[His eyes drink in the way Astarion keeps attempting casualness, his grin charming and his expression unsubtle, and he almost manages it. Perhaps someone who had never been kept in captivity might even be fooled by it. But Fenris can feel an aching sympathy building in the pit of his stomach, some small part of him remembering what it was to scream silently in suffocated desperation, needing to get out and not being able to . . .

Maker, he should have come sooner.

(And is part of that fumbling for him? Is that charming grin for him, or would it be for anyone? He doesn't know, and he doesn't know why it matters, save that his mind lingers on the question). ]

Deft enough. I can get us back to Kirkwall proper with a bit of luck, though my rowing skills are not as keen as some. But here—

[He digs into one of his many pouches.]

A gift.

[One of two gifts he has planned, actually. But this first: a set of leather gloves, black and well-oiled, are held out before Astarion.]

They may be too large, but I did not want to err on the small side.

If you can cover your mark, we might simply walk out instead of trying to sneak. Your hair will distinguish you as much as my own does, but elves are rarely looked at here. And the organization seems busy today . . . I suspect if we walk with confidence, they will not stop us.

From there, those boats. And from there . . .

[His eyes flick over Astarion's face again, and then, carefully:]

Anywhere you wish.