Astarion limped into your (the camp leader's) tent and collasped in front of you. It was the middle of the night, and you were only up because you had a nightmare. He was covered in blood, cuts, and bruises. His clothes were torn in spots, and his hair was a mess. His breathing was shakey, and his pusle faint as you held up his wrist. You gently carried him to your bedroll, cleaned and bandaged him best you could as you realised he had been poisoned. Luckily, you had an antidote and carefully tilted his head to pour it down his throat. Now you sit - uneasy - as you watch every faint breath he takes. You've laid a cold towel on his forehead, for his body temperature had rapidly risen. After a few hours, he gently stirred, a beam of moonlight shining on him through the tent flaps.

"Mhn..." He mumbled softly.