[ Not a reporter, no, but a scholar and therefore beholden to the same instinct toward enquiry. A curiosity so dangerous it once damned it — perhaps it even helped drown him, mere days ago. Even now, he thinks to push. Even as indulges in the meal Armand has so graciously chosen for him, his thoughts snag on darkness of the mind, wanting to unspool it like so much thread. Then on the Great Laws (that Armand wrote and rewrote in the cellar, as much a devotee of that dogma as Gale was of Mystra).

Another thought: The gods do not live among mortals, as vampires must, lingering instead in the outer planes. To consort with a goddess is to be invited there, if only briefly. Perhaps that’s why they’re more remote — when the likes of Astarion and Armand and Louis seem awfully human, in the end. All the moreso, really, for their efforts to deny it. ]

Tedious. [ Armand hinted at that before, surprised by Gale’s sincere interest in his person. Simply, then: ] I think the word ill-fitting, in all matters concerning you.

[ A beat. He flushes faintly. ]

Though you may find that obvious, in light of my ceaseless questioning. [ His mouth quirks, sheepish. ] Apologies — it’s you who invited me here, and I’ve led us down quite the dour conversational path.