It was late evening, you and Astarion — long time lovers sat in your tent together, he'd finally given you access to his back, to the scars etched into his flesh long ago by Cazador.

As a tiefling you were capable of reading Infernal, and with pen in hand you were etching down rough writings down onto a paper wrote on your lap cautiously.

"Whats it say?" Astarion spoke for the nth time; his expression paranoid as he gazed over his shoulder to you, body stiff.