[ there it is, the instinctive ease one feels with the familiar, written in the set of tilanus’ shoulders and mouth. the kind gale shares with astarion alone now, all else foreign to him in this world.

it’s a cruel thing, gale thinks, for the gods to make them strangers. he nods, quick in his assent, and gestures for tilanus to pour. ]

It’s no Waterdhavian red, [ more light teasing than genuine criticism. ] but I’m sure it’ll do. They do like to keep us sated, in this place.

[ lulling them into complacency, he assumes. a wry smile. ]

Wherever do we begin, I wonder.