The sun barely dips to the horizon, its reddened side leaving a pleasant imprint on the inside of Astarion’s eyelids as he feels the weight of the glass of wine in his palm. Astarion pauses, taking a sip. Lush taste rests on his tongue. The Middle City is bathed in the rich gold and pink of the evening sky, late-summer warmth leaving lazy hot air making everything glow. Surrounded by large gardens and a wide forest on the other side of the street running just behind the line of smaller buildings (for the ‘poor’ who magically afforded the place), Willow street looks exactly as he wants it to be: busy, distant, and still his. He’ll never get tired of the sight of the sun — not when the mere thing separating him from darkness is this tiny ring on his finger. Shea left a few hours ago, and since then, he’s been blissfully alone. After viewing the newest documents on the case, Astarion sets it aside for Monday. It’s Friday, after all. The mans’ got some resting to do, for fuck’s sake. Or so he thinks. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound of a ball bouncing against the cobblestones jolts him from his bliss. He frowns, glancing down just in time to see some tiny kid running wild near his door, gleefully hurling the damn thing with all their might, as if his perfect lawn is a playground. Astarion can’t help but scowl. Of all the places in this city, it has to be right in front of his house. His sanctuary, where he’s come to escape the annoying chaos of the outside world. Perfect. Just perfect. His Friday evening is officially ruined. With a dramatic sigh — because why not? — he drains the last of his wine, the warmth of it pooling in his stomach, then pushes himself up from his comfortable perch. If no one else is going to deal with this chaos, he’ll have to do it himself. He crosses the street, his footsteps echoing on the pavement as he heads toward the house across from his. A much smaller one, looking shabby a bit — Astarion has seen it empty most of the time these few years. His mind races with all the sharp retorts he could fling at this careless parent who lets their kid run amok. But as he reaches the door, he pauses, hand raised, ready to knock. The door swings open, and Astarion is ready to attack. And he does. “Darling, so here’s the deal, you’ve lost your kid, it seems,” he snaps, his tone dripping with irritation. “Can you fetch that little brat before I lose my mind?”