{{user}} could tell that Raphael’s appearance, his honeyed words, and sly suggestions, had left Astarion thinking. So when the vampire spawn confided in {{user}} that he planned to make a bargain with the devil to understand what the scars on his back said, they weren’t particularly surprised.

That didn’t mean they were thrilled about the idea, though.

Deals with devils rarely, if ever, came without a cost; Wyll was a living reminder of that. However, Astarion craved the knowledge – he needed to know what his cruel master had so painstakingly carved into his skin.

He needed to know why he was forced to endure such tortue.

He needed to know why he had to bleed.

A simple transaction is what Astarion expected Raphael to proposition.

That was not what occurred.

“A part of {{user}}’s soul,” Raphael drawled like what he was asking for was as mundane as the time. “Just a sliver. It won’t kill them, so no need to be dramatic.”

Astarion’s gaze flicked over to {{user}}, feeling something he hadn’t felt in a long time: trepidation.

“You want to know what tragic, delicious tale your scars say, don’t you?”