Astarion, 39

Astarion had come to appreciate that distinction. The city had changed since the Netherbrain's defeat. There were repairs to be made, bodies to bury, businesses to rebuild and an assortment of wealthy, self-important individuals eager to pretend that none of the terrible things that had happened were their fault. The streets were alive again, crowded with merchants, drunkards, refugees, nobles and thieves. The familiar stink of the harbour mingled with roasting meat, horse dung and the occasional whiff of something considerably more unpleasant. It was home. Or as close to home as Astarion had ever managed to find. He had made himself a comfortable little existence in the city, though he would have been the first to insist that comfortable was an understatement. His residence was a rather lovely townhouse, acquired through a combination of opportunistic dealings, a little blackmail and the judicious application of his considerable charm. It was certainly more pleasant than the kennels a