[ Not Astarion's night. Nightmares, insomnia, murder, mental torture, physical anguish, casual derision. Everything that could (un)reasonably happen to one person in a lifetime has happened to him in the span of a few hours; Iorveth doesn't blame Astarion for wanting to curl up and stay under his blankets for the foreseeable future.
So he tries to take some of the thinking out of Astarion's equation. Sitting near him by the edge of the bed, Iorveth peels back enough of the blanket to get at Astarion's boots, unlacing them slowly to pull them off, one by one. Afterwards, he smooths the blanket back over Astarion and turns the lamplights off, makes sure that the curtains are pulled tight over the window. ]
I thought you might want the blood, [ is his reply, tired but light. Same old Iorveth, always preferring to present as fine, even when he was snarling and hissing at a halfling just moments ago. ] But you need the rest more, I think.
[ He sits by the foot of the bed again, vigilantly watching over the curled lump that Astarion's made himself into. ]
no subject
So he tries to take some of the thinking out of Astarion's equation. Sitting near him by the edge of the bed, Iorveth peels back enough of the blanket to get at Astarion's boots, unlacing them slowly to pull them off, one by one. Afterwards, he smooths the blanket back over Astarion and turns the lamplights off, makes sure that the curtains are pulled tight over the window. ]
I thought you might want the blood, [ is his reply, tired but light. Same old Iorveth, always preferring to present as fine, even when he was snarling and hissing at a halfling just moments ago. ] But you need the rest more, I think.
[ He sits by the foot of the bed again, vigilantly watching over the curled lump that Astarion's made himself into. ]
Also, the cleric was an ass.