Shortly, Tavscarf and Gale are both sacked out. Gale snores contentedly, having hit himself in the face with a Sleep spell. Tavscarf’s fingers keep going, twiddling bits of his fish-net scarf, but he too is swiftly snoring, a rather pleasant tone in G-major. Astarion glances up from his book, noting their weakness. Two down, that leaves only–

“What were you two talking about?” demands a petulant voice.

Shadowheart moves with surprising stealth, for a cleric. Astarion isn't exactly caught off-guard, not that easily, but he does raise his eyebrows before his chin, as he sees the half-elven girl appear at the edge of his camp, her stance wary but defiant.

She'd been hoping he would come over to her, but the pale elf had just stood by his tent, shining in the moonlight, just... standing and shining and stuff. And he's just... he's up to something, she knows it. It was intolerable. It was keeping her awake. He needed to be confronted; so here she is, drawn like a moth to a flame.

She'd thought he'd be less imposing out of his prideful and puffy armor, but the loose ruffled shirt reveals a lean-muscled chest like white marble, and she can't help but wonder if his silver curls are as soft as they look. She wonders if his pure Elven blood is what calls to that bit of the Fey in her; there's something incredibly attractive, magnetic, about him. As enigmatic as he is, he doesn't -try- to be anything-- he simply -is-. The confident coolness of a perfect, practiced, polished predator.

Astarion tries not to drool. This whole situation must be some new illusion, some dream torture of Cazador's, sent to test him. To tempt him into... misbehavior. Free? Far from any witnesses? Lost in the wilderness with a matched set of utterly idiotic and delectable regional varietal blends, guarded only by a clueless and probably deliciously refined academical who literally spends half of his time unconscious? It just isn't fair.

"I beg your pardon?" Astarion says, and Shadowheart feels a shiver run down the back of her neck. His voice is complex, hypnotic; he could mean anything, and the imagination is eager to supply suggestions.

"You and... Tavscarf," she says, with a bit of a sneer. "Our leader."

"Ah. I was meaning to ask about that," Astarion says, marking the place in his book and setting it aside. "Why... exactly... are you with-- him?"

Astarion's voice is light, as light as a fingertip brushing a trap. Because Shadowheart, for all her girlish charm, is the only one in the camp who is quite capable of kicking his pale ass back to six feet under, and he's well aware of that. A man in his position needs to look out for himself, but that also means finding a meat-shield or two to hide behind.

A nice, simple plan comes to mind as he looks at Shadowheart, sees that familiar quickening of the pulse in her throat, the rise of pink to the tips of her pointed ears as he lets his ruby eyes click into contact with hers. There's no need of a tadpole to tell what's on her mind as she looks at him.

"He saved my life," she retorts, defensively. "He let me out of my pod, on the ship."

"Yes, well, I think we know now that acts of utter stupidity at any personal risk are not exactly rare occurrences from our fearless leader," Astarion replies with a slight smirk. "Don't think yourself special."

"And I think I've paid back that debt, a few times over, now," Shadowheart agrees, rolling her eyes, then recovering her sternness. "But don't change the subject. What were you talking about?"

"Some whimsical nonsense about freedom and so forth," Astarion shakes his head dismissively, and steps a little closer, with a slight sly tilt to his elegant mouth. "Something about exploring new opportunities, new excitements."

Shadowheart narrows her eyes at Astarion’s response. She knows he is up to something. She's been watching him, ever since he joined their group at the point of a blade. Certain suspicions have been forming. “And what kind of opportunities and excitements are you talking about?” she asks skeptically, folding her arms over her chest.

Astarion steps even closer to Shadowheart. She feels like the heat of his body must be radiating through the cool night air, but perhaps that's only her own skin warming “Oh, just the kind that come with being free,” he says, lowering his voice to a seductive murmur. “The kind where we can do whatever we want, without any rules or restrictions holding us back. Whatever's in our past-- it can't get at us. Not here, not yet."

Shadowheart feels a flutter in her stomach, like stepping out onto a brink, but thinking, maybe, you could actually fly, as if in a dream or a spell. The past... what is her past? She knows her mission, knows her faith, but her past...?

These feelings of warmth and excitement, this shiver almost of intoxication as the wind shifts and she can smell Astarion's skin. A faint smell like expensive cologne, dark woods and bitter herbs and a husky hint of leather. Has she ever felt this way before? Were there others, who'd set her trembling with a mere glance, or was this the first time? Her first time? She... doesn't know. She can only trust in Shar. And if she's right about Astarion's true nature, Shar would likely approve of him as a companion far more than the cloying optimism of Tavscarf.

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Easy... don't push it. Not too fast, not too hard. Dangle the bait, but leave them wanting more before you try to sink the hook. Let her own imagination do most of the work. Back off a bit, now.

Astarion smiles slightly, like a cat, as he pulls back slightly. "Of course, the little tadpole issue is in the forefront of our minds, I'm sure."

"Literally," Shadowheart agrees a bit weakly, but they share a slight smile at the acknowledged joke. That shared flicker, and perhaps the tadpole perks up a bit at hearing itself mentioned, but there's a short, genuine connection.

Astarion feels the nervousness of her thoughts, she tastes the hunger in his, and as suddenly as the connection links their minds, it also jerks them apart in mutual paranoia and suspicion.

"Don't try to trick me," Shadowheart snaps, as her walls slam down around her again, so clearly that Astarion almost jumps slightly, as though dodging a snapping trap. "I've been watching you. I know -exactly- what you really are. You may have the others fooled, but not I."

Astarion is glad that genetics and undeath have left him unable to go any paler than he already is. "Oh really?" he drawls, leaning back, and lightly brushing the ruffles of his shirt, as though cleaning himself-- a motion calculated to distract from the fact of his other hand reaching behind himself for where his rapier is leaning against a winecask. "And what am I? Say it. Aloud." His hand closes on the hilt of the blade and he waits for her answer, as his muscles tense like fine flexible steel.

Shadowheart glowers-- she doesn't have a weapon, but Shar protects her-- and her spell slots have all refreshed with the fall of her Lady's blessed darkness and night. This man may be a vision from a dark and steamy night, but he is not to be trusted, by his very nature.

"You're.... a -rogue-," she growls.

Astarion blinks. "A... rogue?"

"I saw you. Picking locks. Finding traps. Sneaking," she adds, with a smirk. Her service to Lady Shar and the ways of trickery and stealth have taught her well. "You're a rogue. And that means you're probably also a thief."

Her expression hardens further, as she thinks of the priceless relic she carries. Does he know about it? What would he do if he did? "You're probably just waiting for all of us poor little non-elves to fall asleep, so you can rob us blind, and probably cut our throats into the bargain."

Don't laugh. Do NOT laugh. If you laugh, she will probably try to kill you out of sheer embarrassment, and even though she'll almost certainly miss with her first attempt, it'll wake up the other two-- and besides, could this be any more perfect? Not one, but TWO gullible idiots in the same group? Perhaps I didn't survive the crash at all. Perhaps this is some sort of twisted afterlife that I've earned for being such a very good naughty boy for so long, after so much suffering.

"I..." Astarion's expression is one of his beautiful but meaningless ones-- it could be contrition, if it wasn't so smug, or amusement, if it wasn't almost apologetic. "My dear, I must confess. You have me dead to rights." Don't smirk. Do the puppy eyes. "I am a rogue; stalker of shadows, tickler of tumblers, filcher of purses. At your service." He bows elegantly. Try a hand-kiss? No, better not. "And may I say, it is an honor to be unmasked by a lady of such discernment. No one else has known me so well, so swiftly. I must say, you are truly special, Shadowheart. Perhaps we share a connection deeper than the tadpole, hmm?"

Shadowheart's expression softens slightly, but she still has her guard up. "You think smooth talk will get you out of this? I won't let my guard down around you. And if you steal from me, or any of us-- the tadpole will be the least of your worries."

"Darling, I have no intention of robbing you, or of harming you in the slightest," Astarion lies as easily as a fine Calimshan carpet. "We are allies, after all. 'Adventuring companions', as our wizard would put it. Dare I say, perhaps soon, friends?"

Now he does extend a hand, graceful, alluring, and she finds her own lifting to take it. "I assure you, my considerable skills... and talents... and techniques..."

His hand clasps hers as though in agreement and alliance, but as he then pulls away, the tips of his fingers brush the veins of her wrist, drawing goosebumps up her arm, and his smile flickers with a feral edge. "--are here to bring you nothing but aid and enrichment."

Shadowheart's heart races as she feels the electricity between them. She can't deny the attraction she feels towards Astarion, despite her better judgment. She pulls her hand away and crosses her arms, trying to hide the fact that his touch almost made her shiver with desire.

"Fine," she says, stubbornly. "But I'll be keeping my eye on you."

Astarion's smile widens, almost predatorily, as he takes a step closer to her. "Oh, please do," he purrs, his eyes flickering with a dangerous glint. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

"And speaking of keeping watch," Shadowheart says quickly, "It's my turn. You can sleep. Or whatever it is you pure elves do," she adds, with a huff.

"Oh, I believe a little stroll in nature will suit my elven soul best at present," Astarion says with a smile. "I'll see you... later."

"I'll see you first," Shadowheart blurts, although she's not sure what she means by it. But the pale elf has already melted into the shadows.

Shadowheart sits by the fire with her crossbow across her lap, listening to the snores of Tavscarf and the snores and occasional fart from Gale.

She doesn't notice as, in the darkness beyond the firelight, the sounds of the night animals grow hushed, as the forest senses a predator on the move.