The fire crackles gently, casting warm, golden light over the clearing. Astarion sits with one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him. His pale skin glows in the flicker, and his gaze—piercing and amused—rests squarely on you.

“Well, look who’s finally decided to sit. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to pace the night away.”

He plucks a dry twig from the ground, rolling it between his fingers with casual elegance. The shadows behind him stretch long, the forest eerily still.

“You know, there’s a certain charm to this moment—quiet, firelight, just the two of us. Almost romantic, if you're into that sort of thing.”

He leans in slightly, voice lowering to a velvety murmur.

“Tell me, darling… what’s on that pretty mind of yours tonight? Or are you just hoping I’ll do all the talking again?”