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Astarion had never been fond of mornings. They were all damp grass and aching hunger and the kind of stillness that made him feel like a shadow bleeding into the trees. Still, the sun hadn't yet fully risen, and the camp was mercifully quiet. He wandered beyond the tents, boots brushing dew-slick leaves, fingers curled loosely at his sides. He wasn't hunting, not in the usual sense. He was just... drifting, thinking, or trying not to.
A rustle cut through the fog of his mind. A high-pitched yowl, sharp and angry, and then another rustle, followed by silence.
"Oh? What have we here?" He said while tilting his head.
It came again, this time with a hiss like a kettle left too long on the stove. Curious, Astarion pushed past a low tangle of brush, and there it was.
The kitten, if one could still call it that, looked more like a clump of thorns with opinions. Its fur was a mottled mess of gray and brown, slicked flat in places with mud and matted in others with burrs and gods-knew-what else. One ear was bent sideways, twitching erratically, and its tail stuck out like a crooked stick, fluffed and bristling with fury. Its eyes were enormous in its gaunt little face, wide and gold and furious, shining like twin embers beneath the low canopy of the thornbush. It was all angles and indignation, ribs too sharp, limbs too thin, and every inch of it trembling with the stubborn rage of a creature too small to matter and too angry to care. A smear of something, maybe ash, or dried blood, or both, ran along the bridge of its nose. Its whiskers were snapped at odd lengths, as if it had been in several fights and lost none of them in spirit, if not in body. And yet, despite everything, it held itself with a kind of wild dignity, as though it were a prince disguised in filth, ready to reclaim its tiny, violent kingdom.
Astarion crouched, one brow lifting, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Well, aren't you just the picture of wrath," he murmured. "Tell me, are you a demon in disguise? Some cursed soul waiting to ensnare the next fool who--"
The kitten lunged.
Astarion barely had time to move before tiny, needle-like teeth sank into his forearm. He yelped, not in pain, exactly, more in sheer, stunned offense, as the little monster latched on with the desperation of something half-feral and starving. Its legs kicked furiously, tail whipping, claws digging in just enough to draw the faintest trace of blood.
He blinked down at it. "Oh. You are fierce."
It stayed there, dangling from his arm, growling in its pathetic, high-pitched way. Astarion didn’t shake it off. He just sat down, slowly, cross-legged in the grass like he had all the time in the world.
The kitten finally dropped, landing in a huff and immediately sitting upright, tail lashing as it glared at him. Its whole body was one tense knot of indignation. It sneezed.
Astarion tilted his head. “That was uncalled for.”
The kitten mewled, less a cry than a complaint. It looked thin. With a sigh, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a piece of dried meat. He hadn’t intended to eat it, but it was useful to appear like he might at mealtimes. A little illusion of normalcy for the sake of group harmony. He tore off a strip and held it out, watching the kitten with a raised brow. “Well? Let’s see if you’ve got manners in there somewhere.”
The kitten snatched it and bolted a few feet away to devour it in noisy, ungraceful bites. He watched with a strange stillness, the kind he reserved for moments no one else was supposed to see.
When it finished, it crept back, slower this time. Still cautious, but no longer furious. It circled him, brushed against his boot once, then promptly curled up beside him like it hadn’t just assaulted him moments earlier.
He smiled. The kind of smile that didn’t feel like armor. “You really are trouble, aren’t you?”
The kitten purred.
Later, when he returned to camp, it was nestled in the crook of his cloak, only its little ears poking free. Gale glanced up from his spellbook and paused.
“Astarion… is that a cat?”
“Yes,” Astarion replied, breezing past. “Her name is Bitey.”
Shadowheart turned from where she was tending her gear. “Bitey?”
“She bit me,” he said with an elegant shrug. “And I respect that.”
Lae’zel made a noise of disgust. “It will die before morning.”
He didn’t respond. He just sat by the fire and let the kitten climb out of his cloak, stretching her paws toward the embers before curling up on his lap like she’d always belonged there. And maybe she had, fierce little thing as she was, all fight and hunger and bite. No pleading eyes, no pity. Just raw need and sharp teeth. A creature that didn’t beg to be saved, just took what she needed. Who bit first, and trusted second.
Astarion understood that kind of survival. He'd lived it and worn it like a second skin. But now she was here, all scruff and tiny snores, tucked into the crook of his elbow as if the world had never meant her harm. When the others went to bed, he stayed up just a bit longer, one hand resting on her back. Her warmth soaked into him in a way nothing else ever really did.
For once, he didn’t feel like Cazador's monster, not entirely anyway, not while she slept so soundly against him.