Zeh sprinted forward, his heart pounding in his chest, his boots crunching against the sand. He stopped abruptly, ducking behind a jagged boulder for cover. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps as he peeked out, taking in the scene before him. Tension hung thick in the air like an invisible storm cloud, and the battlefield was poised on the brink of chaos.
Ahead of him stood two groups, locked in a silent standoff. On one side, the Guild warriors, clad in their signature dark green cloaks that seemed to ripple like poison ivy in the breeze, their weapons gleaming wickedly under the dim moonlight. On the other side were his companions, their red armor and cloaks marking them as clear adversaries. The stark contrast between the two groups—their colors, their stances, their determination—only deepened the weight of the moment.
Zeh’s gaze shifted to the right, where the ship they had sailed on from the Moonrise Towers rested ominously. Even from this distance, he could sense it—the cursed aura that clung to the vessel, as though the darkness of that wretched place had seeped into its very wood. The faint stench of death and decay wafted from the ship, a chilling reminder of the horrors they had faced. Despite being days away from that cursed land, its presence lingered like a shadow they couldn’t escape.
At the center of his group stood Cairos, their leader, a fearsome Asmodeus tiefling. He towered over most, his crimson skin glowing faintly in the moonlight, his thick horns curling back like a crown of menace. In his hands, he hefted a war hammer, its head etched pulsinh faintly with fiery magic. His golden eyes, cold and calculating, were fixed on a single figure standing before him—a rock gnome woman.
Despite her small stature, the woman radiated an aura of sheer lethality. Zeh’s spine tingled as memories of her previous attacks flashed through his mind. She had been a whirlwind of destruction, her daggers dancing through the air like deadly stars. She had cut down many of his comrades with terrifying precision, leaving their bodies broken and lifeless. The weight of her gaze, hardened and unyielding, was enough to make even the most seasoned warrior hesitate.
“You’ve been warned,” the gnome said, her voice calm yet edged with steel. Her hands hovered near the hilts of her daggers, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. Behind her, the Guild warriors shifted, their weapons drawn, their expressions grim with resolve.
Cairos, undeterred, gripped his hammer tighter, his massive frame tensing as he prepared to charge. His people followed suit, weapons at the ready, the promise of violence in their stances. But just as Cairos took a step forward, he froze.
The battlefield seemed to hold its breath.
Everyone’s eyes widened in collective shock as the shadows beneath Cairos and his group began to writhe unnaturally. Like living tendrils, the darkness expanded and stretched, coiling around their bodies. Panic flashed across their faces, but no screams escaped their lips. The shadows surged upward, consuming them silently, dragging them into an abyss from which no sound or light escaped.
Zeh’s heart thundered in his chest as he glanced down. He felt something beneath him—a shift in the earth, a cold, creeping sensation crawling up his legs. Before he could react, he was yanked downward, the shadows swallowing him whole.
From the depths of the consuming darkness, Alex emerged.
He stepped forward silently, his hood shrouding his face in a void-like blackness that seemed to absorb the light around him. The Guild warriors tensed, their weapons raised, their eyes darting nervously. The rock gnome tightened her grip on her daggers, her gaze locked on Alex. Despite her fearsome demeanor, Zeh could see the uncertainty flicker in her eyes.
“Who are you?” the gnome demanded, her voice sharp but cautious, as if afraid to provoke the figure before her.
Alex didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his cloak and withdrew a rolled-up map. Without a word, he extended it toward her and unfurled it at her feet. The gnome’s eyes narrowed as she knelt to examine the map.
“What’s this?” she asked, her voice steady but edged with suspicion.
Alex’s voice was low and calm, yet it carried an authority that silenced the murmurs around him. “These are locations that have been infiltrated by doppelgangers.”
The gnome’s breath hitched slightly as her eyes scanned the map. Red "X" marks dotted the map, indicating key locations in Baldur’s Gate—places of power and influence. Whispers erupted among her group as they recognized the significance of the marked sites. Many of them were seats of power, homes of leaders, and crucial strongholds. If what Alex claimed was true, the danger these infiltrators posed was immeasurable.
The gnome’s hardened gaze flicked back to Alex. For a moment, she studied him, her sharp mind racing to understand his motives. Then, without a word, she snatched up the map and tucked it into her pocket. She understood the unspoken message: this information was not a favor—it was a task, a responsibility he had handed to them. Alex had no intention of dealing with the doppelgangers himself. His plate was already full, but he had ensured the Guild would take on the burden.
With a small nod of acknowledgment, Alex stepped back. The shadows coiled around him like living things, and in an instant, he vanished, swallowed by the darkness.
The silence that followed was deafening. The Guild members stood frozen, their weapons still drawn, their gazes darting around the clearing as if expecting the shadows to strike again. Minutes passed, and slowly, the tension began to ease. Weapons were lowered, and the group relaxed, though the unease lingered like a ghost.
“Farlin, who the hell was that guy?” asked Bug, a stocky gold dwarf with a thick beard and a wary look in his eyes.
Farlin, the gnome leader, turned to him, her expression unreadable. “I don’t know who—or what—he was,” she said slowly, her voice quiet but firm. “But he just handed us a job. A big one.”
With that, she turned on her heel, waving her team to follow. The Guild warriors fell into step behind her, their footsteps heavy with the weight of what lay ahead.
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Dolos stood in the dimly lit room, a proud smile curling on his lips as he surveyed the scene before him.
Dolos a dwarf , was a stout and menacing figure, his broad, muscular frame clad in deep crimson leather armor . His bald head gleamed under the dim light, while a thick, neatly groomed beard framed his sneering lips, adding a sinister charm to his expression. His piercing eyes held a predatory gleam, as though he was always calculating, always hunting for the next moment of chaos to revel in.
The air was thick with tension and the acrid stench of his poisons. On the cold, stone floor, a Flaming Fist soldier lay sprawled, her body convulsing weakly. Her jaw hung slack, her breathing shallow and ragged as the venom coursed through her veins, stealing her strength with every tortured gasp. Her eyes, glassy and desperate, darted around as if searching for salvation, but none would come. Dolos could barely restrain his excitement. He would savor her death later—oh, how he would—but for now, there was another prize demanding his attention.
Sitting paralyzed in a high-backed chair before an ornate mirror was Figaro, the once-proud dwarven merchant, owner of one of the most popular clothing stores in Baldur’s Gate. His dark skin gleaming under the dim light of the room, covered with sweet. His neatly braided hair was a testament to his meticulous nature, each strand woven with precision that matched the craftsmanship of the tools he used in his trade. His sharp eyes, once filled with the quiet confidence of a master artisan, now flickered with desperation and terror as they darted around the room. Dressed in a richly adorned blue tunic embroidered with intricate golden patterns, Figaro had exuded an air of authority and pride, his appearance reflecting his status as tailor of unparalleled skill. Yet, as he sat paralyzed before the mirror, his sweat-drenched skin and trembling hands betrayed the dire circumstances that had reduced him to a state of silent, helpless fear.
His wide, frantic eyes flicked around the room, filled with terror as they locked onto Dolor. He could do nothing but sit, watch, and wait for the doom that crept ever closer.
Dolor approached him slowly, deliberately, savoring the fear radiating from the dwarf. With a mocking gentleness, he placed a hand on Figaro’s trembling shoulder, his touch a perverse imitation of comfort. Moving behind the tailor, Dolor’s dagger glinted menacingly in his hand as he pressed it lightly to the dwarf's throat. The blade’s cold kiss against warm flesh made Figaro’s eyes widen further, the only movement he could muster.
Leaning in close, Dolor whispered into Figaro's ear, his voice a poisonous blend of malice and mockery. “It’s unusual for the prey to provide the tools of its own butchery,” he said, his lips curling into a cruel smile. Straightening, Dolor turned his attention to the counter beside the mirror, where Figaro’s finely crafted tools lay meticulously arranged. His fingers hovered over the collection—razors, scissors, nail files—gleaming and sharp, each promising pain in its own unique way.
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“Razors, scissors, nail files...” Dolos mused aloud, his voice laced with sinister delight. “So many ways to cut, so little time to savor them all.” His hand settled on a long pair of scissors, their polished blades catching the flickering light as he lifted them. “But who am I to deny the auspices of destiny? After all, tonight is a celebration, Master Figaro.” He stepped closer to his captive, his footsteps echoing softly in the chamber.
The scissors in his hand felt weighty with promise as Dolor raised them to Figaro’s neck, the tips barely grazing the skin. A thin bead of blood welled up from the shallow cut, tracing a crimson path down the dwarf’s throat. Dolor inhaled deeply, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he relished the intoxicating blend of sweat, fear, and blood. “You have the delicious honor of being my crowning achievement,” Dolor whispered, his voice trembling with dark ecstasy. “Your body will be my ultimate gift to my lord, Bhaal.”
The dwarf's heartbeat thudded wildly beneath Dolor’s hand, each frantic beat a symphony of terror. He lingered there, savoring the moment, the spasms of Figaro’s muscles beneath his grip like the final notes of a dying melody. “Together,” Dolor finally said, his voice a reverent whisper, “we shall transcend.”
But he wasn’t done yet. Dolor stepped back, circling Figaro like a predator toying with its prey. “You see,” he continued, a grin spreading across his face, “’Facemaker’ is a bold title to give oneself, Master Figaro. Especially when one’s face can be... unmade so easily.” His grip on the scissors tightened, and without warning, he lunged forward.
The sharp blades plunged into his back, slicing through flesh and bone with a sickening crunch. The tip emerged from the dwarf’s chest, piercing his heart.
Dolor's grin faltered as he looked down. A blade had impaled him, its dark metal glistening with his own blood. His mind raced in confusion as he turned his head, seeking the source of the attack.
Behind him stood a hooded figure, shrouded in shadows. The man’s face was obscured, a void of darkness that seemed to devour the light around it. Dolos’s lips parted to speak, but no words came out.
Tendrils of dark flesh sprouted from the hooded man’s arm, snaking toward Dolos with horrifying speed. They writhed and coiled like serpents, wrapping around his body and constricting him. The cold, slimy touch of the tendrils sent waves of terror coursing through him. He tried to scream, but the shadows choked the sound from his throat.
The tendrils tightened, digging into his flesh, tearing him apart piece by piece. His proud smile, his cruel laugh, his venomous taunts—all of it was consumed by the writhing darkness. Within moments, Dolos was no more. No blood, no body—just an empty silence where he had once stood.
The hooded figure lowered his blade, its writhing tendrils retracting back into his arm. He glanced briefly at Figaro before vanishing into the shadows, leaving nothing but a chilling void in his wake.
A moment later the door to the dimly lit room burst open with a deafening crash, the sound echoing off the walls like thunder. A group of Flaming Fist soldiers stormed inside, their boots pounding against the wooden floor, weapons drawn and gleaming in the faint light. Their faces were grim, their movements swift and deliberate as they scanned the scene before them. The air reeked of poison and blood, a suffocating miasma that turned their stomachs but did nothing to quell their resolve.
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The darkness inside Candulhallow's Tombstones shivered, as though recoiling from the presence of something otherworldly. Slowly, a figure materialized from the black void—a tall, hooded silhouette that stepped forward with quiet purpose. Alex stood unmoving for a moment, his sharp gaze scanning the room. The windows were draped in thick black curtains, blocking out every sliver of light. Yet, for Alex, the suffocating darkness was no obstacle.
Dust lay heavy on every surface, the air thick with the stagnant scent of decay and neglect. Coffins leaned haphazardly against the walls, their wooden frames cracked and dulled with time. Urns, etched with forgotten names, were scattered on shelves, accompanied by crumbling tombstones stacked like debris. Alex moved silently toward the counter, his boots stirring up faint puffs of dust that danced in the dim light of his psionic aura.
Without hesitation, he pressed his hand against the door near the counter and pushed it open, revealing a dimly lit workshop. The room smelled of sawdust and stone, the tools of a morbid trade laid out with eerie precision. Rows of raw materials—marble slabs, unpolished wood, and untouched metal—were stacked neatly along the walls, ready to serve their grim purpose. Alex barely spared the room a glance. His focus was on the door ahead, its worn wooden surface an unspoken invitation.
The next door creaked open under his touch, unveiling a small, claustrophobic chamber. Two desks and a book shelf filled the space, their surfaces cluttered with papers and tools. On the desk to the right, a parchment rested, yellowed and curling at the edges. Alex reached for it, his gloved fingers brushing the fragile paper as he read its words:
"If you seek the Tribunal, let death be your guide. For what is behind death but murder?"
His expression remained stoic as he folded the parchment and set it aside. His attention shifted to a picture hanging on the wall. Without hesitation, Alex slid the frame aside, exposing a hidden button beneath it. He pressed it, and the room rumbled softly. The bookshelf behind him groaned as it slid aside, revealing a hidden doorway. On the door, a bloody handprint stood stark against the weathered wood—a grotesque seal of Bhaal’s followers.
Alex’s gaze flickered toward a small metal chest tucked against the wall. With a subtle flex of his psionic power, the chest clicked open. Inside was a letter. He pulled it free, scanning its contents.
*"Clerk Dravidge—
Remember, you are in the business of making Candulhallow's Tombstones look like a genuine retail establishment. Keep all the prices about half-again too high so you don't sell very much inventory. Think of the shop as a stage set rather than an actual going concern.
"The Management"
The letter crumpled in his hand as he tossed it aside with disdain. He already knew the truth of this place—it was a front, a facade to hide the operations of the Murder Tribunal, an unholy cult of Bhaal’s assassins.
Alex turned toward the bloody door, his form shimmering for a moment before phasing through the wood like a wraith. His boots whispered against a winding stone staircase as he descended into the Tribunal’s sanctum. The walls around him, built from ancient, crumbling stone bricks, carried the weight of centuries. Their cold surfaces seemed to exude the chill of death.
As Alex reached the bottom of the staircase, he paused. The room opened into a storage space cluttered with crates, barrels, and sacks spilling their forgotten contents. To his left, an archway beckoned, its darkened passage leading deeper into the underground lair. To his right, a balcony overlooked an eerily foggy expanse of water that stretched into obscurity.
He strode through the archway, the air growing heavier with every step. Banners bearing the crimson skull of Bhaal hung from the walls, their fabric tattered and stained. The structure was ancient, its foundations cracked and groaning under the weight of time. Collapsed staircases and broken pathways spoke of a place long abandoned by all but the devoted and the damned.
Descending another flight of stairs, Alex arrived in a chamber dimly lit by torches. Their flames flickered and sputtered, casting jagged shadows across the walls. A parchment sat on a tripod in the center of the room. Alex approached and read the scrawled words:
"Flaming Fist ahead."
His gaze shifted to the broken balcony just beyond, where a dented shield bearing the Flaming Fist insignia lay discarded on the stone floor. He stepped forward and leaped lightly over the gap, landing silently in the mist-covered chamber below. The oppressive fog clung to him like an unwelcome shroud, muffling the air and dulling sound.
Alex’s boots scraped softly against the stone as he walked the perimeter of the chamber. Amid the gloom, he found a practice dummy stabbed with dull daggers and a weathered chest containing a few scattered gold coins. He barely spared the findings a thought before turning back and retracing his steps.
Once back across the broken balcony, Alex pressed deeper into the labyrinthine sanctum. He phased through another wooden door, emerging into a room shaped like a cross. This chamber was brighter, its walls lined with torches burning with unnatural ferocity. At its center , in the stone floor was a strange metal symbol with many points , its surface etched with cryptic symbols that pulsed faintly in the dim light.
The air grew thicker as Alex ventured deeper into the chamber, his steps echoing ominously in the vast emptiness. He turned left, his gaze falling on three figures clad in imposing armor, their forms obscured by heavy steel plates that gleamed faintly in the flickering torchlight. They stood like statues, each holding a massive weapon at their side. Their presence exuded menace, and the air seemed to chill as Alex approached.
The foremost figure stepped forward, his armor clanking with the weight of his movement. The metal visor hid his face, but his voice emerged distorted and hollow, carrying a sense of ancient wrath.
"Present me well with gifts thine own, or flesh I shall rend from bone," the knight intoned, his gauntleted hand resting ominously on the hilt of his sword.
Alex’s expression remained cold, unshaken. His eyes ignited with an eerie green glow, tendrils of necrotic energy swirling around him. He raised his hand, and the air filled with a low, guttural hum as the energy coalesced. The knights barely had time to react before their forms were engulfed in the sickly green aura. Their armor groaned as the magic seeped into their bodies, twisting and binding their wills to Alex’s power.
The Death Knights staggered momentarily, their weapons clattering to the ground. Then, as if puppets on strings, they stepped aside in perfect unison, their glowing eyes locked on Alex in unwavering obedience. Without a word, Alex strode past them, pushing the massive metal gate before him. The door creaked open with an echoing groan, revealing the Murder Tribunal’s sanctum.
A crimson carpet stretched out before him, leading into a chamber bathed in golden torchlight. The flickering flames danced across walls adorned with banners bearing Bhaal’s grim sigil—a crimson skull wreathed in death. Piles of skulls were heaped in the corners, their hollow sockets seeming to watch Alex as he advanced. The air was heavy with the stench of dried blood, and the faint sound of whispers, like the echoes of the damned, carried through the room.
At the far end of the chamber, a series of thrones rose on a dais of bone and stone. Three figures sat in grim silence on thrones carved from jagged skeletal remains, their blood-soaked forms sat tall with an unnatural stillness. Their skin, stained with streaks of crimson, seemed to shimmer in the dim light, their eyes glinting with malice.
But Alex’s gaze did not linger on them. His attention was drawn higher, to the throne that towered above the others, larger and more imposing. There sat a figure of immense stature, clad in an ornate suit of silvery armor. His presence was a chilling mixture of majesty and dread. The helmet he wore was a grotesque masterpiece—a monstrous design that framed his head as though it were being devoured by the open jaws of a beast. Long, curved horns jutted forward like the horns of a charging bull, lending him an air of brutal dominance.
The figure’s gauntleted hands rested on the arms of the throne, their claws scraping faintly against the bone surface. His glowing eyes burned like molten gold, fixed unblinkingly on Alex as if weighing his soul. Around him, the oppressive aura of death and power grew palpable, pressing against Alex’s senses like an invisible force.
The chamber was alive with the macabre—an altar to murder, a temple to death. Alex advanced steadily, his own presence unyielding, his steps carrying the weight of defiance as he approached the Tribunal. This was a den of predators, but Alex was no prey.