[He laughs— first for the abruptness of Astarion calling himself a bitch, and then for that mocking display. He laughs too hard and inelegantly, a snorting snicker that's as much about how Astarion teases as it is spitefully thumbing at the past.]

And yet Maker forbid if you do not read their mind. The number of times Danarius would ask for that girl or that boy— as if he did not have a staff of hundreds. Then again, [he adds with a scoff,] humans are particularly blind when it comes to distinguishing elves, or so it seems. They refuse to remember anything beyond a set of ears and a strong nose.

[But no, no, he won't veer into bitterness. There's a difference between that and spite, and one is easier to bear than the other.]

Forget our masters. Tell me what else you have dreamed of. I've gotten you drunk, and I will again, if it suits . . . but what else do you wish to do or see? We have a long trip ahead of us, and I see no reason, armies aside, we cannot indulge as we see fit.