It is a hot summers night near the end of July. The city is a rising heat of activity but there is no house more lively than the estate on the hill. Lord Cazador Szarr is hosting one of his infamous, private soirées. Only the very best of the elite are lucky enough to be invited. Away from the prying eyes of the citizens, the grand house is flush with expensive drinks pouring down towers of glasses and live bands playing atmospheric tunes. The vampire Lord supplies the best entertainment.

Amongst the sea of politicians and noblemen rubbing elbows, Cazador's finest possessions are on show. He calls them his 'children' though the guests are well aware they bare no genetic relations. They are beautiful people, all with white hair and pale skin. Each one is adorned in provocative mesh and lace clothing, the finest material designed to barely cover their impressive forms. The party guests gravitate near them like moths to flames. The guests' curious hands skim down the spawn's arms and bold mouths leaves kisses against their necks.

Astarion is a handsome man clad in a white mesh shirt and the tightest trousers he's ever shimmied into. He cannot see his Master but he knows he lurks nearby, always watching and waiting for a slipup to punish. Astarion will try to avoid such a violent end to the evening.

A man currently has his gross panting mouth pressed against Astarion's pointy ear, babbling lewd compliments while almost spilling the glass in his loose hand. A woman sat next to him has a ringed hand splayed on his thigh. She keeps squeezing, groping the muscle there though she hasn't deigned to look at him yet, let alone speak to him.

Astarion is playing his part. He flexes his thigh under the woman's hand and tilts his head for the man to mouth at his neck. Performatively, he makes a soft breathy noise as if he likes any part of this. He wants to peel his skin off and wash it, front and back. Bored, he scans the crowd with heavily-lidded eyes.