[ Gale ought to says something about the ethics of looting, at least from ostensible allies like the Flaming Fist, but Astarion is thinking far quicker than he is, at present. (He’d been quicker in the rescue today, too, when Gale had dared to observe him, untouched by errant sparks and splintering beams.)

He makes a choked, half-offended sound at good boy, eyes widening and narrowing in rapid succession. ]

Astarion. [ A lacklustre warning. His fingers hook on the chain, as if he might seize it himself. He doesn’t. ] It’s — the stone holds a powerful enchantment. You can see how carefully it’s set to contain it.

[ Can’t decide where to look: Up, to meet Astarion’s immolating gaze or straight ahead, at the thing he wants most, lips parting at the thought of having it? His eyes flicker, torn. For once in his life, Gale would prefer to explain something in as few words as possible. His mouth feels altogether too dry. ]

Wearing it should give you the ability to cast a power word — [ Delivered in a rush. ] A near undeniable command, regardless of your magical aptitude or existing spell set. [ Brown eyes flit sideways, shifty. ] I’d need to hold it, to tell you the command.

[ Well, to be sure. He has an idea, from the knowledge of its former owner, the feel of it, the tang in the air. ]