[ As they stand by the water's edge, Astarion keeps Matt in his periphery, never fully turning his head to face him but allowing his gaze to flicker every now and then - a sort of equivalent to the easy distance Matt puts between them, faintly aware that it could be more, could be less. It's a vantage point from which it's easy to pretend he isn't thinking about it, to let out a thoughtful hum at the idea of a little gift in return. ]

What sort of enchantments did you have in mind, my dear? [ he asks, as he brings his mug up to his face, not quite pantomiming drinking from it as he breathes in its scent. ]

Not that I expect you'd leave me with a curse, but it seems worth asking.