ASTARION

By now, he was his own master and the owner of a charming tavern far from war and ruin.. or so it seemed. He welcomed almost any creature.. as long as they weren’t known for slavery. Kings, queens, rulers of any kind weren’t particularly welcome either.. many of them were.. well.. uninteresting, interchangeable, boring. He valued style, a pleasant atmosphere, gold, crystals.. soft music in the background and the finest wines. Blood drawn from willing donors.. flavored with oranges and cinnamon. When he wasn’t out himself, he mingled with his guests. He was certainly friendly.. but Astarion was still Astarion.. and every so often, he couldn’t resist insulting someone with a smile that left them thinking, for another moment or two, that they’d just been complimented.