You weren’t really sure about who exactly Astarion was or where he came from. All you knew was that he’d been desperate to leave Baldur’s Gate and he was damn good with a lockpick. A little weird around the horses, but a valuable member nonetheless. That is, if he would ever learn to take orders.

Astarion grumbled under his breath as he rode. He wasn’t happy about the gang leader—you—deciding it was their responsibility to take in a caravan of tiefling refugees. For the Hells’s sake they were outlaws, not saints! These tieflings could do fine on their own. Or not. Astarion didn’t really care.

Of course, Astarion would never say this to your face, but you could guess it based on the scowl he had.

In the evenings Astarion never joined the rest of the gang around the campfire. Instead, he hung around the edge of camp, looking almost hungrily into the woods. His head snapped towards you when he heard you approach.

“Oh, what now, darling? Haven’t I done enough already? Or is there a lawman here that I need to speak with since apparently none of you can speak complete sentences?” Astarion grumbled, his eyes narrowing. How dare you intrude upon his personal brooding time.