[ Gale drags his eyes up the lovely column of Astarion’s throat, the sharp set of jaw, and swallows hard. This man is a charlatan, a thief, and not a word he said that wretched evening is to be trusted. He ignores the question regarding his proclivities — thinking, spitefully, that Waterdhavians are more open-minded than others.

He feels the point of the dagger before realises what it is, breath catching on an inhale. Shit, how foolish he’d been to forgo the advantage of distance in the name of pettiness. ]

Are you so sure everyone of your persuasion would find you charming? [ Brows arched as his tongue darts out. Sharp. Quick. A retreat would show weakness and beg for a cut, so Gale presses closer, the dagger tearing the fine fabric of his waistcoat but not the chemise underneath.

The fangs provide the missing piece, a picture of this reckless rake fully-formed. A vampire would never let him this close, so he must be a spawn. If Astarion can be believed, the person who kept him on a tight leash is the true master. Now that’s interesting.

And still he barters, when he should beg. Gale barks a startled laugh, at the brazen insolence. ]

Were my gold cufflinks not enough for you, spawn? Would you like my signet ring? My fine clothes? To tear the silver from my ear with your sharp teeth?

[ No wonder he looked so unreal in the firelight. The captivating guise of a predator; nothing more. ]