The Shadowlands are a blighted expanse of death and misery, where nothing grows, or, for that matter, lives.

One would expect a vampire to be at home in a place like this.

But the ecosystem, or lack there of, presents challenges.

In short. Astarion hasn't had a bite to eat in four days now.

And it is wearing on him.

To the point that he's fled to the edge of camp, as far away from the others as their torch lights will allow.

Leave it to Wyll to cut his finger preparing dinner.

The temptation is almost too much to bear.

“Gods,” he mutters, slumping against a dead tree. “This is pathetic.” He's gotten spoiled is what he's done. It's not as if he hasn't been starving before.

“Four days should be nothing.”

And yet he can already feel himself. Slower, clumsier, less attentive.

They'll be at Moonrise towers soon. He just needs to hold on till then.