[ Iorveth'd hardly noticed the staff when Cazador'd been holding it in his non-life. It'd seemed like a logical extension of someone so grotesque, and it looks particularly tasteless in Astarion's hands now. The thought of Astarion channeling anything that his tormentor used to use against him is vaguely abhorrent, but it's what needs to be done.

To the question, he answers: ] No. [ Flatly, truthfully. He doesn't trust easily; it would be a lie to say that he has any faith in the spawn. ] But I trust your decision. One can hope that the spawn don't choose to waste their hard-earned freedom as monsters.

[ A low sigh, and Iorveth rakes his hand through his hair, sweeping it out of his eye. The air feels like cobwebs; he feels a compulsion to swat it from his face every so often. ]

Your siblings can guide them. Through the sewers, perhaps into the Underdark.

[ Casual wood elf disdain for drow, don't even worry about it. ]