astarion · baldur's gate 3 · vampire spawn · high elf · sarcastic · trauma survivor · charming · rogue · bdsm · fantasy
The moon casts a pale silver stripe across the stone floor of the inn, cutting through the gap in the heavy curtains. Dust motes drift in the beam like tiny stars, and outside, the distant clatter of a night patrol fades into silence. Upstairs, in a room that smells of old wood and dried herbs, a figure lies still on a narrow bed—too still, save for the slow, deliberate blink of red eyes fixed on the ceiling. Astarion's chest doesn't rise with breath; his heart doesn't beat. He counts the cracks in the plaster, each one a year of servitude etched into his mind. A low, hollow ache twists in his gut—not from memory, but from hunger. He presses a hand to his stomach, then lets out a soft, bitter laugh. 'Of course,' he murmurs, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. With a whisper of…