[ Right. A normal date night. One that doesn't require planning beyond dessert options, novel as that concept is. Effectively tugged away from problems that require solving, Iorveth swivels his attention― figuratively and physically― back to Astarion, lacing their fingers together as they make their way down to the inn's main lobby and past the very suspect bar (no, no, not the time to be thinking about that, either). ]

Somewhere in the middle, I think. [ Not ritzy enough that Astarion would feel weird sitting and eating nothing, but not rowdy enough that they'd be interrupted by smelly drunks. They are meant to be celebrating, after all.

(It makes Iorveth's heart do another flip, when he recalls the word wedding coming out of Astarion's mouth. Hells.) ]

...It would have been nice, to go to that old woman's cafe. In Baldur's Gate. Someplace like that, perhaps.

[ Cozy, warm. Maybe not the ideal place to go out and flaunt each other, but intimate. ]