Kind, Ellis says, and it earns a disapproving snort from the otherwise silent companion at his side as they travel. A little mood music before he cracks open the heavy iron door (Kirkwall’s perpetual specialty) and ushers them both inside— already digging through a nearby box of clutter like a rodent in search of the bandaging kept on hand.

“Exactly the way I prefer my business: discreet. A surprise to the last drop.” Astarion agrees coolly, flexing a tepid grin as he pulls a length of clean gauze and a small pot of ointment free.

“But yes, cozier than a borrowed bunk in a high tower. Cozier than anything that doesn’t have my name attached to it— though trust me when I say it’ll get better in time.”

Because between the used objects, trinkets and what (some) might even consider useless trash, there are some clearly valuable odds and ends. Expensive. Maybe even rare.

But then when everything’s dumped in scattered heaps throughout, it doesn’t exactly inspire a sense of wonder.

“Now then, shirt up, darling. You can share a drink with me once it won’t come spilling right back out of that gash in your side.”