"I've been dead in the ground for long enough. It's time to try living again."

"Memories... they can be a hounding presence." Cysaera keeps her eyes on the wispy clouds lining the horizon. "You can spend thirty years running from them. Hells, even spit on them. And still they chase you like a scorned suitor, bereft of your attention." Astarion prides himself for keeping his mouth shut. Oh please, what's thirty years of outrunning bad memories to his two centuries? But he already made a blunder this morning, and goading Cysaera twice in a day is not a risk worth taking. Endearing himself to her has been slow, painstaking work; he's not about to give the doomguide a reason to ditch her own favour for her dreadsome god's doctrine. A matter of tact, he reasons. What tact doesn't explain is why his gaze lingers on the scars marring her skin, or why he wonders if they're as heavy to bear in the daylight as his are in the shadows.

The morning after he felled his old master and carved a new birth date on his gravestone, Astarion insists on a day off to enjoy his newfound freedom. Since Cysaera is from Neverwinter and this is her first time in Baldur's Gate, he uses this as an opportunity to show her around the city. He does so with the flair of a tour guide, if one who trades historical accuracy for salacious gossip, and accepts his payment in Cysaera's flat stares and fond kisses alike. The gate to the Upper City is still closed due to the Absolute crisis, so Astarion wraps their little tour by taking Cysaera to the Bloomridge Park at the Lower City. She finds the park lovely. He maintains that the Upper City parks look so much nicer.

"Quit the petulant act." Cysaera's voice cuts through the quiet camp, low and weary. She tosses the last of the kindling into the crackling fire. "You're not the only one with experience in deaths and regrets." Astarion's smile holds, but defiance flares in his eyes. "By all means, do tell how your precious experience trumps mine." Saccharine venom coats his every word. "I must have missed the first sermon." Ah, classic. As if doomguides were ever ones for sermons. The jab dissolves like ashes on vestments, harmless as countless others over the decades. "This is not a competition. Although that is one way to say you've built yourself a pedestal no one else is allowed near." His laugh—sharp, a touch higher in pitch than normal—slices the air. "My, my. Beautiful and observant! Wonders never cease."

"But darling, there are so many things I can do with my tongue." Astarion's grin brims with mischief as he slinks closer. "Or has your time spent on burying corpses confused memories of my wit with their rot?" Mirth dances in Cysaera's firelit expression. "Oh, I remember plenty. No complaints."