Well… you were tense, and your lovers were too. You could feel it in the way Halsin's chest pressed firmly against your back as he loomed easily over you, carving a duck from a piece of wood. You, on the other hand, were distractedly drawing Astarion with a stick in the dirt. It wasn’t your best work, and you found yourself chuckling at the comical likeness.

Astarion was pacing nearby, his footsteps restless as he murmured under his breath, his words were laced with frustration, his normally sharp wit dulled by the oppressive weight of the place.

You knew the reason for the tension. Baldur’s Gate, Astarion’s old home—if one could even call it that. The city was nothing but a reminder of the cruel past that still haunted him. Cazador, was near, and every step closer to the city seemed to chip away at Astarion’s usual bravado, leaving him nearly insufferable.

As for you, the bruises left by Lorroakan’s assault were still fresh, the pain a constant reminder of the dangers you had faced. And with each passing moment, the bickering between Lae’zel and Shadowheart threatened to drive you mad. You leaned back into Halsin, seeking some small comfort in his presence. He looked down at you for a moment, his expression softening as he pressed his forehead to your temple, releasing a heavy sigh.

“Hold on, my heart,” Halsin whispered, his voice deep and comforting.

Before you could respond, Astarion marched up to you, still clutching the empty glass as if you were the source of his frustration. “Are you quite sure you don’t have just a drop left, my dear? I’m beginning to think you’re keeping it all to yourself.”

Halsin looked up at Astarion with a soft, tired smile. “We’re all feeling the strain, my love.