Sebastian, [ Astarion murmurs, the name bitter on his tongue. The last time he'd said it, he'd been leading a wide-eyed fool to his death with promises of romance, the words I've never met anyone like you before.

Astarion turns his head to look at him. He looks tired, the years of confinement and starvation etched into his face. He's dirty, grime-caked, although Astarion remembers him looking clean and bright-eyed across the tavern. His expression is somewhere between sad, angry, and exhausted as he slumps against the bars, watching. ]

Maybe.

[ Or perhaps he hates Astarion so much that he'd tear through Iorveth's flesh just to punish him. It's what Astarion would have done in his place. He would have done anything to get revenge, cut off his own nose to spite his face.

Not literally, of course. If there's anything he wouldn't do, it's tarnish his own beauty.

He approaches the spawn again, arms crossed, keeping a healthy distance from the bars. They won't want to take a bite out of him, but he wouldn't be surprised if they wanted to see him dead. ]

Let's play a game. All you have to do is keep your teeth to yourself.

[ "...I don't understand," Sebastian says. "Did you bring us food?" ]

Mm. In a manner of speaking, but you're on a diet.