[ Maybe Astarion's gotten a little clumsy, far from home as he is. There is - was, he wants to correct - no room for error with Cazador. If a noble came after the Szarr house because of Astarion's sticky fingers, Astarion would be left to sizzle in front of an open window for months. Not enough sunlight to kill him, but more than enough to have to knit his own skin back together each night.

He's not afraid of Gale the same way, not by leagues, though it's also true he doesn't know the extent of his spellcasting prowess. Still, Astarion huffs a laugh that hitches with the knee slotted between his legs and the clench of fingers in the fabric of his shirt, seeing a brief veil of stars from his skull knocking against stone. ]

Was that a line, then? I wasn't so sure you swung my way. [ Purred long enough for Astarion to maneuver one hand to the sheathe at his thigh, the point of a poison-tipped dagger pressed just beneath Gale's ribs. ]

I do. [ Slowly, not pressing the tip in, but ensuring Gale can feel it. He flicks his tongue over a fang, tipping his head back so Gale can see the unnatural point of his teeth in the lamplight of the adjacent street. ] But we may want to put a price on it, if you know what's good for you.