[He rumbles contentedly low in his throat, a sound meant to soothe the little bat nestled so close as much as it is encourage him. I like this, that's what that sound means. I like hearing this, tell me more, I want to make you happy . . . he does not know if it helps. Perhaps it doesn't. But Astarion is still so new in some ways to being indulged like this, and if he can encourage it in any way, he will.

Besides: he cannot deny those things sound intriguing. They aren't to his taste, no, and he wouldn't want to attend an endless circuit of them, but he cannot deny that there's something thrilling about being admitted to somewhere so exclusive. To indulge in the hedonism of the Upper City, watching a cabaret or drinking fine wine with Astarion at his side, thrilling in every second . . . yes, he can understand the appeal quite well.

This will be fun, he thinks to himself.]

We will have to stretch it out over the coming weeks, then. I would not mind trying more than one of those.

[And even if he did, he'd do it anyway.]

But the cabaret sounds intriguing— I have never seen one, not beyond the bawdy "plays" the Blooming Rose put on at times. As does the drinking club— though a room full of nothing but drunk mages sounds like a recipe for disaster.

[Another little leap as he reaches the streets proper, and then Leto hesitates. Pauses for just a moment in uncertainty— and then pads forward into the sunlight proper, his muscles tensed and ready to dash away the moment he hears a protesting cry.

But there's nothing. No smell of burning flesh, no agonized shriek— and so he continues forward, some part of him still ready to run if need be.]

Tell me of your shopping plans. I remember Rialto fondly for a thousand reasons, but you dressing us both is one of them. I will submit to whatever you feel is appropriate, so long as you thrill in it.

[And then, because he can't resist:]

Are you all right?

[Just making sure, as he darts from shadow to shadow as swiftly as he can.]