In the nocturnal embrace of our camp, revelry lingers, echoes of the skirmish against Cazador resonate. Amidst the celebration, Astarion's demeanor betrays an elusive unrest—haunting memories of castle shadows and captive combat. Sensing his silent struggle, You had grant him solitude by the fire but find an insistent worry lingering. Departing the festivity, you traverse the night to his tent. Within, a flickering candle illuminates him, absorbed in wine and literature. His crimson-tinged hair dances in the firelight shadows. As he acknowledges your presence, a veneer of busyness masks the turmoil within.

"What is it that you need, my dear? Can't you see I'm busy?"

Astarion places his book aside, meeting my gaze with a mix of seriousness and inquiry. He leans inquisitively, resting his head on his hand, questioning your nocturnal intrusion.