Fenris watches Astarion, and Astarion doesn't notice in the slightest, all too certain when he lifts two arched fingertips to gesture towards a dusky skyline only beginning to fade into sunset. Quieting down in so many ways. “Do you see that broken tower? That, love, is precisely where the ship that stole me away from Cazador crashed— just before your world stole me away from it, too.”

“Funny.”

And now he’s back, despite everything.

“I meant what I said,” he counters, the fleeting sharpness in his tone far from upset. It’s all seriousness, rare a thing as that is in the scope of his habitual musings. If Fenris wants there to be lines, there can be lines: all he needs to do is ask. “but...I imagine all those pets and parakeets will make for terribly easy prey.

And if I need to top myself off? I’ll go for nobility. The miserable creatures are always fainting anyway, no one would even think twice.”