[Mm, yes, there is a cordiality about Winter that feels cursory at best. Not that he wears it unwell—no, he’s seen just how much politeness he can utilize when necessity calls for it, often as it is—but perhaps because they are so alike in their oddities, at least in this, Astarion can see it for what it is. A veil. A reliable one, but diaphanous and easily tossed aside when unneeded.

Not that it matters to him one whit. The politeness works when they’ve (sometimes frustratingly) decided to play nice as a group; and when it crosses over into the realm of lying, it’s not like Astarion isn’t well-versed in that to some degree, either.]

That just means you lack… [He gestures idly with a hand, bandages flopping about.] …a certain flair. Don’t worry. We can’t all be as talented as me.

[Again, that tilting smile, but his eyes linger on Winter’s face no longer than they need to. Instead, it’s time to tend to that very temptingly bleeding arm. He gingerly takes him by the wrist with his free hand, holding his forearm closer and examining the wound. Not quite weeping; what a shame.

But still crimson in places where his blood had smeared against soaked bandages and skin.]

I’d say this needs a bit of cleaning first.