[ Into the apothecary they go. Astarion wrinkles his nose at the pungent aroma of alchemical supplies; he has experience with making concoctions himself—poisons, mostly—but he's never been particularly passionate about the process of making them, only what happens once they hit someone's bloodstream. Perhaps this is the sort of life Damris imagines for himself, creating admixtures at his workbench before returning home to Linus and their 2.5 adopted children. Gross. ]

Little old me, do something questionable?

[ He does bat his lashes, the picture of innocence except for the malicious little twinkle he'll never quite be able to get out of his eyes. ]

Darling, I would never.

[ So, yes. If Iorveth ever finds himself in a position to be upset with Astarion for something he's done, Astarion will gladly pull out all of the manipulation tactics in his repertoire. He adores Iorveth with every fiber of his being, but that doesn't mean he's willing to tolerate his disappointment or distaste for the sake of honesty.

Still hanging off of Iorveth's arm, he reaches with his free hand to pick up and sniff a nearby bottle on a shelf. Gods, it's acrid; his nose hairs are practically singed. ]

You don't think there's any chance they have a 'tincture of immortality' here, do you?