( She knows damn well what the state of his camp looks like, and Haelva simply raises an eyebrow but accepts the cloth without complaint, pressing it against her neck. )

I don't remember this part of our nightly ritual, but I suppose there was no need to wake me. ( Curiosity wins out of anything else, however -- it's the wizard in her, Haelva supposes, as she watches Astarion move. ) What does it feel like? Drinking the blood of thinking creatures over animals? There's taste, I imagine, and better for you--

( It's clear by the way she looks at him, shifting onto her side and propping her head up that it is genuine curiosity and a desire to understand over anything else. Though she catches herself, and admits: ) If you'd rather not dwell on it, you don't need to indulge me.

( Because it is an indulgence. And not one borne of the urge, in spite of the question at hand. The urge wants it spilt, not sustaining life. )