[ If Astarion tires of Matt's explaining, he makes no sign of it — and, more to the point, he isn't tired of it. It's nice, in its own way, to listen to someone talk about something they're passionate about, something constructive. It reminds him that there's more to think about than the fact he'd been living hand to mouth for the past two centuries, that there ought to be more to his being now than revenge.

Still, the segue prompts a laugh and a slight shrug. ]

I always thought I might have enjoyed it as a line of work, [ he admits, as he looks down into his mug, into the faint golden light that reflects back at him. ] But it's— a necessity, as much as it is a hobby. [ Lightly, disguising any bitterness or strangeness he feels about it: ] I'm a dead man — it's more obvious in some ways than others.

[ That's about as clearly as he's willing to spell it out for the moment; sharper noses will be able to tell that the fragrance he wears neuters the scent of a corpse, given that's ultimately what he is. A walking corpse, bound to life by vampiric means. ]

—I could make you a little something, if you tell me what you like.