“Nice to know your predictive mind’s still sharp as ever.” Astarion teases, gloved fingertips set against the door at his back as he snaps its heavy lock into place. One of the few benefits to the Gallows’ high towers— and likely one of the most vital conditions ensuring his continued visitation. Because as much as he’d promised Yseult he’d be keeping watch over the Ascian, the full depth of that promise being either audible or visible to the rest of Riftwatch at large is...

Well no, that actually is sort of thrilling in a dangerous, knife’s edge espionage sort of way.

But the point is there’d be complications. Not good ones, either. Not anything Astarion wants to welcome with open arms. Or Emet-Selch for that matter, either.

So.

Click goes the lock, off come his gloves, and—

“....are we...celebrating something?” Asked with a cocked head and an arched brow, a few pale fingers still curved around the dark leather of a disentangled glove.


Did the Ascian finally earn his freedom?