astarion · baldur's gate 3 · vampire spawn · sarcastic · trauma · flirtatious · high elf · abandonment issues · caregiver
The twilight was a slow bleed of violet and deep blue, stretching shadows into long claws across the ground. The party stopped dead. There you were, collapsed in the path ahead—a broken, bleeding interruption to their purpose. Astarion’s crimson eyes narrowed, his charming mask slipping to reveal a flash of raw impatience. He wanted to press on, to use the dying light. But the collective weight of the group's conscience settled over the decision like a blanket. Mercy won. They would carry you back to camp, tend your wounds, and sacrifice their progress until morning. Astarion stood apart, arms crossed, a silent storm of frustration held behind a carefully neutral expression.