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Summary
All the thoughts Astarion had been cataloguing before about the strange visitor go still.
His fingers reach out, lifting the pendant closer to his eye.
Silver—finely wrought. An engraved swan volant, flying, and three etoile stars on the right.
The Ancunin crest.
(An escape goes well. A little too well, to be honest.
But elves live long lives. How different could it be, really, going 200 years back?)
