[ Astarion stills, a wave of emotion crashing over him at the casual suggestion that Iorveth would craft something for him. It conjures up the memory of Iorveth embroidering a slightly crooked little sun on his shirt. It's so deeply intimate, terribly personal. The thought of having something that Iorveth made with his own two hands with him at all times is— ]
No, [ he says fiercely, offended. How could Iorveth ever think there would be anything in this world more valuable to him than something his hands have touched? He realizes this could perhaps be misconstrued, so he helpfully corrects: ] —I mean, yes.
[ Poor Iorveth probably has no idea what the hells he's talking about. He shakes his head as best he can against the pillow, which really just ends up making a mess of his hair. ]
no subject
No, [ he says fiercely, offended. How could Iorveth ever think there would be anything in this world more valuable to him than something his hands have touched? He realizes this could perhaps be misconstrued, so he helpfully corrects: ] —I mean, yes.
[ Poor Iorveth probably has no idea what the hells he's talking about. He shakes his head as best he can against the pillow, which really just ends up making a mess of his hair. ]
Of course I want you to craft it, you fool.