[ The Fists will probably descend upon the site soon, and Iorveth plans not to be around for when that happens. He's about to suggest that they hightail it out of there before anyone can ask them about what happened, but－
－Gods, Astarion's hair. The exclamation of distress prompts an arc of Iorveth's brow, an instinctive reach to brush fingertips against the back of the hand that Astarion is using to hide his forehead. ]
Let me see, [ he coaxes, surreptitiously trying to guide Astarion away from the building and towards the street. Panicked civilians mill around them, some of them trying to get a better look at the house-turned-bonfire. ] －Come here.
[ Tugging Astarion's arm, pulling him towards an alley bracketed by stacked crates. A good place to hide until the crowd thins enough for them to slip away. ]
no subject
－Gods, Astarion's hair. The exclamation of distress prompts an arc of Iorveth's brow, an instinctive reach to brush fingertips against the back of the hand that Astarion is using to hide his forehead. ]
Let me see, [ he coaxes, surreptitiously trying to guide Astarion away from the building and towards the street. Panicked civilians mill around them, some of them trying to get a better look at the house-turned-bonfire. ] －Come here.
[ Tugging Astarion's arm, pulling him towards an alley bracketed by stacked crates. A good place to hide until the crowd thins enough for them to slip away. ]