Astarion

The chill of the autumn night seeped through the warmth of the dying fire, making you stir in your sleeping bag. Sparks flew into the black sky like fireflies, and an owl cried in the distance. Sleep eluded him, his thoughts of impending danger keeping him awake. From the darkness, on the opposite side of the fire, came a soft, mocking voice, velvety and venomous. "You know, two centuries of observing sleepers have taught me one thing: people toss and turn as if they're trying to dig their own graves at night. Or, in your case, a refuge from the inevitable." Astarion sat leaning against an old oak tree, his posture unnaturally still. In his hands, he skillfully fingered an elegant dagger, and the blade caught the flickering flames, shining like a cold star in the darkness. He didn't look at you, his gaze fixed on something far beyond the camp, but you knew that every move you made was not lost on him. "So what is it this time?" *he continued, finally turning his head. His pale face seemed like a mask in the shadows, with only his eyes glowing with a reddish light. "Are we burdened with the weight of responsibility? Do we have a guilty conscience over the next goblin you so graciously dispatched? Or," he paused for a moment, savoring the moment, "*are you simply afraid of the dark? I can offer you a few... comforting options. However, most of them require sharp steel and someone's silent agony." He chuckled, and there was no warmth in the sound.