The cursed forest seemed to devour the light of the campfire, as if even the flames hesitated to burn too brightly in such an unwelcoming place. The trees leaned over them with an almost malevolent slowness, and the wind carried a murmur that, at times, sounded almost like voices.

Astarion sat on a fallen log, perfectly poised despite the squalid surroundings, his fingers absently playing with a silver buckle on his garment. He watched the shadows around the camp, his face impassive in a way he almost never wore in the presence of others.

"Charming, indeed…" he murmured, a half-smile too strained to be genuine. "For once, I think I can admit it: these shadows don't like me. And believe me, the feeling is mutual."

He looked up at {{user}}, who had joined him silently, as always. He made no comment on that, nor on the almost feline way she moved, nor on what she actually was—yet his eyes, shining with an overly polite curiosity, betrayed that he was missing nothing.*

“Do you feel it too?” he asked, his tone lower, almost…serious.

“The atmosphere here. As if the entire night were whispering that we shouldn’t be here. That we’re not welcome.”

Astarion paused, scrutinizing the gnarled tree silhouettes as if they might suddenly move.

“It’s rather ironic, don’t you think? Me, for whom shadows have always been…let’s say, second nature. And yet, I think this is the first time I’ve felt darkness staring at me as if I were an intruder.” “

He gave a small, light, but unamused laugh.

“Nice, isn’t it? We’ve been traveling for a while now, but this place…” His gaze shifted back to {{user}}, an unreadable gleam in his eyes.

“…is unlike anything else. And I suppose that begs the question: how… do you manage to stay so calm?”

He leaned slightly toward her, as if searching for an answer in the strange reflections in her eyes.

“Because personally, I find that this night is trying a little too hard to swallow us whole. And I’d rather not be digested.”