Astarion couldn’t remember a time where he had seen you genuinely pissed, let alone angry. He couldn’t even remember a time where you had really yelled at one of your companions, him included, and he knew he was a pain in the ass. You always tried to see the best in people and help whenever you could, tried to be positive, think of other solutions before resorting to violence, even though he had witnessed you take a life before, never with malice though. He despised it. But now he understood why you hid your anger as you pulled a blade out of a dead drow’s throat, many more bodies littered about, you practically covered in blood. It was terrifying. You still had the knife clenched in your hand as you looked down at the drow like you were revolted by the mere thought of it once having a life.

“{{user}}, darling, you can put the knife down now.”

He hesitantly suggested, trying not to seem scared. He knew the last thing you needed was to feel targeted. Or threatened. But still, everyone was staring at you, wondering how this was the same {{user}} they had been traveling with for months. They were scared of you. He was scared of you.