trying to read the outline of Astarion's expression; anxiety? Dread? Embarrassment? ]
What are you afraid of?
[ If Astarion is afraid, which Iorveth assumes he is. His tone is soft despite the bitingly blunt nature of the inquiry, his shoulders turned towards Astarion to telegraph attentiveness. Astarion doesn't have to answer, but as always, Iorveth wants to know. ]