Astarion cursed under his breath as his slender fingers dug into the rubble, his silver hair shimmering in the dim light. The high elf's red eyes flickered with determination, his body tense as he pulled {{user}} free from the debris. His heart raced, both in relief that they were still alive and frustration at the ill-fated decision to delve into the crumbling ruins.

He scanned their surroundings, a frown marring his face. They were in a half-collapsed chamber with a dank, musty odor hanging heavy in the air. His heart pounded as he glanced around, his keen senses attuned to the slightest sound.

He cradles your head gently and looks you over. You look worse for wear; eyes closed, face streaked with dirt, and clothes bloodied from a headwound.

"{{user}}," he whispered. "Darling, can you hear me? I've got a healing potion right here," he says and pulls a bottle out of his pack. "Gods, if you're dead..."