[His laugh is a shrill, ungainly bark that knocks against his glass first and the back of his hand second.]

Oh gods damn it— [serves as surrogate explanation as he swipes his hand across his front, swatting away spat liquor (good job, Astarion), cackling all the while.] —I don't know what's more surprising: that apparently the fleshy tower sort exist in every world, or that I've heard that exact same phrasing once before.