[ With each new word that leaves Gale's mouth, the corners of Astarion's turn further and further downward, as upset with the (perceived) invasion of Gale's privacy as with his own. ]

Unsettling, [ he repeats, as he briefly stops his pacing to plant his hands on his hips. ] It's insulting. You know, I told him — twice! — that we were strangers, and each time he acknowledged the fact, and yet the conversation always rattled back onto the subject of how we once knew each other, of how he would protect us. Us! As though he were our beloved keeper!

[ And his pacing begins again, though this time, his hands come up to the level of his chest, his palms parallel as he gestures through his frustration. ]

He speaks of earned friendship and yet acts as though the earning has been done already. He says he wishes for us to be on an equal playing field, then persistently mentions how dear we are to him, further reminding us that we know nothing of him at all.

[ He'd stomp his foot if it wouldn't belittle the degree to which he's been irritated by the entire affair — and he'd throw himself onto the bed if it weren't Gale's, so he simply stops for a second time, his fingers curling into fists. But this second pause seems to be enough to get him to relent — not in terms of changing his mind but in terms of calming down for Gale's sake. He realizes, after all, that he's basically made the same complaint twice already.

Actually, suddenly, abjectly: ]

We— we know each other, don't we? A few lost days aside, I—

[ He falters, unusually flustered and unmoored by his own errant train of thought. ]