[ Pain shoots up the injured arm when it's tugged, making Iorveth wince; still, he's audacious enough to huff a laugh and roll his eye at the withdrawal and the statement posed to him. ]

I'm injured, not dying. [ Just a run-of-the-mill sword wound. The blade wasn't even poisoned. But he isn't looking to rip Astarion's clothes off in a stranger's guest bedroom, with or without the fatigue that comes from bloodlessness, so he lets go and slumps back onto the mattress with a drawn-out sigh. ]

I'll be fine. Instead of wringing your hands, go speak to the mistress of the house about tailoring something pretty for you.

[ She'd probably be amenable, not to mention that Iorveth owes it to Astarion now to find a party or two to crash after putting up with this debacle. They'd been too late to the wine festival when they first arrived at the Lower City, but Iorveth assumes that there must be similar fêtes going on all over in a place like this.

Meanwhile, the tuxedo cat hops back onto the bed again and primly nests itself in the crook of Iorveth's elbow, intermittently craning to bump its head against his hand to demand pets. Spoiled rotten, this one. ]