No. [Come the returning answer, intoned just as swiftly and bluntly as Astarion's own. No, never, not for him. And yet he does not mean to answer in such a harsh tone; he grimaces in silent apology.]

No.

[He shifts half a step closer in the next moment, pressing in closer to Astarion. Not a mother hen doting endlessly over her chicks, but rather something unspoken: I won't let them near you, no matter that the humans in question aren't paying them much mind. I won't let them lay a finger on you, for Astarion is under his protection now, come whatever may.]

I live in my master's old mansion in Hightown. It is mine in perpetuity, by sheer virtue of no one having the nerve nor the right to challenge me on it. Though it does mean I need to exist within a certain level of anonymity if I intend to linger there.

[Never shop at the same times of day. Never meet your neighbors. Never exist too loudly, too brashly, too openly, for fear that some Hightown resident will take issue and make a fuss. And yet even still, it's better than the alienage. Anything is.

And though he burns to know what it is Astarion is used to, he bites his tongue; he isn't the stranger here, after all, and Astarion's questions matter more.]