[ They've come to the path around the lake by now. The dark water is placid this evening: no would-be victims chucked into it, no jumping summer fish. Matt ambles past the dock--for what boat, he always wonders--and glances to Astarion with a slightly sharper attention for the phrase dead man.

It doesn't come as the sort of surprise it would have when he arrived here. Daniel and Armand are dead too. But it's one more reminder that even those of them who come from similar-ish worlds still diverge in ways he can't predict. ]

I see. [ A gentle nod. ] Different from where I come from, then. Actually, so far I think my world's in the minority.

[ He, too, seems happy to leave it there. Especially in the face of the offer, which gets him perking up visibly. ]

That's so nice. [ The sentiment is genuine, though its fluidity might have something to do with the fact that he's managed to get halfway through his mug. (He may have overdone it on the bourbon. It's been a long few weeks.) Matt breathes in through his nose, trying to pick out the scents from each other like notes in a chord. ] Honestly, I think I like most scents that people tend to classify as good, so-- [ A crooked smile. ] Not helpful. But I'd be interested in seeing what you came up with as an artist, artisan. One of those.