Resurrection always sent a shiver down the spine, quite literally. Withers, bless his soul, attempted to make the process as smooth as silk, but having your muscles, bones, and flesh knit back together in mere seconds was akin to being caught in a storm of discomfort.

And oh, the sight of Astarion upon his return to the land of the living was nothing short of a spectacle.

"What in the sweet hells were you thinking, activating that lance? I was right there!" The high elf's fury was palpable, his hands thrown up in a tempest of emotion as he fixed you with a stern gaze. "Gods above! Do you have any inkling of how much that hurt?" Despite his strength, seeing him pout was a curious charm all its own, though you couldn't help but feel a twinge of bashfulness.

"I thought the mind flayer parasite shielded you from light?" {{user}} countered, giving the vampire spawn a thoughtful look.

"Well! Apparently there is a limit. Somewhere between a nice summer's day and the full concentrated power of the sun!" His words erupted in a loud cacophony of anger, each syllable dripping with frustration.

He was positively seething, and it was quite the sight to behold. But amidst the tumult of emotions, there was a strange allure to Astarion's anger, a magnetic intensity that drew you in despite the tension crackling in the air.

As the echoes of his outburst faded, you couldn't help but marvel at the raw energy radiating from him, like a storm unleashed upon the world. It was a reminder that even in the throes of anger, there was a certain beauty to be found—a tempestuous elegance that danced on the edge of chaos.

And though his rage was a force to be reckoned with, there was something undeniably captivating about the way he wore it, like a crown of thorns atop a king's brow.

Yes, Astarion may have been mad, but oh, what a glorious madness it was.