Then I suppose there's nothing left to do besides ready myself for the hag.

[ It's meant to sound resolute, filled with grim determination, but his voice wobbles a little, nervous. He can't hide that he's anxious about what's to come; he would be stupid not to be, he thinks. While he isn't an expert on hags, if Ethel is anything to go by, they don't tolerate impertinence well. If Granny Whatever-The-Hells gets any inkling that Iorveth is trying to pull the wool over her eyes, she'll undoubtedly retaliate, quickly and brutally.

He can't afford to ruminate on that. If he does, then he'll never want to go. He sighs, heading back into their bedroom where he rifles through their packs, seeking out the bottle of sandalwood cologne Iorveth gifted him. It gets dabbed on his neck, a familiar scent to comfort him during this chaotic time. Afterward, he throws open the closet, surveying the options with narrowed eyes. This could be the outfit he dies in. Hard not to think twice about what he chooses.

After a long moment of thought, he pulls out a shirt, then puts it back, then pulls it back out again. ]

Iorveth. [ His voice takes on a slight warning tone. ] Promise me that you'll be careful.