The white half-dragon stretched as he stepped out of his tent, the crisp night air brushing against his scales. The refugee encampment was quiet now, save for the distant crackle of campfires and the occasional murmur of those still awake. He yawned, his breath forming a faint mist in the chilly night, and made his way to the edge of the camp to relieve himself.
Closing his eyes, he let his mind wander. He replayed the day in his head, a smile curling at the corner of his lips. The roar that had jolted the entire camp awake in the early hours had been blamed on a misfired wizard's spell—something the Flaming Fist soldiers had barely managed to explain away. Then came the hours he’d spent at the Circus of the Last Days with Anchev, his usually dour companion. To his surprise, Anchev had seemed lighter, freer, since regaining his arm and eye.
He chuckled softly as he remembered the highlight of the day: Dribbles' special trick. The image of the Saint of Eilistraee—a rather pious and stoic refugee—being doused in petals before a pie splattered across his face was burned into his memory. The eruption of laughter that followed had been contagious. For a moment, even the bleakness of their situation had been overshadowed by genuine joy.
As he turned back toward his tent, a movement caught his eye. A man, hunched and frantic, was sprinting toward the riverbank, clutching something tightly to his chest. The half-dragon’s sharp eyes narrowed, his instincts flaring. Something wasn’t right.
He followed, his movements careful but deliberate, his claws silent against the earth. The man’s panicked breathing was audible now, and as the half-dragon crept closer, the bundle in the man’s arms began to squirm. Then it cried—a sharp, helpless wail that pierced the stillness of the night.
The realization struck him like a hammer.
It’s a baby.
The half-dragon’s breath caught as the man reached the riverbank and raised the infant high above his head. His intentions were horrifyingly clear.
"No," the half-dragon whispered to himself, his heart pounding.
Without hesitation, he sprinted toward the man. "Stop!" he roared, his voice a guttural snarl that could shake the bravest of souls.
The man turned, his eyes wild and bloodshot. "Go back to where you came from!" he spat, his voice a mix of desperation and malice. Before the half-dragon could close the distance, the man hurled the baby over the edge into the rushing waters below.
Time seemed to slow. The half-dragon’s body moved on instinct, his powerful legs propelling him forward. He leapt from the edge without a second thought, diving into the frigid river.
The icy water closed around him, but his sharp vision pierced through the murky depths. The baby was sinking, its tiny arms flailing, its cries muffled by the water. The current threatened to pull it away, but the half-dragon surged forward, his strong tail propelling him like a spear through the river.
With a sweep of his arm, he caught the infant, cradling it against his chest.
Breaking the surface, he gasped for air and looked up at the riverbank. The baby’s cries returned, louder now, a sound that somehow filled him with relief despite the cold biting at his scales.
The man was gone, vanished into the darkness.
The half-dragon swam to the shallows, his limbs heavy but determined. As he stepped onto the sand, the baby’s cries softened, its tiny body trembling against him. He looked down, his breath catching at the sight.
The infant's skin was dusky red, its tiny frame adorned with curling horns that protruded from its forehead. A tiefling.
The half-dragon’s expression softened, his claws carefully brushing over the child’s damp, fragile form. "Shh... It’s okay now. I’ve got you," he murmured, his deep voice as gentle as he could make it.
The baby’s cries quieted, replaced by soft whimpers. The half-dragon’s heart ached as he looked at the child, so small, so helpless. He could still feel the weight of the man’s hatred, the coldness of his intent to discard this innocent life as if it were nothing.
The half-dragon turned toward the camp, his broad shoulders set with determination. He cradled the tiefling close to his chest, shielding it from the chill. His mind raced with questions—who was this child? Why had the man sought to end its life?
But those questions could wait. For now, the baby needed warmth and safety.
As he walked back to the camp, the baby’s small fingers curled around one of his claws. The gesture was simple, but it made his resolve all the stronger.
"You’re safe now," he whispered. "And I won’t let anyone hurt you again."
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The half-dragon ducked into the tent. The dim lantern light flickered against the canvas walls, casting shadows that danced over the figure lying on a makeshift bedroll. Anchev was awake, his eyes fixed on the tent roof as though searching for answers among the wrinkles in the fabric.
Hearing the sound of heavy footfalls, Anchev propped himself up on his elbows, his sharp eyes narrowing as they fell on the half-dragon and the small bundle cradled in his arms.
"What happened?" Anchev asked, his voice low and grave, tinged with a sense of foreboding.
The half-dragon stepped closer, his gaze dropping briefly to the baby before meeting Anchev's. "I was out... taking a leak," he began awkwardly, shifting his weight as if the absurdity of the situation still hadn’t fully settled in. "Then I saw a man running toward the riverbank, carrying something. It didn’t feel right, so I followed him." His voice hardened, the memory fresh and raw. "The madman threw this baby into the river—just tossed it, like it was nothing. I jumped in and got to it before it drowned."
Anchev’s expression darkened as he swung his legs off the bedroll, his posture now rigid with tension. "And the man? What happened to him?"
The half-dragon shook his head, frustration etched into his features. "He was hooded. I couldn’t see his face. After he threw the baby, he ran off before I could catch him."
Anchev closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a slow, measured breath. His jaw clenched as though suppressing a curse. After a pause, he opened his eyes and spoke with a calm, almost clinical tone. "In the morning, we’ll start asking around. Someone in the camp must know if a baby has gone missing."
The half-dragon nodded in agreement, his arms instinctively tightening around the infant, who had begun to stir, letting out soft, tired whimpers. He moved toward the tent’s exit but stopped when Anchev’s voice called after him.
"And leave the baby with me," Anchev said firmly, his tone leaving little room for debate.
The half-dragon paused mid-step and turned back, his crimson eyes studying his companion. "Are you sure?"
Anchev raised an eyebrow. "Do you know how to care for a baby?"
The half-dragon hesitated, his lips parting as though to respond, but then he sighed. "No."
"Well, I do," Anchev said, extending his hands expectantly. "Leave the baby with me."
The half-dragon carefully handed the child over, his large, clawed hands reluctant to release the fragile bundle. But before he stepped away, a question that had been nagging at him slipped out. "Do you… have kids?"
Anchev froze for the briefest of moments, his face betraying a flicker of something—sadness, pain, a memory too heavy to hold. His gaze dropped to the baby in his arms as he nodded once, curtly.
"Sorry for asking," the half-dragon said softly, sensing the weight of the subject. He straightened, his tone lighter. "Good night, Anchev."
"Good night," Anchev murmured without looking up, his attention now fully on the baby.
As the tent flap closed behind him, silence settled over the space. Anchev adjusted his grip on the baby, cradling it closer. The tiefling infant’s dusky red skin seemed almost luminous in the dim light, its tiny horns curling delicately from its forehead. Its cries began to grow louder, a frantic sound that tugged at something deep within Anchev.
"Shh, shh," he whispered, his voice soft, his roughened hands gently brushing over the baby’s head. He began to rock the child in his arms, his movements awkward at first but gradually growing more natural. A faint smile touched his lips as he hummed a tune—one he hadn’t sung in years, a lullaby that had once soothed another small soul.
The baby’s cries softened, the little tiefling blinking up at him with wide, watery eyes. Tiny fingers reached up, brushing against Anchev’s weathered face. The sensation made his breath hitch, the warmth of those innocent touches cutting through the walls he’d built around himself.
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Memories surged unbidden—of a different time, a different life. He saw a child’s laughter, heard a voice calling out to him with unbridled joy. But that joy had been stolen, snuffed out by cruelty and fate. The shadow of grief clouded his expression, and he quickly pushed the memories aside, focusing on the child in his arms.
"You’ll be safe," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I won’t let anyone hurt you."
The baby cooed softly, its small frame finally relaxing in his arms. Anchev leaned back, letting the sound of his humming fill the quiet tent. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, his heart felt a glimmer of purpose. Whatever demons haunted his past, they could wait. For now, his only focus was the fragile life resting against his chest.
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The morning sunlight filtered through the encampment as Anchev stepped out of his tent, the tiefling baby swaddled securely in his arms. The child had woken early, crying softly, but Anchev’s practiced care had soothed her back into a contented doze. Beside him, the half-dragon stretched, his scaled form catching the light. His crimson eyes scanned the bustling camp of refugees, Flaming Fist mercenaries, and makeshift tents.
“Let’s get this over with,” Anchev muttered, cradling the baby.
The pair moved through the camp, stopping to ask each group they encountered. Anchev’s voice was calm and measured as he explained the situation to people huddled around campfires or tending to their meager belongings. The responses were the same—shakes of the head, murmurs of "I haven’t seen anyone missing a baby," and occasionally uneasy glances toward the bundle in Anchev’s arms.
As they continued, they noticed something peculiar. The moment people laid eyes on the baby—a dusky red-skinned, horned tiefling—they recoiled. Conversations hushed, groups dispersed, and people avoided meeting their gaze.
“What’s with them?” the half-dragon asked, frustration creeping into his voice.
They approached a middle-aged woman who had been warming her hands over a small fire. She looked up as they spoke to her, but when she caught sight of the baby, her expression turned cold. Without a word, she stood and walked away briskly, as though their presence offended her.
The half-dragon’s brow furrowed, and he glanced at Anchev. “Why are they reacting like this?”
Anchev sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. “People don’t view tieflings with kind eyes,” he explained, keeping his voice low. “Their infernal ancestry makes them symbols of fear and bad omens. Folks think they bring misfortune.”
The half-dragon stopped walking, his tail flicking in irritation. His gaze dropped to the baby, her tiny face peaceful as she slept in Anchev’s arms. “Why? Look at her. She’s just a baby—she’s not evil.” His voice was heavy with restrained anger.
“That’s how people are, Whity,” Anchev said simply, using the nickname he’d coined for his white-scaled friend. His tone was resigned, almost bitter, as though he had long since stopped expecting the world to be fair.
The half-dragon clenched his fists at his sides, his claws digging into his palms. He exhaled sharply through his nose but said nothing more, following Anchev as they continued their search.
The camp grew louder as they approached the heart of the encampment. A commotion had gathered near a large tent, and they could see a crowd of refugees and Flaming Fist soldiers encircling something. Murmurs rippled through the air, voices heavy with shock and whispers of horror.
“What’s going on?” the half-dragon asked, his sharp eyes scanning the scene.
They pushed through the crowd, their presence parting the gathered people like waves. In the center of the chaos, two Flaming Fist mercenaries were loading a corpse, wrapped tightly in blood-soaked fabric, onto a wooden cart. Blood dripped from the bundle, leaving crimson trails on the ground.
The half-dragon strode forward, his towering form imposing. He stopped beside an elderly woman who stood near the front of the crowd, her hands clasped tightly together. “What happened here?” he asked, his voice low but commanding.
The woman looked up at him, her wrinkled face filled with sorrow. “A husband killed his wife,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “Their baby was born a tiefling. He said she’d cursed their family, that the child was an abomination. She tried to protect the baby, and… and he…” The woman’s voice broke, and she looked away, tears welling in her eyes.
The half-dragon’s gaze snapped to Anchev, his eyes blazing with anger.
Anchev’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond immediately. He looked at the corpse on the cart, then at the baby in his arms. His expression darkened, his thoughts inscrutable.
The half-dragon turned back to the woman. “And the baby?” he asked, his voice low but trembling with tension.
The woman hesitated before answering. “ No one’s seen it .”
The half-dragon’s fists clenched tighter, his claws biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood. His anger boiled over, his voice rising. “This is wrong!”
Anchev placed a firm hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “I know,” he said quietly. “But shouting won’t change what’s already happened. We need to focus on what we can do now.”
The half-dragon took a deep, shuddering breath, his fury simmering but contained. He looked at the baby again, her small chest rising and falling steadily.
As Whity and Anchev walked away from the crowded tent area, a flicker of hope stirred in Whity’s mind. He glanced down at the tiefling baby cradled in his arms, her tiny fingers curling and uncurling as she cooed softly, unaware of the turmoil surrounding her. The idea took root, blossoming into a desperate suggestion.
“Maybe the Saint of Eilistraee can revive her mother,” Whity said, his voice tinged with both hope and uncertainty.
Anchev, walking silently beside him, stopped mid-step and turned his gaze to the baby. His brow furrowed in thought, and then he nodded solemnly. “We should try,” he said. There was no hesitation, just a quiet resolve in his tone.
Their search began immediately. They asked refugees and Flaming Fist soldiers about the Saint’s whereabouts, describing him as best they could—a kind man with a gentle presence, known for his miraculous deeds. The answers came slowly, fragmented, until finally, someone pointed them toward a mansion. Supposedly, the Saint had taken refuge there with his companions and a family of fellow refugees.
The mansion loomed before them, weathered but still imposing. Its windows ,shuttered. Whity hesitated briefly before knocking on the heavy wooden door, the sound echoing hollowly in the morning stillness.
Footsteps approached from within, deliberate and measured, and the door creaked open to reveal a man. His appearance was plain—dark hair, tired eyes—but his expression was anything but welcoming.
“What do you want?” the man asked curtly, his voice carrying a sharp edge.
Anchev stepped forward, his demeanor calm but firm. “We’re looking for the Saint of Eilistraee,” he said, his tone polite yet commanding.
The man’s eyes narrowed, and his lips twisted into a faint sneer. “He left at the first light of dawn,” he replied, his voice tinged with disdain. Then, almost under his breath, he added, “Hopefully, he doesn’t come back.”
“What direction did he go?” Whity pressed, his voice tinged with urgency.
The man shook his head dismissively. “I don’t know. And frankly, I don’t care. Is that all?” Without waiting for a response, he pushed the door closed, the heavy wood slamming shut with a finality that made Whity’s shoulders slump.
Whity turned to Anchev, frustration flickering in his eyes. “What now?” he asked.
Anchev’s gaze was steady, a quiet determination gleaming in his dark irises. “We keep looking,” he said simply. “Someone must have seen him—if he’s with his companions, they’re hard to miss.”
They headed toward the main street, weaving through clusters of refugees and traders setting up their wares for the day. The air was thick with the mingled scents of stale bread and sweat. Whity clutched the baby protectively as they asked passerby after passerby, describing the Saint and his companions—a distinctive group not easily overlooked.
Finally, a merchant paused mid-sale and pointed toward the main road. “I saw a group matching that description heading toward the Open Hand Temple near Wyrm’s Crossing,” the merchant said, squinting as if recalling the details. “It wasn’t too long ago.”
Thanking the merchant, Whity and Anchev quickened their pace, the bustling noise fading behind them as they made their way toward the temple.
The Open Hand Temple stood atop a rocky promontory, its silhouette commanding the serene expanse of the bay below. Red-tiled roofs, weathered by countless seasons, contrasted with the vibrant greenery of the cliffs and the rolling waves crashing far below. The temple's bell tower rose tall, its banners fluttering gently in the sea breeze. The symbol of Ilmater—a pair of white hands bound at the wrists with a crimson cord—gleamed faintly in the morning light
Beyond, rugged mountains framed the horizon, their peaks shrouded in mist, completing the breathtaking scene.
As Whity and Anchev approached, their eyes scanned the area.
They spotted him—the Saint of Eilistraee. He stood by the temple steps, speaking gently to a tiefling family. The father, a man with ashen-gray skin and small, curling horns, held his son close while his wife clutched their daughter. Despite the hardships etched into their faces, they smiled—a warm, genuine expression of gratitude—as Alex handed them a parcel of food and a small coin purse.
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“Thank you, Saint,” the father said, his voice thick with emotion. As the family turned to leave, the man leaned in close to Alex and whispered, his voice barely audible.
“Watch your steps inside the temple. One of their priests was cut to ribbons last night. They’re looking for someone to blame,” he said, his gaze darting nervously toward the temple doors.
Alex gave a subtle nod, his expression remaining calm. “Thank you for the warning,” he replied quietly, watching the family as they walked away, the children clutching their parents' hands tightly.
Nearby, Wyll sat on a low stone wall, a newspaper unfolded in his hands, his face tense with anger. "I can’t believe Stelmane was assassinated," he said, his voice simmering with barely restrained fury. "I’d bet my left eye this is the work of Bhaal’s followers."
Karlach, leaned against him, offering him a small hug. “Don’t stress too much, Wyll. We’ve got the Saint with us.” She tilted her head toward Alex with a teasing grin. “He’ll set things right, like always.”
“I hope so,” Wyll muttered, folding the newspaper as his gaze flicked to Alex.
Before Alex could respond, his attention shifted to two figures approaching from the direction of the refugee camp. He recognized them instantly: the amnesic white-scaled half-dragon, and his older companion, Anchev. The half dragon red eyes burned with purpose, and in his arms, he cradled something carefully wrapped—a bundle of soft fabric that shifted as they walked closer. Anchev, taller and broader, walked silently beside him, his expression grave.
The half dragon stepped forward first, his voice steady but pleading. “Saint of Eilistraee,” he began, his eyes locking with Alex’s. “Can you help us? This is something only you can do.”
Alex straightened, his demeanor calm yet commanding. “What do you need my help with?” he asked, his eyes glancing briefly at the bundle in the half dragon’s arms.
Anchev stepped forward then, his deep voice carrying the weight of tragedy. “This baby girl’s mother was murdered—killed by her husband. We’ve heard you can bring her back.”
A heavy silence fell over the group, broken only by the faint cries of the baby. Shadowheart, muttered a curse under her breath. She recognized the baby immediately. Alex had been the one to save the mother during childbirth, guiding her through a harrowing labor and ensuring both mother and child survived.
Alex’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he processed the words. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze falling to the tiny tiefling girl in the half dragon’s arms. Her dusky red skin, small horns, and innocent eyes seemed almost fragile against the harshness of the world that had so cruelly taken her mother away.
“Lead the way,” Alex finally said, his voice low and firm, his expression resolute.