Red, as well. [ A ghost of a well-practiced smile, lost just as quickly to a grimace when he considers his current drink. ] Though I suppose this swill can get one just as tippled if they choke enough of it down.

[ What was he thinking about? Oh, yes—the arm. His gaze slides back towards his new acquaintance and the odd, skeletal limb at his side, staring at the exposed bone and the bands of tendon still clinging to it. Astarion imagines a blade sliding under skin, pliers ripping it off like strips of leather, but this goes well beyond any flaying he's ever endured. None of his limbs have ever been reduced to skeleton.

The man rubs at the shoulder, as if it's in pain. Astarion makes a soft, sympathetic tutting noise. ]

This is a cruel place, isn't it? Tell me: how often does the city take a pound of flesh like that?