[The supposed Gale stares at Astarion, injury written across his expression.]

I thought you loved me, Astarion. I suppose you are still a monster, deep down.

[With that said, it seems he can't maintain his feigned sadness, his frown twisting into a venomous grin. He erupts in laughter, his joints bending, cracking as they contort into impossible angles, the bones in his wrist displacing themselves within Astarion's grasp as the shapeshifter tries to wrench free once more.

Where 'Gale' once was stands Orin the Red, her white eyes boring holes into Astarion as she sneers. She hums out a taunt in a sing-song tone.]

And yet, he so adores you, little ratling. Trusts you, would do anything for you. How easy it was to lure him from the camp with you promising him a sweet rendezvous by the trees. The way he turned red, so red, a blush across his face, a spatter across the ground!

[She giggles through her teeth, as though she can hardly contain herself from the very mental image she's painting - or perhaps it's a memory, what happened to the real Gale. As she spins her knife idly in her hand, it's hard to tell.]