[ Astarion glances at him, momentarily, as if Gale has done something strange — or at the very lest, interesting — and Gale looks back, blinking. Perhaps he has, though he can’t think what, in this scenario, would be more unthinkable than Astarion ducking his head to tend his wounds unasked. They’re closer than he’s been with anyone since, well — and even back then, Gale had been rather more familiar with incorporeal intimacy than this, which sits a step above helping a down companion in the field.

It’s a fundamentally changed world, isn’t it, this party of two — Orin and Tilanus at the fringes, unknown variables. Gale splays his hand over the place where Astarion’s fingers were last, feeling the tidy bandages. Ever dexterous, their rogue. Proof of their bond now weighing down his pockets (a timepiece broken but accepted) and easing Gale’s newest pain. They made for a capable team, with the rest of the party; they ought to do well on their own, too. ]

Would that we had Jaheira and her Harpers to guide us.

[ Another audible hm as Gale tugs his robes back up, slipping his arms through the sleeves. ]

You’re right. [ hold to appreciate him admitting that. ] Why not a simple question and answer to follow any greeting? [ tipping his head to one side and then the other, for effect. ] “Do you know if the café has moved again?” “Yes, it’s still on the second floor.” Or the like, if it’s too plain.