“Don’t be ridiculous.” Astarion scoffs in turn, clearly unconvinced by her worldly persuasion— or perhaps relatively worldly, anyway, given their differing circumstances.

“Love is only the quickest, purest flicker of a rush. The thrill of finding a new dance partner.” Adrenaline, in essence. The drunken intoxication of a good bottle or a rare mead. One night or two, a week or a month, it doesn’t change the end result. “Everyone knows it’s not meant to last. That you can’t keep it.”

He shoves his own now-shed regalia off onto the floor as if it were nothing more than brittle snakeskin, and from there he simply watches her as he combs his fingers back through freshly tousled curls: studying the marks. The scars.

It’s not a lurid gaze; he’s simply curious.

And too drunk, it seems, to stop himself from asking.

“That’s a nasty little mark. The one at your side.”