[ There is a part of him that hates being made weak, hates that Iorveth is a huge gaping vulnerability, a wound that anyone with ill intentions can stick their fingers into. But he loves Iorveth more than he hates weakness, something that would have felt impossible months ago, so he shakes his head, hauling Iorveth's body over the side of the crate until they're both sprawled on the floor. ]
Shut up, you stupid old bag.
[ Probably not the way he should be talking to a hag that holds his fate in her thin, sinewy hands, but Astarion has never been polite. Sitting up, he takes Iorveth in his arms again, shaking him in a way that's likely too violent for someone who just suffered a head injury. He can't help it; he's never felt so panicked in his life, not even when Iorveth had been poisoned. At least then he had time. ]
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Shut up, you stupid old bag.
[ Probably not the way he should be talking to a hag that holds his fate in her thin, sinewy hands, but Astarion has never been polite. Sitting up, he takes Iorveth in his arms again, shaking him in a way that's likely too violent for someone who just suffered a head injury. He can't help it; he's never felt so panicked in his life, not even when Iorveth had been poisoned. At least then he had time. ]
Wake up.