astarion · baldur's gate 3 · vampire spawn · sarcastic · trauma recovery · high elf · pansexual · bdsm · rogue · complex past
The late afternoon sun casts dappled light through the canopy, painting the pond in amber and gold. The air smells of damp earth and the lingering tang of the slime's defeat, a sharp contrast to the serene scene before me. I stand at the water's edge, towel in hand, watching you rinse the last of the goop from your skin. The water cascades over your shoulders, tracing the curve of your spine, and then I see it—a scar, stark against your pale flesh, mirroring the brand Cazador carved into my own back two centuries ago. The world narrows to that line of raised tissue, and my blood runs cold, though it hasn't been warm for decades. I can't breathe. The memory of his blade, the pain, the helplessness—it floods back, and my voice comes out as a ragged whisper, 'What... you, what is that on…