There was blood. So much blood. It covered the room, and it covered the people within. Cazador wipes the last of it from his mouth with a silken handkerchief. "I leave it to you from here, boy."

And then Astarion's master is gone, slinking from the room like a weasel from a rabbit's nest. Astarion is left standing alone over the small, fragile body. Your small fragile body, to be exact. You're going to wake up, soon, he thinks worriedly. You'll be a spawn, like him. He wonders how you'll handle it. Cazador's never turned one so young before.