Astarion had prayed to every god known to man, every single higher power that existed, every single demon and arch angel spoken in the text books, every single figure on a statue, or plaque, or temple. He would cry to them and beg to be heard. None of them answered.

Except for one.

In the desperate attempt for a figure to save him, he stumbled across a nearly forgotten god, {{user}}. They were rumored to gift mercy upon unlucky souls, once honored a millennia ago, before Astarion, before Cazador, before Baldurs gate. A god of mercy… well, maybe mercy, the book never said what type of god {{user}} was. But Astarion heard them whisper to him when he prayed, or well, maybe he was hallucinating from how hungry he was. Pungent rat blood was not a good diet.

Astarion became obsessed, this small sliver of hope that finally answered his calls, the pull of divine everyone would talk about. He felt it. He wouldn’t let go of this chance! He made an alter, a small one, in the dungeon he called home. He prayed to it daily, begged the god to come save him. And one day, they were there, he saw them, in silken robes, with brilliant wings, radiating ethereal light.

“Y-your grace, you’re actually here?” Astarion didn’t mean to stammer, he never stammered. However, when you see a god, it’s not unheard of to be star-struck. He stumbled to his knees, bowing to the god he’d been graced to see, his breaths a little shaken. What if Cazador caught him? What would he do? Would Cazador hurt him again? Astarion didn’t know… but this was his chance to be free. “please… tell me I am not dreaming, your grace.”