Fenris turns his head, pausing a moment to press his face gently into Astarion's wrist, feeling the utter lack of pulse. Little warmth, but warm enough for Fenris. He kisses it before he rises.

Gently, he places the remainder of the antler in that indolent hand. Fenris is no grand artist, but he has clearly done this before: the trinket is now in the rough shape of a wolf's head, ears back, eyeless and snarling.

"You asked for something of mine," Fenris says, paused awkwardly in the doorway, before fleeing to the kitchen.