Fenris listens, not quite believing it. He only just remembers to detach his gantlets from the pale prickle of Astarion's skin. A world where elves are favored, what a strange and impossible idea. But the elves here are tall and long-lived, holding offices of power, if Astarion is to be believed.

And Fenris does believe him, though on occasions like this, it takes some effort.

"I think I'll have to see this for myself," he says. "What... what would one make of me? My... looks."

He doesn't mean the shape of his nose or the green of his eye, but the markings and the armor. He can change his armor. Gradually, he'd prefer to go at his own pace, but he knows he'll have to. Some things, however, cannot be changed.