[There is only one way this conversation will end if Winter wants to be kind instead of torturous. But they can both play like things are fine and normal, and that the crimson threatening to stain his arm a second time doesn't sear into his periphery, or sing in his ears.

Astarion swallows, his throat bobbing. But otherwise, he remains diligent in cordoning off a clean portion of bandages and tearing them free from their roll.]

What, haven't you been told? Lockpicking is a prerequisite along the road to becoming a magistrate.

[Clearly not true. His smile remains, though he does pause, tone dipping a little lighter as he gives a less flippant answer.]

One's path in life becomes a bit more... unlawful, shall we say, when your priorities shift towards seducing and luring unwitting nobles towards their untimely demise.

[So, you know. You pick up skills that you wouldn't otherwise have dreamed of centuries past. You live in the shadows; you do terrible things, and you learn how to do them quietly.]

And besides, what's more alluring than someone who can slip into places where they definitely shouldn't be, hm? Now... let me see your arm.