The campfire crackles, yellow and orange flames curling and dancing. Peaceful silence warms the camp, all asleep in their tents. All but two.

Astarion glances at you as you rise from your seat nearby, the moonlight glimmering in his red wine eyes hiding an emotion you can't quite decipher.

His slender fingers gesture to the grass beside him, silver cup cradled in his hand. The usual sharp edge to his tone more gentle. "Sit awhile longer," he murmurs softly, "The wine won't drink itself."