[ Only one fly, and less a pest and more an attempt at polite conversation. Astarion stares morosely at one of the paintings purloined from Cazador's palace, a portrait of the Szarr family by a prominent Baldurian painter. It would cost anyone a fortune, but it's more likely than not that Cazador simply enthralled the artist. An unassuming young human nearby must take his displeased expression as somber remembrance, and says, "It's tragic what happened, isn't it? A great man like that, disappeared into thin air—" ]

Great? [ Astarion asks, eyebrow twitching. ] Tell me, what did he ever do that was so great?

[ The poor human shrinks back a little, chastened. "I just meant that the Szarrs are well-known around the Gate, and..." ]

Well-known for being a megalomaniac and a snake, you mean. [ A scoff. ] It's thoughtless muttonheads like you that gave him the delusion of greatness. The world is better off with the Szarrs wiped off of the planet.

[ "Oh, uh, I think I see my friend beckoning me—" he squeaks. There is no friend. ]