[It's half relief, half exposure for Camille. This isn't like talking grief with a drunken John Keene. That is a faucet she can reach for with bitter righteousness. It's ugly and it's unnerving but loss is a trump card. People shut up for it. People think they don't have a right to tell you what to do with it. They'll judge of course, but behind your back.

This, though. Murky waters, for her and for Astarion. Maybe less for him, since he was ready to call bullshit the minute her mouth was on his. Thinking about her exploits as exploitative is still tender territory. A year ago she'd contested Richard on it, called it sexist that he'd defend her juvenile honour. Now she wonders herself, debates in silent stretches at night. Sometimes she's on her own side. Others, on every side but her own.]

So it's not something they'd recognize. [She does wonder if Gale clocked it, egghead that he is. Then again, she has to assume their world as as vast as any other. Can't just be one cryptic spell-crafting language kicking around.] I think most people take mine as a warning. "Don't stick your dick in crazy."

[Sad is cute, sad is sexy, but only to a point. Richard hadn't been able to look her in the eye after he'd seen them. He never got in touch. He'd been so keen to save her up until that moment, too.]

...What'll you do now?