[He follows with a dazed sort of obedience, unsure of where he's being led and yet trusting Astarion to steer him right. His hand is soft in Fenris' own: the only point of clarity in the sea of noise and neon lights, pale curls a steady star to orient himself towards. Until the overstimulating chaos of it all quiets down, and his anger has softened into something more exhausted.]

She—

. . . yes.

[He leans up against the wall, his posture a terse mirror of Astarion's own.]

The ordinary kind. The kind that snap and bite at their peers, but revel in vicious cruelties to anyone who cannot fight back. She would take her frustrations out on anyone, but she reserved the worst of her ire for me.

[He tips his head. There's no more anger in his gaze, for in truth, it was never Astarion he was upset with. Gently, then, so as not to be misunderstood:]

You must know the type.

[Not just Violet, no. Surely there are others among his peers who act just the same. And yet . . . he wonders. It isn't that Astarion is so willfully blind, but it's so easy to assume that everyone acts with the same cold civility you and yours do.]