[Oh. That was new, wasn't it? It must have been, and Fenris makes a quiet note to bring it up again at some point. It's nothing important, not in the grand scheme of things, certainly nothing that will help their mission, but it's a satisfying story. A hopeful one, maybe.

What has died once can always die again.]

Is that right?

[He actually laughs. It's a little mean, but on the other hand, it isn't really meant nastily. He's just that confident in his own skills.]

Careful, Astarion. I will not say it's impossible for me to be beaten, but it is no easy feat. Don't talk yourself up too much.

[It's teasing, but there's something quietly excited in his gaze. It's been a long, long time since he's gotten to do anything so mundane as . . . well, this. Casually challenging someone to a battle whose outcome almost doesn't matter; playfully trash-talking, a luxury so mundane he'd forgotten how good it felt.]

There are two ways for you to go about attempting to prove that. We could spar. I know a few places where we'd have plenty of room.

Or you can accompany me on a hunt.

[Or both, frankly. There's nothing to say they can't do both: sparring down the hallways of his oversized mansion, weaving in and out of patches of moonlight, blades flashing and all of him trembling in exertion— and then, later, all the joyful, hopeful, fantastic thrills of killing those that no longer deserve to live.

Either way: he reaches for the cigarette. The heady, pleasantly dizzy feeling it offers is a relief in more ways than one, just as the port is. Fenris trades in a card— higher, though not as risky as Astarion's own— and absolutely in no way scowls at the shit card he picks up.]