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“I’m going to do a wash. Want me to take some of yours?”
Astarion is a startled out of his thoughts about the dream, about Cazador, and finds himself staring at one of his new found companions (loose as that term may be).
The sorcerer is proving to be extremely capable, if somewhat – painfully – naïve. And he has the strangest quirks that he’s ever seen. The amnesia to the point where he’s not entirely certain of his own name and the rather casual approach to bloodshed are only a few of them.
“What?”
“Laundry. Both my shirts are covered in goblin blood. I have a charm that gets it out easy, and dismiss water is good for drying things quickly,” he lifts the bucket of clothes up as an indication of what he meant. “Lae’zel and Shadowheart refused already, but I’ve got some from Wyll and Gale, so don’t feel bad about your answer either way.”
He’s…also not wearing a shirt.
Astarion goes to drag his eyes in a dramatically appreciative way over the bare chest, meaning to play up the flirtatious overtures he’s begun, and freezes:
Scars. Hundreds of them – if not more – most aren’t the sort you’d associate with fighting either. There’s old burns and he can see where the stripes from a whip come up over the shoulder. A patch around one of his hips seems to have been flayed at one point. Most of them are old, older than a decade, he’d guess but he’s not seen much of how humans heal. (His own skin would look like that if he weren’t a vampire.) There are fresher ones too – but those are from fighting. A healed arrow wound there, a slashing scar down his arm that’s doubtlessly from fending off a blade. The old ones are all easily hidden beneath clothes -
Aegen’s brows furrow a bit before realization strikes the violet gaze.
“Ah…yes…I, uh, I don’t think I had a happy family life?” he tries for a smile but it falls flat. There’s no shame in the gaze when Astarion meets it again, but there’s an uncertainty. Like Aegen is concerned about his reaction.
“And you don’t remember.”
“Just…red,” he shook his head after a moment, giving up on piecing together what shattered fragments he’d attempted to parse. “I know the scars are old – but I don’t know how I know how to tell how old a scar is. I have a guess for my own age and based on that most of these are from before I was grown. I can’t imagine any run-ins with ‘family’ I might have will be a pleasant experience.”
“Well – at least I’m not the only one hoping to avoid family,” he smiles grimly, before remembering how little he’s told anyone about his past. About how he’s supposed to have had a good life in Baldur’s Gate – just a magistrate, nothing special. Shit.
There’s not surprise or concern or anything remotely like he'd expect from most of their other companions in the gaze he meets from the sorcerer, just…acknowledgement. And no pestering, pushy questions about it either. Just the slight lift of the bucket full of clothes upwards in a silent refrain of that first question.
Astarion hesitates then adds one of the shirts he’d acquired since their crash-landing to the bucket of wash.
Aegen smiles to him before heading over to Karlach to make the same offer.
The barbarian notices the scars with a twinge of her brows but says nothing, immediately starting on some playful joke about something else entirely instead.