[ A ghost of a laugh, as Iorveth settles with their hands still twined, still mulling over what the hells they're going to do if Astarion's nightmares persist (Iorveth might have to break his promise if so). They haven't even addressed whether they really think one of the cloaks in Astarion's possession will turn out to be the one they want― the thought of having turned tail for nothing is too much to contemplate at this point in time, still aching and haunted as they are.
So. Sweet things. To salvage just a sliver of his prickly terrorist veneer, he murmurs compliments to Astarion in his native tongue, a string of musical nonsense intermittently decipherable when he uses terms that he's already taught Astarion: "beloved", and "I love you". For all Astarion knows, Iorveth might be reciting recipes and throwing in a few terms of endearment for flavor.
(He isn't. He's sparing Astarion the abject embarrassment, honestly.)
And this is how the cleric, when he bursts into the sitting room, will find his patients: nested against each other like one big bruise, a shocking mess of silver hair and black hair, tan skin and pale skin.
"No, no, this won't do!" The elderly halfling crows, approaching the two with hurricanelike intensity. "No crowding the patient, please! He needs space to breathe!"
Iorveth feels sharp raps between his shoulderblades with the flat of a cane, punctuating the request to move. Ow. He relents with drowsy irritation, only relinquishing his position because he knows Astarion needs to be tended to. ]
no subject
So. Sweet things. To salvage just a sliver of his prickly terrorist veneer, he murmurs compliments to Astarion in his native tongue, a string of musical nonsense intermittently decipherable when he uses terms that he's already taught Astarion: "beloved", and "I love you". For all Astarion knows, Iorveth might be reciting recipes and throwing in a few terms of endearment for flavor.
(He isn't. He's sparing Astarion the abject embarrassment, honestly.)
And this is how the cleric, when he bursts into the sitting room, will find his patients: nested against each other like one big bruise, a shocking mess of silver hair and black hair, tan skin and pale skin.
"No, no, this won't do!" The elderly halfling crows, approaching the two with hurricanelike intensity. "No crowding the patient, please! He needs space to breathe!"
Iorveth feels sharp raps between his shoulderblades with the flat of a cane, punctuating the request to move. Ow. He relents with drowsy irritation, only relinquishing his position because he knows Astarion needs to be tended to. ]