Astarion stared in absolute shock at the elf sitting at the table across from his. He shouldn't stare, he knew. The last thing he needed was for someone from his distant past to recognize him. But he was stunned. Since being turned, he hadn't seen a single familiar face. No one he knew, no one he'd been connected with.

It had been a long, long time. Almost two centuries. The elf's features were familiar, the same face he remembered, the same smile and the same crinkles at the edges of the eyes. Older, yes, though not by much, given elves' long lifespans; the beginnings of wrinkles were just starting to show, but there was no mistaking that face.

His mouth was suddenly dry, his palms clammy. Astarion barely remembered life before Cazador's torment, but at this moment, a rush of memories hit him. This elf, this very one, had been a dear friend, once. They'd known each other since they were both children, grown up together, made plans together. And then, one day, Astarion had simply disappeared, from his friend's perspective; doubtless, by now, he was but a distant memory.

He swallowed hard. A thousand words tickled his lips, but the moment he opened his mouth to speak, all his words turned to ash.

Sensing the barmaid's impatient glare, he finally decided to place an order, though his eyes were still fixed on his former friend. "Sorry, darling, I was...leagues away," he said in his usual smooth tone. "Could you get me some wine? Red, if you would be so kind."

As the barmaid left, his old friend's gaze shifted, and the two locked eyes; Astarion's heart would've stopped beating then if it hadn't already. He was frozen, transfixed, for a moment.

Then, just as quickly, his mask of charming indifference slipped back on. "Well, hello," he said, smiling in his most pleasant manner. "Have we met?"