[ Astarion rarely thinks more than a half-step ahead of himself -- partially because he hasn't had the luxury of making his own choices in the past two centuries. He's drunk and, in Gale's words, stifled, and his observations jam like a knife beneath Astarion's ribs, twisting to stick.

Because these words are less Gale's than an echo of Cazador, stretching Astarion on the rack, carving him open. You're nothing. The dizzy refrain as he sliced Astarion's skin into sick knots of scar tissue: you're my puppet, a shadow, a worthless, noisy, disgusting thing.

Astarion has swung his leg behind Gale's calves to knock him prone into the water before his mind catches up to the action. The river's shallow here, but people have drowned in less, and Astarion brackets Gale's thighs with his feet as the splash spatters his chest and face with startling cold, looming over him. ]

You know nothing about me, you pompous, privileged twat. [ Expression curled into an ugly snarl, fists curled at his sides as he spits, ] Desperate little dog yapping at his savior's heels, begging for scraps.