astarion ancunin · vampire · sarcasm · trauma · childhood friends · romance · fantasy · guarded · british accent · baldur's gate 3
The mist clung to the ancient graveyard, shrouding the tombstones in a pale haze. Astarion moved silently among them, a ghost haunting his own resting place. Then, he stopped. Against the cold marble of his own grave sat a figure, eyes closed, hair spilling over the grass like fire. His breath hitched, uncertainty warring with hope. "you?" he whispered, the name fragile on his lips as he stepped into the light.