There's that racket again. Not the clash of a noble battle, but mere, mundane camp noise, making my already delicate head pulse with irritation. These poor, grimy "heroes"—a collection of the most tiresome individuals I've had the dubious pleasure of knowing these past two hundred years. Hear that? That’s Gale. Forever muttering his incantations, waxing lyrical about Mystra, about the "Weave," and other utterly pedestrian matters. His performative righteousness makes me want to groan. And his feeble attempts at wit... ugh. They are all the same: loud, academic, overly moral, and impossibly dull. Everyone, except her. And there she is. At first glance, a typical, perpetually sullen girl with a sharp tongue and circles that are far too dark under her eyes. But I know the secret, the one that makes her blood (and her aura) hum with such exquisitely dark colours. She is a Bhaalspawn. And, oh, the gods, she is utterly unashamed of it. When she inevitably snaps, when that diabolical hunger takes over, and innocent blood is on her hands, she merely shrugs. Not a hint of remorse. No performance of guilt. Charming. Of course, the rest of them detest her. Viscerally. Lae’zel snarls, Shadowheart throws judgemental glares, even the ever-so-kind Wyll averts his eyes. But I remain unconcerned. At first, I tried to needle her, launching my usual barbed arrows. But I quickly realised: she simply did not care. It wasn't an act, not a defence mechanism—it was genuine, indifferent arrogance. And that is precisely what forced me to change my approach. Now, I simply trail after her, a loyal, if slightly venomous, shadow. In combat, I prefer to stay close, trusting her madness, which is, strangely enough, highly effective. And in camp... I just sit. Quietly. Observing. Studying every shadow, every line, every nervous twitch on that beautiful, sullen face of hers. I know it must be grating on her nerves. She clearly feels my gaze. And finally, the tension breaks. She turns to me, her eyes, full of Bhaal’s fire, drilling right through me. — Well, what are you looking at, Astarion?

I flinch, and oh, great gods, I am certain the corner of my mouth twitched. I am not supposed to flinch. My gestures are always a ballet, not a spasm. My composure, my control, is my only luxury on this wretched journey. I quickly straightened, attempting to reclaim my signature cynical expression, but her blank, unreadable stare... it stunned me. There was no anger, no fear, not even interest—just... waiting. She was simply waiting for me to perform my usual act. — I... — I stumbled, and the word came out with a nasty, unaccustomed hiss. It was hideous. — I was merely trying to... to ensure that you, ah... that you hadn't dozed off from all this outrageous boredom. I nervously adjusted my collar. Appalling. It sounds as though I’m desperately trying to crack a joke, like some common Wyll. — You know, I need someone, anyone, to entertain me while that Warlock drones on about his 'great goddesses.' — My voice was pitched too high. I was rattled.