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Summary
Astarion is thirty-nine years old when he dies in a cold alley, the moon a bright and lonely thing over him. He emerges from a coffin shivering and weak, born anew, he emerges and he kneels.
He’s forty-two when his sire and master takes a needle to his back in the making of a terrible, terrible thing that lasted an entire night, too weary to even cry.
He’s sixty-eight when Cazador seals him shut in a coffin of his own making, and someone else digs him up, hands glowing with a terrifying magic.
Or
Someone gifted Raphael a pretty little thing, sickly and pale as pure snow. It’s delicate and empty-eyed, sweet as a doll. It bears a contract in the name of his father.