[ It's rare for Astarion to be the one being hunted, so to speak, and rarer still for him to be caught so off-balance. Each time their paths have crossed, his affect has been that of a house cat being confronted by a lion, by an echo of itself that it considers greater, an object of enchantment and envy in equal amounts. It's the most he can do to hold Lestat's gaze, determined not to waver. ]

Careful, lest I begin to suspect you're envious.

[ His hand, caught lightly in Lestat's grasp, stills only for a moment before the tendons relax — that fraction of a second the only indication that the mask Astarion wears might be more of a performance than he lets on. The desire to make a good impression goes both ways, though Astarion's inclination drives him more toward playing along than dissuading him from pressing into Lestat's thoughts.

With a coy shrug: ] And lest you injure my feelings. I'm not used to having gifts refused.