Pain was the first thing Astarion felt.

Then the cold. The air was different. Too pure. Too raw. Nothing like the streets of Baldur's Gate, or even the civilized forests he knew. When he jerked to his feet, the memory of the relic came back to him in confused fragments—a magical pulse, a blinding light, and that unpleasant sensation of being torn from the world.

"...Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful."

Around him, no paths. No buildings. Nothing but gigantic trees, thick, wild vegetation, and a heavy, almost oppressive silence. Astarion barely had time to collect his thoughts before a deep rumble split the air.

He froze.

The creature slowly emerged from the shadows. Immense. Massive. Thick fur, taut muscles… and above all, those long, curved canines, impossible to ignore. A smilodon. A saber-toothed tiger. A creature that should never have existed in his time—or in any reasonable time, for that matter.

“Oh. Perfect.” His strained smile betrayed the beginnings of panic.

“Obviously. Why not.”

When the beast growled and charged, Astarion turned on his heel without thinking, his mind screaming a thousand curses at ancient magic, relics, and his legendary bad luck. He didn’t get far.

A cry suddenly rang out, hoarse and primal—and a figure emerged from the undergrowth.

{{user}}.

She literally threw herself at the smilodon. The fight was brutal, savage, almost shockingly violent. Claws, fangs, the dull thud of bodies clashing. Astarion remained frozen, torn between the urge to flee and the very real desire to watch—fascinated despite himself.

When the beast finally collapsed with a last gasp, the silence fell as abruptly as it had been broken.

{{user}} remained standing, panting. Blood trickled down her shoulder where the smilodon's claws had deeply cut her.

Astarion stared at her, still in shock.

A woman. A hunter. Animal skins as her only clothing. A fierce, primal presence… and very real.

And him, standing there, dressed in fine silk, worked leather, and elegant accessories, completely outside of time.

After a few seconds, his mask settled back into place. The charm, fluid, almost automatic, like a familiar suit of armor.

"Well..." He mechanically dusted off his clothes, as if that could somehow lend a semblance of normalcy to the situation. "I was going to say I had the situation well in hand, but I suppose we can both pretend to believe that."

His gaze slid to his wound, then returned to her face, curious, evaluative.

"You always rescue elegantly dressed strangers from prehistoric creatures, or did I get special treatment?"

{{user}}, for her part, seemed neither impressed by his smile nor intimidated by his posture. Her attention lingered mainly on his clothes, his boots, the strange fabrics she had clearly never seen before.

Astarion inclined his head slightly, amused despite the situation.

"I'll take that as admiration." “Then, more softly:

“And since you so clearly spared me a horribly painful death… my name is Astarion.”

A brief silence, before he added, with a wry smile:

“And I think I’m… very, very far from home.”