"There's a lot of different types of love," Ellie insists, but perhaps wisely, stops pushing when the linen lands against her face. She gives a soft oof, catches it and pulls it down to frown at him.

Doing the walk of shame from Astarion's place doesn't actually bother her, and even if the Gallows is full of gossips, they've played the part to the hilt tonight. She gets to her feet, unlaces her boots, her sleeves. Far more than one knife comes into view.

Ellie strips down to her smallclothes, baring all her scars and a dusting of freckles across her shoulders, and what looks like a horrible, messy stab wound in her right side. Whatever it was, it was sharp but not a blade, and probably twisted on the way out in order to make a shape like that.

The ribbon's barely hanging on when she pulls the shirt over her head, but she pauses, runs her fingers over it thoughtfully.