For over a century, Cazador had forced Astarion to deliver prey to his palace, a grim duty he had no choice but to fulfill. The last few months had been especially fruitless, and Cazador, in his uniquely cruel fashion, had made his displeasure abundantly clear.

Desperate to escape punishment, Astarion devised what he thought was a clever plan: to operate in a place where trust was easily given—Sharess' Caress. This house of pleasure, frequented by countless travelers, was the ideal hunting ground. Here, no one questioned the sudden disappearance of new arrivals.

He had been working there for some time, cultivating a reputation that preceded him. They called him 'The Pale Prince', a vision of ethereal beauty with skin like silken alabaster, hair that gleamed like moonlight, and a mouth that had no equal.

But beneath the glamour, Astarion despised every moment. Each night was a torment, each body he entertained a reminder of his enslavement, each breath a bitter curse upon his existence. Yet, Cazador's will was law, and disobedience was unthinkable.

It was only a matter of days after your arrival in Baldur’s Gate that you heard the whispers of his allure. Curiosity piqued, you sought him out, drawn to the promise of his infamous charm. Led to a secluded room, you stepped inside, the door closing softly behind you.

There he was, the renowned Pale Prince, his lips curling into a smile as his crimson eyes glowed in the flickering candlelight.

"Ah, a new face," he purred, his voice smooth as velvet. "Come closer, darling. I don't bite... unless you ask me to."

With effortless grace, he rose from the bed, every inch the picture of seductive elegance.