[ Minutes pass in this awkward state of slowly watching a man being drained of life. Iorveth slips on his mask of impassivity as it happens, adopting that still, porcelain expression of neutrality as the body stops fighting above him; it only breaks when he's spoken to, peels off at the edges as he finally gets to see the entirety of Astarion's face again, blood-slick as it is.
Defying all expectations, Iorveth laughs. A soft, dry thing. ]
Mm. So I do.
[ A little, all over. The room is redolent with the scent of copper and death, and it's stuck to both of their clothes, their skin, their hair.
Ugh. Instead of shoving the dead man off of him, Iorveth takes the time to pick him up gingerly, then deposit him on a bit of floor that won't get stained. ]
We'll have to ask Gale to magic the blood off the furniture. [ Is that how magic works? Whatever. ] ...How are you feeling?
no subject
Defying all expectations, Iorveth laughs. A soft, dry thing. ]
Mm. So I do.
[ A little, all over. The room is redolent with the scent of copper and death, and it's stuck to both of their clothes, their skin, their hair.
Ugh. Instead of shoving the dead man off of him, Iorveth takes the time to pick him up gingerly, then deposit him on a bit of floor that won't get stained. ]
We'll have to ask Gale to magic the blood off the furniture. [ Is that how magic works? Whatever. ] ...How are you feeling?