Page 63 of Astarion

Astarion and den Suriel had almost reached the door that den Suriel said led to the outer passages, which served mostly as maintenance access to the storm drains. Unfortunately, the priest’s minions were waiting for them. Since he hadn’t heard the tromp of skeletal feet, Astarion guessed that there was a shortcut somewhere.

“You gonna come quietly?” the mummy asked.

The paladin put his hand on his holy symbol, then glanced at Astarion and frowned.

“Don’t mind me,” Astarion said.

“There’s a chance I’ll turn you into a pile of ash.”

“In that case, please do mind me.”

“I said,” the mummy said, rather more loudly, “are you gonna come quietly?”

“For the Badger!”

“I believe that’s a no,” Astarion said as den Suriel plowed into the wall of skeletons.

“I got that,” the mummy said, and swiped at Astarion’s head.

Astarion ducked under the punch. “Not the face, you bastard.” He spun to the side and left a dagger in the mummy’s left kidney, or what would have been his left kidney if it hadn’t been turned to soap. The mummy ignored it, but den Suriel was suddenly up in his face, which was much harder to ignore. He drew back his arm to punch the paladin, which meant that Astarion was in the path of a large, waxy elbow. He managed to duck again, but he put his foot down on something that rolled, and he pitched forward.

His nose and one cheekbone hit the stone floor. Neither appreciated it. Astarion stayed down for a minute, listening to the sounds of combat. A skeleton stepped on him, which was annoying, but then it collapsed into a pile of bones that bounced off Astarion’s back, which was even more annoying. He lifted his chin groggily, just in time to see the mummy’s head smack into the stones directly in front of him. The face had a puzzled expression, possibly because it had misplaced the rest of its body.

“Are you alive?” den Suriel asked.

“I find that question in very poor taste.”

“Sorry.”

Astarion sat up. “Are there any more of them?”

“Not in this hallway.” The paladin nudged one of the skeletons with his foot and traced a sign in the air.

“Well done. Now, more importantly, is my nose broken?” Astarion felt it gingerly.

“Again with the nose?”

“My face keeps hitting things. Does it look straight to you?”

“You’re undead,” the aasimar said.

“Yes? And? The undead can still have broken noses.”

“I suppose, but can’t you just…I don’t know…drink blood or bathe in ichor or whatever you people do?”

“It’s not that simple. If it heals before it’s set properly, there could be a bump.” He ran his finger across the bridge. Was it still perfectly straight?

The aasimar, whose own nose had a distinct bump at the bridge, rolled his eyes. (At least, Astarion thought he did. The lack of distinct pupils or irises made it difficult to tell.)

“Listen, you slab of armored beef, there are very few exquisite noses in the world, and I have protected mine for nearly two hundred years. I consider it a sacred duty. My nose is like a shrine.”

Den Suriel was clearly trying not to laugh despite himself. “Which nostril do they leave the offerings in, then?”

“The right one. The left is for penitents.” Astarion got to his feet and dabbed his face with a handkerchief.

With a deep sigh, the paladin leaned forward and inspected Astarion’s face. “Does it hurt when I do this?”

“No,” Astarion said, somewhat muffled because den Suriel had just pressed a gauntleted finger against the bridge of his nose.