“Mostly sure.” Astarion preens proudly, already working out the cork of an exceptionally beautiful bottle, finally getting it loose with a subtle, thrumming pop.

The others have been set down already, and he offers the first of his stolen gains to Fenris, neck first, its sweetened aroma curling in the air between them.

“Kidding, darling.”

Added before he takes any seething psychic damage from one very diligent, dour elf.

“What do you think I am, an amateur? I’ve been roaming streets in search of prey for two centuries: I know how to get away with a little petty larceny.”