Pebbles crunch pleasantly under my bare feet as Karlach and I trudge up the sandy path from the beach. The morning sun is climbing higher now, painting the cliffs in warm gold colors. A light breeze is tugging at my damp silk pants and the silly fishing hat that's still perched on my head. The air is crisp and invigorating, salt mingling with pine and damp earth, the ocean’s briny tang dancing pleasantly on my tongue. Karlach is beside me, her vivid, warm presence like a lighthouse piercing the morning chill. Her dark red skin catches the sun in fiery glints that ripple across her form like molten flames. Steam curls off her in soft, gentle clouds, wisping upward where the sea’s last clinging droplets finally surrender to her infernal heat. The resulting mist surrounds her like a halo; and, occasionally, when the angle of the morning sun hits just right, I can spot a hint of a rainbow around her head. Her musky scent titillates my enhanced Vampiric senses: it is... unique, reminding me of a blend of fine tobacco and saltpeter – and I can’t help but grin like a loon, knowing that this is a blaze I would stumble into willingly, any day of the week.
Her tail gently brushes my calf: a quick, accidental graze as she adjusts her stride, and I feel the warmth of it linger—a soft jolt against the chill of my damp clothes, a fleeting caress that sends a shiver of excitement racing up my spine. “Careful there,” I say, glancing her way with a half-smirk, my voice rough with the husky Nord growl. “You’re liable to trip a man up with that thing—unless… that’s the plan?”
She arches a brow, her amber eyes catching mine for a heartbeat, a flicker of amusement dancing in their molten depths, warm with pure-hearted teasing. “Plan? Oh, Soldier, if I wanted you flat on your back, I’d hardly need my tail to do it,” she quips, her own voice a low, playful hum that rolls over me like the echo of a distant forge. She steps closer, her heat brushing my arm like a passing flame -- then, I feel a wave of warmth of an entirely different kind, as she flicks her tail again: this time, it wraps around my shin with a deliberate slowness, a sinuous coil that lingers just long enough to make my pulse jump… before slipping away.
I laugh, a low rumble that shakes my chest, sidestepping just enough to keep her guessing, the sandy pebbles crunching under my weight with a satisfying grind. “Fair point. But you’re making it damn tempting to test that theory—reckon I’d enjoy the fall?” My tone’s light, but there’s an edge to it, a dare wrapped in jest, and I can practically feel the air between us crackle with something subtle, a spark of possibility that, while unplanned – is not at all unwelcome.
She grins, sharp and teasing, and tilts her head, wet hair spilling over her shoulder alluringly, glistening like a flaming ruby in the morning’s warm sunlight. Before she can reply, a sound cuts through the breeze—laughter, bright and sharp, echoing from the trail to the southwest.
Now that I manage to pay attention to something other than Karlach, I see them instantly: two figures trudge toward the ruins across the grassy bluff.
One’s pale as frost, silver hair glinting like a blade in the sunlight— this is, undoubtedly, Astarion. The Vampire Spawn is a very tragic BG3 character – enslaved by the Vampire Lord Cazador Szarr, he was controlled almost like a puppet, made to do horrific things and to suffer unspeakable, hellish torments… for something like two hundred years. The key choices in this character's arc allow the player to decide whether Astarion ultimately usurps Cazador – thus taking his place and continuing the cycle of torture and abuse upon others – or whether he manages to instead transcend his trauma and move on – thereby achieving healing and some semblance of emotional peace, albeit at a cost of power and no longer being able to walk in the Sun.
Astarion’s lean frame slinks with a feline grace even as he props up… one of my favorite characters, Gale of Waterdeep! The wizard limps beside him, staff clutched in one hand, his dark robe shredded at the knee, sweat beading on his brow under the tousled mop of his hair. Gale is a man of contrasts—brilliant, yet burdened, a genius who had everything a Wizarding Prodigy could have asked for, and more! At one point being in a relationship with Mystra – the goddess of magic – herself… Gale was brought low by excessive ambition and hubris. He foolishly tampered with a Netherese orb, a shard of cursed, ancient power now lodged in his chest, a portable natural disaster that hungers for rare magic to keep it sated, lest it explode violently in a blast comparable to a small nuke. Still, Gale is a gentleman to a fault and a fountain of wit with some of the best dialogue lines in the game -- and here he is, in the flesh—limping but alive!
The two are quite a spectacle to behold—Gale is waving his free arm around like a conductor’s baton, apparently mid-story, while Astarion is howling with laughter like an old drinking buddy after a fifth ale.
“—and then I told him, ‘Good sir, if you think that’s a Phoenix egg, I’ve got a mule named Archmage Elminster to trade you!’”
The duo explode with laughter once again!
I glance at Karlach, who is genuinely smiling at the duo. “Looks like we may not be the only survivors,” she mutters, her voice a mix of amusement and something softer—relief. Her amber eyes narrow as she studies the duo, certainly strangers to her -- but strangers walking away from the same hellish wreck that spat us out. “Crash leftovers, you think? Poor bastards could use a hand.”
“Gotta be,” I reply, my grin widening as I take them in. That limp’s nagging at me—Gale’s visibly favoring his leg hard, and Astarion’s arm loops under his shoulder, steady but casual, a support that feels much too natural for the vampire spawn’s prickly edge. Back in the game, Astarion was a cynic’s cynic—trust was a coin he’d hoard, his centuries under Cazador’s brutal lash were a chain of betrayal that left him wary of any hand not holding a blade. Charismatic and likable as Gale naturally is, I wondered what he might have done to earn such a warm treatment. Was it a last second shielding spell protecting Astarion from falling debris? A narrow rescue in a fight with one of the Nautiloid’s fleshy abominations? Or, perhaps, a well-timed use of a feather fall scroll?
They are around ten paces out when Astarion’s voice finally slithers through the air, smooth as velvet, with a razor’s edge. “Well, well, look what the tide dragged in—a towering brute and his... fiery friend!” he calls, his tone dripping with mock cheer, his free hand flourishing in a theatrical sweep, a rogue’s flair undimmed by the crash. His red eyes—sharp as garnets, glinting with a predator’s gleam—flick between us, landing on Karlach’s steaming form with a raised brow, like he’s calculating the chances of successfully testing her heat against his own cold blood. “Other survivors, I hope? Or... are we interrupting a seaside tryst?”
Gale straightens as best he can, wincing as he shifts his weight off Astarion, brushing sweat-slicked hair from his brow with a trembling hand, his smile polite but strained, etched with exhaustion that creases his scholarly face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I’m Gale of Waterdeep, and this is Astarion, of Baldur’s Gate. We’ve just crawled from a rather unpleasant shipwreck—mind flayers, tentacles, the usual fare. You wouldn’t happen to be… fellow escapees, would you?” His words carry a cautious hope, a wizard’s mind probing for allies or threats. His staff is steadying him as he leans against it, and I notice the runes on its tip subtly powering up in case diplomacy fails, their outlines glinting faintly in the dawn.
Karlach chuckles disarmingly, her tail flicking sand with a playful snap as she crosses her arms, her heat once again radiating like a forge stoked high. “Escapees would be right. It’s great to meet you both—name’s Karlach,” she says, her voice a gravelly mix of grit and goodwill, her amber eyes softening as she studies them. “Need a hand?”
I nod, my grin holding as I step forward slowly, the sand cool and rough under my feet, the breeze tugging at my damp hat with a faint whistle. “Harald,” I say, keeping things simple. “And yes, we’re from that wreck too. You two look like you’ve got quite a story—and mind flayer souvenirs in the noggin too, I’m guessing?”
Before they can answer, a jolt stabs behind my eyes. Once again, my tadpole squirms, alive and wriggling; a cold, slithering thing coiling through my mind, and, suddenly, I feel them:
Karlach’s fiery pulse, Astarion’s cool, coiled sharpness, and Gale’s restless hum of intellect and curiosity all press against my mind at once. Fortunately, I’ve gotten good at controlling telepathic links after the recent experiences with Lae’zel and -- especially -- Shadowheart. I gently shove a feeling of solidarity towards the duo before tapering out the link. There’s no reason to show them too much just yet.
Karlach staggers half a step before I reflexively steady her with my arm (earning a raised eyebrow from Astarion, since Karlach’s skin is visibly hot enough to brew coffee). “Bloody worms,” Karlach grumbles beside me, rubbing her temple with a grimace, her fingers pressing hard against her red skin, her tail lashing the sand in a sharp arc that kicks up a dusty plume. “Can’t even meet new folks without ‘em thrashing around in our heads—rude little bastards.”
Astarion smirks, easing the wizard onto a nearby boulder with an easy grace that belies his thin frame. “Yes, charming little beasties, aren’t they?” he drawls, his voice sickly sweet, his red eyes flicking to Karlach with a glint of amusement. He seems to be sizing her up, like a cat eyeing a stove with a particularly tasty treat at the top, wondering if the reward is worth risking a singe.
“Speaking of charm,” I interject, nodding toward the wizard’s limp, “Gale, was it? Would you like me to heal that injury for you?”
My voice and attitude are calm, casual – and Gale’s pain-filled face lights up with a smile, bright despite the sweat streaking his brow, his dark eyes glinting with gratitude. “Oh, yes, please, my good man. My thanks! Would it be fair to assume you’re a Druid then?” He gives me a once-over, his gaze lingering on my bare chest and dense musculature, then frowns, his gaze flicking to the soggy fishing hat still perched on my head. “Or, rather, is it Cleric?” There’s a spark of curiosity in his tone, I can see his sharp scholar’s mind already spinning, working overtime trying to figure me out—probably picturing me chanting to some nature spirit or bowing to a divine altar.
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“Neither, actually—but I do know a bit of Restoration magic,” I reply, letting the warm, familiar rush spill from my palm, knitting Gale’s torn leg back together in an instant. The spell doesn’t stop there, of course – rather, the raw tide of magic flows up his frame; easing the bruised and fractured ribs swelling under his robe; removing the lactic acid buildup from his muscles; erasing every little ache, pain, and discomfort; and even fixing his slightly-deteriorated eyesight. I see the tension in Gale’s shoulders melting away like snow under a noonday sun.
Karlach snorts loudly behind me, her tail flicking sand as she mutters something I don’t quite catch—probably a jab at my showboating.
As Gale stares back at me, wide-eyed and gaping like a fish, I realize that I haven’t quite thought through what I just said, and who I said it to.
Restoration magic.
I mentioned it like it’s a well-known field of study, but Gale’s face tells a different story.
Suddenly, I realize exactly why he’s looking at me like I’ve just grown tentacles while dancing the Macarena.
Gale’s no novice. According to his BG3 backstory, he was a once-in-a-thousand-year magical prodigy -- an Archmage even, before the incident with the cursed Orb that saw Mystra cut him loose. Gale was a wizard who was close to the goddess of magic herself. He had visited Elysium. His mind was a library of arcane lore stretching back centuries.
And he’d know—better than most—that healing spells simply don’t exist in the arcane playbook of the DnD setting. Sure, you’ve got your ninth-level Wish, a reality-warping sledgehammer that can yank someone back from death’s door... and even beyond. Then, of course, there are the Vampiric tricks, like siphoning life force from some poor sod to patch yourself up. The reverse was possible too—if you were willing to bleed away your own essence to mend an ally.
But clean, pure-play healing? That was divine turf—Clerics channeling gods’ grace, Druids tapping nature’s pulse, spells like Cure Wounds or Healing Word fueled by the powers of faith or the wild.
DnD’s arcane magic was capable of bending the elements of reality: it can conjure fire, pierce space, and even twists minds— what it doesn’t do, however, is heal someone without an additional cost. Gale has never seen a healer who wasn’t a Druid or Cleric—hell, he’d probably bet his spellbook it wasn’t even possible—that is, until I strolled up and turned his entire world upside down with a flick of my wrist.
…
…
I’ve really, really got to be more careful about doing things like that.
“Um, your leg should be good now!” I say, forcing my voice into a false cheer.
Gale blinks, snapping his jaw shut, but his eyes stay wide, darting over me again—taking in my bare chest, the damp silk pants, the fishing hat—like he’s trying to rewrite a scroll of first impressions in his head. He tests his weight on the newly-healed limb, and stands straight, the wince gone, his robe swaying freely as he rises from the boulder, staff still gripped tight -- but no longer as a crutch.
“Well, I’ll be damned to the Nine Hells and back again,” he mutters, his voice a mix of awe and disbelief, rich with that scholarly lilt as he stares at me. “Restoration magic, you say? But there’s not a whisper of Divine essence, and no Druidic pulse either…. That’s—forgive me, my good man, but that’s simply extraordinary—unheard of, even!” His hands twitch, like he’s itching to pull out a quill and begin scribbling notes right here on the bluff. His eyes glint with an unparallelled enthusiasm… and a hunger for new knowledge. “I’ve never encountered such a thing. How in Mystra’s name did you come by such a spell? An ancient Netherese tome? A mentor? A… quirk of fate?” His tone’s eager now, almost pleading, his hands gesturing like he’s sketching the spell in the air, the scholar in him fully awake despite the crash’s toll.
Astarion chuckles, a low, wicked sound that slinks through the air, his pale hands flexing as he leans back against the boulder, his silver hair catching the light in a shimmering arc. “Oh, Darling,” he says, his voice an overly smooth silk over hard steel, his red eyes glinting as he looks me up and down—he’s already clocking me as trouble worth watching. “Healing with a snap of his fingers, and mysterious to boot—I’d hate to miss the encore when you pull a rabbit from that soggy hat next.” His smirk’s a taunt, but there’s a flicker in his gaze—wariness, calculation—a rogue filing away a card for later play.
“Oh, you know… I picked up a little here and there – but the full story’s a long one, best saved for a campfire and some ale,” I smile disarmingly. “Given the… souvenirs in our heads, I think it only makes sense to travel together – don’t you agree?”
Gale’s eyes light up with enthusiasm, the awe and hunger still simmering beneath a spark of practical relief, and he nods with an eagerness that nearly gives him a concussion. “Oh, absolutely—I’d be a fool to disagree,” he exclaims. “Traveling together is not just the sensible thing—it’s imperative! These tadpoles are no trifling matter, and I’d wager none of us fancy sprouting tentacles by week’s end. A specialist in a proper city would be our best bet—someone versed in the arcane or the esoteric, capable of prying these wretched things from our skulls before they take root.” His words tumble out quickly, a scholar’s mind racing ahead, already mapping out a plan, his dark eyes glinting with a mix of hope and calculation.
I grin back, the sandy pebbles cool and gritty under my bare feet as I shift my stance. “Good call—I recon Baldur’s Gate’s the spot, then,” I say, tossing the thought out like it’s the obvious play for us. “Big city, plenty of healers. Maybe, if we’re lucky, an expert Cleric or two who know mind flayer tricks—oughta have someone who can sort us out.”
Gale freezes mid-gesture, his staff clattering faintly against the boulder as his hands still, his dark eyes widening like I’ve just suggested we should stroll back into Avernus for afternoon tea. His mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again as he lets out a nervous, disbelieving laugh.
“Baldur’s Gate?” he exclaims, his voice spiking with sheer incredulity. “My good man, we were lucky—nay, blessed beyond all reason—to even be able to claw our way out of the Hells on that wreck! Have you any idea… Why, the sheer statistical improbability of us re-entering the Material Plane anywhere close to where we started—it’s… astronomical, a cosmic jest at best! No, no—I’m quite certain we’re not even in Faer?n anymore. I’d stake my spellbook on it, in fact, and I’ll have you know that’s a tome of no small worth!”
Gale pauses and squints skyward, his gaze locking on a gull wheeling overhead, its cry a guttural bark slicing through the breeze, its wings flashing silvery-white against the azure expanse. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s a Moon Gull—native to the Moonshae Isles, a remote chain west of Waterdeep. We’re most definitely nowhere near Baldur’s Gate at the moment.”
The words slam into me with a brutal realization, the cool pebbles suddenly unsteady under my soles. The Moonshae Isles? My breath catches, panic threatening to claw up my throat as my mind reels—back to the ocean I’d just waded through not an hour ago, its salt still stinging my lips.
A gods-damned river is supposed to hug Withers ruin.
I…
I’m such an idiot.
The realization sinks into my bones like ice through a cracked door during a blizzard, chilling me despite the dawn’s golden warmth creeping across the bluff.
Gale’s right, of course—the Nautiloid’s plunge through the Astral Sea, that violet rift tearing us from Avernus’ grip -- it could’ve spat us out literally anywhere. That we even made it back to the Material Plane in one piece was a miracle in itself. I… I didn’t want to think about it. I’d clung to Baldur’s Gate 3’s plot like scripture – saw what I wanted to see.
But the Moonshae Isles?
Lore flickers through my mind, dredged up from half-forgotten memories of old Forgotten Realms campaigns. We’re on an archipelago west of Waterdeep, a wild and untamed land, a land of druids, Norse raiders, ancient mysteries, and the occasional portal to the Feywild. My every assumption has been thrown out of the window, and I now realize that I’m in a game I don’t quite know how to play anymore.
Suddenly, Karlach is there, her comforting heat a steady presence beside me, and I catch her glance—concern deepening those amber eyes, her grin faltering as she reads the storm brewing on my face, her fingers flexing like she’s ready to grab me or throttle whatever has me so spooked. “What’s eating you, Soldier?” she asks, her voice a grave thread of worry laced with that fierce edge, her stance shifting as if braced for a fight she can’t yet see, flames and steam curling off her in tight, ominous wisps that shimmer dangerously in the dawn’s gold.
I blink, my throat dry as I force a false composure back into my voice. “He’s right,” I mutter, the words scraping out like gravel, my bare feet digging into the sand as I pivot toward the ruin, its shadowed maw glaring back like a challenge—or a damn mockery. “I’m an idiot, Karlach. We swam in that ocean, and I didn’t even consider that it wasn’t a river.” My hands clench into fists as I stare at the nearby unfamiliar cliffs, their jagged faces etched with shadows I can’t read, looming like silent judges over a world that’s flipped my mental script upside down.
For the first time since waking up in this new world, I genuinely consider how to proceed.
We must get to Moonrise Towers and Baldur’s Gate as soon as possible, of course – this whole world, and maybe even the local Universe, is certainly doomed otherwise. The good news is, we should still have some time before shit really starts to hit the fan. Depending on which island we ended up on, we may even be able to hire a fast ship to sail back…
Damn, I really am an idiot, aren’t I? Instead of being concerned with looking cool in front of the ladies by intimidating those scavengers – I could have known all of this all along if I’d just... bothered talking to them like a human being.
Well, what’s done was done – fortunately, with Clairvoyance as an option, I don’t exactly need to ask for directions. The spell snaps out of me roughly, without warning, a brutally powerful surge of magicka shackled tightly to my single-minded determination to track down Wyll, the Blade of Frontiers being the only remaining member of the game's main cast still unaccounted for.
I feel a certain strain as the tightly-focused spell fizzles in the distance – my instincts tell me that Wyll is on the same plane, but is likely much too far away to lock onto… unless I decide to throw all caution to the wind and shove much, much more power into the spell matrix.
In retrospect, this was to be expected. After all, Wyll’s Warlock Patron – Mizora – is a devil based in Avernus. She would have certainly sensed her pet's arrival on the mind-flayer ship. Given Mizora’s apparent obsession with Wyll, it’s not too far-fetched to assume she would have taken the first opportunity to teleport him to safety.
I sigh knowingly. If we don’t get to Wyll in a reasonable timeframe, the Absolute, a magically-enhanced Elder Brain controlling the modified tadpoles, will surely corrupt his mind – just as it did with Minthara, the charming Drow noble I might now never meet, as our situation diverges from BG3’s (heh) Grand Design.
My next step is to turn my awareness upon Shadowheart and Lae’zel, to verify their locations and well-being…
And my face instantly drains of all remaining color.
…
...
They are gone.