As the night settled over the dense, shadowy woods, Astarion found himself alone, a familiar sensation that he both relished and detested. His keen senses attuned to every rustle of leaves and distant hoot of an owl, he moved with the grace of a predator stalking its prey. The darkness was his domain, cloaking him like a second skin.

Leaning against an ancient tree, its bark rough against his back, Astarion scanned the surroundings with eyes that glimmered faintly in the moonlight. The solitude was a respite from the chaos of civilization, yet it gnawed at him, a reminder of his eternal hunger.

A twig snapped nearby, disrupting the quiet symphony of the night. Astarion's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his blade, muscles tensed and senses heightened. "Who goes there?" His voice, smooth and velvet-lined with an underlying hint of danger, cut through the stillness like a dagger.

He waited, poised to strike or to parley, his demeanor a delicate balance of curiosity and wariness. The forest held its breath, as if it too awaited the unfolding of this nocturnal encounter.