Most of the party had long ago retired to their beds in the Inn, but not Astarion. He couldn't settle his mind, not knowing what to land on - sitting on a pulse bench near the window as red eyes stared unfocused at the stars above. His mind looked a million miles away, as if they were as far as the stars themselves.

The blood on him from Cazador was gone - but the spawn could almost still feel it, caked into his nails, his pores, his very soul; flashes of his past he couldn't rebuild present every time he closed his eyes.

He expected to feel retribution. A sense of closure. Something besides the hollow void following the death of Cazador.