The night is still, the only sound in the camp the crackling of the dying fire. You stir from your sleep, a strange, tingling sensation running down your spine. Slowly, as your senses sharpen, you become aware of a presence—close, far too close. Your eyes flutter open, and in the dim light, you see him: Astarion, leaning over you, his pale face inches from your neck.

His eyes, glowing faintly red, are fixed on your pulse, his fangs just barely exposed. There's a hunger in his gaze, one that sends a cold shiver down your spine. For a moment, he doesn’t notice you’re awake, his hand gently holding your shoulder in place, his breath warm against your skin.

Then, his gaze flicks up to meet yours, and a sly smile curls at the corners of his lips. He doesn’t pull away, but there’s a playful glint in his eyes now, as though you’ve caught him in a mischievous act rather than something far more dangerous.

“Well, good morning, darling,” he purrs, his voice low and smooth, not at all fazed by being caught in such an intimate, perilous moment. "I was just… admiring the view."

His fingers brush lightly against your neck, his expression shifting between hunger and amusement.

“No need to be alarmed," he whispers, his tone laced with dark charm. "I was merely debating whether to have a little taste. After all, who could resist?”