[ Flirting — Gale scoffs. Despite the commotion at his side, his eyes follow Astarion’s teeth. Up close, Astarion might notice the thin cut under his jaw or the faded mark at his throat. The perils of wizarding duels, perhaps, or scars unique to the risks of one once Chosen.

Astarion strikes a nerve, however. His evasion at the fête has lost him goodwill. And a man who stoops to physical altercations is a brute, in the eyes of most Waterdhavians. At least the public locale also protects him: A nobleman’s death in this distract would warrant a thorough investigation, and Astarion very much wishes to go unnoticed. ]

Why not, indeed? Perhaps because, along the way, you’ll slip free with the journal and my coin purse for good measure, hm? [ He mutters something unintelligible under his breath and tilts back, weight settling on his heels. ]

[ It’s enough space for Astarion to break free — or it would be, if it weren’t for the shimmering strand of weave encircling his wrist and Gale’s, connecting them like a fine chain. He releases his grip on Astarion entirely, so he can waggle his fingers and showcase the trick. ]

You know, I’m suddenly feeling more amenable. [ offering his linked hand in the style of a gentleman. ] Shall we?