[ That he has kept mostly to himself — that the intimacy this place encourages is something he has deliberately shunned — is something Astarion keeps to himself. It's not that he expects much interrogation as to why (he expects that I'm just not interested would be a sufficient explanation for most), but, well. It's his own business, isn't it? It's the first time he's had the latitude to make such a choice for himself, to keep a secret, to be untouched.

So he nods, at what Lauralae says — after all, he understands why others might indulge — allowing the conversation to move smoothly on. She's right, in essence. That this place offers him a sort of freedom isn't a benefit that's been lost on him.

She leans in, and so does he, as though they were sharing a secret, the pattern of his breath breaking into a laugh. ]

She even drinks blood, [ he whispers, eyes widening in mock scandal, before straightening up. ] In other words, yes, a vampiric chicken. [ A pause, then, ] I'd be more annoyed by the choice, but ... she isn't particularly demanding, beyond needing to be fed. Perhaps I've grown soft, due to our shared nature, though I can't imagine who would have turned her.

Would you like to meet her?