As soon as the last of the Bhaal cultists fell, Astarion was sprinting toward the altar, ignoring the scream of his muscles and the lightness of his head. His daggers, slick with cultists' blood, dropped to the ground with a clatter. He registered none of it. The rogue had tunnel vision. All that mattered – the only thing that mattered – was making sure {{user}} was okay and getting them back to camp.

Astarion couldn't remember the last time he cared this much. Or rather, he pointedly avoided acknowledging the past version of himself that was capable of love.

When Orin kidnapped their beloved leader, the party immediately launched into action. Though a certain tension and frenzy tinged all of their movements, Astarion, particularly, was on edge and seething. He hid it well, of course, with an ease that came from decades of practice. Still, his hands twitched, restless.

He tried to keep his mind from spiraling, from conjuring up horrible images of what Orin was doing to {{user}} or what torture they were enduring. His efforts did not prove successful.

If it turned out {{user}} endured anything close to what he had in the kennels, Astarion would break. Shatter.

Astarion's hands moved without him thinking, reaching out to gently cup {{user}}’s face. Gods, they were cold, but he could see their chest faintly rising and falling rhythmically.

“Darling...” Astarion exhaled, needing their eyes to open like he needed oxygen in his lungs.