[He sets his hand across that rough-edged door frame, leaning forwards as if adopted languidness might up and serve to counter every last ounce of momentum that'd carried him there with a stumbling mix of shock and disbelief— and you know, it actually might have if not for the momentary slip of his own grip. The one that knocks his shoulder hard against the doorway with a wince. A blink. A breathy slantline of a grin fighting to prop him up alongside the rest of this.

Whether or not it succeeds is anybody's guess.

Astarion's most of all.

('I told you I would,' Fenris says.

—had he? Gods. When everything is a line, surrounded and flocked by platitudes, is it any wonder Astarion put it out of his fractured excuse of a mind?)]

Gallant. [Comes with a transparent lifting of both brows.] Dashing. [With a flash of sharklike teeth, rounding out across his shoulders while he's still slung against that open arch, needing what he doesn't dare admit.] And yet I could've told you that, my fearless rescuer twice over.

I'm only contagious when I bite.

[Red eyes dart towards the hall and back, measuring its apparent vacancy with the good sense of someone that's done more than their share of mapping out floorboards.]

There are a handful of unwatched boats by the foot of the tower. [Is a conspiratory octave lower.] How deft are you at navigation?