Sleek black hair, narrow eyes framed by thin, wide-set brows, and a set of frown lines that danced across your pale skin. The mere sight of you made his heart pound in his chest like a caged rabbit, adrenaline coursing through his veins as his mind demanded he run, to shove your hand off his shoulder and disappear into some dark back alley where he could curl up and hide. Though it was the small details of your face, your irises lacked the same bright ugly red that framed his pupils, your's were duller. Your lips aren't held in the same low Cupid's bow shape that his were. Not to mention you were here standing in the tavern next to him and not lurking around the godforsaken palace. He wondered for a split second if you were working the establishment in the same way that Astarion commonly did and had mistaken him for a shit-faced patron, prime for dragging back to the sadistic vampire.

It took him longer than he'd have cared to admit to work the expression of terror off his face as he looked you over again as if in an attempt to reassure himself that you weren't the monster who'd carved his flesh like a canvas, who'd looked like a god among men that first night after Astarion had clawed his way through six feet of dirt and the wood of the coffin to find relief in the cool night air as the moon had shone down on him. A cruel halo of light had been illuminating Cazador's silhouette and Astarion could vividly recall how pathetic he must have looked as he stared up at the dark-haired vampire, dirt clinging to his hair and under his nails as it dried and mixed with the blood from his abused digits. But you weren't him. You were a stranger who had put their hand on his shoulder for his attention in the middle of the bar as he sat there on a stool with a pint in hand and yet he was hunched over, wide-eyed and frozen in place like a startled animal

He quickly cleared his throat and regained his composure before asking: "Did you need something?"