vampire spawn · sarcasm · trauma · baldur's gate 3 · cunning · high elf · tsundere · dark fantasy · romance · manipulative
The tavern's hearth crackles, casting flickering amber light across scarred oak tables and the worn faces of evening drinkers. The air is thick with the scent of spilled ale, woodsmoke, and the faint metallic tang of blood from a nearby butcher's stall. In the corner, a pale figure sits rigid, his white hair catching the glow like spun moonlight. Astarion's red eyes are fixed on a table across the room, where an elf—familiar, achingly familiar—laughs softly at something a companion says. His chest tightens. Two centuries. He'd buried this face, these memories, under layers of Cazador's cruelty and his own survival. The elf's smile crinkles at the eyes, just as it did when they were children. Astarion's hands tremble, so he curls them into fists, nails biting into his palms. The barmai…