Halsin and Lump walked side by side down the cobblestone streets of Baldur’s Gate, their imposing figures naturally parting the crowds like a tide. Lump’s heavy footfalls and Halsin’s quiet authority were enough to make most people step aside without a word, though a few brave or kind-hearted souls offered directions when asked. The din of city life surrounded them: the cries of merchants, the chatter of townsfolk, and the faint sobs of a child in a darkened alley.
“What do you think of this city?” Lump rumbled, his deep voice breaking through the ambient noise.
Halsin’s gaze shifted from the bustling street to the gray sky above. His expression darkened. “After the shadow curse was lifted, I dared to hope,” he began, his voice heavy with emotion. “For the first time in years, I believed nature could heal and that harmony between it and civilization could be achieved. But now...” He remembered the haggard faces of refugees huddled in the alleys and the hollow-eyed orphans clinging to each other for warmth. “Now I see the rot beneath the surface. Refugees abandoned, orphans left to fend for themselves, the downtrodden crushed underfoot.” He sighed deeply. “Perhaps the Shadow Druids were right in their own twisted way. If these sorrows are the fruits of civilization, then perhaps true balance is impossible.”
Lump snorted, shaking his head. “You’re being a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps,” Halsin admitted, though his tone remained grave. “But sometimes, drama—loud, unyielding words—are needed to shake others from their apathy. A society should be judged by how it treats its most vulnerable. By that measure, Baldur’s Gate deserves harsh judgment.”
Lump’s brows furrowed as he glanced at Halsin. “What you’re saying sounds... tyrannical. Not that I'm against violence.”
Halsin paused, his steps slowing. “You’re right. Words chosen in haste, born from anger. In truth, I want to see healing, not punishment. And the Oak Father willing, we will live to witness it.”
Their conversation fell into silence as they continued walking. They passed by a plaza where three wizards performed for a small crowd, casting simple cantrips with dramatic flair. The audience clapped politely, though the performers stumbled over their spells more often than not, sparks misfiring and illusions flickering awkwardly.
Halsin raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. “I am no master of the arcane,” he remarked, “but I’ve seen my fair share of spellcasters in my long life. Those three are abysmal.”
Lump chuckled, his booming laugh earning a few startled glances from passersby. “You’d think they’d at least practice before performing.”
The mood shifted abruptly when they neared a park on the edge of the district. Halsin stopped, his sharp senses catching something amiss. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath.
“I smell blood,” he said, his voice low and tense.
Lump sniffed the air as well, his brow furrowing. His gaze shifted to a small house near the park gate, its windows shuttered and its door ominously ajar. Without hesitation, the two made their way to the house.
Lump pushed the door open with one massive hand, the hinges creaking in protest. The scene inside was carnage.
“What in the Oak Father’s name happened here?” Halsin murmured, his voice hushed with disbelief.
The floor was littered with bodies—two duergar, three massive spiders, and countless smaller ones. Blood pooled in dark, sticky patches, and the air was thick with the metallic tang of death. Some of the corpses still smoldered faintly, their charring suggesting powerful magic.
“There was a fight here,” Lump observed as he crouched near one of the duergar. “But it wasn’t a skirmish. This was an execution.”
Halsin knelt beside him, his eyes scanning the bodies. “How can you be sure?”
Lump pointed to the wounds. “Same weapon. A dagger, precise and lethal. Whoever did this was skilled—and relentless.”
Their search of the room revealed a trapdoor hidden beneath a discarded rug. Without a word, Lump descended first, his massive frame disappearing into the dark. Halsin followed close behind, his heart heavy with foreboding.
The basement was a scene of even greater horror. Bodies lay strewn across the floor: duergar, drow, a shattered earth elemental, and even a Mind Flayer. The stench was overpowering, a vile mix of blood, decay, and scorched earth.
Halsin’s eyes were drawn to the southern wall, where a massive breach opened into a cavernous chamber. In the center of the cave, a ritual circle glowed faintly, its runes carved into the stone and stained with blood. At its heart lay the body of a female drow, her lifeless form draped across the circle as if sacrificed. Surrounding her were six other drow women, their bodies discarded like broken dolls against the cavern walls.
Halsin knelt beside the central figure, his sharp eyes noticing a severed leg and a crumpled letter clutched in her hand. He pried the letter free and unfolded it, his frown deepening as he read:
----------------------------------------
The Effigy of Sendai, who made herself many.
What use were her multitudes? She thought herself a warrior, but only her blood soaked the soil.
—Orin the Red
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The signature was scrawled in exaggerated strokes, written in dark, crusted blood.
Lump growled low in his throat.
Near the breach, a wooden chest sat among the rubble. Inside, they found a modest haul: a handful of gold coins and a few mundane trinkets. Nearby, an alcove held stacks of hay and a small cache of alchemical herbs, untouched amidst the carnage.
Halsin lingered near the ritual circle, his heart heavy. “This isn’t just violence,” he said quietly. “This is desecration. Orin wanted to send a message—and I fear we’ve only just begun to unravel it.”
As they stepped back into the basement, the oppressive silence was broken only by the faint drip of blood from the shattered bodies. They exchanged a grim look, the weight of the discovery settling heavily on their shoulders.
“We must tell Alex what happened here .” Halsin said, his voice low and resolute.
As Halsin and Lump crossed the park, their attention snapped to the sound of a piercing scream—a guttural cry of pain that echoed through the trees. They exchanged a sharp glance, instincts kicking in immediately, and bolted toward the source.
Emerging into a clearing, they stumbled upon a chaotic battle. At first glance, it seemed as though ordinary civilians were locked in combat against masked figures. The "civilians," dressed in common garb, moved with the precision of trained warriors, while their opponents, cloaked and masked, bore the ominous markings of Bhaal, the god of murder.
Halsin’s gaze sharpened as he took in the scene. Something about the so-called civilians felt… wrong.
“What is happening here?” Lump bellowed, his voice a booming demand for order.
One of the "civilians," a burly man wielding a longsword, shouted back without missing a beat. “Strike them down! Don’t let the cursed Bhaalists escape!”
“Bhaalist scum,” another snarled.
Halsin’s brow furrowed as he studied the civilians’ movements—too calculated, too deliberate. These were no hapless victims. Realization dawned like a cold wind. “They’re not what they seem,” he muttered.
Before he could warn Lump, a cloaked figure cried out, “Followers of Shar! Your deception ends here!” The Bhaalists surged forward, blades flashing.
“What is going on here?” Lump echoed in confusion.
Halsin raised his staff. “A fight between factions ,” he growled. “And we’ve walked right into the middle of it.”
The disguised Sharans fought with ferocity, their coordination revealing their true nature as servants of Shar. Their opponents—the masked Bhaalists—fought with unrestrained savagery, every slash and stab aimed to kill.
Halsin didn’t hesitate. With a sweep of his staff, he summoned a wave of roots and vines that erupted from the ground, tangling the legs of two Sharans. One fell hard, his disguise ripped away to reveal a hidden dagger coated in a sinister black liquid.
“You serve the Night Singer,” Halsin growled as he struck the man with his staff, the blow knocking him unconscious.
Lump, meanwhile, waded into the fray with all the subtlety of a battering ram. A Bhaalist lunged at him with a wickedly curved dagger, but Lump caught the weapon mid-swing, his massive hand gripping the blade with a grunt of effort. With a twist, he wrenched it free and tossed it aside before delivering a backhanded blow that sent the attacker flying.
From the higher ground, a Sharan archer loosed a bolt aimed directly at Halsin. Lump roared and threw himself into its path, the projectile glancing off his thick shoulder muscles.
“You’re welcome,” Lump rumbled as he charged up the incline, his fists ready for the crossbowman.
The Sharans fought like cornered wolves, their blades flickering with unnatural speed as they lashed out at both Bhaalists and their new foes. A Sharan assassin leapt from the shadows, her daggers aimed at Halsin’s back. But Halsin, sensing the movement, turned just in time, deflecting her strike with his staff.
With a fluid motion, he swept the assassin’s legs out from under her and slammed the base of his staff into her sternum, knocking the air from her lungs.
While Halsin battled below, Lump had reached the high ground. The Sharan crossbowman scrambled to reload, but Lump gave him no chance. He barreled into the man like a living battering ram, sending him sprawling.
The second archer aimed a bolt at Lump’s back, but before he could fire, Lump seized the downed crossbow and hurled it like a spear. The makeshift projectile struck true, knocking the second archer off balance. Lump charged forward, grabbed the man by his tunic, and tossed him down the hill with a roar.
“Pathetic,” Lump muttered, turning back to survey the chaos below.
The masked Bhaalists, despite their savagery, were faltering. The Sharans outnumbered and outmaneuvered them, the false civilians working with brutal efficiency. Lump and Halsin’s intervention was the only thing keeping the battle from tipping entirely in the Sharans’ favor.
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As the fight raged on, Halsin unleashed a spell . Thick barbed vines emerged from the ground , binding anything to close to them .The Sharans screamed as the hooked barbs sink in to their skin, their cries mixing with the desperate roars of the Bhaalists.
One of the Sharans, realizing their defeat was imminent, snarled and shouted, “Retreat! Regroup and report to Mother Superior !”
The remaining Sharans began to withdraw, disappearing into the shadows as quickly as they had appeared. The Bhaalists, too wounded to pursue, slumped against trees and rocks, their breaths ragged.
Halsin lowered his staff, his gaze sweeping the battlefield. The ground was littered with bodies, both Sharans and Bhaalists alike. Blood soaked the grass, the air thick with the metallic tang of death.
“Deception and murder,” Halsin muttered, his voice heavy with disgust. “This city festers with darkness.”
Lump stepped forward, his massive form towering over the remaining Bhaalists. “What now?”
Halsin sighed deeply, looking toward the horizon where the Sharans had vanished. “Now, we continue. There are larger battles yet to fight.”
The two turned and left the battlefield behind, their footsteps fading into the quiet murmur of the city, which carried on as though unaware of the bloodshed that had just stained its underbelly. The distant sound of vendors hawking wares, drunken laughter from shadowed alleys, and the occasional bark of a stray dog formed a backdrop to their silent march. Though their path was uneventful, the weight of the fight lingered in the air between them, unspoken but palpable.
After winding through narrow, uneven streets, they finally arrived at the Blushing Mermaid. The tavern sprawled across its lot like a beast too large for its cage, a massive, lurching structure . Its warped wooden frame leaned precariously in multiple directions, as though held together by sheer stubbornness rather than craftsmanship. The sagging rooflines dipped unevenly, and the entire building groaned faintly in the sea breeze, like an old sailor telling tales of long-forgotten storms.
Around the main building sprawled a chaotic assemblage of stables, shanty sheds, and ramshackle enclosures. Each structure leaned into the others for support, forming a cluttered maze of mismatched wood and tin that seemed haphazardly thrown together over the years. It gave the impression of a living, breathing entity—an organism grown out of necessity and neglect, more alive than it had any right to be.
The tavern exuded an unruly, almost defiant charm. Moss and creeping vines clawed at its timber walls, framing cracked windows and draping lazily over the sagging railings of its crooked balconies. The vines were thickest near the base of the structure, as if nature itself sought to claim the tavern from within. The faint scent of saltwater hung in the humid air, mingling with the acrid stench of stale ale, sweat, and overcooked food wafting from somewhere inside. The aroma was both revolting and strangely inviting, like a guilty pleasure you couldn’t quite turn away from.
Above the entrance, a battered wooden sign swung lazily on rusted chains, the faded paint depicting a mermaid with wild, flowing hair and a smirk so mischievous it seemed almost alive. Her eyes seemed to follow those who approached, daring them to step inside and try their luck. Below her, the carved script that read “The Blushing Mermaid” was barely legible, worn down by decades of wind, rain, and time.
Despite the building’s dilapidated appearance, it pulsed with life. The sound of clinking mugs and raucous laughter spilled out of the windows, carried on the evening air like a siren’s call. Patrons of every imaginable sort filled the uneven walkways and leaning balconies—grizzled sailors, cutthroats with scarred faces, and cloaked figures who lurked in the shadows, their eyes darting about as they whispered secrets. A pair of halflings sat cross-legged on the roof, laughing uproariously as they rolled dice on a makeshift table fashioned from a barrel. Beneath them, a trio of burly dockworkers argued loudly over a spilled drink, their fists twitching as they edged closer to blows.
Lanterns swayed from posts and beams, casting flickering light across the cobblestones below. The flames sputtered and danced as if alive, throwing distorted shadows that seemed to mimic the chaos of the tavern itself. The uneven ground outside was littered with discarded bottles, broken crates, and the occasional unconscious figure sprawled in a puddle of dubious origin. Despite—or perhaps because of—its grimy allure, the Blushing Mermaid had an undeniable magnetism, drawing people in with the promise of excitement, danger, and fleeting pleasures.
To the casual observer, it was a place of paradoxes: both haven and hazard, a den of thieves and a sanctuary for wanderers. It was the kind of place where fortunes were made, hearts were broken, and lives could be ended with the flick of a blade—all while a rowdy chorus rang out in the background, the patrons too drunk or too reckless to care. For those bold enough to step inside, the Blushing Mermaid wasn’t just a tavern—it was a world unto itself, one where the rules of the outside world held no sway, and anything could happen.
They stepped inside the tavern, the scent of stale ale and sweat hitting them like a physical blow. The dim light filtered through cracked windows, casting long, jagged shadows across the warped wooden floors. Laughter and murmured conversation filled the air, but there was an undercurrent of tension, a sharp edge that Halsin couldn’t quite place. They made their way to the counter on the right, where an older human man stood, wiping the surface with a stained cloth that looked like it had cleaned more blood than beer.
The man’s eyes narrowed at them as they approached. His voice was rough, gravelly, and carried the weight of years spent dealing with unruly patrons. “No pissin’ or shittin’. If you break it, ya pay for it. Any fightin’, and Captain Grisly’ll shank ya. Got it?”
Halsin met the man’s daggered stare without flinching, his voice calm but firm. “We’re here about the missing girl—Vanra.”
The old man rolled his eyes, muttering a curse under his breath. “Gods above—not this again. You pull a knife on me like the last one, and you’re getting the boot—you hear?”
Lump glanced at Halsin, confused. He was sure they had never been here before, yet the man spoke as if this was a recurring ordeal.
The barkeep didn’t wait for a reply, his irritation bubbling over as he continued, his words punctuated by sharp gestures. “That woman—Lara or Lora, or whatever the bloody name is—she was here screamin’ her head off about some kid, tearing the place apart like a madwoman. Bloody disturbing, it was. Captain Grisly had to clock her one in the end—threw her out on her arse. Good riddance, I say. If you want to see for yourself, go upstairs. She’s in her usual spot to the right, next to the fireplace.”
Halsin thanked him, but the man didn’t even bother to acknowledge it, already turning back to his work with a muttered curse.
They climbed the wooden stairs, the boards creaking ominously beneath their boots. The tavern’s second floor was alive with activity. Drunken patrons leaned over tables, their laughter booming and slurred, tankards clanging together in chaotic harmony. The air reeked of spilled ale and unwashed bodies. Yet, beneath the jovial facade, Halsin felt a prickle of unease crawl up his spine. Something was wrong here—he could feel it in his bones—but he couldn’t pinpoint what.
Following the barkeep’s directions, they turned right and spotted her. Captain Grisly sat slouched in a worn wooden chair near the crackling fireplace, her head cradled in one hand. She exuded the aura of someone who’d seen it all—and wasn’t particularly impressed by any of it.
She had worn a striking red tricorn hat, adorned with golden accents and a polished medallion at its center, giving her an air of authority and flair. Her weathered face bore the marks of a hard life, with faint scars etched across her skin, each one a silent testament to battles fought and survived. A patch covered her left eye, stitched together from rough leather, adding an air of mystery.
Her remaining eye, sharp and calculating, flicked up to meet them as they approached. Despite her hunched posture, she carried herself with the unmistakable presence of someone used to being in charge.
“Captain Grisly?” Halsin asked, his deep voice cutting through the tavern’s din as he stepped closer.
The captain groaned, lifting her head with a pained scowl. “Can’t a captain be bloody hungover in peace?” she murmured, her voice rough but laced with sharp wit. Straightening slightly, she added, “Captain Grisly at your service. What can I do for a tall drink of water like yourself?”
“We’re here about a missing girl—Vanra,” Halsin replied, his tone direct but measured.
The captain let out a derisive snort, rolling her eye as she leaned back in her chair. “Oh, not this claptrap again.”
She motioned for them to sit, though her expression suggested she didn’t particularly care if they did. “Listen,” she said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial growl. “Lora was here, all right—knocking back pints like there’s no tomorrow. But she was alone. I saw neither head nor arse of this so-called ‘kid.’ And when we tried to kick her out? She pulled a knife on my front man. Bet she didn’t tell you that bit, huh?”
Halsin frowned, his brow furrowing. “No, she didn’t.”
“’Course she didn’t,” Grisly shot back, her lips curling into a sardonic smile. “That’s ’cause she’s takin’ you for a ride—and not the fun kind. Look, I know Lora from my pirating days. She ran with Bart Blackdagger’s crew, and let me tell you, she’s got a reputation. Heard they tossed her overboard when she gutted the bosun over a game of cards. Now, I’d no beef with her before this—all are welcome in the Maid—but threatening my staff? Claiming we took her ‘kid’? She’s bloody bonkers. Dangerous.”
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low, deadly whisper. “Next time she pulls a knife on me and mine, someone might die. Something has to be done.”
The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, the rowdy tavern seemed quieter, as if even the drunken patrons sensed the gravity of the moment. Halsin met Grisly’s gaze, the flickering firelight casting shadows across their faces, as he considered what to do next.
“A child is missing—I just want to get to the bottom of this,” Halsin responded, his voice steady but carrying the weight of his conviction.
The captain groaned, her frustration plain as she leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. “Gods—do I have to spell it out for you? There is no child. Lora’s mad as a box of frogs. Dangerous as one too. And I couldn’t call myself a captain if I stood by and did nothing while she spirals further into her madness.” Her voice lowered, dripping with venom as she added, “I hate that it’s come to this, but I’ll pay a hoard of gold to whoever scuppers her. Permanently.”
Halsin’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “That’s insane,” he said sharply.
“No less insane than lying about having a kid!” the captain snapped, slamming a hand down on the armrest of her chair. “You don’t want the gold? Fine. Someone else will. But let me tell you this—if you don’t do it, whoever comes next won’t make it painless. You? You could make it quick. You could make it clean.” Her remaining eye gleamed with a dangerous light, as if daring him to refuse.
Halsin was silent for a moment, the weight of her words settling over him like a heavy shroud. His expression grew grave, his gaze dark and calculating as he turned his head to Lump. He offered the ogre a slight nod.
Lump’s lips curled back, revealing jagged teeth in a wide, toothy grin. He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing like small thunderclaps.
Before the captain could react, Halsin’s staff swung with blinding speed, the polished wood arcing through the air before slamming into her head . The force of the blow hurled her across the room, sending her crashing into the wall with a deafening thud that rattled the shelves nearby. Dust and splinters rained down as her chair toppled over, its legs shattered from the impact.
For a moment, it seemed like the captain might be finished. But then, with an almost casual grace, she stood up, brushing herself off as though she had merely tripped. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. “Tch. You’re no fun,” she drawled, patting the dust from her coat. “I wanted to stain your soul with the blood of an innocent mother. What a shame. Oh well!” Her voice grew gleefully manic as her eye gleamed with wicked intent. “I’ll just decorate the room with your insides instead—they’ll match my new carpet beautifully.”
Halsin’s grip on his staff tightened as he rushed toward her, his movements swift and precise. His muscles coiled like steel as he swung for her again, the blow strong enough to shatter stone. But before the staff could connect, the captain disappeared, her body dissolving into a cloud of sickly green fumes that hung in the air like a poisonous mist.
“Hags and their trickery,” Halsin muttered under his breath, his voice heavy with disdain. He scanned the room for any sign of her, but the foul mist was already dissipating, leaving behind only the faint scent of rot and sulfur.
A wet, meaty crack drew his attention. He turned to see Lump, standing amidst a group of redcaps that had surrounded him, clearly mistaking him for an easy target. Their mistake.
Lump was wielding one of the redcaps like a club, his massive hands gripping the unfortunate creature by its legs. The redcap’s limbs flailed wildly as Lump swung it with brutal efficiency, using it to batter the others. Their shrieks of rage and pain echoed through the room as Lump’s makeshift weapon slammed into them, reducing bones to splinters and flesh to pulp.
One of the redcaps lunged for him, its jagged teeth bared and claws outstretched, but Lump’s grin widened. He raised his grotesque weapon high above his head and brought it down with a force that shook the floorboards. The impact turned both the club and its target into an unrecognizable mess of blood, bone, and sinew, spraying the surrounding area with a sickening splatter.
The remaining redcaps hesitated, their confidence faltering as they realized the futility of their attack. Lump’s booming laughter filled the room, a sound that was both gleeful and terrifying. “Hah! You thought I was easy prey?” he bellowed, his voice echoing off the tavern walls.
Halsin stepped forward, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. “Lump, enough. "
Lump dropped what was left of his grisly weapon, the ruined redcap landing with a sickening squelch. “As you say, boss,” he rumbled, wiping his hands on a nearby tablecloth, much to the dismay of the drunkard seated there.
The room fell eerily quiet as the last echoes of the battle faded, leaving only the crackling of the fire and the groans of the wounded. Halsin’s gaze swept over the scene, his mind already piecing together their next steps. The fight had been won, but the captain’s words—and her sudden disappearance—left an ominous weight hanging over him.
The hag was still out there, and Halsin knew this encounter was only the beginning.