[ Though Astarion has no idea who this man is, he can build a picture easily enough: wealthy, handsome, referred to himself as an unwilling suitor, dodging the festivities below. The number of desperate singletons who show up to these affairs is part of why Astarion has little trouble procuring himself a snack; finding someone who is, instead, desperate to escape it all is novel enough to pique his interest. ]

All the ladies jostling for a partner with whom to map out the stars will be terribly disappointed that I'm the one who's caught you alone. [ And then, a note of sour honesty amidst the teasing: ] I don't put much stake in lucky stars, anyway.

[ Astarion steps in close beside him, his interest genuinely piqued by first editions, only copies in the realm, if not for the same reasons this man is. He's painted his long nails tonight, sheer but tipped with gold, more practical for seduction than sleight of hand as he drags a fingertip down the embossed spine of Missives of Candlekeep. ]

Private correspondences? Some of these must be worth a fortune. [ And then, so he doesn't linger suspiciously on Astarion's interest in their worth, he turns his shoulders toward him, tapping his finger to his chin as if in thought. ] What did you say your name was, darling?