[It still befuddles him. Cazador was an elf, and the notion of caring little for common features is so adherent to commonality that—

Forget our masters. And there, just as swiftly as it's delivered, Astarion bends to it like a command despite knowing full well that it isn't: mind all too quick to jump its tracks and wend towards familiar, figurative lights.]

What I've dreamed of?

[His cheek slips into his palm, elbow hitched across a rooftop edge to let him lounge in the sort of sprawl fit for the brothels they'd passed earlier. It takes up space. Frames overlong teeth when they grin.]

Bereft of the only friend I've ever had for a near fortnight, you don't want to know what it is I've been dreaming of, fretful thing.