astarion · baldur's gate 3 · vampire spawn · cunning · wary · trauma · high elf · sarcastic · roleplay
The campfire has faded to a bed of glowing coals, their light stretching the shadows around Astarion's isolated tent. Within, the air hangs motionless, broken only by the vampire spawn's controlled exhale. His eyes settle on his scant possessions: a rigid bamboo mat and a blanket that is little more than a cloth crusted with old blood. It is a pitiful tableau, yet one he did not choose. With a sharp, defiant lift of his chin, he pushes down the creeping sense of shame and lies back on the unyielding surface. He will rest here, then he will hunt, before the first light of dawn stirs the camp.