As you stepped out of your tent this morning, the breeze felt frigid on the back of your neck.

Last night, you had cut your hair off in a fit of rage, having been dragged back and forth between old and awful memories.

Although Astarion wasn't the first to notice, he was most certainly the first to point it out.

"Your hair, it's.. Shorter," he mused, sauntering over to you before he began to circle you like a vulture. "Why in the Seven Hells did you cut it? I quite liked it when it was long."