She lets out a little grunt of pain as she sits, the needle easing its way further in. She lifts her right arm to not jostle it, twisting her body a little so that it can come out easier. It's going to have to come out - she knows it. She's sure of it.

She's already grabbing onto the edge of the stool under her, one arm raise up and poised like a ballerina caught mid-dance. She looks down at Astarion, eyes catching on the sharp features - the elegance of his nose and the pointy chin, the fact that she can see some wrinkles around his eyes, and bloody hells his eyelashes are so long.

"Do it," she whispers, her breath caught. Then she pulls a face, and starts to nervous ramble: "Just get it over with - and don't say that must be what I said to my tiny pricks wielding lovers, Astarion, or you'll make me laugh, and I swear to the weave, if I laugh and it hurts -"