[ He had said he wouldn't carouse, but he does chat up the bard for long enough to insist on which descriptors one should use for him, if one were to write lyrics about him. 'Pale' is a no-go; 'alabaster' is preferable. By the time their conversation ends, Astarion has offered his own lyrical suggestions, which are as terrible as they are inappropriate.

Afterward, he sets out to do what he said he would: fleece drunk idiots out of their money. It's easy to join an ongoing game of cards and hustle a bit, making a show of how he's really not used to playing anything like this, much less betting money on anything. It goes on swimmingly, Astarion raking in coin and sparing Iorveth glances every now and then to make sure the hooded wood elves haven't done anything untoward; an hour or so later, he stands from the table, pockets jingling with extra coin. ]

What can I say? I guess some people are just favored by Tymora.

[ Ha. He's hardly an acolyte of Lady Luck. Then again, his fortune has changed recently. It isn't enough to make him devote himself to any deity, but maybe it's worth considering that not every god has completely betrayed him.

That's what he's thinking as he walks away from the table with his pocketed spoils just in time for a human to stop him with a hand on the shoulder. "Don't I know you?" she asks as he turns to face her, brow furrowed. ]

I'm sure you don't, [ he replies, because it's true. There's no one that he really knows that he didn't meet on this journey. His social life was nonexistent beforehand.

"No, I could swear I've seen you before..." she says, then raises her eyebrows in recognition. "You're from Baldur's Gate. We met at the Flophouse last year, remember? You were flirting with my friend. You kept trying to get her to go home with you." ]

Well, that doesn't sound like me.