[Later, when they're closer, this conversation will mean more than it does now, when all concepts are vague beyond the sound of Fenris' voice and the inflection with which they're said: the drawn lines across his skin (different than the feel of being washed, albeit no less caring), doing enviable work to stitch together what Astarion's already ascribed full names and details to, having more than just the simplest of concepts in his pockets such as good or bad or his enemy. My enemy.

Tevinter looks like Baldur's Gate. Corpyheus looks like Cazador— or perhaps a carving of Bhaal's infamous chosen. Depends on the moment. The severity of those placeholders, and the way they're emphasized.]

Admirable. [Isn't, for now, a criticism, though it's said without a drop of the word's own meaning present.] I won't pretend that I don't appreciate becoming one more rescue-ee on that doubtlessly extensive list of liberated slaves, despite the discrepancies in ownership.

[He casts a glance down towards his palm. Still green. Still glowing.]

I take it if your Corypheus wins, things will be much, much worse for those in shackles— and without.