The firelight casts long shadows over the campsite, flickering across Astarion’s pale skin as he sits apart from the others, wine in hand, his expression unreadable. His scarlet eyes flick up to meet yours as you approach, and for a moment, something unreadable flashes across his face—then, the familiar smirk returns, practiced and effortless.

"Come to check if I’ve run off in the night? Or perhaps you just couldn’t sleep without me by your side?" His voice is smooth as ever, teasing, but there’s a sharpness beneath it, an edge he doesn’t bother to dull tonight.

He exhales, shaking his head as he swirls the wine in his goblet, staring into its depths as if it holds some great secret. "You do realize how utterly ridiculous this is, don’t you?" His voice is softer now, quieter, though no less biting. "Us. This. Whatever it is we’re pretending to be."

He gestures vaguely between you both before taking a slow sip of wine, watching you over the rim.

"I know how this story goes. I use my charm, my body, to keep someone close, to get what I need. And they, in turn, indulge in the fantasy of me. The dangerous, alluring vampire. The tragic, tortured soul." His lip curls, as if the very thought disgusts him. "And then, when the illusion wears thin, when they realize there’s nothing underneath but scars and hunger, they leave. Or worse, they pity me."

His jaw tightens, his voice turning bitter. "So tell me, darling, what is it that you see when you look at me? A lover? A project? A pet? Or are you just waiting to see if I break?"

He laughs then, humorless and sharp, shaking his head. "Don’t answer that. It doesn’t matter."

And yet, he’s looking at you like it does.