Where God´s can´t reach us
As I am no liar, here it is! The first chapter of what I hope it´s going to be my fanfic about my most recent (and most dear) Baldurs Gate 3 game!
This chapter serves as a little introduction to set the scene, lay down some groundwork, and most importantly, introduce my main character/Tav, Hesperia.
BUT! Don´t be scared because I don´t intend to leave it as it is; in the next few chapters, a very familiar face is going to pop up (if you want a little spoiler, just check one of my old drawings to see who it is).
The setting is pre - tadpole and mid tadpole, and I have one chapter already uploaded for the mid tadpole era as a little treat ;) Anyway, I´ll shut up now and leave you with the important stuff. Enjoy, have fun and see you soon!
Old Beginnings.
“We aren't cattle, Torbin. The sooner you understand that we're just pawns to Gortash…”
Following the trail of a mutilated informant through the underbelly of Baldur's Gate, Hesperia is forced to confront the stark contrast between her own bitter, war-torn past and the naive optimism of her partner, Torbin.
In a city built in blood and silent whispers, holding onto hope is a gamble - a foolish gamble.
The city of Baldur's Gate did not wake to the first chirping of birds or the earliest rays of sun, for it truly never slept. The bustling alleys of the Lower City played home to the most vile, twisted, and broken things the city could harbor within its walls. Rascals and mercenaries melted into the shadows, cradled by a darkness that was practically a mother to them. Hesperia knew these streets well; it wasn't the first time (nor would it be the last) that she had been sent to patrol the slums, as it was the best place to find that which foreign eyes were never meant to see. Her steps were firm, clashing with the subtlety and stealth of those who called this place home. Her feet led her to a ransacked house, its windows boarded up with rotting wooden planks and mold creeping through the cracks in the stone. She knocked twice, and on the third, she kicked the door down.
The dust and filth fluttered in the air like black butterflies. She stepped into the room, dimly lit by a lantern hanging from her waist. Whoever had broken in before her had clearly already done their job. Shelves, drawers, and crates were scattered across the floor like a jigsaw puzzle, and there was no trace of anything of value. She climbed the stairs of the house, accompanied by the creaking of the floorboards. The upstairs room was not much different, as they had already made sure to tear it to shreds. A slightly decomposing corpse adorned the bed with its remains, and Hesperia had to suppress a gag. The body, belonging to an informant for Enver Gortash, had been mutilated beyond recognition. The remnants of what had once been his face decorated the walls and floor with the brutality of an executioner and the delicacy of a painter. The blood, already black from oxidation, overwhelmed the senses and chilled her to the bone. Only a tattoo on his back—an inverted triangle with a skull—allowed Hesperia to put a name to that mass of rotting flesh. The woman turned the corpse over again, feeling the skin cling to her fingers. A worm that had built its nest in his eye socket welcomed her, and swallowing hard, she concluded her inspection.
She rushed out of the house to the nearest corner and threw up her guts. Chunks of dry meat, carrots, and bile adorned the cobblestones, mimicking almost perfectly the corpse of Gohumberry Tress. Hesperia shook her head in a futile attempt to banish the image dancing before her eyes, while the tremors in her legs nearly made her collapse into her own puke. A hand rested gently on her shoulder, with a delicacy so foreign to this place that she shoved it away with a sharp slap. The man raised his hands in defense, a smug smirk on his face that Hesperia wanted to wipe off with a punch.
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"Easy there, Hes. It's not like I want you to soak my armor in vomit. I’d actually like to keep what I ate inside my own stomach."
I looked at Torbin the only way you can look at a reckless fool who doesn't know when to shut his mouth: with disdain, exhaustion, and, truth be told, a bit of envy. I spat the remaining contents of my stomach onto the ground and wiped a hand across my face, trying to scrub away the stench of the corpse that felt permanently etched into my skin.
"Tress is dead," I blurted out. Hardening the blow wouldn't fix anything.
Torbin let out a whistle, bringing a hand to his head. "Poor devil... and he owed me money, too," he muttered, clenching his jaw to hide his grimace of disgust.
"Nine-Fingers," I spat, wiping the leftover vomit from my lips with a trembling hand. "She found out about Gortash. By the Gods... it felt like she smashed his face to pieces with a hammer."
With a spin on his heel, Torbin turned his back on the old house. Seeing that I wasn't following, he looked back at me, hesitant. His nervousness grew more palpable by the second.
"Well, that’s that then, right? One less thing to do in the morning." Torbin put his hands on his hips, wishing I would start moving. "At least they won't send us to clean up whatever's left of Tress."
"Don't say it so loud, Torbin, or they will."
"Yeah, damn it..." The boy remained restless, fidgeting with a scuffed bronze ring. Noticing that I was watching him, he immediately straightened up. "And... thanks, Hes. For, you know... handling the check-up yourself. Couldn't have been pleasant."
I looked at Torbin and, to my own surprise, managed to crack a smile. It wasn't one of my best attempts at reassurance, but at least it was sincere, and for Torbin, it was enough. He offered me another smile, one that was surely handsomer than mine.
"And don't worry," he added, adjusting his armor with pride. "I'll take care of reporting what happened to Lord Gortash."
"Lord Gortash." The mere mention of his title made my stomach turn, for we all knew that power-tripping eunuch would never live up to the name. Yet, people like Torbin, who blindly trusted his capabilities (though not so much his methods), built him up as if he were a God—fools branded with the mark that tied them directly to him, like property. Torbin had been debating whether to get it for a while now, as ignoring the daily benefits it brought was becoming harder.
My hand rose instinctively to my neck, fingers tracing the ink of the military tattoo I had earned (and learned to despise) during my time in Waterdeep. I had already sold my life to one army; I wasn't about to do it again. Torbin caught the gesture, furrowing his brow.
"Don't tell me that after the lecture you gave me about the brand, you're thinking of getting one yourself."
"Don't be ridiculous," I said, offended. "You know damn well I have enough carrying one, let alone two. We aren't cattle, Torbin. The sooner you understand that we're just pawns to Gortash..."
"Lord Gortash," he interrupted.
"Lord Gortash," I conceded through gritted teeth. "The sooner you'll understand that he'll discard us just like Tress when we're no longer useful, the better." The memory of his brains scattered across the room made me swallow hard. "Now move it, we don't get paid by the hour."
The bustle of Baldur's Gate swallowed us whole, as if the presence of a fresh corpse couldn't possibly disturb life in that city. We dodged a group of drunken sailors and pushed our way down the main avenue while people laughed and enjoyed the first rays of summer sun. A small cat made of beams of light sprouted from the ground and pounced toward us; I swiped at it out of pure instinct, drawing an incredulous laugh from Torbin.
The young mage dissolved into apologies as small bursts of light erupted from her hands. Torbin stared at his own fingers, rubbing the tips where a faint tingle of the Weave still lingered.
"Do you think Lord Gortash will eventually promote us?" he asked, his gaze lost in the throngs of people. "We've been working for him for four years. Four years of obeying his orders without question." And such long years, I thought to myself. "Don't you think we deserve something better than smelling like the dead?"
"Yeah, maybe..." I admitted, a bit lost. The tattoo on my neck burned. "Maybe with a raise I could save up and get the hell out of here."
"By the Gods, Hes, don't you dare leave me stranded." Torbin stepped into my path, forcing me to stop. His worry was so absurdly genuine it almost made me laugh. "At least warn me before you bolt so I can hand the Flaming Fist my resignation letter."
I arched an eyebrow, and Torbin returned the look, this time smiling. "Besides, I'm planning to get my girl out of Sharess' Caress, and I need lined pockets. And what the hell, you have military experience; we could be strategists, royal guards... something much bigger."
An icy finger, as cold as a Neverwinter's winter, slid down my spine as the sunlight began to feel overwhelming, almost blinding. I emptied my lungs slowly, letting out the warm air of the Lower City to breathe in the cleaner atmosphere of the Upper City before looking back at Torbin. Hearing him speak with the hope of someone who has never known war filled me with a bitter sorrow; I knew all too well what happens to those like him.
I threw my arm around his shoulder, and he returned the gesture just as we had done so many times before. His warmth, in that moment, reminded me that this foolish, big-hearted half-orc was the closest thing I’d had to a friend since...
"Hes, everything alright?"
"What?" I murmured. We had reached the entrance of the Wyrm's Crossing, and a massive hunk of metal awaited us just a few yards away.
"I've asked you three times now if you know anything about that band of brigands at Wyrm's Crossing, but you're miles away."
"Right, no... No, I don't know anything," I lied, sending the ghosts back to their graves. "But we'd better stay out of that kind of trouble, hm?" Torbin frowned, not entirely convinced. I cut him off again right at the fortress entrance. "Let's stick to our rotting corpses and nights at Sharess' Caress. Sooner rather than later, we'll have our packs ready and be on our way to Waterdeep."
"Waterdeep? Why Waterdeep?"
"It's my home." Torbin's surprised face made me smile. "What? Did I never tell you my father was a sailor on its shores?"
"By the Gods, Hesperia, why do you never tell me anything?"
We reached the center of the fortress in relative calm, for there was never any rush to report the dead. The woman at the counter greeted us with her signature bitterness; the moment we mentioned Tress's name, she threw the paperwork in our faces and slammed the door, ordering us to get out. It turned out our reconnaissance had been of little use. Upstairs, they already knew Tress was pushing up daisies before we even found the body; a spy had spilled the beans that very night, reporting that the informant had missed his meeting. That left Torbin and me alone again in that large, austere hall that formed the entrance to the dungeons. The distant echo of prisoners' moans seeped through the stone walls.
Torbin let out a long, weary sigh, kicking a loose pebble across the stone floor. The rejection from the clerk had clearly taken the wind out of his sails, leaving him looking smaller, older.
"Do you think things will get better?" he muttered, almost to himself. He didn't want to look me in the eye, and the ring was about to slip from his fingers. "You've seen the number of murders lately."
I patted his back, and a forced smile was the best I could give him. "Trust the Flaming Fist, Torbin. We are the protectors of this city and we give our lives for its people; there is nothing we can't handle." I lied, noticing his shoulders relax considerably. If he needed to believe that benevolence still existed in this place, for today at least, I was willing to contribute to the fantasy.
"We can ask Sabris to swap shifts with us so we can patrol," Torbin added, looking at me with a bit more hope. "We'll put on our best uniforms and walk around like we're the Blade of Frontiers."
I nodded, swallowing hard to stifle the worms squirming in the pit of my stomach. Ever since Ardeep, I had learned that wishing for something was stupid; a waste of thoughts and breath. Yet, in that moment, I wished that Torbin and that girl he’d fallen in love with could flee far away from here. Far from Gortash and whatever he was planning for this damned city.
But no God cared to answer my prayers, and Torbin died three weeks later.
If you have reached the end, thank you so much! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it :)