[ It’s a strange game, this pretending. Exhilarating in its newness. Odd, in its intimacy. Astarion observes and follows, at his side as promised — a gilded shadow. It’s not often that Gale has someone to air his passing thoughts with, let alone a partner listening with a measure of interest. He thinks the quirk at Astarion’s mouth might be genuine, different from the first flirtatious smiles and the sharp angles tossed at the other guests. Softer, like the look on his face when Gale gave him the warding ring, still perched on his finger.

As Astarion answers him, Gale’s gaze flickers back, catching on the warm red of his eyes. A shade in the same family as his stylish waistcoat, which happens to be one of the least scandalous items he tried at the modiste and no less distracting for it. A part of him wonders what people will make of their pairing: The bookish mage and the elegant outsider. It begs belief, he imagines, but then so does the idea of his eligibility at all.

He’s about to add something encouraging: An affirmation of Astarion’s keen intelligence, when he realises exactly what has been said. ]

The — [ Breath caught, brows at his hairline. ] Blood orgies. [ A scandalised echo that he immediately regrets, glancing around to ensure no one passing them on the stairs overheard. ] My, that’s — [ Two fingers slip into his collar, tugging the fabric from his neck and widening the vee of his shirt. Thinking again of how he’s offered Astarion his blood, which had seemed more practical than scintillating, initially. He clears his throat. ] — in keeping with certain literary genres, I suppose. [ The tawdry ones, in which lonesome travellers seek shelter at a vampire’s manor and lose far more than sleep. ]

While this won’t be quite as stimulating, [ A grimace suggests he immediately regrets that word choice. ] I’ll endeavour to keep you entertained.

[ Mustering what remains of his courage, Gale offers his arm, so they might descend the stairs and enter the ballroom floor together. ]