“I like to mess with them first.” He snorts back proudly— but the words, of course, mask something of an obvious truth.

Astarion’s made enemies here simply for existing, from the moment he set foot in Kirkwall. That’s just how it is. A menace and a magnet all in one.

The door is locked, patted for its trouble, and then he’s tugging at his own collar on weary approach, free hand used to throw stale wine into the fireplace (more of a pit, really, but who’s counting) before pouring out two fresh cups without much care.

“I irritated the Hells out of her, you know.”

It’s a proud confession. An offered counterweight to the sight of Abby laughing and dancing.