"... What Astarion doesn't know won't hurt him," Abby mutters, directing it to Hardie and his big, round puppy-dog eyes; to Gwen, "You don't have to be nice about it. I get it."

It's the same as belonging to a faction that you don't care for, killing in their name every single day, and finding family buried in it anyway. Plucking what you want out, and keeping it for yourself; Abby knows the routine. Everybody needs people.

"I like it so far." Despite her intentions, that is. "I thought it would be worse than it is." More militant, perhaps. More organised, more eager to get out there and start murdering people in the name of a cause. Abby hates knowing that if it had been like that, she might have put her head down and done the work anyway. Even though it feels strange to consider it now. That was some old version of her, and for far too long.