[ Negotiation is for a diplomat; Iorveth is a warrior, through and through. Still, he can try for the sake of the people he loves, and Astarion is most definitely the person he loves.
So. A blink, at the warmth of that declaration, and he returns the sentiment as Astarion flickers out of view; I love you in Aen Seidhe, received by the empty dark of the alley.
With that, all that's left to do is to enter the ramshackle, crooked den. The interior smells the same as the first night they'd arrived in Athkatla, damp and old and acrid, like poorly-made incense and medical supplies. Items lean and pile around him, arcane bystanders no doubt pilfered－ Iorveth tries to look at none of them too closely, lest he start wondering who and what these trinkets belonged to before they found themselves in the hands of a hag. ]
―Greetings, [ he calls out, refusing to refer to the creature as 'Granny'. He finds her sitting towards the back of the shop, prim and hunched on an antique armchair, as if she'd expected him.
"Little dear, little pigeon," she coos. "Back so soon? Have you done what I asked?" Her eyes glint in the dark, milky white-yellow. "Where's your pretty dove?"
(The glass wardrobe full of clothing is just around the bend of two bookshelves full of tomes and scrolls, flanked by suits of armor with coats-of-arms that Iorveth can't identify. He keeps himself from glancing that way, from trying to note how many things are periously stacked around that area.) ]
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So. A blink, at the warmth of that declaration, and he returns the sentiment as Astarion flickers out of view; I love you in Aen Seidhe, received by the empty dark of the alley.
With that, all that's left to do is to enter the ramshackle, crooked den. The interior smells the same as the first night they'd arrived in Athkatla, damp and old and acrid, like poorly-made incense and medical supplies. Items lean and pile around him, arcane bystanders no doubt pilfered－ Iorveth tries to look at none of them too closely, lest he start wondering who and what these trinkets belonged to before they found themselves in the hands of a hag. ]
―Greetings, [ he calls out, refusing to refer to the creature as 'Granny'. He finds her sitting towards the back of the shop, prim and hunched on an antique armchair, as if she'd expected him.
"Little dear, little pigeon," she coos. "Back so soon? Have you done what I asked?" Her eyes glint in the dark, milky white-yellow. "Where's your pretty dove?"
(The glass wardrobe full of clothing is just around the bend of two bookshelves full of tomes and scrolls, flanked by suits of armor with coats-of-arms that Iorveth can't identify. He keeps himself from glancing that way, from trying to note how many things are periously stacked around that area.) ]