Binghe doesn't take his sharp gaze off the silver-haired stranger. His own senses are, mercifully, intact, and he can smell a common boar, not the strange rotting fish stench of those squishy brain things.

"Cornered? Really?" he hums, something like a smile playing across his face as he regards the peculiar, silver-haired man. Binghe has been paranoid the majority of his life and he's not about to stop now.

"It smells more like dinner to me. Unless you would rather head to the town not even a few li west of here. There's an inn with far better fare for a - " he eyes Astarion's rather peculiar attire. It's foreign, certainly, and perhaps a little worse for wear from the crash, but it is, no doubt, finery of some sort. "- distinguished gentleman of your caliber."

He rounds his arms and bows in greeting. If either of these two have answers as to what happened, it's best to try to ply them with honeyed words and a sprinkling of flattery.

"But we shouldn't linger here. It won't be long until this place is swarming with guards."