[He laughs at that descriptor. His cheeks are aching, he realizes. He can't remember the last time he smiled so much around someone— a real smile, too, not just a mean smirk or sardonic grimace. And as for laughing, Maker, he's rusty at it. The sound startles him even now, a full-throated laugh as he tosses his mask atop Astarion's, quietly gleeful at the wastefulness.]

Come, now.

[As truly chiding as Astarion's own words, his tongue thick and a little clumsy as he speaks.]

You can do better than that for a compliment. Or did I not keep up with your every step and move?

[His hand lifts, his wrist rolling with surprising flexability as he offers it.]

Must I prove myself again? Though you may not find me quite as nimble after so much wine.