[ Astarion's hair is novel. Nearly all Aen Seidhe have dark, straight locks that extend straight down unless braided or coaxed; their closest tribal relative, the Aen Elle, are high elves with lighter but similarly-straight hair. Obviously, Iorveth has been in the company of non-Seidhe and seen men and women of different shapes and persuasions, but he's never been compelled to do anything but idly take note.

Now, sitting behind Astarion and mapping the artful way his hair jumps and curls with each slow drag of soft bristles, he feels oddly at peace. The sentiment persists, warm and alien despite the direction that the topic of conversation veers towards. ]

Laughably un-torrid, all things considered.

[ A snort, as he fluffs more life into pillow-matted waves. Iorveth is a freak. ]

Your claims of being a hedonist become more and more unconvincing with each passing day.

[ Honestly, Iorveth just sees a big, fussy cat half the time. A low of meowing and mass destruction and biting, but also a lot of sweet nudging and curling up against something warm. ]