[ Sensing Astarion's discomfort, a rather rotund tortoiseshell cat with a bow around its neck comes to sit on his feet, meowing plaintively in what sounds to be commiseration. Iorveth watches out of the corner of his one eye, tempted to smile― a cat being accosted by other cats― but hisses when the woman rubs over the worst of the wound, muttering a low complaint in his language so as not to offend her. The cut is deep but clean, a neat arc from collarbone to tricep; Iorveth has to admit that Henrik had good aim. If he'd gotten the blade any deeper into muscle, it might have ruined Iorveth's bow arm for a good few days.

Humiliating to think about. Iorveth hates humans. He hates them and their lack of nuance, hates them for blindly believing that he's a terrorist instead of someone trying to preserve the last vestiges of his culture, hates them for making Astarion frown. A familiar, caustic rage simmers in the pit of his gut― he really does believe that two elven lives (his own and Astarion's) is worth more than a score of dead humans.

Not a tirade he should go on in the presence of a gnome and her assistant (?) half-orc. Instead of grousing about the state of humanity, Iorveth gestures for Kurug to give him the bandages, which he then hands over to Astarion once the woman finishes applying her persistently-tingling salve. ]

I want him to do the rest, [ he explains stiffly. ] Clear the room for us.

[ And, well. Since that sounds terribly ungrateful: ] ...Thank you. We interrupted your fitting, and now you can get back to it.

[ The lady shakes her head, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "It really isn't any trouble. I adore company, and you can both stay the night if you need."

It's a kind offer. Iorveth bows his head, still stiff but polite, and waits for the room to clear (mostly; the tortoiseshell and the tuxedo cats stay) before heaving a weary sigh. ]

You've gone from brooding to moping. [ Despite the content of his words, his tone is careful. ] Come closer.