The Flaming Fist soldier who had spoken to the girl turned back toward her, his voice trembling slightly. "Is that… your mother?"
The girl looked up, her eyes widening as hope sparked amidst her grief. She scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping over her cat as she rushed toward the barn door. The soldier caught her gently, steadying her as they stepped outside together.
The woman’s head lolled as the adventurer carrying her approached. His gaze was steady and determined. “She’s weak, but she’ll make it.”
The little girl let out a cry, her hands flying to her mouth as fresh tears streamed down her face—this time, tears of relief. She broke free from the soldier’s grasp, running to her mother’s side. The adventurer knelt down carefully, placing the woman on the ground so the girl could embrace her.
“Momma!” the girl cried, clutching her mother’s hand tightly.
The woman focused on the tear-streaked face before her. A faint, weary smile curved her lips. “Yenna…” she whispered, her voice hoarse but full of love.
The scene was so raw, so achingly human, that even the hardened Flaming Fist soldiers couldn’t look away. Some shifted uncomfortably, their stoic masks cracking as they witnessed the fragile reunion.
Alex pulled a small pouch, its faint metallic jingle betraying its contents, and the bracelet Yenna had give it to him from his clothes. Kneeling down, he extended it toward Yenna and her mother, his expression calm and gentle.
“Here,” he said softly, his voice carrying both warmth and resolve. “This should be enough for a while—until you’ve fully recovered.” His gaze lingered on the mother, the lines of weariness on her face not lost on him.
The woman hesitated, her hands trembling as they hovered above the pouch. “I… I can’t take this,” she murmured, her voice tight with emotion. “You’ve already done so much—”
Alex’s gaze hardened slightly, not with anger, but with an unyielding kindness that left no room for refusal. He pressed the pouch gently into her hands. “Please,” he said firmly. “For her.” His eyes flicked toward Yenna, who stood at her mother’s side, clutching the hem of her ragged dress.
With a reluctant nod, the woman opened the pouch, and her breath caught audibly. Her knees buckled, and she grasped her daughter for support as the gleam of gold coins filled her vision. “This… this is too much,” she whispered, tears welling up again.
Alex gave her a faint smile, then stood, brushing his hands off. As he turned to leave, his sharp senses caught the subtle shift in the air behind him. He glanced over his shoulder at the Flaming Fist soldiers, who stood still, their eyes narrowing as they exchanged tense looks. They didn’t say a word, but their hardened gazes spoke volumes. Someone who could hand out that much gold so freely was either exceedingly wealthy or unnervingly resourceful—both qualities that drew suspicion.
Alex held their gaze for a moment, unflinching, then turned back toward his companions. “Let’s move,” he said simply, his tone calm but with an undercurrent of authority.
The group began walking, but Alex soon slowed his pace. "Guys, I need to take a leak," he called out casually. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Shadow’s pained voice echoed through their telepathic link, a low, strained growl. 'Are you done? When can you heal me?' he pleaded, the agony palpable in his mental tone.
Alex didn’t reply immediately, slipping into a narrow alleyway as the rest of his party disappeared around the corner. His expression hardened as he stepped into the shadows, his form dissolving into the darkness itself.
In a blink, Alex reappeared in the abandoned barn Shadow had retreated to, the space silent except for the faint creaks of the dilapidated structure. His gaze immediately locked onto Shadow sprawled on the ground, his massive, brawler-like frame marred with grievous wounds. Blood seeped from deep gashes, pooling beneath him. One wound in particular stood out—a vicious, jagged cut across his chest, so deep it exposed the organs. Shadow’s clawed hand pressed against it weakly, trying in vain to stem the bleeding.
Shadow lifted his head slightly, his animalistic features contorted in pain. Despite the beastly nature of his form, his suffering was unmistakably human. His glowing eyes flickered faintly as he locked onto Alex.
He rushed to Shadow’s side, dropping to one knee and placing his hands over the largest wound. A faint aura still lingered around it, crimson and sickly, like a curse etched into the flesh.
“I’m here,” Alex murmured, his voice steady, though his jaw clenched.
As he concentrated, the orb embedded in his chest pulsed faintly, resonating with the remnants of the foreign aura. The energy resisted for a moment, but the orb consumed it hungrily, its power flickering briefly before fading and Shadow’s flesh began to knit itself back together.
Green necrotic energy spread from Alex’s hands, seeping into Shadow’s battered body. The wounds closed slowly at first, then faster, the grotesque gashes vanishing as healthy tissue regenerated. Shadow let out a low, relieved growl as the pain eased.
Finally, after several tense moments, Shadow pushed himself onto all fours. His form was whole again, his injuries gone. He bowed his head low, his massive frame trembling slightly—not from weakness, but from gratitude.
Alex placed a hand on Shadow’s head, their mental link deepening. Memories flooded his mind—the brutal fight Shadow had endured, the madness in the stranger’s voice, and the crimson dagger glinting with an unnatural light.
'Orin,' Alex thought darkly. Shadow’s memories made it clear: the stranger had wielded her weapon and used the Netherstone embedded in to heal her own wounds during the fight.
The resonance from the stone echoed faintly within Alex, his own Netherstone—obtained after consuming the Apostle of Myrkul—humming quietly in response. It sat dormant in his chest, embedded within the orb, enigmatic and elusive. Though Alex had attempted to unlock its secrets, the stone’s true power continued to elude him. But seeing Orin wield hers with such devastating effect brought clarity. He had been missing something crucial—something he needed to uncover soon.
Alex pulled his hand back, meeting Shadow’s glowing gaze. “Good job,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a rare note of warmth.
Shadow gave a solemn nod, then dissolved into Alex’s shadow, vanishing completely. Alex stood alone in the barn for a moment, the quiet returning. He exhaled slowly, his mind already racing through the implications of what he’d learned.
Alex moved toward his party, their gazes fixed on an unfolding scene nearby. A woman from the Flaming Fist, clad in her signature armor, stood rigid, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword as she addressed a man who seemed to draw the attention of everyone around. The man was striking—an elf with pale skin, long black hair that shimmered in the faint light, and piercing blue eyes. His clothes were pristine, a sharp contrast to the weathered and worn attire of the surrounding crowd.
“I’m paid to take down troublemakers,” the Flaming Fist officer said sharply, her tone leaving no room for argument. “So don’t make trouble.”
The elf barely acknowledged her, brushing her words aside with an air of practiced arrogance. Spinning to face the gathered townsfolk, he raised his voice, his every word dripping with melodrama.
“Baldurians!” he bellowed. “Stand with me against the tide that threatens to overwhelm us!”
Astarion tilted his head, his lips curling into an amused smirk. “What tide is this clown prattling on about now?”
“Probably the remnants of the Absolute’s army,” Wyll answered, his tone measured. “I’ve heard rumors—small bands still attack the outskirts occasionally, but they’ve never managed to breach the city gates.”
“Tsk,” Lae’zel interjected, folding her arms and glaring at the elf. “If everyone here learned how to fight, this wouldn’t even be a conversation.”
“She’s got a point,” Karlach chimed in, her arms crossed.
Lae’zel shot her a pleased nod, enjoying the rare support.
The others exchanged glances. Wyll arched an eyebrow. “Not everyone needs to become a soldier,” he said diplomatically.
“I didn’t say that,” Karlach clarified. “But knowing how to swing a sword or loose an arrow could save a lot of lives. Even a little training goes a long way.”
The Flaming Fist officer groaned audibly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Please, just go home,” she barked at the elf. “You’re ruining a perfectly uneventful post with your nonsense.”
But the elf seemed immune to her irritation. He waved a dismissive hand and continued, raising his voice louder.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
“The Flaming Fist claims to protect this city,” he proclaimed, “but they let trash and vermin infest our streets! Our homes! Our livelihoods!”
Karlach’s eyes narrowed, her eye twitching. “This motherfu—” she growled, stepping forward, but Alex gently raised a hand, cutting her off.
The elf’s piercing blue eyes locked onto Alex, and a sneer curled across his lips. “Oh, another visitor, I see,” he said mockingly. “Let me guess—you’re here to defend the rabble, aren’t you?”
Astarion leaned closer to Wyll and whispered with a grin, “This is going to be good.”
The elf continued, gesturing theatrically. “If we keep letting the likes of you in, soon there’ll be no room left for real Baldurians!”
Alex’s expression remained calm, though his mind churned with irritation. This man had no idea what he was talking about. Baldur’s Gate wasn’t built on exclusivity; it was a city forged by outcasts and dreamers who sought a better life.
“Baldur’s Gate is the most diverse city in all of Faerûn,” Alex said, his voice steady and cutting. “A place where anyone can make their way—if they work for it. But I suppose you wouldn’t know that, judging by your accent. Rivingtonian, is it? That’s hard to miss.”
The elf’s eyes widened in indignation, his composure faltering for the first time. “Excuse me?! I was born within the city walls—a Baldurian through and through!” he snapped. “Clearly, wherever you’re from, they don’t teach manners.”
Astarion let out a delighted laugh, doubling over. “Oh, how tragic!” he exclaimed between chuckles.
Humiliated, the elf stormed off, his grandstanding brought to an unceremonious end.
However, the scene wasn’t over. A handful of townsfolk lingered, emboldened by the elf’s departure but wary of Alex. One man, a wiry human with a weathered face and suspicious eyes, stepped forward.
“You see them over there?” the man said, his voice low as he gestured toward a group of refugees huddled near the edge of the road. “Refugees, pah! Naught but a cover. I know what they really are…” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Dyed-in-the-wool agents of the Absolute. Mark my words.”
Alex’s eyes narrowed slightly, his mind turning over the man’s paranoia. He wouldn’t dismiss the possibility outright—tadpole-infected individuals could be hiding anywhere—but the sweeping accusation left a sour taste in his mouth.
“You really think all of them are Absolutists?” Alex asked, his tone sharp but even.
The man hesitated before shrugging. “Not all. Probably just a handful of rotten apples. But you know what they say about rot—it spreads. Quickly. Ruins the whole bunch.”
Astarion rolled his eyes dramatically. “Oh, for the love of—are we done entertaining these nutcases?” he said, inspecting his gloves as if the conversation bored him to tears.
The man’s face flushed red, and a few of the bystanders shot angry glares in Astarion’s direction. But the vampire spawn remained entirely unbothered, his smirk unshaken.
Alex suppressed a sigh...
Alex’s gaze shifted subtly to his right, drawn by a mind of radiating hostility from a nearby tent. Its vendor, a fair-skinned man with dark brown hair slicked back neatly, sported a thin moustache and goatee. He seemed engrossed in the wares displayed on his table, but the sharp tension in his mind betrayed his disinterest in the goods around him. His leather jerkin bore subtle signs of wear, and the twin daggers at on his back spoke of a man used to danger.
Sensing Alex’s scrutiny, the man glanced up, his eyes narrowing before a thin smile curved across his lips. He motioned for Alex to approach, his movements almost too casual.
"That your friend?" the man asked, gesturing toward Shadowheart, who lingered a few steps behind Alex.
Alex gave a small nod, his expression guarded, the faint glow of his eyes indicating he’d quietly cast True Sight.
The man leaned forward slightly, his tone conspiratorial. “Can she come closer? I might have something she’d find… interesting.”
Alex turned to Shadowheart, offering a subtle wave to draw her forward. She approached cautiously, her steps measured, her expression neutral but tense.
The vendor’s face soured as soon as she was within earshot. “I just lost a wager, thanks to you,” he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. “You’ve cost me gold, girl.”
Shadowheart frowned, her gaze piercing. “Who are you?” she demanded.
The man snorted. “Someone who bet you’d never be foolish enough to show your face in this city again. But here you are, bold as brass, and my purse is lighter for it.”
“Get to the point,” she snapped, her patience thinning.
The man smirked, a cruel edge to his demeanor. “There are whispers about you, sister. About your faith, your loyalty… and your choice of company.” His gaze flitted briefly to Alex before returning to Shadowheart. “I can’t help but feel a strange twinge of disgust as I look at you. Is it true? Has Our Lady forsaken you?”
Shadowheart’s jaw tightened, her fists clenching at her sides. Anger burned in her dark eyes, but her voice was steady when she spoke. “I know the truth. My parents are alive. Tell me where they are, and I’ll have no quarrel with you.” She paused, exhaling deeply to steady herself.
The man’s smirk widened into a sneer. “I’m afraid the quarrel is unavoidable now, thanks to you,” he replied smugly. “Your presence here demands action. I’ll have to report your appearance to the proper authorities. However…” He trailed off, feigning contemplation. “If you’re so intent on bringing matters to a head, seek out the House of Grief in the Lower City. Your answers await there.”
Shadowheart’s voice hardened, her eyes narrowing. “One question before you go. Is there someone called Rennald there? A tiefling with short horns and purple hair?”
The man’s expression flickered for a moment before settling into something darker. “Rennald…” he murmured, rolling the name off his tongue as if testing its weight. His eyes grew distant, his smirk never faltering. “Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in some time.” His voice was nostalgic, as if recalling the name of an old friend. “He is no more. I’ll leave the rest for you to discover. Heretic.”
Without another word, the man turned sharply and walked away, the faint clink of his daggers audible as he moved. He remained oblivious to the small, slithering tendril of shadow that slid into his own, vanishing into the darkness beneath his feet.
Shadowheart stood rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed on the ground. Her shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of his words pressing down on her.
Alex stepped closer, his presence grounding her. Gently, he placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch light but steady. She looked up at him, her composure wavering for a brief moment.
“Whatever awaits in that house,” Alex said softly, his voice steady, “you don’t have to face it alone.”
Shadowheart’s lips pressed into a thin line as she nodded, her resolve hardening. “I’ll find out the truth,” she murmured. “No matter what it takes.”
Alex’s hand lingered for a moment before falling back to his side. “We’ll be ready,” he assured her, his voice carrying quiet strength.
As the two rejoined the group, Shadowheart straightened her posture, her eyes sharp once more. Whatever the House of Grief held, she would meet it head-on—with her companions at her side.
Just as the group prepared to move on, Alex’s sharp ears picked up a pair of familiar voices. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he turned around, his eyes scanning for the source. Near a dilapidated warehouse, two young tiefling boys sat crouched together, whispering conspiratorially.
He recognized them immediately—Mattis and Mirkon. The memory of their time at the Emerald Grove surfaced vividly. Mattis, the cheeky little merchant, always trying to hustle a few coins, and Mirkon, the boy he had saved from the harpies’ deadly song. It felt like a lifetime ago, yet the sight of them now filled him with a strange sense of nostalgia and relief.
"We need a good place to hide anything we find," Mattis was whispering, his head darting around as he scanned the area.
"What about those stacks of hay?" Mirkon suggested, pointing to a nearby pile.
Mirkon’s shoulders slumped, disappointment clear on his face. But then his eyes darted toward Alex’s group, and his expression shifted to one of wariness. His tail twitched nervously as he tugged on Mattis’s sleeve.
Mattis, however, was unshaken. With his usual bravado, he straightened up and locked eyes with the approaching strangers, one by one. His confident smirk returned as he spoke.
“Hello, strangers! Fancy buying something? We’re having a special sale on some of the finest goods we’ve ‘acquired’ along the way. Top-quality stuff—interested?”
Alex crouched slightly to meet Mattis at eye level, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Show me these ‘fancy’ items you’ve got. Anything magical, perhaps?”
Mattis’s eyes lit up at the question. With a flourish, he rummaged through the haystack beside him, dragging out a battered old sack. He untied it with practiced ease and spread its contents across the ground.
“Would I try to fool a sharpy like you? Have a look!” Mattis said, his grin widening as he gestured to his wares.
The assortment was surprisingly diverse: clothes, a handful of arrows, a couple of potions, and what appeared to be random odds and ends. But what caught Alex’s attention was a necklace lying atop the pile. Its gold chain gleamed even in the dim light, and its amethyst-like gems shimmered with a faint magical aura.
“How much for this one?” Alex asked, pointing to the necklace.
Mattis’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “For you, good sir, it’s a bargain—500 gold pieces,” he said, flashing a confident grin as though the price was entirely reasonable.
Alex’s companions exchanged wide-eyed glances. Karlach let out a low whistle, while Astarion raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Really, darling, you’re just going to hand over that much gold?” Astarion asked, smirking.
Without hesitation, Alex reached into his cloak and pulled out a bulging pouch of gold. The coins clinked softly, and the tiefling boys’ eyes widened with wonder, their tails flicking excitedly behind them.
Mattis and Mirkon stared at the pouch as if it contained all the treasures of Faerûn. But as Mattis’s hand extended toward the gold, Alex spoke again, his tone shifting.
“Before we settle, I’ve got a question for you,” Alex said. His gaze softened slightly. “Do you know where the rest of the people from the grove are? Where they went after they left?”
Mattis froze mid-reach, his excitement dimming. He studied Alex more closely, suspicion flickering in his sharp eyes.
“Why do you want to know?” Mattis asked, his tone guarded.
Alex raised a hand to his face. With a quiet word, he dispelled the magic concealing his features. The illusion melted away, revealing his true face.
Mattis stiffened, his mouth parting slightly in shock. He grabbed Mirkon by the arm, who had been inching closer to the gold.
“It’s you…” Mattis said, his voice quieter now. Recognition dawned, and with it, a mixture of emotions: surprise, awe, and perhaps even a flicker of fear.
Mirkon’s face lit up. “It’s him!” he exclaimed, his fear forgotten as he practically bounced in place. “The one who saved me from the harpies! I told you about him, Mattis!”
Mattis didn’t reply immediately, his confidence faltering as he straightened up. His usual bravado was replaced with something more sincere. “We, uh… we didn’t think we’d see you again,” he said, his tail flicking nervously.
Alex offered a reassuring smile, his tone gentle. “It’s good to see you two again. But the others—do you know if they’re safe?”
Mattis hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. They’re scattered, but we’ve heard word here and there. They’ve been sticking together best they can. It’s been tough, but…” He trailed off, glancing at Mirkon.
“We’re okay,” Mirkon added quickly, his voice firm despite his small stature.
Alex placed a hand on Mattis’s shoulder, his voice steady. “That’s good to hear. Stay safe, both of you. And keep an eye out for each other.”
Mattis nodded, his confidence slowly returning. He handed over the necklace with a bit more care than before. “You earned this. And… thanks. For everything.”
As Alex rejoined his party, the two boys watched him go, their whispered conversation quieter.
A white crow, perched silently on a nearby tree, observed the exchange with keen interest. Its beady eyes took in every detail of the scene below. After a moment, it spread its wings and took flight, disappearing into the sky.