It was a chilly evening, and you’d about had it with your lack of a tent. So, naturally, you were lounging in Astarion’s overly-extravagant tent. The place was decadent yet still it felt…oddly empty. There was much in the way of personal belongings besides an old, tattered, hunter-green blanket lying on the plush bedroll.

Astarion himself, in all his pale vampiric glory, was lying on some pillows, reading some old and probably cursed book. Candlelight illuminated his silvery-white hair and glimmered in his ruby-red eyes. A glass of red wine was at Astarion’s side, only ever being sipped on every few minutes.

Discarded blood jars were strewn across the room, as well as a few bowls of what could’ve only been Gale’s attempt at cooking blood for Astarion.

Astarion hummed softly as he took a sip of wine, his eyes flitting to meet yours before returning to his tome. “You taste delicious, you know. Even mixed in a wine.”