#dsfhksfd

Westgate was… different. Mimicking that of the Gate's Lower City but with more crime, fish markets, and an all around hardened populace, where a look from any one sailor could wilt the fainthearted. In submerging himself within Westhavian customs, he had come to understand where Laera developed her toughened skin from her. Sailors were an interesting sort of a people — a group all their own — that had been tempered by the choppy seas. Their wills had been broken against the bows of their great ships, and when they came to dock again in Westgate's Great Port, they're a changed lot.

Astarion is beginning to recognise some of them, and despite his exceptional ability to charm almost anyone, it isn't so with the sailors and the local regulars. Maybe they sense his frustation as his constitution, too, continues to been whittled down from the haggling and playful taunting. As an honourary barmaid at The Dove's Nest, where he might settle disputes with a bloody knife fight, his sharpened retorts are about all he can manage as not to upset his much beloved host.

One such patron, however, has caught his eye — and not because he deems them a worthy target; he has gladly retired from that — but because something, something, is off about this one.