Slaves. Of course. Why else would anyone bother keeping a roaming soul alive, after all?

His expression withers in distaste, lip curling entirely on its own, without Astarion’s conscious awareness in play. His jaw works slightly, teeth set as they grit. He’s quiet a touch too long, bitter about something that’s already history— and wasn’t anywhere within his own reach regardless.

“And?” He asks flatly. A sign of acidity, rather than disinterest. “What happened then?”