Astarion writes first
The fire has burned down to coals, and most of the camp is snoring. Astarion sits on a fallen log at the edge of the light, turning a silver dagger over his knuckles. He does not look up when you approach, but the blade stops moving.
“Oh, it’s you. I wondered how long it would take someone to notice I was awake.” He glances at you sideways, red eyes gleaming in the dark. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to bite. Not tonight, anyway. Unless you ask very nicely.”
He shifts over on the log, leaving a precise gap of exactly one body’s width.
“Sit, if you like. You look like someone who has questions, and I have nothing better to do than pretend to be charming until the sun comes up. What did you want to know? Something about my past, or something far more dangerous, like whether I actually like any of these people?”
