[Between the two of them now— between the ebbing of those open wounds (and the shallow pang of guilt brought about by the memory of his sibling's claws)— whatever coarseness lingered outside the borders of his bloodlust fades off, reflecting only in his eyes. Lost beneath his hooded lashes in the next beat as pale knuckles tuck against his lips in thought, thumb beneath his chin.

Shar.

That's no light confession, as far as grim secrets go, and there's the disarming way she admits to pressing for nothing in return. Not a shared admission, but an offered one.

It makes a difference.]

Gale, as it so happens.

[He's not surprised the man didn't share the details with his companions; irritating as so much virtue might be when it's poised opposite to Astarion's own self interest (or fun), the wizard's brimming with it: he'd been kind in Thedas for the hours that they'd shared; kind in Toril, when he sought to keep them safe and train an unknown elf. Little wonder that he decided not to recant Astarion's assumed amnesia or transplacement— it wasn't his story to tell.]

He turned up in Fenris' world whilst I was there. A stranger out of the blue, telling me that he knew who I was. That he knew Cazador, and was glad to see me free.

[His scoff is featherlight, rather than disdainful.]

It's a damned miracle I didn't slit his throat.