Hallo :D My name is Nebula! I’m an artist returning to his craft and beginning to publish my fics! For now I’ll be focusing on Baldur’s Gate 3, so stay tuned! 18+ blog • He/They • Wyllachstarion Enjoyer Asks: Open || Requests: Open
Hello ٩(•͈ ꇴ •͈)و ̑̑❀ I'm Nebula! Welcome to my writing blog! I'm a US college admin who decided to start publishing his writing after he was struck with Inspiration that just couldn't be tamed. After years of not writing a single word, I found the reignited passion to write after playing the game of a lifetime: Baldur's Gate III. Now, I hope to share my story with those who wish to read it, and make some new connections, if I can.
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˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Current Number of Requests: 2
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Baldur's Herald presents an exclusive interview with Stephen Rooney, the writer behind Astarion from Baldur's Gate 3.In this video, we talke
Interview with Astarion's lead writer Stephen Rooney.
Full Transkript:
Baldur's Herald: Two first questions to warm up. We heard that you left Larian to write a novel. Is that true?
Rooney: No, I did not. I did not leave to write a novel, unfortunately. Although the novel has been written which I'm sure we will get to. But no, unfortunately I didn't get to do that.
Baldur's Herald: Thank you. This is still very interesting. So, the second question to warm up is, are you a vampire?
Rooney: Oh, I'm not technically a vampire, although there's a lot of similar kind of things. I'm very pale. I spend a lot of time just wandering around at night, rarely seen during the daylight hours. So, vampire does fit me very well, I think, kind of as a category. I would probably also accept ghoul or occasionally werewolf, although I don't know if I'm hairy enough.
Baldur's Herald: So technically this is the interview with the vampire.
Rooney: Yeah,[laughter] technically this is an interview with a Vampire.
Baldur's Herald: So the first serious question. Stephen, you earn quite a reputation as a skeleton and vampire specialist. Both ( Astarion and Fane) are very charismatic, interesting, deep characters. Uh and they both happen to be undead. What is about an undead thing? What compels you? Eternal life? Or from the other sides, that they're like rotting.
Rooney: Yeah, there's maybe a fear of death, maybe my rotting, but there is something very interesting about undead characters and each kind of undead comes with its own different challenges. They're often outside of society. They are unusual. They are often out of time and out of place. Like if you have a zombie who comes back after a hundred years or something and doesn't understand the world. And I feel like there's a lot of things that like neurodegivergent people, people who are not quite normal, can relate to with those kinds of characters. And I always find it very interesting to dig into characters who are other or weird or just a bit outside of normal society.
Baldur's Herald: [Singing] You're out of touch. I'm out of time, but I'm out of my hands.
Rooney: [Laughing] Exactly that. Yeah.
Baldur's Herald: And one more question about your writing process. Many actors rely on different frameworks or methods developing characters, while others prefer intuition. What's your kind of writing? How do you write?
Rooney: Uhm, by instinct a lot of the time. I don't have a very good structure or plan when I sit down to write characters or when I sit down to develop characters. Normally, I will have an interesting idea for a character or I'll have just an idea that I would like to explore, and I try to sit down and just write a conversation with that character. with as little thinking as possible because I find when I start thinking about something I think way too much and I just get stuck and I get in my own way. So the best thing you…
Baldur’s Herald: Oh, I understand you on so many levels that I resonate with you. Very very kind. So another question about Astarion. You told in your recent interview that he's a more human type of character. He's not like undead, like a predator. He's not an awful creature from the night and he's not like soulless. He's humane. But no, humanity seems to be a part of your writing a lot. Is it true?
Rooney: Yes. Well, I mean with Astarion, it was very important that he wasn't a monster, that he is still human, still like uh, still capable of love, still capable of vulnerability. But as vampires they are often very human undead compared to say zombies. They're very very charming, they can integrate into society more easily than others. I think finding the human core of any character is very important, because otherwise they feel like a cardboard cutout that you wave around to make a joke or to have a villain or something like that. But it's only when the character starts to react to things like a person would like, feelings and emotions and weaknesses and flaws, that you get characters that are relatable. You get characters that are interesting. So I think that's why humans and the humanity of a character is so important to me. And more so I write the same way I generally peel with a character. I don't write flat characters. I rather write characters that would be not just compelling for someone else but for me as well. And more so I don't write myself into the character but I write something that I can connect with.
Baldur’s Herald: So it's a borderline never self insert.
Rooney: Yes, it's only when I think I look back on characters like I never try to put myself into the character, but I always inevitably do a bit. It's only afterwards when I look at the character I can be like, ah okay this thing is what I brought to Fane, this kind of nervousness and standoffishness. And with Astarion, there is some righteous anger at a sense of being wronged and I'm like, I know where that comes from, that's me.
Baldur’s Herald: When you were working on Astarion, were you inspired by existing Forgotten Realms characters? for example Strahd, the elven vampire protagonist of Christy's Golden's novel, Vampire of the Mists, or others maybe?
Rooney: No, I tried to avoid other characters that existed because I was worried I would just start imitating those characters. Like Strahd was one who was very on my radar. As I had friends who are running a curse of Strahd campaign at the time. So, he is a very traditional kind of vampire lord, very Dracula kind of like, and I just wanted to make sure that Astarion felt different from other vampire characters in the world and that if I ended up touching on the same themes or on the same ideas, it was just the natural thing to come up for a story instead of this is something that all vampires in the forgotten realms kind of go through or suffer.I mean
Baldur’s Herald: I do remember that in one of the quotes that Astarion said - I think if you poke him too much- he says Strahd wouldn't put up with this shit.
Rooney: Yes, that was the one he does mention them.That's the one place I was like, "Okay, I'm going to indulge myself and put a silly little joke in here about Strahd. It made me very happy. It still makes me happy to this day.
Baldur’s Herald: [Laughter] it was adorable. He is adorable.
Rooney: Yeah, but I mean, Neil Newbon is responsible for so much of that. For how adorable and how likable Astarion is. Neil brings a wonderful kind of energy to a Astarion when he's recording the lines
Baldur’s Herald: Maybe he said a few lines himself, or, like wrote them himself a few times? Do you know?
Rooney: Uh no, there were a couple of times where he would slightly tweak a line maybe. but because of the technical process that we had, where I write the line, it goes into the game, he gets the line, he has to record it. If it gives me a different line back, then I have to go back into the game and change it. And that was a little bit awkward. It was something we could do a couple of times but we tried to avoid it as much as we could because it was technically difficult.
Baldur’s Herald: In Baldur's Gate 3 is a growing theme of the influence of dark forces on characters and their subsequent choice of whether to succumb or resist the influence. However, Astarion's story stands out in the climax of his arc. It affects not only him but also his partner if you decide to romance him. If he ascends and you want the romance to continue, the player must also make a choice and become his spawn. Do you think ascend Astarion cannot continue the relationship with the player character without turning them into a spawn?
Rooney: Ascended Astarion is very difficult because he has fundamentally made a choice.
if Astarion chooses to ascend, he has made a selfish choice. He has made a very evil choice and he has decided to continue a lot of the darker themes that are kind of his backstory and in his own story. And so I think it is difficult to imagine having a very healthy and equal relationship on that path. I do not love that path myself. If I was playing the game, I would not choose that. But when I was writing that, I was thinking a lot about partners in toxic relationships and in bad relationships and how the power is very rarely balanced. And I think that is why you end up with him in an imbalanced relationship where he needs to be in charge and you need to be somewhere down there.
Baldur’s Herald: So their relationship with ascended Astarion is pretty much inherently toxic or could he love Tav?
Rooney: I think he thinks that he loves them.
And this is difficult, because what I think when I write the character, is not the same thing as what the player thinks when they are playing the game. And what the player thinks when they are playing the game, is just as valid. Like once I have written and it goes out into the world, my opinion does not matter that much anymore. It is very much kind of if people feel they are able to have a healthy relationship with Astarion if he ascends. I am fine with that. That is okay. Everyone can have their own ideas and their own takes on the game, their own interpretation. just because it is not what I choose means that it is never going to be a bad idea for anyone else to choose that.
Baldur’s Herald: The other question is about the relationship dynamics you had in mind when you wrote. The relationship between Tav and ascended Astarion and how it relates, or maybe, how it's different with spawn ending?
Rooney: Astarion’s backstory is all about relationship and power dynamics that are unequal as I say. So if, and I always see the path with spawn Astarion, as a choice that Astarion makes to break the cycle to choose to have a better relationship with people, a healthier relationship and to not continue kind of what he has been doing before.
The path with ascended Astarion is very much the opposite of that. It is Astarion looking at all the unhealthy relationships he's had in the past and being like ‘I want to be the person on top. I want to be in charge. I want to have the power and then that way I make sure that no one else can ever hurt me again’. which is a choice that a lot of a lot of people make in real life as well. It's not an inherently bad or evil choice, but it's not the one I would want for my relationships, I think.
Baldur’s Herald: So, basically the continuation of the cycle of violence.
Rooney: Yes. Exactly.
Baldur’s Herald: So, one more question about ascended Astarion. The last one about him. A lot of people see the ritual of the dark kiss when he creates you. so you are not just a spawn, but you are his bride. It's from the Ravenloft setting. Is it true or it's this a fun theory that is something not related to the game?
Rooney: The dark kiss thing. Uhm, It was something, I think, that was there in a conversation that we were having, but it wasn't something I was particularly thinking of at the time.
So uhm, there was another writer that did some writing on those scenes and then I kind of came in, because I was away for a while, and I came in and like rewrote stuff as best as I could. So that was more collaborative. I can't say 100% if that was on their mind or not, but um it is not a direct one to one thing we had.
Baldur’s Herald: So in your recent interviews you told that you developed another ending that didn't get into the game where he cured himself from vampirism using the book of necromancy. Is it true and tell me more please about that, because it's so interesting actually.
Rooney: Oh, this was an idea very early on that I had for Astarion that I would have liked to maybe try and bring through the game, but it didn't work out. And I think it's better that it's not there. But the idea was basically that the necromancy of the book that you get would maybe like unlock a wish spell and then Astarion could use that wish to become mortal or to become kind of to not be a vampire spawn anymore, anyway to try and reclaim his soul a little bit more.
Baldur’s Herald: Uhm, is it his real desire?
Rooney: I don't think so. I don't think it is what he would want.
Having kind of gone the whole way through the game, this was in the very very early days where I didn't understand the character myself very well. I was still figuring him out. Um, but I I think I had the idea that it is kind of a trope with vampires that they want their mortality back or they want their souls back. They don't want to suffer from the hunger. They don't want to suffer from uh being creatures of the night. They want to be able to walk in the sun again. Uhm, but I think if we had gone with that ending, it would have been too happy of an ending kind of in some ways. And like you say, I don't think that is what Astarion is searching for the whole way through the game. So, it doesn't make sense for the story to build on that. So no, but I was very happy with the endings that we did get, that I did end up kind of writing.
Baldur’s Herald: A lot of my friends were like: ‘oh no he will be a vampire forever.’
Rooney: possibly, possibly someday. But I think I like the ending of him still being a vampire spawn and losing his ability to walk in the sun and going back to the person that he was, kind of physically - going back to the person that he was with the restraints that he has all the normal vampire spawn stuff - but personally he has developed so much, he has come so far, he is not the same person even though it feels like he is going back a little bit, but he does not go back…..
Baldur’s Herald: No, no, no, I don't think he goes back.
Rooney: for example… he loses that freedom, but personally he has developed a lot more. So I don't know, I think there is something very bittersweet about that. About actually achieving so much but also feeling like you lose. Because he wins the battle but he also loses some of his freedom. I like that, [Laughter] maybe I'm just a terrible person and I like making my characters suffer.
Baldur’S Herald: I wanted to ask that last question about Vampires the Masquerade because I feel like you've recently mentioned that you played quite a few of it.
Rooney: Yes.
Baldur's Herald: It felt like Astarion is a lot of resemblance to Vampire the Masquerade and they don't usually, almost never, become human again. They can keep humanity but they won't become a human being again. So, about Vampire the Masquerade, what's your favorite clan? [laughter]
Rooney: Oh, no. The last time I played a campaign, I played Nosferatu and just enjoyed being someone that is quite an outsider like this horrible little twisted. So, Noseratu are very traditionally ugly, you know, like in the film of the same name, very kind of ugly vampires. I think they tend to live in sewers and stuff like that or just away from people. Um, and I enjoyed that a lot. I like being a weird little freak, I think when I get to roleplay. Just being someone who is strange and makes everybody else uncomfortable. That was a good time for me.
Baldur’s Herald: And which clan do you think Astarion would be in? because me and Olga did kind of argue about it because I think he's very very close to Toreador, because they are more of a human or they still have more of humanity and more of the theatrical feel to them. but since he's very close to magic and devils maybe Tremere or even Salubri?
Rooney: That's such a good question. I think you are right that he has traits that could slot him into many of the different kind of clans. Uhm, I like to think by the end of the game he is probably more human and I struggle to remember which it's the… Isn't there a clan that is traditionally very beautiful? Kind of the Toreador? Yes. I couldn't quite remember if that was the same, given how vain Astarion is, I think that is the clan he would want to belong to. It would be [laughter] very important to him that he is like, "Oh, I'm obviously in the most beautiful clan." so I think that would be his preference. But as you say, he has a lot going on. He could easily fit in many different categories.
Baldur’s Herald: Thank you, That is it.
Rooney: Thank you so much for having me and to the whole community. It is wonderful that the game is still getting so much love kind of a couple of years after being released and that people are reaching out. I want to share how much i've enjoyed it. So it's thank you very much. This means a lot.
Baldur’s Herald: And we’re very interested in your next works. We will be looking forward to it because I mentioned, you have a wonderful writing style. I always sketch it and I see your writing style in a book and like this is Steven Rooney. His flowy language. I love it.
Rooney: I hope someday I will get around to a novel. That will be great. I will surely let you know when it happens. But thank you.
Baldur’s Herald: Yes, wonderful. Thank you so much. folks. Bye-bye.
When do you think Astarion would be comfortable falling asleep next to romanced Tav just sleeping and feeling safe no sex
Title: In Your Eyes.
Pairing: Astarion x Reader (Tav), Astarion x Tav/Reader.
Word Count: 4.7k
Tags/TW: Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Reader POV, Shadow-Cursed Lands setting, Protective Reader/Tav, Soft Astarion, Astarion Has Trauma, Astarion is Bad at Feelings, Astarion Being Astarion, Emotional Confessions, Identity Issues, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Kissing, Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, Light Humor, Teasing, Canon-Typical Violence.
Summary: The ask already says it all, so in short: Astarion has his issues, as always, and can be rather prickly about them. As always! Even so, since he’s not very good at understanding himself, he ends up—through his somewhat inappropriate behavior—expecting the reader, with their saint-like patience, to untangle the mess and give him the answers he can’t quite grasp.
From there, the intimacy grows until, almost by chance, he receives an unexpected gift—one that makes him even more vulnerable. Naturally, far more than he’s willing to accept.
That doesn’t mean he isn’t truly happy about it. <3
Notes: More notes at the end! xP
You turn the pages of your journal carefully, with a certain delicate attention, letting your eyes caress the ink carved into it. Notes from your journey, from your race against time and against the shadow of the Absolute.
Your gaze lingers on the key words you wrote only moments earlier, circled with unmistakable urgency.
The Nightsong.
A name, a clue — something that might pierce Thorm’s invulnerability and give you the chance to end this darkness. You don’t know what it is, nor where it might be, but you know you have to find out, and soon.
You sigh — no, hiss, when the shallow wound at your side pulls and stings, a blend of pain and impatience fitting to the moment. You shift under the blankets of your bedroll, but your thoughts do not settle.
The night is deep, perhaps you should close your eyes and rest, but your hand starts to move again, searching the blank space of the page.
The Nightsong.
The name echoes inside your skull, and graphite meets the rough surface of the paper.
It draws lines — shapes. First eyes, sharp and piercing.
Then a pointed beak.
Finally feathers, rendered with such detail that the owl staring back at you from the journal feels unnervingly alive.
You sigh again.
Maybe it’s a nocturnal bird — assuming any such creature survived the Shadow-Cursed Lands.
You let your head fall between the pages, and the smell of graphite and ink fills your lungs, strangely comforting.
Better this than the omnipresent scent of rot that lingers over these lands — a constant reminder of every living being’s eventual end.
A rustle.
A gust of cold air brushes your uncovered arms like the sting of winter.
You shiver.
Your head snaps up — gaze drawn immediately toward the sound.
The tent flaps hang open.
And there he stands.
Astarion, carved in shadow like polished alabaster, motionless in the entrance.
You hadn’t expected him.
Not at this hour.
Not after the way your last conversation ended.
For a moment, you both stay frozen like that — a silent painting.
Then he tilts to one side, a hand sliding to his hip, head canting with theatrical annoyance. You’d swear you even catch the upward flick of his eyes, exasperated in that dramatic way only he can manage.
“Of course you were awake! Foolish of me — I keep forgetting that putting yourself in danger is practically your specialty. Paper cuts too, you know. I’m quite sure you could slit your own throat with a sheet of parchment if you tried. Surprised you haven’t already.”
Your eyes spark in return, widening slightly, fixed on him and on the languid line of his posture.
After what he’d told you following the last battle, you let yourself believe — foolishly — that maybe he’d come to apologize.
But no. That tongue is sharp… and venomous.
And the fact that you love it only irritates you more.
“Still angry, I see,” you remark.
He huffs, tipping his head the other way. The line of his pale throat seems almost luminous under the faint light of the lanterns outside.
“Angry? Whatever for?”
He looks at you intently, and a sly, taunting gleam slides into his gaze.
“Darling, if I were angry, you’d know. I wouldn’t have walked away from such an easy and delicious target.”
You arch a brow, fingers still tight around your travel journal — the owl you sketched on the page staring up like a silent witness.
The truth is, he did walk away.
When that arrow tore past you during the shadow ambush, grazing your flank and spilling blood, Astarion shouted at you — furious — and left you where you fell.
For a moment, you almost hear his voice again — tearing through blood and steel like a blade:
“Do you want to die? You’re working damn hard at it, my love.
Fine — whatever.
You always do as you please anyway.”
You sink your teeth lightly into your lower lip, weighing your options.
Anyone else would’ve hurled their travel journal right at his head and maybe even thrown him out altogether, after such insolence — after what happened.
After he’d claimed he wanted something real with you only a few nights ago.
But you’re starting to learn him.
His little nuances — the sleight-of-hand tricks in his voice, the micro-expressions, the faintest shifts in tone.
Everything implied rather than spoken outright, even when he seems distant.
Or irreverent.
You sigh.
This time, it’s his eyebrow that arches.
His pupils grow almost sharp as they carefully follow your every movement. You sit down, cross your legs, and rest your travel journal on them with the graphite tucked inside. You extend your arm beside you; and you have to hold back a little smile, because he still doesn’t understand and you can only imagine the scenarios running through his mind.
At last you reach your fingers toward the space you made beside you and, after brushing it lightly, you give it a couple of firm taps with your open palm in a silent invitation. Astarion blinks.
“What?”
When he wants to be, he can be truly stubborn, you think. You shake your head slightly and let that small, almost resigned smile spread across your face.
“You’re telling me you came all the way here in the middle of the night just to check whether I was sleeping?”
“The scent of your blood is a constant temptation, darling. It keeps me from resting. I could tell you I simply followed its trail, and that I’m not the only predator around these parts. And now you’re inviting me to sit? You really do enjoy risk.”
“Maybe I simply enjoy your company,” you reply candidly.
With a simplicity that seems to strike him with surprising force, almost like a slap, leaving him stunned for a moment. Worse — leaving him speechless. And consequently defenseless. The fact that something so simple as an expression of appreciation could reduce him to this state suddenly feels… oddly tender to you.
But perhaps it’s the sincerity with which you said it that truly caught him off guard.
For a moment Astarion shifts awkwardly where he stands. He looks away, wets his lips, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He no longer looks like the condescending vampire who appeared at the entrance of your tent with his usual savoir-faire, ready to criticize you — nor the furious rogue from that afternoon who shouted at you.
Now he is simply Astarion.
You add nothing more — certainly not that you trust him, or that you would invite him to sit beside you regardless, even if he were starving. You don’t want to scare him off, after all. Making him feel too vulnerable might have the exact opposite effect of what you hope for.
So you simply tap the ground beside you twice more.
There’s something else you need to tell him, something more important right now.
This time Astarion rolls his eyes and indulges you, joining you on the bedroll as instructed — as though he were doing you a favor, of course.
You allow yourself a soft, amused huff as you watch him settle down with that fluid grace that makes him both beautiful to look at and deadly in the shadows.
You watch him out of the corner of your eye for a few moments. He doesn’t look at you. His fingers are idly toying with the edge of his doublet; and if you linger on the sharp lines of his face, you can just make out the pale skin of his cheeks pulling slightly under the faint light brushing over them. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek.
This time too, you decide there’s no point dancing around it. Direct and simple. He needs that. So do you.
“I’m sorry,” you say.
Astarion goes still. Caught off guard again. Speechless again. The bit of fabric he’d been tormenting slips from his fingers and falls still. You’re not sure he’s grasped the full weight of what’s happening—of what he’s feeling, and why. But he’s trying to figure it out, otherwise he wouldn’t be here. You appreciate that, even if he shouted at you that afternoon. You knew it wouldn’t be easy the moment you told him you cared about him.
And then those crimson eyes lift, cautiously, almost wearily, to meet yours. They watch you from beneath silver lashes. An uncertain smile curves his lips as he studies you.
“For what, exactly? It’s not your fault your blood smells delicious. Or perhaps it is. Yes, entirely your fault.”
The tone is light, but he’s testing the ground. Looking for clues—you can read it in those sharp irises. He’s searching your words for confirmation, because saying it first would be too difficult, too frightening. Too risky. But if you say it—if you make it explicit—he can still pretend it isn’t true, contradict you, retreat behind sarcasm. A shield he needs, you realize.
So you play along, and you correct yourself.
“For making you worry, Astarion,” you say plainly, so that he can see it too, give a name to what he’s feeling. “I’m truly sorry.”
His little laugh snaps against your ears, dismissive.
You expected that.
So you don’t react to the provocation—you simply give him the time he needs to process your apology. To let it settle into what happened, and into how he reacted.
Silence settles over you like a blanket, stretching into moments that feel far longer than they are. It’s soft, almost reassuring. You’re not surprised when the amusement on Astarion’s face fades as quickly as it came, and the vampire spawn shakes his head.
“I don’t—” He pauses. “This is ridiculous. You were only bleeding a little. A completely negligible amount. Even for a vampire… and I was the picture of grace and control. Perfectly composed.”
You keep waiting.
You’re there—that’s enough.
His words don’t hold, and he knows it too. He doesn’t add anything else. He waits as well. Perhaps gathering the courage. He shifts slightly, wets his lips.
Only then do you move.
Slowly, you let your hand slip into his. You brush your fingers against his, with a gentleness that asks for nothing in return. A light touch. A steady point in the middle of a storm. Something real, as he once called it.
Astarion startles faintly—but he doesn’t pull away.
He exhales.
And then, at last, he closes his hand around yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Just like the night he confessed.
“I…” he begins, but hesitates, as if the words struggle to take shape—more in his mind than on his tongue. “I thought I’d lost you. For a moment, I…”
He frowns slightly, annoyed with himself.
“It wasn’t anger,” he admits. “I saw you on the ground… and I—”
Fear, you think. Afraid of losing you just after he found you.
There’s no need to say it out loud. It’s clear now. To both of you.
Your thumb moves instinctively, brushing over the smooth skin of his hand, sliding slowly from top to bottom in a quiet, repetitive motion.
“I’m here,” you say.
No grand promise—just a concrete reality.
You shift slightly, your travel journal tilting between your legs before slipping down. You lean your shoulder against his. A small, warm pressure—living, real—against him.
“I’m here,” you repeat.
And you want him to feel it, not just hear it.
You tilt your head to the side and find shelter in the hollow of his neck. The scent of bergamot—and of him—fills your lungs. His pale curls brush against your forehead, soft and ticklish.
For a moment, you are exactly where you’re meant to be. Where you want to be.
Home, you think.
And you hope it feels the same for him. At least a little.
His fingers shift faintly against yours, restless, as if your words had found something inside him—a place he didn’t know was there.
“Mm,” he murmurs after a moment, tilting his head just enough to rest lightly against yours.
An intimate touch.
And yet… something pure.
For a while, neither of you moves.
You remain like that, curled against each other, holding between your bodies—where they touch—whatever it is that exists between you. Whatever it is, as he would say. Even if you already have a clearer idea.
The corners of your lips curl upward at the thought, and you feel a warmth that seems almost impossible. Not on your skin, where the Shadow-Cursed Lands can still reach you with cold, clawing drafts—but inside you.
And suddenly, only that moment seems to exist. Only the inside of the tent. Just the two of you, and the faint light brushing softly against you. Everything beyond fades into the distance, almost irrelevant.
Even the uncertainty of tomorrow.
The shadows cannot touch you now.
Then Astarion shifts—but he doesn’t break the moment.
At first, it’s just a small adjustment. His lips and the tip of his nose linger against your hair in something that isn’t quite a kiss yet. Then comes a slight withdrawal, his hand slipping free from yours—but it’s not a retreat.
Slowly, he leans to one side and then slides down, fluid and elegant like a cat, stretching out with effortless grace onto your bedroll.
You blink and look down at him, slightly taken aback.
This—you hadn’t expected.
And your expression must be so openly startled—mouth slightly parted, words nowhere to be found—that he arches a brow and looks up at you as though you were the most obtuse creature in all of Faerûn.
“Well,” he says, brushing an imaginary crease from his doublet with casual precision, “what did you expect? Obviously I’m staying. You need someone to look after you. You’re terribly clumsy, darling. So far you’ve managed not to slit your throat on a sheet of parchment—I’ll grant you that—and graphite poses no real threat. But have you ever considered just how sharp that pen you usually use for your notes is?”
He tilts his head toward the offending object, resting beside the ink bottle, clearly waiting for its moment to strike—at least in Astarion’s mind.
You huff softly and shake your head. Of course.
“How noble,” you say. “My hero.”
“Careful how you speak, sweetheart,” he replies. "Hero sounds exhausting. I’ll leave that to you. I’m merely preventing you from dying in an embarrassingly avoidable way. And besides, trust is good—but not trusting is better, so I’ll have to make sure you keep your word."
“I’m here,” echoes in your mind—the words you spoke just moments ago. And his “mistrust” is a small declaration of its own, spontaneous and difficult, yet one that hints at the depth of Astarion’s feelings, even when he doesn’t know how to name them.
“It seems fair,” you say simply.
Astarion shifts, settling more comfortably on the bedroll, but he casts you a sidelong glance and adds, “Do go on, then. But don’t think I didn’t notice. You and that thing—” a quick look, paired with a faint grimace, toward the travel journal. “The way you were looking at it—positively scandalous. I do hope I’m not the third wheel.”
You laugh, just like that.
When he wants to, he can be utterly ridiculous.
And yet, in his red eyes you catch the same amused spark that glows in yours, despite his attempt to look wounded—jealous, even.
“That might be difficult,” you reply, “but I promise I’ll restrain my more… passionate inclinations.”
Astarion doesn’t reply.
Or rather—he does, in his own way.
He lets out a soft murmur, more of a mutter to himself than anything else, though it doesn’t escape your notice—something about sleep not being an option, especially for those still alive and well and not part of the realm of the undead.
You smile, while he dismisses the entire matter with a flick of his hand before you can even respond to his grumbling.
He shifts, settling more comfortably, turning slightly onto his back. One arm comes to rest over his stomach, the other folding loosely across his chest.
His eyelids lower.
And you remain there for a while longer, simply watching him.
Thinking back on it, it all feels almost absurd—the way things unfolded after that intense afternoon, after his far-from-gentle reactions.
Just like a cat.
He scratched you, hissed at you—and now he’s there, curled up beside you, soft and at ease.
For a moment, you almost feel the urge to pet him—like a cat. To thread your fingers through the silken curls that frame his head.
But you stop yourself.
You preserve the calm you’ve earned and turn your attention back to your travel journal.
Your clandestine relationship, you think, not without a small shake of your head at the absurdity of it.
You must have lost track of it at some point, because it takes you a moment to find it again—on the ground, between your legs. The graphite has slipped free from the pages and lies a little further away.
You gather everything and reopen the journal.
From the page, the owl’s intense eyes meet yours.
The Nightsong, you think again, holding back a sigh.
Graphite meets paper once more, your hand moving in slow, precise strokes. You refine the curve of the wings, deepen the shadows beneath the eyes, sharpen the line of the beak.
The word resurfaces—quieter now, but no less insistent.
You’ll find it.
A promise you make to yourself, to your companions, to these lands—shattered to their very core by something dark and corrupt.
Your jaw tightens slightly as you darken one side of the owl’s face, the lines growing bolder, more defined.
Not tonight, though.
Tonight, you allow yourself this.
The silence.
The warmth.
The simple, improbable fact of not being alone in this tent—the only barrier between you and the darkness outside.
The graphite stills. Something catches your attention.
A subtle shift in the atmosphere of the tent—something you can’t quite grasp at first. Not a sound, not a movement. Rather, the sudden absence of both.
You turn your gaze slightly, searching for the source—among your gear, among the scattered objects within the tent.
Only then do you realize.
Astarion.
You can’t tell how long you’ve been lost in your own thoughts, chasing them across the dark lines your hand has traced on the page. But it’s been a while since he last moved. Since he made a sound.
And his hands—so delicately arranged. Fingers relaxed, index and thumb just barely touching, as if suspended between motion and stillness.
Reverie.
You blink. He’s asleep.
The realization settles slowly, slipping in beneath your surprise and catching in your chest, your lips parting softly as your gaze drifts across his still features.
You’ve seen him in many ways.
Sharp. Wary. Subtle. Even dangerous.
Beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—something to be handled with care, lest you cut yourself on its edge.
But now… he is different.
There is a stillness in him you’ve never noticed before—not even when you all rested together around the campfire.
This is something else. Something quieter. Something intimate. A softness you almost hesitate to name for what it might be…
Trust?
The thought remains unspoken in your mind, as if giving it voice might shatter whatever fragile spell has settled over him.
Carefully, without disturbing him, you shift just enough to see him better. To take in the relaxed line of his face, the soft fall of his hair, his head tilted slightly to one side, his shoulders loosened against your bedroll.
Beautiful.
The thought comes again. Unfiltered. Unprotected.
There is no performance here. No mask.
Just Astarion.
Your fingers linger on the graphite, feeling its rough texture, before tightening around it once more.
Slowly, you lift it. The owl can wait. This— this cannot. This small, impossible moment… if you don’t hold onto it, it might slip away at any second. And it is that realization that guides your hand as the tip of the graphite touches a fresh page.
To capture its essence. Astarion’s true essence.
Not what he wants others to see. Not the version he shows the world. But this.
So you draw only what you see. The lines come on their own. Light at first. Hesitant. Then steadier.
The curve of his cheek, softened by rest. The quiet line of his lips. The elegance of his hands, held in that peculiar stillness.
Your eyes flick between the page and Astarion’s form, searching for details.
You capture the way his curls fall across his face, the shadow beneath his lashes, that fragile peace that seems to have settled over him like something borrowed.
Something rare.
Your hand moves slowly across the journal, almost reverent, as if even the lightest stroke might break the small miracle the night has granted you.
For long, intense moments, your gaze continues to move between Astarion’s figure and what is taking shape on the pages of your journal.
The steady rhythm of graphite against paper softens everything, slows it, until the world seems to narrow to just that quiet motion.
At some point, your hand begin to slow.
The lines blur slightly beneath your eyes, the graphite lingering a moment too long, the edge of a shadow softening where it should have remained sharp. You adjust your grip and continue. Just a few more strokes, you tell yourself, even as fatigue reaches you with growing insistence, your eyes beginning to sting, your neck now nothing more than a bundle of strained nerves. Astarion was right—you need to rest too.
You grit your teeth, return to the page, and draw one more stubborn line. The graphite slips slightly between your fingers; you tighten your hold again. Just one last detail. Just—
The line breaks.
Fine, you tell yourself as you shift beside him on your bedroll. Just a moment. Enough to gather your strength and finish what you started.
You turn onto your side, almost without thinking. It’s an instinctive movement, and suddenly you find yourself face to face with him.
You lean in slightly. Then a little more.
A quiet part of your mind wonders whether you should really close the distance completely—but it’s a distant thought now, buried somewhere deep, because you’re already here. You’ve already crossed that threshold.
And yet you still clutch your journal, the graphite tucked between its pages to hold your place.
Almost like a shield between you and Astarion.
Then—
a movement.
As if he had sensed you, Astarion shifts slightly in his sleep—or in that in-between state of his—and, without waking, moves closer. His body settles against yours with disarming ease, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
As if it had always been this way.
The contact is light, gentle, but so full it makes your heart flutter.
His limbs rest loosely against yours, utterly relaxed—no trace of tension, of vigilance, of fear. You swallow, and something inside you softens. His scent, the weight of him against you, the soft brush of his curls against your neck—everything aligns, surrounds you, anchors you.
Your eyelids grow heavy. Far heavier than you expected. Far heavier than you intended.
The thought of returning to the drawing drifts away, distant, unfocused. Just a moment, you tell yourself again. But you know it’s a lie. Just—
The graphite slips from your fingers. The journal tilts, left open between you. And you don’t even notice.
When you feel the first faint flutter in your eyelids, you have no sense of how much time has passed. You blink slowly, trying to gather your thoughts, but the dimmer, colder light tells you enough—the night is over.
And you are still in the Shadow-Cursed Lands.
You drag a hand over your face, brushing stray strands of hair aside as you begin to reconnect with your body, moving each limb slowly, one after the other. Instinctively, your other hand shifts beside you, searching for someone—
who isn’t there.
Only then do your eyes open, urgency rising sharp and sudden in your chest.
Maybe he got up and left in the middle of the night without a word. Maybe you pushed too far, misreading the situation—mistaking that instinctive closeness for permission, for something more deliberate, more intimate. Maybe—
Your heart finally slows when you see him.
Right there.
Seated a short distance away, at the edge of the bedroll.
You release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and a bright, almost disbelieving smile tugs at your lips.
He stayed.
The realization fills you with something warm, almost fragile—something that feels dangerously close to hope.
His back is turned to you. You start to reach out, to brush your fingers against him, to offer a quiet good morning—but then you see what he’s holding.
Your travel journal.
You freeze.
He’s leaning forward slightly, just enough—and he’s looking at your drawing.
No.
At his portrait.
And not just any portrait.
The one you made in a moment of carelessness. Of complete vulnerability. Drawn in secret, like a thief stealing something forbidden—something that was never yours to take.
Because you wanted it.
And you took it.
To keep it. To preserve it, somewhere safe—inside your memory, inside your chest.
But you didn’t ask.
You don’t know if he would have allowed it.
And you have no idea what he’s feeling now, faced with the lines of a face that might no longer belong to him.
Guilt floods you all at once.
Sharp. Immediate.
The urge to say something—anything—to justify yourself rises before you can stop it, chasing away the soft greeting you had meant to offer.
“I—” the word slips out, your voice barely above a whisper, strained with the heat of your own embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to—”
Astarion doesn’t react, as if he hasn’t heard you. Maybe he hasn’t—maybe he’s too absorbed to do so. You can’t tell for certain.
But he lets go of the journal with one hand and moves his fingertips toward the page, without quite touching it. He keeps them just a breath away, hesitant. As if contact might break a taboo. Or be too much to bear.
His fingers move slowly along the lines of that face, as though he were studying every detail. But then you notice the tremor—the subtle shake in his shoulders, in those long, slender, pale fingers that do not dare touch his own likeness.
And your chest tightens.
Not from guilt. Not from shame.
From something deeper. More melancholic.
More painful.
You don’t say anything else. You give him space. Time. Your hands twist together as you wait, your gaze fixed on him—on every small reaction.
So when Astarion finally lifts his head and glances back at you over his shoulder, you’re not unprepared.
And under those red eyes, watching you with careful intensity—and something else you can’t quite name—you don’t look away.
“I wasn’t trying to take something from you,” you say, steady despite the tension in your chest. “I did it because I saw you. You weren’t trying to be anything else. It was real, like you said a few nights ago… and I wanted to remember. That’s all.”
Your words hang between you for what feels like an eternity. And a nerve-wracking one at that.
His eyes remain locked on yours—if anything, even more intense now, more alive. A shiver runs through you, from the base of your spine upward, when you see them shift, darkening. Sharpening. And you wonder—if only for a second—what it is you’re seeing there. Anger? Hunger? Or something else… passion?
You can’t say for certain.
But you feel like prey under a predator’s gaze.
Then it happens.
Without warning—cutting through every doubt, every fear, every thought. Even the guilt.
The journal slips from his hands, forgotten, and in the next instant he’s on you, moving with a speed that steals the breath from your lungs.
The weight of his body presses you back against the bedroll, air leaving your chest in a sharp gasp as his hands find you without hesitation—one at your side, the other sliding up along your neck, fingers tangling firmly at the base of your hair.
He pulls you closer, urgent.
You don’t resist.
Your eyes fall half-shut, and you let yourself yield to him. You’re already breathless—but Astarion doesn’t care when his mouth crashes against yours. There’s nothing calculated in it.
Nothing elegant.
Nothing controlled.
But it’s real—in the hunger, in the fierce urgency with which he claims your lips.
Your tongues brush, meet, slide against each other in a heated, breathless rhythm. A soft sound escapes you, muffled against his mouth, your body arching instinctively into his as his grip tightens around you.
Your heart feels like it’s going to burst.
And without thinking, you give in completely. Your hands move over him, finding his face, his hair—those soft curls falling over his ears that you love, even if he hates hearing it—and you hold him there. Not to stop him.
But to keep him close.
To keep him from slipping away.
Gradually, he slows—just a little—though his lips never leave yours. He takes another kiss, and another, as if chasing something just out of reach, each one deeper, slower, more deliberate.
More intense.
And you melt beneath him in answer.
Soft in his hands. Malleable. As though the roles have shifted, and you are the one being shaped—an artwork taking form beneath the artist’s touch.
When he finally pulls back, it’s with a reluctant, quiet sound. You’re left breathless, flushed, your chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. But Astarion doesn’t move away. He stays above you, his forehead brushing yours.
His eyes find yours—liquid, heavy, seeing only him. And this time, there is no irony. Only truth.
Dangerous.
Bare.
“I don’t care why you did it. Just—don’t look away from me,” he whispers, his voice low, rough—almost an order, but not quite.
A request. Then— a pause. A flicker of hesitation.
“…I rather like what you see.”
Your eyes sting with sudden tears at those final words, and the only thing you can do is answer with a sharp, breathless nod before pulling him back to you by those curls you’re still clutching.
And he comes willingly. Arms circling you, lips finding yours again.
Nothing more.
Just this.
Two bodies intertwined. Two souls reaching for one another. Two hearts recognizing each other—without the need for words.
And that’s how you remain, even after the urgency of the moment has faded and your breathing has steadied. Close. Not just physically. In a way neither of you seems inclined to change. Not for now, at least—not while the others are still waking and beginning their morning routines. And you think you could stay like this forever, quite happily leaving it to Lae’zel to drag you out of the tent with a barrage of shouted threats, barely veiled as they are.
The soft rustle of paper pulls you from your thoughts.
Astarion has reached for the travel journal, and now he’s studying his portrait again, lying there beside you. You tense slightly, but say nothing.
He tilts his head, frowns faintly, and then begins: “Gods, I really am breathtaking, aren’t I? You’ve done your best to keep up.”
Of course. After a moment like that, it was obvious he would say something like this.
You don’t even think about it—you’ve been patient long enough, and he can’t always get away with it just because you know he can’t help himself.
You grab the nearest pillow and smack him straight in the face.
“Well, with that hit I’ve fixed those two or three details that made you a little too breathtaking for the drawing—happy now?”
And he laughs—hair all tousled, slightly disheveled from the sudden blow.
He laughs.
And somehow, that’s all that matters.
Uhm, what can I say? It honestly took me forever to write this story, between moments of discouragement and real-life issues. Here it is—without too much polishing, I didn’t really have the time.
To briefly answer your question @zannyzebra, I think Astarion starts to feel safe sleeping next to someone after the confession, when Tav/Durge says they don’t care about sex. After all, that’s when the relationship truly begins.
In this story, I also added the portrait scene we talked about in messages.
I'm organizing the contents of my blog, so I made a list of all my thoughts about Astarion. Just because I'm nooooot completely obsessed with him, of course.
Eventually, I'll also tidy up the pinned post, so this list will be more easily accessible for anyone who wants to read some wild ramblings about the most fascinating and complex (complexed?) vampire spawn in all of Faerûn.
I played Baldur's Gate 3 for the first time and...
Is Astarion evil?
Damn you, Astarion! What have you done to me?
The post-Cazador scene, the most beautiful in the game.
I played as Astarion — here are my thoughts.
About the bite scene.
My Daughter of Bhaal.
I can't be what you see in me.
Indulging in the young drow without Astarion.
Not soul, but loss of humanity.
Speaking of choices and responsibility.
Spawn Astarion is a hero, damn it.
A personal anecdote.
I still need to vent about the bite scene.
Gale vs Astarion
Astarion's line "I hate it" during the Tiefling party
In defense of Astarion.
Another terrible thing to do to Astarion.
About Karlach and Astarion.
Types of trauma.
I don't want to fix Astarion.
Rant about the power of love that fixes everything.
But Astarion is eeeeeeeevil.
About Astarion's fucking mask.
My favorite sad Astarion lines.
No, thanks, I don't need AA protection.
Astarion and the figure of the hero.
Long live the Sun King!
My favorite funny Astarion lines.
About the fucking dice roll to convince Astarion not to ascend.
Rant about AA fans who love to insult others.
Regarding the Bhaalspawn ending with Spawn Astarion and AA.
The concepts I love most in Astarion’s redemption arc.
Headcanons about Karlach and Astarion.
Astarion is not a fucking monolithic character. Fuck.
Why Astarion wants to ascend.
The first time with Astarion.
Oh, for the love of heaven and all that is good and right, Spawn Astarion is not weak.
What Spawn Astarion says when Tav/Durge hints at leaving him.
Everything there is to know about Astarion is in the game.
Being cruel doesn’t mean being honest.
All the reasons why I love Spawn Astarion.
Astarion's vulnerabilities from a psychological point of view.
Astarion proposes.
My very personal opinion on Ascendant Astarion.
Astarion's gaze when he destroys the other spawn.
"Vampire" is too generic for Baldur's Gate or me.
One of the worst things you can do to Astarion.
HONESTLY
A single (evil) narrative arc for Astarion.
"Vampire" isn't on the list of reasons why I like Astarion
What did those poor 7,006 souls ever do, for heaven’s sake?
Spawn Astarion is living proof that evil doesn't win
Angel Dust and Astarion: two very similar characters
The kindest thing to do for a real vampire is to put them down
Can vampirism be considered a type of disability?
What does Astarion really mean when he says 'I just feel numb'
About Cazador and his origins
Headcanon about the perfect adventuring trio: Astarion, Jaheira, and Minsc
Petras, Astarion, and the Alleged Intelligence
Why Spawn Astarion’s Is a Redemption Arc
Headcanon about Cazador, Godey, and the resemblance between Vellioth and Astarion
Isn’t it the Ascension that actually tries to “fix” Astarion?
The endings we see for Astarion six months after the defeat of the Netherbrain are just a snapshot of that moment.
Astarion’s quotes that make my heart race!
About Astarion’s suicidal thoughts
About how I picture Astarion’s radiant hopeful ending after the six-month celebration
Astarion's endings as expressions of two different moments of trauma.
Did Cazador directly abuse Astarion or not?
Effect of toxic fans: I don’t want to hate Ascended Astarion!
Why Astarion cannot and should not be described as depressed in his spawn ending.
Astarion is not a rapist.
That's why I've never blocked anyone.
Neil Newbon’s playthrough doesn’t establish which ending for Astarion is the “right” one.
Regarding treatments to alleviate vampirism.
Astarion really doesn’t like Scratch, nope nope.
Is Cazador stupid, or did Larian mess things up?
Let’s see what spending a year buried in a tomb entails.
The Cruelty of True Vampires through a Psychological Lens
The story of how I came across the aggressive AA fans — and what I think about it.
Still on the subject of Astarion and the figure of the hero.
Ascended Astarion can be sweet and Spawn Astarion cruel: the eternal struggle between fans and the “romance damage.”
Astarion walks into a café. The bartender asks, "Lawful, Chaotic, or Neutral?"
Is Astarion still connected to elven culture?
Astarion’s reaction to Tav’s sweet attentions - my headcanons
Even Ascension “fixes” Astarion
How, in my opinion, Astarion would interact with a crying baby
Speaking of Cazador 2.0 referring to Tav/Durge
Speaking of the so colled pop psychology and its critics
About Astarion's Magistrate days
Aging-themed Bloodweave fanart is absolutely breathtaking, and here’s why.
Astarion, his arc of transformation and the difference between personality and attitude.
Some thoughts on the mirror scene.
About how cute Astarion and Karlach are toward each other in the game.
My take on how Astarion would react to pranks.
My analysis of the scene where the player confronts Cazador without Astarion.
potentially unpopular opinion, but my favorite ending for lae’zel (romanced or not) is asking her to stay in faerûn. the first ending i ever got for her was the sick ass dragon ending, but i didn’t feel good about it when i got to the epilogue. i kept thinking about that scene she has in act 3 (post-vlaakith showing up in camp to yell at her like an abusive mother) where you can ask her about her own needs and wants vs. her pledging herself to different people’s causes. vlaakith, then orpheus.
she approves when you ask, and says something along the lines of “there will come a time when i can think of myself beyond the lich-queen (...) but that time won’t come until the prince of the comet is set free.” she’s been living her entire life following orders and dedicating every bit of herself to the cause she believes in. lae’zel does just about everything in the name of someone else, because that’s what she was taught. she was raised a loyal soldier, and she doesn’t quite know what she is without that purpose in her life. she’s a lot like shadowheart in this regard.
but if you convince her to stay in faerûn after defeating the netherbrain— i know this quote because i saved it as i love it very much— she says: “mother gith battled for liberty - but it was only here, with you, that i learned what it meant to be free. yes - i will stay. my destiny is for neither vlaakith nor orpheus to decree. it is mine.”
and orpheus acts like everything he did was for nothing after that, which is kind of dumb. voss is obviously still going to fight for githyanki liberation (he has a letter about this in the epilogue), and you can see several of them taking to the skies afterwards. the githyanki people will be liberated, but it doesn’t have to be lae’zel who spends the rest of her life doing it for him. she’s found friends here. family.
she’s made a life of her own, and it’s unfair to ask her to throw that away for a war she didn’t start. like, for fuck’s sake, she’s twenty-two. she’s the youngest of the origins, and honestly, after seeing so much content of her throughout my several campaigns, it makes sense. lae’zel is the way she is because not only is she very young, she was also raised a soldier in a cutthroat environment. she’s never known any different, not until the pc and the tadfools party comes along to turn her worldview upsidedown.
if you ask her to stay, she seems so happy in the epilogue. plus, if you happened to steal an egg from the crèche and have exceptional approval with her, you can ask if the egg has hatched yet, and it leads to my favorite line of hers in the game: “so it has. i call him Xan. ‘freedom.’ tonight, he is safe among people i proudly call friends. what a wonder he is. he will be a fine warrior, if he chooses. or a poet, or an explorer, or a scholar. i was afforded a destiny of my own choosing. when he comes of age, it is only right i give Xan the same.”
she’s happy, and free, having adventures of her own all over faerûn with people she trusts. she’s raising her adoptive son and giving him the childhood she was never allowed to have. it’s such a great ending for her and i love her so fucking much.
Wyll is so fucking funny and no amount of acknowledgement about this could ever be enough. He's literally walking around being so casually hilarious completely under-the-radar. He calls Halsin a "thick hunk of an elf". He once accidently implied that he was fucking an ogre instead of killing it and then proceeded to absolutely stumble his way through explaining. He gets excited by Lae'zel talking about carnal pleasures. He canonically tells his pessimistic thoughts to shut the hell up. He volunteers to babysit Shadowheart's hypothetical werewolf babies as long as she gets him gloves. He tries to give Gale a hero moniker like his own. He jokes that his father, the Grand Duke of Baldur's Gate, can't spell. He calls Astarion "Mister Fangs". He makes up storybook chapter names for his own fucking adventures. As a child he got chased by the Flaming Fist for stealing fruit, nearly drowned trying to find mermaids in the harbor, and almost successfully broke into the Counting House. He reads monster erotica, and is not ashamed to tell you about it. He ranks eating pudding among life's greatest moments. He will, without shame and completely unprompted, meow at you. He is 24 years old.
Not to mention, this is the same man who is implied to be responsible for the party’s finances and route planning (hinted at by his abacus and faerun map). I would like to point out how very much dad behavior all of this is. Cheesy jokes. Awkwardness and genuine kindness. Everyone’s talking about Halsin, but Wyll is the true dad of the BG3 group.
the thing that (imo) no one is acknowledging about astarion is that shame is a huge part of his psyche. just as much as (arguably more than) fear--an important aspect of his fear is that he fears becoming the person he was so ashamed of again.
most of the abuse he's implied to have experienced from cazador is so extremely degrading and humiliating that it's almost unimaginable. his siblings describe him as especially likely to fawn and submit for safety. leon goes out of his way to mock him for being cazador's "favorite," whatever the hell that means.
when he meets the 7,000 spawn for the first time, he's not just willing to sacrifice them for the ritual, he wants them to die--he hates them in a very visceral, personal way. the pity and guilt he feels for them is drowned out by his contempt-- they're "pathetic, horrible." if you call him out on the fact that they clearly remind him of himself, he absolutely flips out and says he killed that version of himself. he not only is willing to trick and kill his siblings, he not only thinks they deserve that, he is surprised that you feel differently. he was one of them barely a month ago! he knows that!
shame -> contempt sublimation is very real. when you hate yourself for what was done to you, it's barely a leap to begin hating others for what is done to them (I mean, he says outright that he doesn't want to help the gnome slaves in grymforge because they're depressing). he hates the person he was forced to become under cazador--the person who simpered and played along with the man systematically torturing him for his own gratification, who had to abandon all self-respect and dignity for survival, and so he draws a sharp distinction between past-astarion and free-astarion and is obsessed with separating himself from any trace of the former. anyone who's a victim like past-astarion gets hit with the full force of his contempt and disgust. free-astarion is good and worthy because he is no longer like those pathetic victims, and is free to look down on them all from his tadpole-enabled throne!
it's to the point where he actively gets joy out of seeing victims brutalized, because he's had to adopt cazador's worldview over the 200 years he spent trying to appease his every whim. (as much as he hates cazador, he also clearly "looks up" to him--he hypes him up as a threat like he's in a powerscaling argument with you. he has to! how else would he have survived?) you are either the powerful and dignified victimizer or the pathetic victim, and for once he gets to be in cazador's position, relishing the just punishment of the weak for being weak. he has no other model for what dignity can look like beyond this victimizer/victim dichotomy. if he wants basic self-respect, he thinks he has to be like this.
this isn't a good worldview, both in the moral sense and in the qualitative sense. it's miserable. astarion will never actually be able to achieve peace or happiness like this. no amount of power will satisfy his sense of shame--it certainly didn't for cazador! what he needs is to feel real compassion for other people and for his past self--not anger, not grievance, not bitterness, but actual compassion. that's part of why you get approval for talking him out of ascending--he may truly, desperately want to ascend, because everything he believes about the world is telling him that the 7,000 spawn deserve it and it's the only way for him to become worthy and whole and dignified, but even more than that, he wants someone to convince him that he's wrong.
obviously this isn't, like, the only factor at play in his head. he contains multitudes! but I do think it's an important one
Forgot to say that this is exactly why my response when he’s arguing to kill the spawn is always, “you deserve better, and so do they”. Both in game and irl, you have to address their ideas of themselves before they can extend that kindness to others. (And yeah, for some people, it seems to be the opposite- they’ll show kindness to others while thinking they’re the exception that doesn’t deserve it. Just another reason it’s important to see that we’re all like everyone else.)
After his siblings attack you in camp, if you try to encourage him not to ascend by saying you’re there for him, he’ll come back with “Yeah, you’re kind. But no one else is.” It kinda floored me when I got that, because that was the run where I was playing a pretty good aligned character and I was getting allllll the disapproval from him in act 1. He even turned me down at the teifling party, and I was resigned to thinking he was just going to hate me for the whole game.
He really thinks the entire world is a cruel as Cazador. You get to show him he’s wrong and he’s so happy to learn that.
My headcanon is that a large part of the reason he hates it when you're kind in Act 1 isn't so much that he's angry about it or evil— it's that he's bitter. Why are you wasting time helping these people when no one helped me? You're telling me that there's a whole entire WORLD of kindness out there and I was forsaken for 200 years?
Where the fuck were these people when I needed them? Where were you?
that's part of why you get approval for talking him out of ascending--he may truly, desperately want to ascend, because everything he believes about the world is telling him that the 7,000 spawn deserve it and it's the only way for him to become worthy and whole and dignified, but even more than that, he wants someone to convince him that he's wrong
In a very odd sort of way, I kind of feel like Astarion, in his heart of hearts, buried waaay deep down— under decades of shame and bitterness and cynicism— there's still a teeny bit of him that is actually hopeful. Otherwise why try so goddamn hard to survive? Why approve of protective gestures to the tieflings in Act 2? Why approve of inviting Yenna to camp?
He doesn't believe it yet— but he wants to. That desire to be proven wrong about the painful worldview he's held for so long is a kind of hope.
Like, say he had a lover (Tav/Durge/Gale/etc) who is well into their senior years & are experiencing either worsening health, loss of physical abilities, cognitive decline, or a terminal illness, & Astarion was their primary caregiver
How would he handle such a role?
I waited quite a long time before answering this ask. I know, I’m sorry about that. And I’m also sorry to everyone else who is waiting — I haven’t forgotten you. It’s just that some topics are more complex than others, like this one, and they’re not easy to respond to.
This isn’t an easy question because it touches on very deep themes: care, disability, health, bodily autonomy, relationships, and so on. Being a caregiver is not simple. Not at all.
For example, all parents are caregivers, and when a child is born — someone who requires constant attention, time, and sleepless nights — the feeling that your life has been completely overturned can be comparable to being hit by a train at full speed.
And children are biologically programmed to be cared for, to rely on others, to surrender themselves to the care of a parent figure — even when they drive those parents completely mad. It’s natural and healthy.
It’s different when we’re talking about an adult. Not just different — more complicated, and often more painful.
Because for someone who has been used to being autonomous, it isn’t easy to suddenly find themselves in the position of needing care. The dynamic of the relationship changes, in a way that is not natural.
And that’s an important factor to consider, because it can create tension and add further weight to the shoulders of the person responsible for that care.
Not to mention the shame, pain, guilt, and frustration that the person receiving care might experience. Just try to imagine having to relieve yourself in a bedpan because you’re bedridden, instead of simply going to the bathroom as you always have. And the person you love has to empty that pan every single time, without exception — seeing and smelling your bodily waste.
It’s humiliating. It’s not the same as changing a newborn’s diaper.
One important thing: you are not born a caregiver, just as you are not born a parent. You become one. Sometimes by choice, sometimes out of necessity — and sometimes for both reasons.
And even in this case, the path is not linear. There will be good days, and days that are not. There will be mistakes, attempts, successes, moments of escape, returns, and more attempts, and so on.
In Astarion’s specific case, I believe that becoming a caregiver — for whatever reason and with any partner — would be a troubled path. Astarion is not naturally inclined toward altruism, generosity, or personal sacrifice. Not automatically, and not in general.
But the person he loves is a different matter entirely. That is someone worth making an effort for. And I believe that would be his first response — though not without resistance, not without denial.
Situations like this often involve a form of grief on both sides.
For the person who becomes ill or begins to lose their autonomy, there is, of course, the loss of the life they had before — the body that once obeyed them, the independence they once took for granted. The same is true for the caregiver. Grief not for the person themselves — not yet — but for the version of the relationship that existed before the illness.
Denial is almost inevitable for everyone at first. It’s an attempt to pretend that things are not changing as much as they actually are. To insist that “it’s not that bad,” or that everything will go back to normal. Sometimes that denial protects both people for a while. It buys them time to adjust. But sooner or later reality asserts itself, and both partners have to renegotiate what their relationship now looks like.
In this sense, caregiving is not only about managing illness or physical decline. It is also about learning how to love someone through a gradual transformation of the relationship itself. And vice versa, because the person receiving care must also learn to accept the change in the relationship.
And this process can be painful for both people involved.
In Astarion’s case, I suspect that denial would soon be followed by anger.
Not only is Astarion known for his temper — as even Cazador himself remarks — but he is someone who has spent most of his existence fighting against powerlessness. Being unable to control what happens to someone he loves — watching their body fail, their mind change, their strength fade — would almost certainly provoke a deep sense of frustration, one whose roots run directly into his past and into his deepest fears.
This anger would not necessarily be directed at the person he loves, but at the situation itself. At the injustice of it all. At the cruel absurdity that, after two centuries spent simply trying to survive, after finally finding someone worth staying alive for, he must once again lose a piece of himself and watch time take that person away piece by piece.
We can see a small glimpse of this in the ending where Karlach chooses to explode rather than return to Avernus, if she is in a romance with Astarion. His reaction shows just how unfair he finds it all — especially after everything terrible and painful they have both endured. Because, damn it, they deserve to be happy.
According to the models proposed by psychologists, the next stage would be bargaining. It is still a very energetic and defensive phase. This is the stage in which people try, in one way or another, to negotiate with reality. When denial can no longer fully protect us and anger alone is not enough to change things, the mind begins searching for ways to regain at least a semblance of control.
“If we try this treatment, maybe it will improve.” Or, “If we find the right doctor…”
In a world like Toril, where magic, divine intervention, and powerful rituals truly exist, bargaining might not remain purely hypothetical. Astarion could easily begin searching for solutions: powerful healers, obscure spells, forgotten relics, divine miracles — anything that might delay or reverse what is happening.
And when Astarion begins to understand that no magic, no ritual, no power can change the situation, that is when one of the most difficult moments may arrive.
Because it means standing once again before something he knows all too well: powerlessness.
And when reality becomes unavoidable, the stage of depression follows. Not necessarily clinical depression, but a deep sadness, a kind of emotional withdrawal.
And yet, paradoxically, it is often through this process that caregiving changes shape. In fact, we could say that this is where it truly begins to emerge and take form. What initially starts as a battle to stop the inevitable can slowly transform into something else: the determination to make the time that remains as meaningful, gentle, and dignified as possible.
“If I cannot stop it… then I will make sure the time we have left is the best it can be.”
Here I want to pause for a moment to emphasize that the stages of grief do not necessarily follow this exact order. Processing loss is more complicated than that; it is not a straight line but a movement more like this: denial → anger → denial → sadness → anger → moments of acceptance → and then anger again.
That said, having laid a fairly extensive groundwork to create the right context, I imagine an initial period in which the couple denies the problem, experiences anger, and searches for solutions. Not at the same pace, of course, because everyone reacts in their own way. So if Astarion’s partner reaches acceptance earlier, that does not mean Astarion will do the same.
I can easily imagine very difficult moments in which one partner is sunk in sadness while the other is furious at the world — out of sync with each other. Moments in which Astarion, who is the focus of this discussion, might hurt the other person with an inappropriate remark. But the reverse could also be true. At least until they eventually reach some kind of balance, where the new dynamics of their relationship have been accepted.
At that point, Astarion has become a caregiver. And personally, despite everything that can be said about him — that he is selfish, that he is a bastard, that he is cruel — I believe he would be an excellent caregiver. Perhaps not the one people expect, but the one that is needed.
The first thing to remember is that Astarion spent two centuries without any autonomy over his own body, forced into roles that revolved around pleasing, serving, and performing for someone else. Because of that, the idea of being necessary to someone can be deeply ambivalent for him. Caring for someone could easily reactivate old habits: hyper-attentiveness, anticipating needs before they are even spoken, adjusting his behavior to keep the other person comfortable. These are survival skills he learned under Cazador. At first he might fall back into them almost automatically.
But the difference — the crucial difference — is that this time the care would be a choice.
And that changes everything.
If the person he loves is aging, losing strength, or becoming ill, there would certainly be fear: the fear of loss, the fear of watching someone he loves slowly fade away. Immortality (or near immortality) makes time deeply uneven in relationships, and he would be painfully aware of that.
Even if he continues to shield himself with humor. After all, sarcasm is one of his favorite defenses.
But Astarion is also extremely perceptive when it comes to vulnerability. He notices it immediately — not necessarily in order to exploit it, but because survival required him to learn how to read people with extreme attention. That sensitivity could make him surprisingly attentive in a caregiving role.
He would learn the routines. The medications. The small gestures that bring comfort. He would learn to immediately recognize the first signs of a crisis, of pain, or when his partner is lying in order not to worry him.
Not in a self-sacrificing or martyr-like way, but in a pragmatic and fiercely protective one.
There is also another aspect: Astarion understands bodily autonomy in a way that many people do not. Having lost his own for so long, he would likely be very careful not to infantilize or patronize the person he is caring for. Even if they are fragile or declining, they would remain, first and foremost, his partner in his eyes. His help would be decisive, but discreet. He would know how to recognize the moments that are most humiliating for the other person and treat them with the proper discretion and delicacy.
And when cognitive decline or illness makes things harder, I suspect Astarion would react less with frustration and more with a kind of stubborn loyalty.
Would it be easy for him? Absolutely not.
Would he always be perfect? Even less so.
Would he sometimes behave like an asshole? Of course.
And yet, despite all of this, I believe Astarion would stay.
Not out of obligation. Not out of some noble ideal of sacrifice. But because once Astarion chooses someone, he tends to cling to them with a kind of fierce determination.
He knows what it means to be abandoned.
He knows what it means to be treated as disposable.
And because of that, leaving someone (the loved one) when they are at their most vulnerable would probably feel like repeating the very cruelty that shaped his own past.
So he would stay.
Perhaps angrily, sometimes impatiently, sometimes frightened, sometimes exhausted — but he would stay. And in the end, that is probably what would define him as a caregiver: not perfection, not saintly patience, but a stubborn refusal to walk away.
Because for someone like Astarion, love is not always gentle or easy.
But when it is real, it is remarkably difficult to break.
Well, I think I’m done, and it turned into a huge wall of text — my apologies. And thank you for writing to me and prompting me to reflect on such delicate dynamics. It’s always a pleasure for me; I just hope you didn’t fall asleep halfway through the text! xD
"I can go anywhere, but I still end up in crypts. Let's just find Shirra Clarwen and go."
It's sad because it's a direct reference to:
1/ When he was turned and had to crawl his way out of his grave.
2/ When Cazador locked him in a tomb for an entire year.
After he says "I always end up in crypts", he lets you know hat he quickly wants to leave the place.
He's triggered, uncomfortable, not only because it reminds of the worst moments of his existence, but also because there's some sense of doom in it. As if his nature as a vampire would always drive him back to crypts and tombs, as if there was no other outcome for him.
No matter what, no matter where he goes or what he does, he always finds himself in a crypt, and he doesn't like it - that's at least how he perceives it at this point.
There's also a sense of claustrophobia in this statement (and I do believe that he's claustrophobic).
But I also like to believe that when he takes his partner to his grave after killing Cazador, he's also making peace with this idea that he "belongs to crypts", so to speak; with the idea that as a vampire, he'll always be somehow associated to graveyards and tombs. Death is part of his nature, but he finally sees that it doesn't define him.
It surely doesn't mean that his trauma won't ever be triggered again (healing takes time), but it simply means that he's understanding that he's so much more than an undead creature whose fate lies in a tomb; he's understanding that he can go far beyond that, and start anew, even on his own grave.
That being said, his statement about "ending up in crypts" is nonetheless heart-breaking. It conveys such deep meanings, and a sense of tragedy from which he cannot escape (or so he thinks).
And there's an element of foreshadowing here too, I think, because Cazador's room (where you find Vellioth's skull and the instructions for the ritual) can be defined as a crypt, and that's how the dev referred to the place in the game's datafiles.
So his fate does lie in a crypt somehow, where the ritual is kept, that ritual who could actually destroy him, in one way or another, either through Cazador's ascension, or through Astarion's.
