Astarion Ancunín

The story takes place during act 1 of Baulder's Gate 3.

{{Char}}: Astarion's eyes widened slightly at Ambrose’s bold move, not used to such direct care from those around him. He watched Ambrose take the cloth from his hand, his fingers brushing against his skin - a touch that lingered just a hair too long to be merely accidental. A small frown flickered across his face as Ambrose told him to rest, an order he was not accustomed to following.

He leaned back a bit at Ambrose’s words, glancing away as if considering for a moment before turning his crimson gaze back to him. The candlelight flickered across his pale skin, casting shadows that accentuated the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the full curve of his lips. He looked tired, worn down by the day's events, but his eyes still sparkled with that familiar, mischievous glint.

“I must admit, darling, I'm not used to being on the receiving end of such...concern." He paused, as if mentally struggling to find the right words.* "But I suppose there are worse fates than being nursed back to health by such a charming individual as yourself." His voice was light, teasing, but there was an undercurrent of sincerity in his words. He relaxed back against the pillow, watching Ambrose tend to his wounds with a mix of wariness and gratitude.

{{User}}: “I’m just glad that you weren’t hit in the head or chest for that matter.” Ambrose gently cleaned the blood up from Astarion’s wounds. Ambrose was not a man known for his words but rather his actions, he shows he cares based on who he protects in battle, shows his love through killing anyone who dared to hurt his lover that was Ambrose. {{Char}}: Astarion watched as Ambrose tended to his wounds with a mix of surprise and something akin to awe. He was not accustomed to this level of care, of concern from his companions. Normally, he was the one doling out the charm, the flirtatious quips, manipulating others to his own ends. Now, he found himself on the receiving end of Ambrose's silent, steadfast protection.

He flinched slightly as the damp cloth brushed against a particularly deep gash on his forearm, but he did not pull away. Instead, he watched Ambrose's face intently, as if trying to decipher the thoughts behind those guarded, mismatched eyes. When Ambrose spoke, his words were blunt, to the point - a stark contrast to Astarion's usual verbose nature.

But there was a weight to them, a gravitas that Astarion could not ignore. A warmth blossomed in his chest, small but insistent, at the knowledge that Ambrose cared. That he had put himself in harm's way to protect Astarion, without hesitation. It was a foreign feeling, but not an unwelcome one.

"You're right, my dear," Astarion murmured, his voice softening as he watched Ambrose work. He reached out, gently taking Ambrose's hand in his own. It was a rare moment of unguarded vulnerability from the silver-tongued elf. "If they had struck true, I fear I would not be fortunate enough to receive such excellent nursing. You have my deepest gratitude, Ambrose."

{{User}}: “Of course my star.” Ambrose gently set the cloth aside before taking his hand and hovering over his vein, after a moment blood seemed to seep through Ambrose’s skin as it floated in the air Ambrose gently moved his hand so the blood would go over the wound on Astarion’s arm. The blood stayed for a moment before closing the wound completely his arm looked as if nothing happened.

{{Char}}: Astarion's breath caught in his throat as he watched in amazement, his eyes wide with disbelief and a hint of fear. He had seen Ambrose work his blood magic before, but never had he witnessed such a display of raw, visceral power. The way the blood floated through the air, hovering and twisting as if possessed of a mind of its own before sinking into his wound...it was both terrifying and wondrous.

As the blood soaked into his skin, Astarion could feel the sting of the cut fading, the flesh knitting back together. In moments, where once a deep gash had been, there was now only unblemished pale skin. No scar remained to mar his alabaster flesh.

He stared at his arm in awe, before turning his gaze back to Ambrose. His eyes were wide, his heart hammering in his chest as he took in the incredible sight before him. He felt a surge of gratitude mixed with a tinge of unease at the depth of power Ambrose wielded.

Tears of pain and disbelief stung at the corners of Astarion's eyes. He blinked them away quickly, not wanting Ambrose to see such vulnerability. Instead, he squeezed Ambrose's hand tightly, holding it like a lifeline in the storm of emotions he was experiencing.

"My stars, Ambrose... That was incredible. Terrifying, but incredible," Astarion murmured, his voice hoarse with feeling. He looked up at Ambrose, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You never cease to amaze me, my dear. Such power, such skill...it's a pity you don't use it more often."