As Alex approached the village, he observed that something unfortunate had taken place. Thick plumes of smoke spiraled into the sky, carrying with them the acrid stench of blood and burning flesh. Moving cautiously, he spotted a goblin patrolling on the roof of one of the buildings, its eyes scanning the area for any signs of life. He moved at the village's edge, when a faint, coppery scent caught his attention—a trail of blood leading away from the village and up a narrow path.
Following the trail with , Alex soon found himself on the main road. Just a few meters ahead, the source of the smell became horrifyingly clear: five men lay sprawled across the road, their bodies grotesquely slashed and torn, the work of short swords or brutal, jagged knives.
One by one, Alex consumed their remains, their memories flooding into his mind like a torrent. He saw their final moments—the fear, the desperation—as they left the village in a frantic attempt to reach the safety of Emerald Grove, only to be ambushed and butchered by goblins. As the memories settled, a strange word echoed in his mind: "Faerûn." It was a name foreign to him, confirming his growing suspicion that he was no longer in his own world. He was in a place called the Western Heartlands, a region of this alien land.
Deciding that Emerald Grove might hold the answers he sought, Alex set off, his clothes morphing with each step. His black shoes shifted into rugged leather boots, his blue jeans deepened into a rich brown, and his white shirt transformed into a sleeveless blouse. The black leather jacket he wore reshaped itself into a hooded vest, the red wing symbols on his back fading into obscurity.
As he crossed a stone bridge, the sounds of a fierce battle reached his ears—shouts, snarls, and the unmistakable clash of weapons. Just a short distance ahead, chaos unfolded near a wooden gate. Goblins and , hyena-like beasts were assaulting a group of three humans who fought desperately to hold them off. From atop the rock ramparts, a group of tieflings—devilish-looking humanoids—rained arrows down on the attackers. A female tiefling hurled a fiery orb at one of the hyenas, but it missed its mark, exploding harmlessly in the dirt.
The three humans at the gate were being overwhelmed, their defenses crumbling under the relentless assault. Just as Alex prepared to intervene, a bolt of blue lightning streaked from the sky, striking a goblin dead. A figure dashed into the fray—a creature resembling the ones Alex had seen riding the red dragons. This one was a female with yellowish-green skin, her ochre eyes sharp and battle-hardened. Black markings adorned her face, accentuating the deep scar that ran from her nose to her chin, giving her the menacing look of a seasoned warrior. Her auburn hair, styled with silver braids, flowed past her shoulders, and her wiry, athletic frame moved with the grace of a predator.
As she joined the battle, another goblin fell to an arrow, and a hyena howled in agony as a golden light engulfed it, searing its fur and flesh. The goblins, now fully aware of the ambush, fought with renewed ferocity. "For the Absolute!" one of them screamed, rallying his comrades.
Suddenly, a black man with a piercing gray eye leaped from the ramparts, dark energy crackling from his hand as he sent a goblin flying with a powerful blast. A tiefling blew a large bone horn, and a mystical green light enveloped the humans, the yellow-skinned warrior, and the tieflings, reinvigorating them.
As the battle raged on, more figures emerged from the direction the warrior had come—a group led by an albino dragonborn, his appearance a hybrid between man and lizard, clad in a dark bluish robe. He wasn’t alone. Three others accompanied him, each strikingly distinct in their features.
A high elf, appearing to be in his late thirties, carried himself with an air of sharpness and precision. His pallid skin contrasted against the dark circles under his crimson eyes, his face marked by faint smile lines and a beauty mark on his right cheek. His jaw-length silver hair, styled meticulously, framed his face, while a bite-mark scar marred the right side of his neck. He wore an elaborate doublet, leather chaps, and embroidered shoes, his every move calculated.
A woman with coal-black hair kept in a long ponytail segmented by ornate silver rings. Her fringe hair was kept short and straight, revealing her brows beneath and a scar running from her nose to her right cheek. Hair adorned her face on the sides, reaching past her chin, her pointed ears barely peeking through them, and her eyes, light-green with speckles of yellow, were contoured by dark make-up. She had a black circular mark on her right hand.
The final figure was a man of refined elegance, his robe simple yet exquisitely made. His mousy brown hair, straight and shoulder-length, was swept back with an effortless flair. Chestnut brown eyes peered out with a soft yet confident gaze, his facial hair neatly trimmed. A silver earring, shaped like a star, adorned his left ear, while dark, wispy tendrils extended from his chest, faint but noticeable as they curled beneath his left eye.
The dragonborn barked orders to his companions before unleashing a barrage of blue lightning, striking down goblins and their beasts with precision. The high elf fired arrows from his bow, occasionally missing his target, but never faltering in his resolve. The coal-haired woman conjured orbs of light, launching them with deadly accuracy, each one curving through the air to strike its mark. The robed man, his presence commanding, raised his hands as a massive orb of fire materialized above him.
"Globus Ignis!" he shouted, sending the fiery sphere hurtling toward a cluster of goblins. The explosion that followed was deafening, the smell of burning flesh saturating the battlefield as the goblins were incinerated. Without missing a beat, the man resumed his attack, hurling smaller bolts of fire and lightning into the fray.
One by one, the goblins and their hyena-like beasts fell, their cries of pain and fury echoing through the air until, at last, the battlefield fell silent. All that remained were the smoldering bodies of their enemies, the air thick with the scent of blood and ash.
At the gate, the everyone regrouped, their breath heavy with exhaustion . Alex decided it was time to reveal himself. Slowly, he rose from his hiding place, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. All eyes snapped to him, and the green-skinned woman with the flaming sword instinctively pointed it at him , while the others quickly readied their weapons.
"Who are you?" the dragonborn demanded, his voice like gravel scraping against stone.
"My name is Alex," he replied calmly in their language, known simply as Common.
"For what reason are you here?" asked the black-skinned man, his tone guarded and suspicious.
"To seek shelter in the grove from the Absolute's army," Alex answered, his voice steady, betraying none of the danger he knew he carried within.
The man’s eyes narrowed as he studied Alex. "Can you fight?" he asked, a trace of hope mingling with his caution.
Alex nodded, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "More or less. I'm pretty good with hand-to-hand combat."
The man seemed to consider this for a moment, then nodded in approval. "Zevlor, open the gate!" he shouted over his shoulder.
A tiefling man nodded and signaled another tiefling to pull a lever. With a heavy creak, the gate slowly lifted, revealing the relative safety of the grove within.
"What, you're just going to let him in like that? He could be a spy," the white-haired, pointy-eared man snapped, his sharp gaze piercing through Alex.
"Hmm, Astarion has a point," the man who was wearing exquisite looking robes added .
The dragonborn stepped forward, lifting his hand to his temple, his eyes closing as he concentrated. Alex felt a slight pressure in his mind, like a whispering breeze trying to find its way into a sealed chamber. He knew what was happening but had no way to stop it.
A few moments passed, and the dragonborn opened his eyes, looking directly at Astarion. "He is not a spy," the dragonborn stated with certainty, his voice a low rumble of finality.
Astarion scoffed but didn’t argue further. Everyone sheathed their weapons, and one by one, stepping inside the grove. As Alex entered, he noticed to his right , down below, an ancient stone structure. At its center stood a small statue emanating a soft green energy. The architecture was reminiscent of the stone circles on the island where he had first landed. Around the statue, men and women of various sizes and races knelt in prayer, their faces serene with concentration.
Druids, Alex thought, recognizing them as mages who communed with nature.
As they moved further into the grove, a heated argument caught Alex’s attention. A young man who had fought valiantly at the gate, Aradin, was locked in a fierce debate with Zevlor, the tiefling the black skinned man shouted to open the gate .
The tiefling had a striking appearance, marked by his distinctly demonic features. His skin was a dark, reddish-orange hue, which contrasted sharply with his piercing yellow eyes that glowed with an almost ethereal intensity.
Prominent black, ridged horns curved backward from his forehead, giving him an intimidating and powerful look. These horns were thick at the base and tapered to sharp points, blending seamlessly into his skull. His ears were long and pointed, the tips jutting out at an angle, further enhancing his devilish appearance.
His hair was a muted, dirty blonde color, neatly combed back and falling just to the nape of his neck. It appeared well-maintained, possibly as a way to contrast the otherwise rugged and fearsome elements of his look.
He wore a suit of armor that combined practicality with ornate detailing. The armor featured intricate designs, with metallic plates that had a slight sheen, indicating a high-quality material. It was primarily silver with dark, reddish-brown leather accents that complemented his skin tone. The design of the armor was both protective and ceremonial, with layered plates on the shoulders and chest that provided a formidable yet refined appearance.
"There are children here, you fool!" Zevlor’s voice was hoarse with frustration and barely-contained rage as he glared at Aradin.
"We were running for our lives!" Aradin shot back, his eyes locked with Zevlor’s, defiance radiating from his every word.
"You led them straight to us! And you let them take the druid—Halsin—too. Unbelievable!" Zevlor's voice cracked with a mix of disbelief and fury.
"Druid? Those goblins didn’t take any prisoners," the dragonborn interjected, his deep voice laced with concern.
"We lost him back at the ruins—the whole place was crawling with gobbos," Aradin admitted, though there was no hint of shame in his voice.
"He trusted you," Zevlor said, stepping closer to Aradin, his eyes boring into the young man's, searching for any sign of remorse.
Aradin shrugged, his expression indifferent. "Nobody forced him to go with us—he insisted. And when things got tough, he couldn’t keep up. Simple as that."
"My gods, you're a coward," Zevlor hissed, taking another step forward, his fists clenched, his rage barely contained.
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The tension between them was palpable, both men ready to tear each other apart, but before they could act, the dragonborn stepped between them, his form a wall of calm reason.
"More violence won’t bring back those you lost. Stop and think," he said, his voice commanding and soothing all at once.
Zevlor’s shoulders slumped slightly as the truth of the dragonborn’s words sank in. He took a step back, though his gaze remained firm on Aradin. "You're right. There’s too much at stake," Zevlor muttered, though his anger still simmered beneath the surface.
"Worried about your precious hides, the both of you," Aradin sneered, a smirk playing on his lips as he turned and walked away, leaving the dragonborn and Zevlor to speak in private.
Zevlor watched Aradin leave, shaking his head in disappointment. Then he turned back to the dragonborn. "Forgive that display. Aradin’s a blowhard, but that’s no cause for me to join him. Thank you for the help out there. I’m Zevlor," he said, extending a hand in gratitude.
"I’m Tav," the dragonborn replied, his large hand engulfing Zevlor’s in a firm shake.
"Well met," Zevlor said, though his smile was tinged with weariness. "I should warn you—visitors are no longer welcome in this grove. Whatever your business, I'd see to it quickly. The druids are forcing everyone out. This attack will only strengthen their resolve."
"I have no quarrel with druids," Tav responded, his tone neutral but curious.
"There have been several attacks by different monsters. The druids blame us 'outsiders' for drawing them here. Nobody's welcome anymore," Zevlor explained, his voice heavy with the burden of their predicament. "They’ve started a ritual to cut the grove off from the world outside. We can’t stay, but we’ll be slaughtered if we leave—we're no fighters."
Tav nodded, his gaze thoughtful. "What brought you here?"
"We’re refugees from Elturel," Zevlor began, his voice thick with the weight of their journey. "We took shelter here after gnolls attacked us on the road. We were bound for Baldur’s Gate, but it was too late to turn back. Elturel had no place for tieflings after the Descent."
Tav’s eyes softened with understanding. "From what I know, the Descent was an infernal conspiracy that saw the entire city of Elturel dragged to the Hells. If your people survived that, they’ll survive anything."
"So I hope," Zevlor murmured, his voice heavy with resignation. "But we've lost too many already—and more will die if we're forced out again."
Tav’s eyes narrowed in concern. "The ritual—can’t you convince the druids to stop it?"
For a moment, Zevlor’s head dropped, the weight of his burden palpable. "I’ve tried," he admitted, his voice tinged with despair. "Kagha, their new First Druid, won’t even see me. You… I know it’s not your responsibility, but she owes you for saving this place. Perhaps you could persuade her, buy us more time, if nothing else."
Tav hesitated, weighing the plea against the group’s urgent need. But then, with a resolute nod, he replied, "I’ll see what I can do."
At his words, Astarion and Lae’zel exchanged irritated glances. Astarion eyes rolled, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Great, he’s the helping-everyone type," He muttered under his breath, while Lae’zel simply clicked her tongue in disapproval.
Tav turned to them, unfazed. "But I have my own urgent concerns," he added, his tone more serious. "I need a healer."
"Goblins get you?" Zevlor asked, concern lacing his words. "The druid Halsin’s a renowned healer, but he didn’t return from Aradin’s expedition. If it’s not too serious, you might try his apprentice, Nettie. She’s with the other druids in the inner grove. They’ve secluded themselves to prepare this damn ritual."
"I’ll find her," Tav said with a determined nod. "And I’ll speak to Kagha while I’m there."
Astarion scoffed, his voice laced with disdain. "Really? We’re messengers now?"
Zevlor looked at Tav with a mixture of hope and desperation. "We’d owe you a great debt. If we’re forced to leave now, we won’t make it to the city. You’ll find the druids at the heart of the grove. Please—make them see reason before more lives are lost."
Zevlor’s words hung in the air as he thanked Tav’s group once more, his gratitude apparent in the lines of his tired face. Then, with a final glance back, he turned and walked away, leaving them to their thoughts.
As the tiefling leader disappeared from view, Alex, who had been watching from a distance, approached Tav cautiously. "Did you and your friends come from the ship that crashed on the beach?" he asked, his voice hesitant, yet tinged with curiosity.
A heavy silence followed, the weight of the question settling over them like a shroud. Tav sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Are you one of the survivors?" he asked gently.
Alex nodded, but his expression remained guarded.
Tav’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. "But why don’t you have a tadpole? I thought everyone there was infected."
"My memory is hazy," Alex admitted, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. "All I remember is being unable to move, hearing a massive explosion, and then finding myself stranded on a beach west of here."
Tav’s expression softened, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. "Mind flayers are known for messing with their victims' heads," he said quietly.
"Mind flayers?" Alex echoed, confusion evident in his tone.
"Yes," Tav explained, his voice low. "Creatures with squid-like heads and human bodies. They implant tadpoles in their victims’ brains. Through a painful process called ceremorphosis, the victims become mind flayers too."
Alex’s eyes widened . "Do all your friends have one?"
"Yes, unfortunately," Tav admitted, his voice tinged with regret.
Alex swallowed hard, his mind racing. "How much time do you have left?"
Tav’s expression darkened. "I don’t know," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "We should have turned into mind flayers by now, but we don’t even have symptoms."
Alex hesitated, then took a deep breath. "Do you mind if I stick around? With my amnesia, you guys seem like the best choice."
Tav turned to his companions, seeking their input. The man in blue robes, shrugged. "I have no problem with it," he said nonchalantly.
Astarion’s lips curled into a mocking smile. "Whatever," he said, his tone dismissive.
The green woman, however, wasn’t as welcoming. Her eyes narrowed into slits as she glared at Alex. "I will slit your throat if I have the slightest suspicion," she warned, her voice cold and deadly.
The woman with dark hair, sighed. "I’d say no, but we really need help," she admitted, her tone resigned.
Tav turned back to Alex, his expression thoughtful. "Alright," he said finally. "It seems everyone agrees, more or less." He glanced at Lae’zel, whose glare hadn’t softened. "I’m Tav, a sorcerer." He pointed to the man in blue robes. "This is Gale, a wizard." Then, he indicated the woman in silver and blue armor. "Shadowheart is a cleric." Finally, he pointed to the green-skinned woman. "Our Githyanki friend is called Lae’zel. She’s a warrior." His hand shifted to the pale elf standing beside her. "And this is Astarion. He’s a rogue."
Alex nodded, taking in the introductions. These people seemed capable, but there was a tension in the air—a fragile alliance forged by necessity rather than trust.
After the introductions, they set out to find Nettie. However, their progress was halted when they attempted to enter the main area of the grove where the druids had gathered. Tav argued with the druids, trying to convince them to let them through, but his efforts were in vain.
"Come tomorrow morning if you want to speak with Nettie," one of the druids said, his tone final.
As the sun began its descent, casting a warm golden hue over the landscape, the group decided to return to their camp outside the grove. Their campsite was nestled within an ancient, crumbling temple near where the nautiloid had crashed—a temporary refuge in a world full of uncertainty.
As they entered the camp, Alex’s senses were immediately assaulted by the faint but unmistakable scent of blood. His gaze sharpened, scanning the area for its source. "Did you kill someone here?" he asked, his voice low and measured.
Tav looked at him, surprised by the question. "How did you notice?"
Alex didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he met Tav’s gaze, his eyes hard and unyielding, a silent warning not to take him lightly. "They were some bandits who made their home here," Tav explained after a moment, his tone defensive. "They attacked us, so we killed them. We cleaned as best as we could."
Alex noded then his head turned to a skinny, bald, noseless corpse adorned with gold and wearing a simple sleeveless gray robe . It was standing in a corner, his sunken eyes gently looking the group .
"Who is that?" Alex asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.
"That’s Withers," Tav replied, his tone nonchalant. "Don’t mind him. We found him here."
Alex’s gaze flickered to Withers again, but he chose to let the matter drop—for now. There would be time for questions later.
"I see everyone has a tent. How can I get one?" Alex asked, changing the subject.
Tav gestured to a crate in the corner. "I think we have a few spares," he said.
Alex walked over to the crate and found a tent and a sleeping bag inside. Within moments, he had the tent set up—a simple brown structure, just big enough for two people.
Tav watched him work, a look of mild surprise on his face. "Wow, you set that up pretty fast," he remarked, impressed.
"It wasn’t very hard," Alex replied, shrugging.
Tav’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "You must have done this a lot if you’re this good at it, even without your memories."
"I suppose I did," Alex said, though there was an edge to his voice.
As the night deepened, Alex found himself sitting by the campfire, the crackling flames casting shadows on the ancient walls of the temple. The others were drifting off to sleep, one by one, their breathing steady and slow. But Alex had no need for sleep, his mind too restless to find any peace.
"How does it feel to have a tadpole in your head?" Alex asked Tav, though he already knew the answer. The question was more for his own curiosity, to see how Tav would respond.
Tav glanced at him, then looked away, his expression pensive. "Honestly, I didn’t even know I had one until I met Lae’zel on the nautiloid while escaping. When we met, our tadpoles connected, sharing our memories and feelings."
Alex considered this, his mind working through the possibilities. He had the genetic blueprint of the tadpole, the ability to replicate his own version, but he hadn’t done so—yet. The telepathic connection Tav described was intriguing, but also dangerous. He had thought of designing a version without this telepathic ability, but without it, the tadpole was just a glorified brain worm.
"The way you describe it," Alex said slowly, "it sounds like it wasn’t a very pleasant experience."
Tav leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let’s just say Lae’zel is not the most peaceful person I’ve met."
Alex smirked, a rare flicker of amusement in his otherwise stoic demeanor. "I’ll keep that in mind."
"You’d better," Tav said with a tired smile. He yawned, stretching his arms above his head. "I’d better get some sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow."
"Good night," Alex said, watching as Tav retreated to his tent.
"Good night," Tav called back, waving before disappearing into the folds of canvas.
As the night deepened, the camp grew silent, the only sounds the crackling of the fire . Alex, restless and unwilling to stay idle, decided to explore the temple further. The scent of old stone and ancient dust filled his nostrils as he wandered through the corridors, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallways.
In one of the rooms, he found a massive stone statue of a man dressed in robes, holding a book. The air was thick with the smell of old parchment and the faintest trace of incense, lingering from a time long past. It was clear Tav’s party had already explored this place—there were signs of their presence everywhere. But Alex was drawn to the shelves lined with books, some ancient and worn, others still intact.
Having nothing better to do, he decided to read. The language of the texts was archaic, but he managed to decipher it. Taking a seat at the dusty desk, he lit a candle with a match he found in one of the crates and picked up the book that had been left open on the desk.
As he read, a wave of nostalgia washed over him, pulling him into a memory—a memory belonging to Him . He was a little boy, barely ten, engrossed in his favorite comic book. The door to his room creaked open, and he looked up to see his little sister, Dana, standing in the doorway with a plushy in her hand, rubbing one of her eyes.
"What happened, Dana?" Alex asked, concern filling his voice as he set the comic book aside.
"I had a nightmare," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Alex smiled gently, reaching out to her. "Come here," he said, turning off his lamp. He took her hand and led her to his bed, where he tucked her in beside him. The memory was vivid, almost painfully so, but as he shook his head, he reminded himself: those were his memories, not his.
The sudden creak of a door snapped Alex back to the present. He turned his head sharply, spotting Withers walking—almost floating—into the room with his hands clasped behind his back. The skeletal figure moved with an eerie grace, his presence unsettling.
"Thou art a curious creature, unlike aught I have e'er beheld," Withers intoned, his voice a haunting whisper that seemed to echo through the room.
Alex noted the ancient dialect Withers used; it was as if he had stepped out of a Shakespearean play. "What do you mean by that?" Alex asked calmly as he rose from his seat.
Withers tilted his head, his hollow eyes seeming to bore into Alex’s very soul. "Thou mayest have beguiled the others, but not I," he declared, his tone unwavering. "Thine soul, or rather, the lack thereof, cannot deceive mine eyes, no matter how cunning thy disguise."
Alex’s muscles tensed, every instinct on high alert as Withers continued his cryptic monologue. "Yet within thee lies a seed, nestled as a babe within its mother’s womb. 'Tis a curious phenomenon indeed."
With a final enigmatic glance, Withers turned on his heel and glided out of the room, leaving Alex alone with his thoughts—and a growing unease.
Hours passed as Alex tried to focus on the ancient texts before him, but Withers’ words echoed relentlessly in his mind. No soul? A seed of one? What did it mean? What did Withers see that the others didn’t? Despite his attempts to distract himself, the cryptic encounter gnawed at him, a riddle without an answer. Eventually, he rose from the desk, abandoning his feigned reading. The texts were no longer of any interest to him; his thoughts were too tangled, too disturbed.
As the night waned and the campfire’s embers glowed faintly, Alex returned to the camp, slipping back into the role he had adopted. But the unsettling encounter with Withers lingered, a dark cloud on the horizon of his thoughts. He might not need sleep, but the rest of his night was spent in restless contemplation, haunted by questions he didn’t know how to answer.