Jedao laughs softly, but there's no bitterness in it, the way there might have been if he felt less sweetly at ease.

"I was made for it, maybe. I can never decide if I want that to be true or not. But I'm glad you like it."

He twists and shuffles a little, turning around to lean back against the arm of the couch, squirming and shuddering a little as the grain of the upholstery scrapes the fresh welts on his back. He beams lazily at Astarion.

"Is the whip your favorite?"