[ Even after such a satisfying kill, Astarion still feels disgusting, like there's a thin film of filth all over his entire body. Some of it is physical filth, picked up by being dragged over the ground and tossed in a musty cellar, but some of it is a more figurative filth, albeit not any less real. He'd liked to think that, after crushing Cazador beneath his boot, he wouldn't ever feel that way again. It's a dreadful thought that he was wrong, and even more dreadful to think that, if not for Iorveth, he'd still be tied up in that cellar, if not decomposing at the bottom of the river.
All of that is to say that it's difficult to bask in the victory the way that he'd like to. He snatches the box and strikes the match with a swift flick of his wrist, tossing it on a pile of papers that quickly goes up in flame, soon accompanied by the wooden desk they sit on. Just kindling now. ]
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All of that is to say that it's difficult to bask in the victory the way that he'd like to. He snatches the box and strikes the match with a swift flick of his wrist, tossing it on a pile of papers that quickly goes up in flame, soon accompanied by the wooden desk they sit on. Just kindling now. ]
To hells with this wretched place.
[ He already hates the north. ]