. . .

' It was just a canary, Gale . . . Beautiful, though, wasn't she.ᐣ

I am not purposefully miserable, you know. If I could see the significance of something so delicate surviving out here, I would. But perhaps the gods just have their . . . 𝘍𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴. '

. . .

' We really must stop meeting this way, Gale. The others may talk. '

A weary attempt at a usually biting jab ; Astarion still seems transfixed on the flight of the bird.

𝘚𝘢𝘥. Bitter and benumbed. His raggedness shows dark beneath his brilliant eyes.

. . .

Then, of course, there had to be 𝘎𝘢𝘭𝘦. Who he now watches, diligently, 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙡𝙮. Like a graveside angel.

He will be his biggest loss, he realizes. When the time should surely come.

. . .

In truth, not caring at all would be much easier, but it became hard to find himself feeling as detached as he ought to be from 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 around him now than when they'd all just met, emerging from the nautaloid crash like a band of newborn pups.

. . .

. . .

are to 𝘯𝘰𝘵 die on us, Should I let my guard down. If I hear so much as a 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 in that volatile chest of yours,

I will drag you back from the depths of the hells 𝙢𝙮𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛. '

. . .

I'd simply prefer our wizard not collapse and die on us,
Should we have use for his . . . Talents. ´