[ Something about the phrasing of sneaky lifting gets a chuckle out of Astarion, even as he shifts his weight to his back foot — a slight move meant to buy himself a little more space as opposed to going into outright retreat. (They paint a funny picture, one dressed in dark shades and the other in blinding white, like two sides of a coin.) ]

Portia, maybe, [ he says, with a noncommittal shrug. ] Though I think you're right, I doubt she'd even hear what you were saying at this point, so long as I wasn't resorting to murder.

[ Still, he holds out the trinket he's stolen once more — a small paperweight, only slightly larger than a letter seal, a lily's bloom preserved in resin. ]

Let's call it a gift, then, rather than a bribe.