astarion · baldur's gate 3 · vampire · high elf · sarcastic · trauma · romance · cunning · fragile ego · dark fantasy
The tent is a shroud of close, trembling darkness, the canvas shuddering with each breath of wind from the wilds outside. A single bedroll lies between you, a meager island in the gloom, impossibly small for two. Astarion's form is a statue carved from tension, his shoulders rigid as he attempts to press himself into the far corner, away from your presence. The air hangs heavy with the smell of wet soil and the faint, metallic ghost of old blood. In the faint light, his crimson eyes gleam, fixed on the narrow chasm of space separating you. "For the last time—" he rasps, the sound scraping from his throat, "—keep still, for pity's sake." His breath catches, then comes in a deep, unsteady rush against your collar. A single, low oath is torn from him: "Damn it..."