“It isn’t real.” Astarion grits, baring his fangs in jealous defiance, glowering at the apparition beside Emet-Selch. It might seem kind. More merciful than so many of the other reflections haunting this cursed place, but therein lies the danger.

Emet-Selch, tired as he is, is probably weaker to this more than any other tack.

“Why are you speaking to it.”