The group stood just outside the entrance to the warehouse, the air heavy with the faint smell of dust and aged wood. The tiefling boys they’d met earlier were long gone, but the lingering noise of street vendors and refugees painted a vivid backdrop of desperation and survival.
Astarion crossed his arms, his blue eyes fixed on the table ahead, where Alex had just set down two hefty pouches of gold. His lips curled into a sardonic smirk.
"Where does he carry all that gold? I swear I didn’t hear a single clink—not even when he was sprinting ." he murmured.
Gale, standing just behind him, chuckled softly. "Perhaps it’s the work of that purple portal he summons every now and then. A convenient vault for someone so mysteriously well-stocked."
Astarion scoffed, flipping a strand of dark hair over his shoulder. "If that’s the case, he should donate some to me. My pockets are emptier than when I…" He faltered for a moment, his usual mask of humor slipping. For a brief second, the name Cazador hovered on the edge of his tongue, but he swallowed it quickly. His eyes darted around, paranoia flaring. Cazador’s spies could be anywhere—even in this unassuming, impoverished district. The thought made his skin crawl, and he shifted uncomfortably.
Ahead of them, Alex was speaking to a burly dwarf seated at a makeshift donation table. The man introduced himself as Manip Nestor, a member of the Flaming Fist tasked with gathering funds for the growing number of refugees pouring into Baldur’s Gate. His thick, calloused hands rested on a ledger, the pages worn from use, and his eyes were sharp but warm.
The table itself was laden with a few scrawled letters. To the left, next to another Flaming Fist, sat a large, locked chest reinforced with iron bands. Every so often, Nestor glanced toward a Flaming Fist guard stationed nearby, a silent deterrent for anyone with sticky fingers.
Alex placed the two pouches of gold onto the table, their weight making a satisfying thud. Nestor’s thick brows rose slightly as he glanced between the offering and Alex, a mix of gratitude and astonishment creeping across his face.
"That’s a generous donation," the dwarf said, his gruff voice carrying a note of respect.
"One thousand gold pieces," Alex said simply, his tone steady.
Nestor’s jaw tightened in surprise, but he recovered quickly, offering a small smile. "Thank you. Your contribution will go a long way. I’ll make sure the refugees get what they need."
As Nestor reached for his ledger to record the donation, Alex’s expression hardened. His voice lowered, taking on a subtle, melodic undertone that made it impossible to look away.
"And how can I be sure these coins will actually reach the refugees?" Alex asked, his tone sweet , even hypnotic yet piercing.
The air around the table grew tense. Nestor froze, his hand lingering on the page he was writing on. The Flaming Fist guard standing nearby blinked, his gaze going distant as if caught in some unseen fog.
The dwarf straightened, meeting Alex’s eyes with a look of steely resolve. "I swear on my honor as a soldier of the Flaming Fist," Nestor said firmly. "Be damned the one who dares misuse these donations. Every coin will go to those in need."
Alex studied him for a moment longer before offering a nod. "Good," he said, his tone softening. His eyes flicked to a nearby document on the table—a letter of complaint signed by someone named Saer Greatpoll.
"Saer Greatpoll," Alex said, almost to himself. "What does he look like?"
The question caught Nestor off guard, but the dwarf answered swiftly. "Elf. Pale skin, long black hair, and blue eyes. Clothes too pristine for someone wandering these streets. His voice was—let’s just say it took all my patience not to plant my fist in his smug face."
From behind, Karlach let out a soft snort and leaned down toward Wyll. "Can you imagine this guy punching an elf? He’d barely reach his nose."
Wyll chuckled, his good eye glinting with amusement. "I’d wager he’d aim for the knees instead."
Meanwhile, Alex’s fingers brushed the corner of the register where Nestor was still recording names. His sharp gaze skimmed through the entries, noting familiar ones: Zevlor, the tieflings from the Emerald Grove, and survivors from the Moonrise Towers prison. His face softened, and he cast a glance back at his companions.
"They made it, the people we saved and our friends." he said simply.
Karlach’s eyes lit up, and she grinned broadly. "Awesome," she said, clapping Wyll on the back. Shadowheart allowed herself a small, relieved smile, while Gale exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
But not everyone shared their sentiment. Lae’zel remained indifferent, her arms crossed as if the matter were beneath her, while Astarion gave a disinterested shrug. "Lovely. Shall we move on, or are we opening an orphanage next?"
Alex ignored the jab, turning back to Nestor. "Keep up the good work," he said, his voice sincere, before stepping away from the table.
As they walked, Astarion’s patience finally snapped. "Are we quite done playing charity for the day?" he drawled. "We’ve already wasted half the afternoon."
Before Wyll could respond, the ground beneath them shuddered violently.
The cobblestones rippled like water, and a low, guttural roar rose from deep within the earth. Buildings creaked and groaned as if struggling to stay upright, and the table behind them tipped over, spilling coins onto the ground.
"Tsk’va!" Lae’zel snarled, drawing her weapon instinctively. "By Gith’s honor, what madness is this?"
"It’s an earthquake!" Gale shouted, struggling to keep his balance. "And not a gentle one either! It feels like it could topple Ramazith’s Tower!"
Karlach stumbled, grabbing Wyll’s shoulder for support. "The fuck is this?!" she shouted, her usual bravado shaken. "I’ve never felt an earthquake in Baldur’s Gate!"
Wyll steadied her, his face grim. "By the gods, what’s happening?"
The quake grew stronger, and Shadowheart stumbled into Alex, clutching his arm tightly. "This isn’t natural," she hissed, her voice filled with unease.
The warehouse groaned ominously behind them, a stack of barrels crashing to the ground with explosive force. Refugees screamed, scrambling for safety as debris began to fall.
Then, as quickly as it began, the quake stopped. A heavy silence fell over the district, broken only by the distant toll of alarm bells. Dust hung thick in the air, and the ground was littered with cracks and fallen rubble.
Astarion straightened his tunic, his hands trembling despite his composed expression. "Well, that was delightful. If the ground could refrain from trying to swallow us whole, I’d be most grateful."
Alex’s eyes scanned the horizon, his expression grim. "That wasn’t just an earthquake," he said quietly.
Shadowheart turned to him, her voice wary. "What are you saying?"
"I’m saying," Alex replied, his voice steady but grave, "that someone—or something—caused this."
The party fell silent, their unease growing as the sound of distant chaos reached their ears. Whatever had stirred beneath the city wasn’t finished—and it wouldn’t be long before they’d have to face it.
"And how are you sure about it?" Gale asked, curious about how Alex had deduced this.
"Because Baldur's Gate sits on a stable continental crust, seismic activity here is nearly unheard of," Alex explained, his tone thoughtful but laced with concern. "This area lacks tectonic plate boundaries or significant fault lines, which are usually the cause of earthquakes. What’s more, the region’s geology—mostly compacted bedrock—should absorb shockwaves rather than amplify them. For an earthquake of this magnitude to occur, something deeply unnatural must be at play."
Gale nodded, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "A fascinating explanation, though one I’d rather not be pondering while the ground conspires to throw me off balance. Thank you for the detailed insight, Alex. It’s unsettling to think such forces are stirring beneath us."
"Hey, buddy," Karlach called out, her gravelly voice cutting through the ambient noise of distant alarms and murmurs.
A man, hastily making his way through the cracked cobblestone streets, turned toward her. His face was pale, his eyes darting nervously. "Yes?"
"Have these earthquakes been happening long?" she asked, her tone firm but kind, grounding the man in her steady presence.
The man shook his head vigorously, wiping sweat from his brow. "They started about two tendays ago. At first, they were so faint you’d barely notice—just a slight tremor, like a carriage rolling past too quickly. But lately, they’ve been getting worse. Stronger. I heard something collapse in the distance earlier. Now, I need to check if my house is still standing."
His voice cracked slightly at the end, panic creeping in. Without waiting for a response, he turned and bolted down the street, his footsteps echoing against the damaged buildings.
"Thank you!" Karlach called after him, her voice carrying warmth even as the man disappeared into the haze of dust and debris.
She turned back to the group, her hands resting on her hips. "So, what’s next?"
Alex exchanged a look with Astarion, the corner of his mouth lifting into a sly smirk.
The group arrived at the refugee encampment, close to the warehouse they had been, just as the evening sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. The scene was one of quiet desperation. Makeshift tents stretched in uneven rows, their fabric patched and threadbare. Families huddled together for warmth around small fires. The air carried the mingled scents of unwashed bodies, burning wood, and the faint metallic tang of blood.
Alex scanned the area, his gaze falling on a group of children clustered near a frail old man. The elder coughed violently into a scrap of cloth, his breath wheezing with each exhale. Beside him, a young girl held a bundle in her arms—a swaddled infant with pale skin and sunken eyes.
“Alex,” Shadowheart said softly, touching his arm. “These people… They’re suffering.”
He nodded, his jaw tightening. Without a word, he stepped forward, his presence drawing curious and weary eyes. Kneeling beside the old man, he placed a gentle hand on the elder’s bony shoulder. The man flinched, his rheumy eyes darting up to meet Alex’s.
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“It’s alright,” Alex said, his voice low and calming. “I’m here to help.”
From his palm, a soft, golden light began to glow, spilling over the man like a warm sunrise. The elder gasped as the healing energy coursed through him, easing his labored breathing and straightening his hunched back. The cough subsided, replaced by a look of wonder.
“I… I can breathe,” the man whispered, his voice trembling. He clutched Alex’s hand, tears streaming down his weathered cheeks. “Bless you, kind soul. Bless you.”
The children gathered around, their wide eyes filled with a mixture of hope and disbelief. One boy, no older than eight, tugged at Alex’s sleeve. “Mister… can you help my sister? She’s been sick for days.”
Alex turned to the boy and the bundle he was holding. The baby’s breaths were shallow, her tiny body limp. Alex took her into his arms, his expression softening as he cradled her with care.
He brushed a strand of dark hair from the infant’s forehead. Closing his eyes, he let the magic flow again. The golden light wrapped around the baby, brightening the sallow complexion and steadying the faint heartbeat.
The baby let out a soft cry, her voice clear and strong. The boy’s face lit up, and he burst into tears, throwing his arms around Alex.
“Thank you! Thank you!” the boy sobbed.
Others began to approach hesitantly, their faces etched with pain and fear. A woman with a deep gash on her arm. A man limping on a twisted ankle. A child clutching his stomach, his face pale from fever. One by one, Alex tended to them all, his magic flowing freely as he soothed wounds, mended bones, and banished illness.
As he worked, the atmosphere in the camp began to shift. Despair gave way to murmurs of hope. People smiled, some for the first time in weeks.
Karlach watched from the side, her arms crossed but her face soft. “You’ve got a knack for this, Alex,” she said, her voice warm. “It’s good to see people smiling again.”
Wyll stood by her side , a approving warm smile on his face.
Astarion, leaning against a post, smirked but didn’t comment. Even he couldn’t deny the warmth spreading through the camp.
The group moved through the bustling refugee camp, catching glimpses of familiar faces. Among them were tieflings from the Emerald Grove and survivors from Moonrise Towers. Some were doing remarkably well, even securing jobs in the city, while others were still struggling to find their footing. Despite their altered appearances, they greeted Alex and his companions warmly.
Alex’s gaze fell upon a tiefling woman clad in silvery armor that gleamed faintly in the dim light. He approached her, a sense of familiarity tugging at his memory.
“How is Zevlor?” Alex asked casually, studying her reaction.
The tiefling woman, Cerys, hesitated, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I don’t know anyone with that name,” she replied with conviction, her voice steady and sure.
Alex didn’t press her further aloud. Instead, he reached out with his mind, his voice brushing against her thoughts like a gentle whisper. "Cerys, it’s me—Zeus. Where is Zevlor? You don’t need to speak. Just think about him, and I’ll do the rest."
Her eyes widened in recognition, her breath hitching momentarily. She thought of Zevlor and a fleeting image came to Alex's mind—a vision of the tiefling leader, somewhere within the city, collaborating with the Harpers. The details of his mission remained unclear, but the hope in her thoughts was palpable.
Alex nodded subtly in thanks, breaking the mental link. Cerys returned his nod, a small smile playing at her lips, before turning her attention back to the tasks at hand.
As Alex turned back to his companions, two halflings approached, dragging behind them a burly half-orc with a sheepish expression. The half-orc, with bandages wrapped haphazardly around his midsection, seemed reluctant to move.
“Excuse me, sir,” one of the halflings said, a pleading tone in his voice. “Could you please heal our friend Gronch? He’s been injured, and we don’t know what else to do.”
Alex meet Gronch’s eyes, giving him a reassuring smile. “Of course,” he said softly, stepping closer to examine the half-orc.
Gronch stiffened, his gaze darting between Alex and the halflings. “This isn’t necessary,” he said quickly, his voice tinged with panic. “I’m fine, really. There are others who need your help more urgently.”
Alex tilted his head, studying the half-orc carefully, that was in fact not hurt. “Gronch,” he said gently, “why are you pretending?”
The halflings exchanged confused looks. “Pretending?” one asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Gronch sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. “I... I lied,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I wasn’t injured. I just didn’t want you to leave me once I was healed. You’re my only friends. I don’t have anyone else. And… I like having you around.”
The admission hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. Gronch looked away, his gaze fixed on the ground as he turned to leave, shame evident in his posture.
Before he could take more than a few steps, the halflings rushed to his side, each grabbing one of his large hands.
“Hey, you don’t have to leave,” one of them said firmly.
“Yeah,” the other chimed in, his voice full of warmth. “Just because you’re healed doesn’t mean we’re not friends anymore. We like having you around too, you big oaf.”
“You mean it?” Gronch asked, his voice thick with emotion.
“Of course, we do!” one halfling said with a wide grin. “We even bought a barrel in case we needed to carry you into the city again. Remember? We nailed the lid and everything!”
At this, Gronch couldn’t help but chuckle, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He knelt, pulling the two halflings into a bear hug, his massive arms wrapping around them protectively.
“Lads,” he said, his voice trembling. “You’ve no idea how much that means to me.”
The group stood in silence, watching the heartfelt reunion.
Karlach sniffled loudly, swiping at her eyes as she wrapped an arm around Wyll. “Damn it, that’s just too sweet. Look at them!” she said, her voice cracking slightly.
Wyll chuckled, patting her shoulder. “Sometimes, the smallest bonds hold the greatest strength.”
The halflings and Gronch walked away together, their laughter echoing in the distance, leaving behind a warmth that lingered in the air. Alex watched them with a soft smile, silently grateful for the moments of connection that could flourish even in the harshest of circumstances.
----------------------------------------
As Alex finished healing the last patient, a little girl approached him with a shy smile. In her hands was a crude bracelet made of knotted strings and beads.
“For you,” she said, holding it out. “You made my grandma better.”
Alex knelt to her level and accepted the bracelet with a grateful smile. “Thank you. This means more to me than you know.” He tied it around his wrist, the small gesture drawing a round of applause from the gathered refugees.
The camp began to buzz with activity as people shared stories and laughter. The fires seemed brighter, the air lighter. Alex stood, his friends gathering around him.
“You’ve done a good thing here,” Gale said, his voice tinged with admiration.
“They might even start to call you a saint,” Shadowheart added, her gaze soft.
Alex chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’m no saint, Shadowheart. Just trying to do what’s right.”
Shadowheart’s expression softened even more, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “Sometimes, that’s all it takes.”
Alex glanced back at the refugees, a small, tired smile on his lips. “We can’t save everyone,” he said quietly. “But we can save someone. And sometimes, that’s enough.”
Glut and Lae’zel stood at the edge , observing the scene with contrasting expressions.
Glut tilted his head . “This act… healing the weak and wounded. It is… .” His eyes lingered on a woman whose fever had just broken under Alex’s touch. “there is… beauty . Strange, fleeting beauty.”
Lae’zel, on the other hand, crossed her arms, her hazel eyes narrowing on a man who had just limped moments ago. “Such… indulgence,” she muttered, her tone sharp. “These people are weak, reliant on others to save them. A Githyanki warrior would never stoop so low as to beg for aid.”
Despite her words, she did not look away. Her gaze lingered on the old man who now stood tall and steady, the light returning to his eyes. Her frown deepened, but her voice softened slightly.
“And yet… his methods are effective. They live now, because of him."
Lae’zel glared at him but said nothing. A flicker of something unspoken passed across her face—perhaps not approval, but a begrudging acknowledgment of his actions.
----------------------------------------
The crowd of refugees had mostly settled, the hum of conversation quieting under the canopy of a star-dappled sky. Alex stood near the fire, its warmth crackling against the cool night air. His attention turned as an old man approached, his back bent with age, but his eyes alive with curiosity and gratitude.
“For what deity should we pray to thank it for sending one of its agents to help us?” the man asked, his voice trembling slightly.
Alex smiled softly, his expression gentle. “To Eilistraee,” he said simply, the name carrying a melodic lilt.
The old man frowned, scratching his head. “Pardon me, but it’s my first time hearing that name,” he admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
Alex’s smile didn’t waver. “There is no offense in that. Her name isn’t well known—at least, not in this part of the world.”
The old man nodded slowly, then his expression shifted to one of quiet determination. “Can you show us how to honor her? How to offer thanks?”
A ripple of interest spread through the nearby refugees, heads turning toward Alex as murmurs of curiosity passed among them. Alex glanced at the fire, then up at the moon. Though not full, it hung luminous in the sky, casting a silver glow over the camp.
“It would be my honor,” Alex said softly. He stepped closer to the fire, his face illuminated by the flickering flames.
He took a deep breath, centering himself. “Eilistraee is the goddess of dance, song, and freedom. To honor her, we don’t simply kneel and speak. We express ourselves fully—body, voice, and spirit—under her moonlight.”
Alex began to hum a low, haunting melody, his voice resonating with a rich and steady rhythm that seemed to sync with the crackle of the fire. As he hummed, he took a single step, then another, his movements fluid and deliberate. Slowly, the hum gave way to a song, sung in a language unfamiliar to most of the onlookers, yet carrying an unmistakable beauty and grace.
His steps became more intricate, his body flowing in a dance that seemed both practiced and deeply personal. His feet moved lightly across the ground, and his arms swept in arcs that mimicked the ebb and flow of a river. The firelight caught on his form, casting long, shifting shadows that danced alongside him.
The onlookers were captivated. The old man’s expression softened, his earlier skepticism melting into wonder. Children crept closer, their wide eyes reflecting the firelight, while others stood in reverent silence, as though afraid to disrupt the moment.
As Alex’s song soared, a strange serenity seemed to descend upon the camp. The weary faces of the refugees softened, their burdens momentarily forgotten. Some even began to sway gently, caught in the rhythm of the dance.
Alex’s voice grew softer, his movements slowing until he came to a stop. He turned to the crowd, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths. The moonlight seemed to frame him, giving him an almost ethereal glow.
“That,” he said, his voice still carrying the warmth of his song, “is how we honor Eilistraee. Through joy, through expression, and through the freedom to simply be.”
The old man stepped closer, his eyes glistening with tears. “That was… beautiful. Truly, she must be a goddess worth knowing.”
“She is,” Alex said, a gentle smile curving his lips. “And she values all who seek freedom and kindness, no matter where they come from or who they are.”
One of the children stepped forward hesitantly, tugging at Alex’s sleeve. “Can we dance too? Will she hear us if we try?”
Alex crouched to meet the child’s gaze, his smile growing. “Of course. Eilistraee hears all who dance under the moonlight.”
Encouraged, the child began to spin awkwardly, her laughter ringing out as others joined her. Soon, the fire was surrounded by a small crowd of swaying, laughing refugees, their spirits lifted by the simple joy of movement.
Shadowheart stood close to the fire, the flames reflecting in her deep, enigmatic eyes. She remained still as Alex danced, her expression unreadable.
As the refugees joined in, their laughter and movement filling the air, she let out a quiet sigh. “Dancing and singing to honor a goddess,” she said softly, her voice carrying a faint edge of skepticism. “It’s so... simple. Almost naïve.”
But as she watched a child spin with wild abandon, their joy unrestrained, something softened in her expression. She folded her arms across her chest, as though trying to shield herself from the warmth of the moment.
“Still,” she admitted, almost grudgingly, “it’s beautiful in its way. They have so little, yet they find the courage to celebrate. To hope.”
Her gaze shifted to Alex, her voice lowering. “He has a gift for this—bringing light into the darkest places. Not many would bother with such... gestures.”
For a brief moment, a smile flickered across her lips, though it was tinged with sadness. “It reminds me of how things might have been, had my path led elsewhere. But that’s a luxury I can’t afford.”
She fell silent after that, retreating into her thoughts as the firelight continued to dance across her features.
Karlach nudged Wyll with a wide grin. “Now this is what I call a proper celebration. Look at them—laughing, dancing, forgetting their troubles for a while.”
Wyll nodded, his eyes soft with approval. “He’s done something remarkable tonight. A bit of light in dark times.”
Lae’zel stood with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “It is… strange,” she muttered, her tone softer than usual. “To see strength displayed in such an unusual form.”
Astarion smirked, leaning against a nearby crate. “It’s quaint, I suppose,” he said, though the faintest trace of a smile tugged at his lips.
“Strange creatures,” Glut rumbled, his voice low and resonant. “They twist and turn as if movement alone could heal their wounds or stave off death.”
Still, there was no malice in his tone, only a cold curiosity. He watched as children spun and laughed, their joy infecting the adults around them. A flicker of something unfamiliar stirred within him—a sensation he couldn’t quite place.
“Perhaps,” he murmured, almost to himself, “there is strength in this… vitality. A defiance of the rot that claims us all.”
In the center of it all, Alex stood quietly, his heart warmed by the joy spreading through the camp. For this moment, at least, the weight of their struggles seemed a little lighter, the night a little brighter under Eilistraee’s gaze.