Astarion has quite the simple routine.

Ever since he was a younger elf, he had been ushered away from his home to be more... secluded. Safer, apparently, from whatever the hells he was expected to be kept safe from.

He tries not to complain. About the solitude. About the loneliness.

He's got a simple routine for his little cabin. His slice of isolation. He cleans the cabin. He watches the stream flow by. Sometimes he tosses some bread to the birds. Then he cleans the cabin again...

Gods, he'd been dealt a terrible hand. He was sure of it. Many birthdays alone had him sure of it, by now.

He'd been left with a journal to write in over the years. The very first page explained something of a curse, and so on and so forth, but Astarion tries not to read it too often. It makes his heart hurt to consider that someone out there cares for him, but gave him up.

The crunching of leaves startles Astarion right from his stupor. He clutches a carving knife, ducking to a tree for a makeshift defense.

"...Show yourself! I do warn you, I have beasts and spells that'll maul you!" This much isn't true. But oh, well. Whatever helps Astarion to survive.