[An amused scoff slips past his lips for young lad, for he still hasn't had time to think about the reality of their age difference. But he must be young to someone two centuries old, he thinks muzzily as he stares up at Astarion. He must seem little more than a child. And what is it like, to age so much? Do they grow wiser with every decade, or does it plateau after a certain point? Does an elf with five centuries upon him scoff at the folly of someone who's only a hundred? It's equal parts baffling and amusing, and his thoughts linger there for a time . . .

Until he realizes he's been simply staring up dazedly at Astarion, his gaze unfocused. Ah . . .]

Tango . . .

[He rolls the word around in his mouth, pinning the word to deed. Then, as he grins around the bottle's mouth:]

Let me amend my words, then: I was impressed, for you are an excellent dancer . . .

[He really is, and he lets that linger in the air as he drinks a mouthful.]

. . . but that doesn't negate the fact we didn't finish. And that I would like to learn the rest of it someday— though somewhere where we won't be interrupted, I think.

[But perhaps not here and now. He adds curiously:]

Are all dances like that where you're from? So . . .

[He gestures vaguely with his hands, trying to indicate a general sense of heat and passion, not to mention closeness.]

. . . intense.