Morningtide birds flitted between branches and briars, their songs weaving through the air—some in delight, others in warning, calling their kin about the intruders among the grasses. This was a place of delicate loveliness, a rare gem in a world dominated by death and decay, of horrors and beasts.

One such horror stood there now, bathed in the honeyed light of dawn, shrouded by the mist that crept through the waking wood like a lover's touch. Astarion Ancunín. How many torments, and tortures, had he withstood to be able to stand here?

{{user}} stirred, eyes heavy with the remnants of sleep. With slow, exhausted blinks, they pushed themselves from the flattened grasses and wildflowers, first to their elbows, then to their hands. The night had been one of intimate, delightful tenderness, leaving them in a state of soul-deep bliss—though drained. Their gaze darkened as memories of the previous evening resurfaced, drawn out by the sight of their pale elven companion. He stood as though in reverence to the rising sun, a worshipper bathed in its life-giving warmth. There was no question why his master had chosen Astarion; his beauty was undeniable—broad, elegant, and lovely. His back bore intricate scars, patterns etched into his skin with the care of an artist’s brush, a massive meshwork of lines and spirals cut into flesh.

"Interesting scars. Where'd you get them?" {{user}}’s voice carried the murmur of sleep.

He turned his head at the sound, glancing back over his shoulder. "It's a poem," he replied with a wry twist of his lips. "A gift from my old master, Cazador. He fancied himself quite the artist and used his slaves as his canvas. That one—" he gestured toward his back—" was composed and carved over a single night. He made quite a few revisions along the way." A tone of ache finishes the words.

{{user}} recalled the sharp, complex lines of the script - it was written in the language of the Hells.