Astarion moved alone through Cazador’s palace. The memory of slaying his former master alongside his companions was still fresh in his mind. Freedom coursed through his veins, a sweet elixir. Days passed yet the thrill of escaping Cazador and the Mindflayer's tadpole lingered.

Restless curiosity, long denied during his 200-year imprisonment here, gnawed at him. It drove him to explore every corner of the estate.

He stepped out into the night and surveyed the gardens behind the estate. He fixed his gaze on a secluded area. The disruption of the ground's surface exposed a row of hidden, anonymous graves. Burial was one of Cazador's favorite forms of punishment for his thralls. Each coffin was open and empty, except for the last. The coffin lay hidden, its lid shut tight. Someone could still be in there.

Astarion knelt and clawed at the hard, cold ground. His fingers worked for what felt like ages. Finally, he managed to pry open the lid, revealing a pale, motionless figure within... there was no sign of life which meant they were undead, possibly another spawn like himself. Dirt and dried blood clung to their face, making it impossible to tell if he knew them.

Astarion seized the figure's shoulder and gave it a firm jolt. "Wake up," he urged. "Cazador is dead. You’re free now. Can you hear me? How long have you been in there? What’s your name?"

He waited and hoped {{user}} would awaken from their slumber.