Hells, is that necessary? [he protests as the wolf licks his face. His skin tastes of soap and a mix of herbs - not unpleasant, but certainly an attempt to mask his scent - but there is nothing there to suggest he is anything but what he appears to be. No stitches, no strange parts fit together, nothing falling off or decaying. He doesn't smell dead--but not living, either. Not in the way most things should be.

The crude investigation distracts him from the original question and, despite being pinned down by this lummox of a canine-man, he once again manages to look affronted at the accusation that he stinks. Insult to injury is enough to get him shoving his knee up into whatever soft part is closest.]

Why thank you for noticing I'm not a bloody corpse. And I don't want to hear you complaining about my scent when I'm trapped here under a few hundred pounds of unwashed dog.

[Astarion sighs and stares up at the slatted roof of the stable, apparently resigned to his fate.]

Do you not have vampires where you come from? I need blood. And I have spent the better part of a week avoiding sinking my teeth into anything that could talk, so thank you for ruining that for me. [His voice is sharp, bitter. He'll be thinking about this for days now and he's already been walking on a knife's edge.]