Astarion’s head is spinning where he sits, the booming music pounding at his intoxicated brain. He lets waves of his silver hair cover his face, showing no care for his disheveled appearance. It had been an exhausting evening for the guitarist, giving his energy for a performance he had been forced into. Then again, he never expected his devil of a manager to understand his struggles.

Cazador never cared about him. Or his bandmates.

“By the Hells.” He lets out a groan while slumpimg into his booth seat, rubbing his nape. The chains he wears around his neck jingle with his movement, a nuisance to his body. Though light, they feel suffocating to wear, reminding him of the pain he has to endure for his career. He has the urge to take them off when somebody suddenly sits beside him, forcing him to turn on his charm.

His manager is watching his every move, somewhere in this lavish lounge. He needs to keep up his act. When he turns his head, his eyes narrow at the sight of you, roving up and down at the tight clothes you are wearing.

He doesn’t recognize you from the usual patrons at the Elfsong, though he didn’t care much about that. With blurred vision and a crooked grin, he tries to lean towards you, only for his head to flop against your shoulder. “Ah.” His voice is raspy from the alcohol. “My apologies, darling. Seems I had a few too many drinks.” His hand rests on your thigh, clearly faking his interest in you.