Prestidigitation can only solve so many issues, as much as it's a favourite spell of hers. It has, in the past, cleaned a dingy and abandoned basement that saw her experience the most delicious height of passion in years.

And this morning, it made the exhausting journey from Cazador's palace back to their rooms at the inn a less conspicuous one, given the amount of blood that Hermione has magically whisked away.

Prestidigitation does not feel like enough, for the gruelling night they have had, all four of them. She has seen more human misery, felt more anguish and rage, burnt through her spells more than she can count.

It's been a long night; hard to believe it was just last night that they went to a ball together, walking through the city as if haunted by a year's worth of battling. Her feet ache, her back aches, there's a patina of dirt and misery that no spell can fix. There's only one solution, really.

She spends an indecent amount of money for the inn to draw a bath in her room, stopping by the reception desk to get wine and food sent up for Shadowheart and Karlach as well.

Her attention, after that, turns to Astarion. Again, he's gone quiet. It's reasonable, tonight has been a lot. His fellow-spawn must be on their way to the Underdark now, and Cazador is nothing but a pulp, a dark memory, an exorcised wound. (If she could kill him all over again, she would.) Silence after all of that is to be expected. Should be expected.

She still reaches for his hand when they reach the landing of the floor her room is on, and draws his attention. There's no cheeky flirtation this time, just a soft openness. She's decided that after everything, she will wear her heart on her sleeve. If Astarion is still left surprised by the depth of her feelings for him now, at least he'll not be obliged to mistrust them.

"Join me?" she asks softly. "I think we could both do with warming up, don't you think?"