His wicked heart longs to tease. To call Fenris unfair for denying him the satisfaction of bedding down with his boots on amongst Cazador’s favorite silks.

But that lone admission of injury is powerful; Fenris isn’t one to go on about his own state, and that knoweldge has Astarion withering faintly in its wake, expression cast in subtler lines.

“You might be surprised to hear it, but there’s supplies here that’ll help— I know where they’re kept.” He slides deft hands across the front of that robe before hooking one finger against its silk-lined cuff, beginning to cut a slow paced path out of that washroom into grander corridors curtained by spiderwebs and rotted archways, leading Fenris along as he goes. “Much as he loved his art, Cazador didn’t care to leave us permanently disfigured by his favorite games.”

And at the end of a frigid hallway sits a bedroom that was no doubt lovely once. Like the rest of this place, it lacks life. Warmth. Though the bed is exquisitely designed and the windows darkened by beautiful tapestries depicting something ancient and long-lost, there’s no mistaking the fact that no one has ever made it their home.

“It’s a guest room.” Astarion promises, before Fenris has the chance to curl his lip or turn away in protest. “Cazador never touched the place.”