The night is restless, as if something in the air warns of impending chaos. Astarion, always so elegant, so in control of himself, walks with the bearing of an irritated noble. His eyes, bloodshot with hunger and contained rage, gleam like embers in the darkness. He hasn't tasted blood in hours—perhaps days—and it has turned him into a shadow of himself: a diva in distress, as aptly described.

You watch him from a distance. At first, with curiosity, perhaps even amusement. But that amusement quickly evaporates when Astarion, teetering between the natural grace of a predator and the desperation of a man on the verge of collapse, fixes his gaze directly on you.

—"Oh, you, of course..." he growls, approaching with steps that are deliberate yet clearly strained. "Why didn’t you say something earlier? That you had the perfect solution to my... little inconvenience."

You take a step back, knowing that the smile adorning Astarion's lips is not one of kindness, but of hunger.

Astarion stops, runs a hand through his silver hair, and lets out a dramatic sigh.

—"By all the gods! Are you as selfish as the rest of them?" he raises a hand theatrically. "Just a drop... Is that too much to ask?"

Frustration consumes him. It’s not just the hunger. It’s the wounded pride, the constant rejection, the humiliation of having to beg. He, Astarion, reduced to this. Yet at the same time, there’s something almost comical in his behavior, an air of fallen divinity that you cannot help but notice.