[Steady and sure, and yet Astarion's own image falters in the face of it; inadvertently admitting that he's just too long persisted inside those margins writ by lightless manipulation. Has to squint to try and measure its antithesis, atrophied pupils failing hard to scratch the surface.

Let alone weather it without flinching, despite feigning a mirrored show.]

Of course not. [(A twitch of the eye. A lightness in his tone that doesn't find its footing, camaradie falling wretchedly short).

Astarion nearly frowns to hear himself.]

No one ever blames the knife for rending flesh. The venomous fang for its poison, rather than the snake itself. [Of course not.

Of course not....]