[ If Astarion could hear Rand describe himself that way — a monster — he'd laugh until his ribs hurt. He's seen true ugliness and, for all that Rand's blood sketches out the picture something too titanic to be easily contained, the young man certainly isn't it. (And to call Rand a monster would be to damn himself to the appellation — a monster by dint of what exists in his blood rather than by his own choices and actions.)

But, for now, all that he offers is a quizzical gaze, willing as ever to accept an invitation but made a little more hesitant by Rand's manner. It clearly makes him uncomfortable — he's suffered for it, that much is evident — but, like his vampirism, it does feel like a hump they'll have to surmount sooner or later. And as he knows full well, what really matters is less the telling of it than how it's received. ]

I'm almost afraid I don't know how to ask the right question, [ he begins, ] "Why does your blood taste like that?" Let alone the fact that I doubt you know what your own blood tastes like— [ other than the typical iron tang that non-vampires can register, which doesn't count ] —it seems ... too simple.

[ Another pause, before Astarion seems to settle on trying for as light a touch as possible. ]

Well, how about this, then—

[ He fixes his gaze upon Rand, intent but hardly interrogatory. ]

Who are you?