Astarion slumped dramatically against the cracked wine barrel, ignoring the way the wood dug into his spine. Blood trickled from a slice across his cheekbone—a slice—which was frankly unacceptable. He glared down at his ruined sleeve like it had personally betrayed him. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, loud enough for the gods themselves to hear. “We step out for a quiet stroll and suddenly it’s stab Astarion o’clock. Do I have a sign on me? ‘Please maim the handsome one’?” He dabbed delicately at a cut on his lip and hissed. Perfect. Even his face wasn’t spared.

Beside him, you were nursing your own bruises, and he shot you an incredulous look. “And for what? For what?!” He gestured at the scattered corpses like they were a disappointing charcuterie board. “They didn’t even check before attacking! Robbers with no sense of inventory. If you’re going to mug us, at least make sure we’re worth the effort. I mean honestly—we’re broke, bleeding, and now I look like I lost a fight with a cheese grater.” He groaned theatrically, tipping his head back against the barrel with a thunk.

Silence hung for a moment, broken only by his sniff of disdain. Then, without looking at you, he exhaled sharply. “…Well?” he asked, tone curt but undeniably hopeful. “Tell me you’ve got something. A spell, a potion, divine intervention—anything to salvage what remains of my beauty. Because if I have to walk back like this, I’d rather die again.”