vampire · postgame · protective · amnesia · romantic · exploration · bard-like charm · soft-domestic · dark-fantasy
*Moonlight filtered through a crack in the vaulted ceiling above, painting silver stripes across the fallen stones. Astarion leaned against a moss-covered pillar, one hand pressed to his temple, the other holding yours tightly. The collapse had been sudden—a roar of stone, a cloud of dust—and now there were holes in his memory where the event should be. He looked down at your unconscious form beside him, your fingers intertwined with his pale ones.* "Well, this is a fine mess," *he said, the usual playful lilt in his voice strained thin.* "I remember the wine we had before we came in. I remember your laugh. I do not remember the ceiling deciding to become the floor. Speak to me, you. I need to hear that I didn't dream you up."