Anchev and the albino half-dragon strode into Rivington under the bright midday sun, their presence commanding attention even in the chaos of the district. The bustling streets were teeming with life, though much of it seemed weighed down by struggle. People shuffled along in ragged, dirt-streaked clothes, their faces marked by exhaustion. A few stood out—cleaner, slightly better dressed—but they were exceptions in a sea of hardship.
The air was thick and oppressive, carrying a pungent cocktail of odors: manure, unwashed bodies, the metallic tang of blood from a nearby slaughterhouse, and the earthy musk of livestock penned in crowded enclosures. It was the smell of survival, raw and unvarnished.
Anchev’s eyes scanned the horizon, sharp and calculating, as though searching for answers to questions only he knew. The half-dragon, pale as bone, shifted uncomfortably in the cramped streets, his gaze darting between the shabby houses and the wary stares of the locals.
Then, without warning, the ground beneath their feet began to tremble violently.
A low, ominous rumble filled the air, growing louder with each passing second. The earth quaked with such force some people stumbled, their screams piercing the air. Children clung to their parents, and market stalls collapsed in a cacophony of crashing wood and shattering glass.
“What’s happening?” the half-dragon shouted, his voice tinged with panic as his clawed hands gripped a nearby post for stability. His piercing eyes darted frantically, taking in the sight of rickety shacks swaying precariously, their fragile structures creaking under the strain.
Anchev didn’t answer. His sharp instincts took over as his gaze locked onto a woman frozen in terror, her feet rooted to the spot beneath a teetering chunk of masonry. Without hesitation, he sprinted forward, his boots pounding against the shaking ground.
In a fluid motion, he reached her just as the debris broke loose, its jagged edges catching the sunlight as it plummeted. With a powerful shove, he knocked the woman out of harm’s way, the falling chunk smashing into the dirt mere inches from where she had stood.
The woman gasped, her wide eyes locking onto Anchev’s face. “Thank you, good sir!” she stammered, her voice trembling as she scrambled to her feet. Without waiting for a response, she bolted, disappearing into the panicked crowd.
Anchev rose to his full height, dusting off his coat as he turned back toward the half-dragon. Around them, the quake began to subside, the tremors growing weaker until, finally, the earth stilled. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the distant wails of frightened children and the groaning of unstable structures.
The half-dragon’s clawed hands loosened their grip on the post, though his pale scales were flushed with tension.
Anchev’s piercing gaze met his, unwavering. He murmured, his voice low but firm. “In all the years I’ve known this city, the ground has never shaken like this.”
The half-dragon frowned, his tail flicking nervously behind him. “Then what’s causing it?”
Anchev didn’t reply immediately. His eyes swept across the devastation, taking in the fractured cobblestones, the frightened faces, the homes on the verge of collapse. His jaw tightened. “Something is stirring,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Something deeper than this city’s foundations. And it’s only just begun.”
Before the half-dragon could voice the flood of questions forming in his mind, Anchev raised a hand, cutting him off. His tone was low, measured, but carried an unmistakable edge of urgency.
"And do not start asking me how I knew," Anchev said, his single eye narrowing as if scanning for unseen threats. "I just listen to my instincts. They’ve never failed me."
His gaze turned to the horizon, where the towering spires of Baldur’s Gate loomed in the distance, shrouded by a hazy, restless sky. "And they’re screaming at me now. Something is about to happen in this city—something big."
The half-dragon stared at him, his pale features tightening with worry. For a moment, he considered pressing for more, but the weight in Anchev’s voice made him hesitate. There was something deeply unsettling in the way he spoke—calm yet resolute, as if he already understood the scope of the coming storm.
Without waiting for a response, Anchev turned on his heel, his cloak trailing behind him like the shadow of his grim determination. He approached a nearby stall, its wooden frame tilted awkwardly, one leg splintered from the tremors that had shaken the district moments before.
The contents of the stall lay scattered across the ground—baskets of bread crushed underfoot, bottles of oil leaking into the dirt, and a few battered crates of dried fish that still clung to their place on the counter. The air carried a mingling of aromas—sharp vinegar from a shattered jar, the salty tang of fish, and the faint sweetness of bruised apples.
Anchev knelt without a word, his fingers brushing over an overturned crate. The vendor, a wiry man with a soot-streaked face and trembling hands, stood nearby, visibly shaken. He watched Anchev carefully, his expression a mix of fear and gratitude.
"You don’t have to—" the vendor began, his voice faltering.
"I’m not doing this for you," Anchev cut him off bluntly, though his actions betrayed a quiet compassion. He began setting the spilled items back in their place, his movements methodical and precise.
The half-dragon watched, his sharp eyes noticing how Anchev’s hand trembled slightly as he worked, betraying a weariness that his hardened demeanor otherwise concealed. Despite the chaos around them, Anchev’s focus was unwavering, as if grounding himself in the simple act of rebuilding something small amidst the ruins.
The vendor hesitated, then stepped forward to help. "Thank you," he muttered under his breath.
Anchev didn’t look up. "If you want to thank me, keep your head down and be ready to leave this place when the time comes," he said.
The vendor nodded quickly, fear flickering in his eyes. The half-dragon stepped closer, crouching beside Anchev.
"What do you mean by ‘something big’?" he asked cautiously. "You can’t expect me to ignore that."
Anchev sighed, setting the last crate upright before finally meeting the half-dragon’s gaze. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, carrying the weight of an unshakable certainty.
"I don’t have answers yet, but I feel it—like the ground itself is holding its breath, waiting to collapse under something it cannot bear. A force is moving in this city, and when it strikes, it will not show mercy."
His eye hardened, the scar on his face catching the light as he stood to his full height. "When it begins, you’ll have to choose where you stand. And when you do—" He paused, his gaze locking onto the half-dragon’s with an intensity that sent a chill down his companion’s spine.
"Make sure it’s on the right side."
With that, Anchev turned back to the stall, his figure a silhouette against the restless sky. The half-dragon remained silent, his mind reeling with questions and a growing sense of unease. Behind them, the faint hum of the city’s unrest began to rise again, as if echoing the foreboding words left hanging in the air.
Anchev and the half-dragon moved deliberately through the bustling streets of Rivington, their quiet presence contrasting with the frenzied energy of the people. Stalls lined the muddy roads, offering what meager goods the district could provide—worn clothing, dried meats, bundles of herbs. They made occasional stops, purchasing supplies and keeping their conversations low, their movements deliberate.
As they passed by a Flaming Fist soldier stationed near a crooked post, the man called out to them with a forced cheer.
"Hey, friend! Fine day, isn’t it?" the soldier said, his voice light, though his eyes lingered on the half-dragon with unmistakable curiosity.
Anchev and his companion stopped, their expressions neutral but alert.
"Forgive me," the soldier continued, sensing the frost in their silence. "You’re in no mood to talk about the weather, I take it. Can’t blame you—your journey here must have been something. Is this your first time in Baldur’s Gate?"
The half-dragon opened his mouth to reply, but before a word could escape, Anchev’s voice cut through the moment like a blade.
"Our past is none of your concern," he said coldly, his one remaining eye narrowing as he stared down at the soldier.
The Flaming Fist raised his hands defensively, a faint smile still lingering on his lips, though his posture stiffened.
"Of course, friend. Lots of folks come through here with pasts they’d rather leave buried," he said, his voice faltering slightly under Anchev’s intense scrutiny.
Anchev gave no reply, his gaze unyielding.
The soldier shifted uneasily but kept his tone light. "A word of advice, then—you might not get the warm welcome folks used to in the days gone by. Used to be, you’d arrive knowing there’d be a full belly and a warm bed waiting for you. Not anymore."
Anchev scoffed, his lips curling into a thin, humorless smile. "How old are you, lad?"
"Thirty-five," the soldier answered, clearly unsure of where the conversation was heading.
Another scoff from Anchev. "Then I suppose you’ve been listening to some old grandma’s tales of the ‘better days.’"
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The soldier blinked, his brows knitting in mild offense. "Doesn’t matter," he muttered. "All I know is, these days there’s barely enough to go around. Add refugees on top of that, and—well, gold isn’t feeling too generous lately."
The half-dragon stepped forward, his voice soft but earnest. "Is there anything I can do to ease these people’s burden?"
The soldier sighed, glancing around before answering. "You’re not the first to ask that. Some of the city’s wealthy have donated enough to keep the newcomers afloat for now. Only problem is, they didn’t think to help the locals. Now you’ve got Baldurians going without while refugees feast. Tensions are boiling over. Right now, there’s a mob gathering outside the barn, kicking up a fuss."
He hesitated, then leaned closer, lowering his voice. "If I weren’t wearing this uniform, I’d be over there teaching them a lesson they wouldn’t forget."
The half-dragon recoiled slightly, his pale scales catching the sunlight as his expression shifted to shock. "You’re supposed to keep the peace, not stoke the fire."
The soldier chuckled, but the sound carried no humor—it was a sharp, bitter noise that grated against the tense atmosphere. His grin twisted into a grimace, and his eyes darkened, hard as stone. "What peace?" he spat, his voice rising just enough to catch the attention of passersby. "If no one steps in, there’ll be bodies piled high in the streets before long. These people—" he gestured vaguely at the crowd, his gloved hand slicing through the air, "—have gone soft, living behind these walls. Forgotten what it’s like to live one day from destruction."
His gaze swept over a small group of refugees lingering nearby, their gaunt faces and threadbare clothes marking them as outsiders. "I say we march over there," he continued, his tone venomous now, "and slit a few bellies. Remind them just how much worse things could be."
The half-dragon's breath caught, his scales prickling with unease. Around them, the busy murmur of the street had quieted. A few people stopped mid-step, their faces a mixture of fear and disbelief as they turned to watch the exchange. A mother pulled her child closer, shielding him from the sight of the soldier’s menacing stance. A young man carrying a bundle of firewood froze, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the load tighter. The air grew heavy, charged with tension, as if the entire district was holding its breath.
"You’re supposed to keep the peace," the half-dragon finally said, his voice shaking but firm. "Not stoke the flames."
The soldier’s laugh was a low, ugly sound that made the hair on the back of Anchev’s neck stand on end. "What peace?" the soldier repeated, his smile faltering as his expression turned deadly serious. "If no one takes control, there’ll be riots in the streets before you can blink. You think these people deserve mercy?" His voice rose again, drawing more stares from the gathering crowd. "Mercy is what got us here in the first place. Sometimes fear is the only way to restore order."
Anchev, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. His presence was commanding, his dark cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. He placed a hand on the half-dragon’s shoulder, urging him back. "Mindless slaughter is not the answer," Anchev said, his voice low but steady, cutting through the tension like a blade.
The soldier’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching as anger flared in his gaze. "Mindless slaughter is the only answer," he hissed. His hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword, but before he could act, something unnatural happened.
A sharp crack echoed through the street as the soldier’s head snapped to the side with an audible force that silenced the murmuring crowd entirely. His body shifted, becoming someone else . Gasps rippled through the onlookers as the creature’s true form came into focus—a woman with pale blue-grey skin that seemed to ripple like smoke, streaked with undulating crimson veins. Her eyes were dull grey, contoured by dark eyeliner, their intensity striking and eerie. Her straw-colored, braided hair cascaded down her back, nearly touching the ground, fastened in a manner resembling a weaponized flail.
Her armor, a chitinous crimson carapace, gleamed in the fading light, jagged and menacing, each edge seeming sharp enough to cut. Atop her head rested an ornate silver tiara, its centerpiece shaped like a supplicant figure cradling a single crimson gem. She radiated an aura of menace that made the crowd instinctively shrink back.
The half-dragon stared, his claws twitching as his instincts screamed at him to either fight or flee. Anchev remained still, his remaining eye narrowing as he assessed the woman. "Well," he murmured, his tone calm but laden with tension. "This complicates things."
The woman’s voice was like nails scraping across metal—grating, unnerving, and laced with an unsettling mockery. Her gaze locked onto the half-dragon, piercing through him as if stripping away his very being. Her lips curled into a wicked smile, revealing teeth too sharp and too white.
"I see how you slip-slither closer," she drawled, her tone dripping with malice, "belly dragging in the filth. Father is laughing at you." Her head tilted, her expression a grotesque mockery of sympathy. "Have you lost your nerve, my blood-started sibling? Did I mangle your skull too terribly?"
The half-dragon froze, her words igniting a chilling discomfort deep in his chest. "My skull?" he asked, his voice faltering. Confusion clouded his face as his claws twitched.
Beside him, Anchev’s grip tightened on his shoulder, his knuckles white with tension. It was a silent command to stay still, but it was clear that Anchev himself was struggling to maintain his composure. His jaw clenched, and his remaining eye burned with barely restrained fury as he stared at the deranged woman.
"Do not worry, slaughter-kin," she cooed, her tone deceptively sweet, as if savoring some private joke. Her fingers caressed the air, as if gripping invisible blades. "My blades are still sharp and sweet. They’ll greet you soon enough."
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. A cold wind seemed to ripple through the street, chilling those watching the scene unfold. The gathered crowd stood frozen, too terrified to move, their breaths shallow and erratic. Even the animals seemed to sense the danger, the nearby dogs whimpering and retreating with their tails tucked between their legs.
Anchev didn’t wait. His instincts roared at him, louder than they ever had before. Without a word, he surged forward, his fist raised high, the fury of a storm in his stride. The street seemed to hold its breath as his strike descended, aimed squarely at the woman’s unnervingly calm face.
But just as his fist was about to connect, the woman vanished, dissolving into a cloud of crimson particles. The air shimmered where she had stood, her laughter echoing faintly, fading into nothingness like a cruel whisper in the wind.
"Shit," Anchev hissed through gritted teeth, his fist still clenched as he lowered it. His shoulders were taut, his breath coming in sharp, measured bursts as he struggled to quell the frustration and unease bubbling within him.
He turned back to the half-dragon, his expression a mixture of anger and warning. 'Another Bhaalspawn.' he thought , heavy with significance. His gaze scanned the area, sharp and calculating, his instincts screaming that the danger wasn’t over.
The half-dragon’s chest heaved as he tried to process what had just happened. "Who—what—was that?" he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Anchev didn’t answer immediately. His focus remained fixed on the spot where the woman had stood, as if expecting her to reappear at any moment. "She’s a killer—like her father. And she won’t stop until she’s had her fun." he finally said, his voice cold and resolute
Around them, the crowd slowly began to disperse, murmuring nervously. The air was still thick with tension, and the unease lingered, clinging to the district like a dark shadow. Anchev glanced at the half-dragon again, his expression grim. "We need to stay sharp," he said. "Whatever this is, it’s far from over."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of deep amber and violet, Anchev and the half-dragon chose to make camp near the refugee encampment. The day’s encounter with the strange woman lingered heavily in their thoughts, her unsettling words an unshakable weight on their minds.
The half-dragon poked at the small fire between them, its embers glowing dimly against the encroaching darkness. His gaze drifted toward the shadowy silhouettes of the refugees bustling about their makeshift shelters. Turning to Anchev, he asked hesitantly, "Should we look for her? That... woman?"
Anchev shook his head, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight. "She’s a shapeshifter. A changeling," he said, his voice low and steady. "She could’ve walked right past us after disappearing, and we’d be none the wiser."
The half-dragon frowned, the unfamiliar term sticking in his mind. "A changeling? What’s that?"
Anchev poked at the fire, the tip of his stick sending sparks spiraling into the air. "Changelings are fey or humanoid—depends on who you ask. They’re kin to doppelgangers, with a natural knack for shapeshifting. Makes them perfect as actors, spies... criminals. They wear a thousand faces but belong to none of them."
He paused, his remaining eye narrowing as if recalling a memory he wished he could forget. "I met one once. Just one. It was enough." His tone carried a bitterness that silenced any follow-up questions.
The half-dragon nodded slowly, sensing it was not a story Anchev was willing to share.
"You mentioned something about that woman’s father... do you know who it is?"
The half-dragon’s question hung in the air, his voice trembling under the weight of the revelation.
Anchev’s expression darkened, his remaining eye narrowing as he answered without hesitation. "Bhaal. The god of murder."
The words landed like a hammer blow. The half-dragon's hand went to his head as if it might stave off the sudden, searing pain blooming behind his temples. His breath hitched, and he clenched his jaw to steady himself.
“Bhaal,” he murmured, the name falling from his lips like a curse. His gaze dropped to the ground, unfocused and distant. He repeated the name, quieter this time, as if testing its weight on his tongue.
Then, his head snapped up, his eyes locking onto Anchev with a mixture of fear and pleading. "She called me her sibling. Does that mean..." His voice faltered, his throat working to push the words out. "Does that mean I’m a child of Bhaal too?"
Anchev met his gaze with an unflinching calm, the kind born from years of witnessing horrors few could comprehend. He gave a slow, deliberate nod.
The half-dragon’s shoulders slumped under the invisible burden, and a heavy silence fell between them. The distant sounds of the camp—the murmurs of refugees, the crackling of fires—seemed to fade, leaving only the weight of the truth between the two men.
Finally, the half-dragon broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "Will I... will I become like her? Crazy? Bloodthirsty?" His eyes were glassy, filled with a raw vulnerability that seemed at odds with his imposing form.
Anchev hesitated, his brow furrowing in thought. "That," he said slowly, "I cannot answer. The blood of Bhaal runs deep and dark... but I have a feeling you will not succumb to it."
The half-dragon’s head tilted, his expression questioning, desperate for reassurance.
Anchev’s voice softened, a rare gentleness threading through his usual gruffness. "You radiate something... different. A goodness that seems to push the darkness away from your soul. It’s rare. Precious." He paused, his mind flashing back to a memory—a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips.
He thought of the moment when he had first seen the half-dragon transformed into the Slayer, a form that should have been monstrous and terrifying. Yet, even then, ethereal flowers bloomed around him, weaving through the chaos like fragile testaments to the beauty that still lingered within. The sight had reminded Anchev of someone he had once known—someone who had shown him that even in the darkest moments, a ray of light could pierce through, if one was willing to see it.
"You remind me of a warrior I once knew," Anchev continued, his voice tinged with reverence. "He fought against impossible odds, always believing in the light, even when the world seemed to drown in darkness. Like him, you have a choice. Darkness may claw at you, but it doesn’t define you."
The half-dragon’s gaze lingered on Anchev, a flicker of hope igniting in his eyes. "Do you really believe that?"
Anchev nodded firmly, the weight of his conviction apparent. "Yes. But it’s a path you’ll have to walk, one choice at a time."
The half-dragon straightened slightly, a deep breath filling his lungs as if anchoring himself to those words. For the first time since the revelation, his expression softened, determination replacing fear.
“Then I’ll choose,” he said quietly, but with newfound resolve. “I’ll choose to be better.”
Anchev didn’t respond, but a rare, faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. For a moment, the weight between them lifted, the silence no longer heavy but instead a quiet understanding. In the distance, the moonlight bathed the camp, its soft glow casting long shadows but also illuminating the ground beneath their feet—a reminder that even in darkness, light could always be found.
They lapsed into silence, each lost in their own thoughts, the quiet punctuated only by the crackle of the fire and the distant murmurs of the refugee camp.