[His eyes linger on Astarion for a few moments before he takes the bottle. There's something so unique about the way he threads in those dark memories, weaving them through conversation so deftly that you could almost miss if it you weren't paying attention. Unseen, soon forgotten, and it's so unlike the blunt, angry way Fenris offers his own traumas. Cleverer. Easier, too, to move on from them instead of making the conversation come to a screeching halt.

It's a talent he doesn't have, Fenris knows, but it's one he admires. And maybe someday he'll find the words to say it.]

A child, of all things.

[He offers a little smile, softer and easier around the edges, as he takes a swig of that wine. It's sweet and rich, lingering on his tongue and easing some of the tension in his system.]

There are always slave children lurking about in the back halls of these places. [It's an oddly fond tone he uses, for though his past is murky, there are hints sometimes. Smears of colors and snatches of sound; he must have run around at a party not unlike this one long ago, keeping out of the way and sneaking what food he could. It's not a wholly unpleasant thought.] I asked her what she knew and paid her for her troubles either way, and she was happy to tell me all the things she'd seen: strange visitors coming to the estate lately, smelling of iron and earth. Templars with scarlet eyes and an urgent look in their gazes . . .

[He tips his head, glancing over at Astarion as he passes the bottle back.]

I suspect our Marquis is dealing in red lyrium.