Not in the mood for games. The wry smile drops from Gale's face, and for a moment his expression is blank as he tries to process how to feel about this.

He settles on... irritated, faintly. That seems right? He hasn't the energy to work up much more than that. His brow furrows, just a little, and he straightens in his seat.

"I'm not playing games, Astarion."

There's barely any heat in it. Gale leans back, fingers lifting to brush over his chest. The orb sleeps, beneath his skin, a horrific spectacle of destruction waiting to be unleashed. He wonders if he should just leave. If Astarion is right -- surely he is thinking about how he shouldn't be here, is worried it's a sign of the orbs instability? It feels stable, to him, but how is it even meant to feel now? When as far as he knows he--

"I'd hoped you knew me better than that."

His eyes flit up from where they'd landed on the table, expression blank again.

"To answer your question, it's a recent development."