[ This, at least, is easy. Their laughter, their conversation, their proximity — he doesn't feel the need to shy away or otherwise close himself off. Even that little brush of Gale's shoulder— all it prompts is a shifting of his posture so that his chest is at a perpendicular angle to his companion's, a slight drawing closer that doesn't demand either of them give up any space. ]

Polymorph! [ he repeats, with a bright laugh. (Approval sought and easily given, more and more so with each passing day. He's aware, in some faint capacity, that Gale looks for it, the same way that Astarion himself does. The desire of an unwanted or discarded thing to be wanted.) ] Well, you've certainly got my approval. And I'm sure Shadowheart would appreciate having a new source of prey — not that the very human forms of the other guests have really served as a deterrent.

[ His head tilts, his cheek finding his shoulder as he braces one arm against the desk, admiring the notes covering the breadth of Gale's desk.

Then, mildly, ] Though, one would hope this doesn't result in a menagerie. As much as I'd like to see your wards deployed, I think one or two sheep would be quite enough, if not too much already.