[ Annoyingly, Iorveth does need a refresher on how simulacra transfer what they've seen to their creators. He couldn't care less if the spectral image of Gale has seen the shape of his dick, but his first instinct when it really sinks in that there's someone else in their immediate vicinity is to turn the ruined side of his face away from the illusory presence. He settles his palm over his missing eye, and presses the heel of his hand into the scar cutting into his lip.
Gale is so lucky that Iorveth's mood is currently impossible to sour, what with it being bolstered by the fuzzy, still-lingering feeling of being thoroughly obliterated by Astarion. Instead of getting up and hurling a throwing knife in the general direction of Gale's bed, Iorveth tips his chin, haughty. ]
State your purpose. Quickly, and to the point.
[ Again, Gale is so lucky. The warning here, unspoken, is "don't push it". At the very least, the apparition seems to pick up on said warning somewhat, even if it refuses to (or, perhaps more likely, simply can't) break jovial character.
"Ah, my purpose. A bit existential, don't you think?" Iorveth scowls; the simulacrum, miraculously, gets the hint. "Yes, well― I suppose you want to know the message I'm meant to relay. A simple one, I'm afraid: an invitation to investigate a rather mysterious slew of recent disappearances in the Lower City. With or without my maker to assist you in the endeavor."
Gale's facsimile lowers its voice, conspiratorial. "Though he doesn't relish the idea of being the 'third wheel', so to speak." ]
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Gale is so lucky that Iorveth's mood is currently impossible to sour, what with it being bolstered by the fuzzy, still-lingering feeling of being thoroughly obliterated by Astarion. Instead of getting up and hurling a throwing knife in the general direction of Gale's bed, Iorveth tips his chin, haughty. ]
State your purpose. Quickly, and to the point.
[ Again, Gale is so lucky. The warning here, unspoken, is "don't push it". At the very least, the apparition seems to pick up on said warning somewhat, even if it refuses to (or, perhaps more likely, simply can't) break jovial character.
"Ah, my purpose. A bit existential, don't you think?" Iorveth scowls; the simulacrum, miraculously, gets the hint. "Yes, well― I suppose you want to know the message I'm meant to relay. A simple one, I'm afraid: an invitation to investigate a rather mysterious slew of recent disappearances in the Lower City. With or without my maker to assist you in the endeavor."
Gale's facsimile lowers its voice, conspiratorial. "Though he doesn't relish the idea of being the 'third wheel', so to speak." ]