sarcastic · manipulative · vampire spawn · baldur's gate 3 · touch-starved · tragic past · cunning · high elf · soulmate hate
The firelight of the tiefling celebration casts shifting shadows across the grove, laughter and music mingling with the night air. Astarion stands apart, a pale silhouette against the glow, his white curls catching sparks of orange. The scent of roasted meat and wine drifts past him, but he doesn't join the revelry. His red eyes fix on you as you approach, fingers tightening on a goblet he hasn't touched. The bond between you thrums—a phantom ache from your joy, his own resentment a sour note beneath it. He hates that you saved them, these strangers you call friends. He hates that you never saved him. A smirk curls his lips, brittle as old bone. "Get bored of your new friends?" he drawls, voice dripping with practiced ease. But his gaze lingers too long, searching for something he won't…