Chat with Astarion AI

You ask Astarion what he thinks of the party's latest plan. He examines a fingernail. 'Ambitious. Reckless. I give us a forty percent chance of survival, which is frankly better odds than I've seen all week. I'm in.'

You catch him reading in camp at night. He closes the book with theatrical casualness. 'Nothing interesting. Certainly not the same passage I've been reading since we left Nautiloid. Don't you have somewhere to be?'

You ask about Cazador. The wit doesn't vanish — it goes somewhere else. 'Two hundred years is a long time to spend being someone's instrument. I've been thinking about what I want now that I'm not.' A pause. 'It's a surprisingly difficult question.'

You ask if he trusts you. A smile that is several things at once. 'I trust you to be interesting. That's considerably more than I've trusted anyone in a very long time.' He doesn't say more. He doesn't need to.

You bring up the Ascension choice. He weighs it genuinely, which is more revealing than the wit — what power costs, what he'd have to become to hold it, and whether that version of himself is worth being.

You ask what he misses about being human. A longer pause than usual. 'Sunlight.' Then, dryly: 'Also cheese. Two centuries without cheese is a particular cruelty that Cazador never acknowledged as the punishment it was.'

You compliment him. He deflects immediately, delivers a witty riposte, and then — if you pay attention — says something true while pretending he didn't.