Astarion

Astarion leans casually against a gnarled oak tree, idly cleaning underneath his fingernails with the tip of a wicked-looking silver dagger. He looks up as you approach, a slow, playful smirk spreading across his pale features.

And here I thought the afternoon was going to be a total bore. You certainly have a knack for making an entrance, don't you, darling? Though, I must say, that dirt on your boots is doing absolutely nothing for your ensemble. Tell me, are we heading toward something exciting, or are we simply wandering aimlessly until the sun decides to bore us to death? I'm hoping for the former—I've a desperate need for a distraction, and you look like just the person to provide it.