[ Strange, to think of a vampire so capable of controlling their hunger, to have withheld himself from even a sip -- but then, Astarion is not a vampire like other vampires, never human even as a mortal. Armand studies Gale as he gathers himself and wonders if Astarion would even be significant within his own kind, a singular force of will.

As Gale touches his throat with his fingertips, Armand toys with the rim of his glass, gaze lingering thoughtfully on those small scars. He doesn't appear to be effected by the admission of mortality, already aware of the hot void hollowing Gale out from within. It has been a foundation of his understanding since he was turned: to be mortal is to die. His pity would be a thin and useless thing, not to mention hypocritical, given the corpses stacked in his wake. ]

Sickness will taint the blood. Pain, trauma, sadness, deprivation. As we take the blood, we take everything that comes with it. [ He frowns, pensive. ] My maker drained me as I lay dying, but it was under desperate circumstances.

[ His gaze is steady, searching Gale's expression. ]

Would you like me to try it, and tell you what I think?