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[illithidnapped]

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[illithidnapped]

Astarion's arms fall flat across his midsection the moment she takes it, eyes drifting shut as if preparing to doze right on the spot— though instead, he simply narrates the contents of that envelope as she does the work of reading it herself:

"As you can see, blackmailed, and by a mage of all things. One that's gone through the trouble of including an evocative little snippet of our noble templar's very lurid past professions. And not just any love letter, but one that'd been intended for our blackmailer herself."

He purses his lips, drumming his fingertips against his chest in alternating patterns.

"In other words: they rutted, she defected— and now suddenly he's changed his stance on Ansburg's involvement."

[unshut]

With both her boots removed, Fitcher pulls her legs up into the bed and settles on her side in the opposite direction as him, comfortable as two lounging cats might be. As Astarion narrates, she surveys the contents of the letter with a fixed in place placid smile and an unrelentingly sharp eye.

"Maker. The man's correspondence certainly doesn't leave much to the imagination, does it?" This, cheerfully as she separates the one excerpt from the blackmail note. Her tone belies none of the cold mental calculation currently being made behind it. Hendrik, you silly old bastard.

"He must have written her a great stack of letters if she feels so confident in her position. And he so effectively cowed."

She taps a long finger on the pages. Then, from her lounging position, Fitcher turns her face back toward Astarion.

"I suppose we have little choice but to surrender this evidence to the Margrave."

[illithidnapped]

"You mean you're not going to keep it for yourself?" He scoffs lightly in tamed amusement, one eye cracking open for the sake of surveying her.

"Something to read whilst tucking in at night."