A Baldur’s Gate 3 Fanfic
Copyright notice: This is a work of independent fan fiction and is in no way affiliated with or used by the Wizards of the Coast.
“Most of these people are of no concern to ourselves but a Brasi is a powerful weapon to be used. The trick is that since he does not fear death and indeed looks for it, then the trick is to make yourself the only person in the world that he truly desires not to kill him. He has only that one fear, not of death, but that you may be the one to kill him. He is yours then.”
Mario Puzo, The Godfather
Character Creation
My father was a Cleric of Talos. His father before him was a Cleric of Talos, and his father before him, and his father before him.
It’s my grandfather, his father before him, that started this. I’m not talking about the tadpoles.[1] I mean the grisly fate of my own family; a long line of Clerics dedicated the chaotic powers of the storm.
Old Kozah,[2] as the neighbors called Grandpa, and I don’t know if this was a nickname or the real thing, was a professional when it came to calling attention to a massacre.
Grandpa used to call me Sparky because of the lightening in my fingers, or Frosty because of my white horns. My real name is Hypatia.
People in town had another name for Grandpa. They called him the Butcher of Baldur’s Gate, and he wasn’t just a murderer. He killed in the honor of the Storm Lord, and honored his god with regular offerings of sentient beings, as a Cleric of Talos is so compelled. Even his own family was terrified of his mood swings and scarred face. His eyes had long been burned white by decades of throwing blue lightning, and it was only by the grace of Talos that he could see at all.
We were powerful among the mobsters and thugs. Shameless goons you hire when you want the body eviscerated, burned, or blown up. It’s a crude way to send a message, and that’s the point.
Grandpa’s Domain[3] was Tempest, and he sneered at his son’s choice of the War domain. He was more than pleased when my talents also emerged as Tempest.
“I thought you wanted me to be Death,” I said to him once, while we were gathered around the hearth after dinner. Grandpa dabbled in Necromancy when he wasn’t cursing his sons’ names and roaming the open hills with his dogs.
“Almost anything is better than War,” he gruffly declared, loud enough for Papa to hear. It was an evil thing to say, especially since everyone knew that Trickster was really the worst Cleric Domain, but no self-respecting follower of Talos would adopt such a discipline. Dad had some decent armor and weapon skills, and we always needed someone that could wear heavy armor, but no way was I going to contradict Grandpa.
I quietly admit, Druid has some deadly area-of-effect abilities. The old brute is dead now, and he can’t kill me for thinking about it. Ice Storm makes everything sharper and more smashable. If I study like a fiend, I can learn it at an advanced level as Tempest.
It took me years to figure out that Grandpa didn’t like any of his sons, but Papa in particular seemed to be his least favorite. Papa wasn’t a Tiefling, but that was the first in a series of many disappointments. My parents got a moment of redemption from Grandpa when I was born, a blue-skinned Tiefling with glowing eyes and curved horns.
Historically, our family had been a mix of humans and Tieflings[4], but Papa’s generation was entirely human, and my father had married a human. Perhaps the upheaval of the Hells and the sinking of Elturel also had something to do with it.[5]
He heard the whispers. In the dark alcoves of the Temple. The voice of his god or the ravings of his own personal madness. His children would purge the hell-spawn from their bloodline. That meant him, too, and the two of us were the last Tieflings left in the family. I nodded, but also wondered if decades of Necromantic magic were nibbling at his brain. I spent so much time with Grandpa in the Keep in the countryside that I didn’t see much of my parents or their home in Rivington.
Maybe that’s why I wasn’t exactly heartbroken when Grandpa killed every last one of them.
He set the charges days in advance and ignited them during an annual family gathering. My uncle, his wife, their grown kids and some smaller grandkids, my parents, and my human baby brother, and probably a few of the keep servants.
It was the ultimate offering to Talos. He wiped the whole family.
Well. Almost.
I knew about the charges. He didn’t tell me. I saw the trails of powder and followed them to the kegs, stacked in the pantries and closets like so much storage.
So even if Grandpa hadn’t given me a full rucksack, and told me to start walking that way I was planning on leaving anyway.
Leaving without telling anyone. Knowing they would all die, and doing nothing to stop it. Power comes to those who embrace the will of Talos.
I told my grandfather this as we stood there in the little back courtyard with Phobos and Deimos sniffing around our feet. Blurted it like a confession, but kept my voice low, and no crying, that’s for damn sure.
He was not angry. In fact, he was happy. Almost burst with pride knowing that I would accept his will. It was a bit scary. Maybe it’s because he was at peace, knowing he would also be blown into burning dust by the time I left.
He helped me put the rucksack on.
“Follow the dogs when you reach the end of the road. They know the way. They were born there. Turn your Tempest to the service of our god.”
“Talos will be pleased with such an offering.” I spoke proudly, understanding only the will of my ancestor and the will of the cruel and mysterious Storm Lord.
He put a finger to his lips, and I realized I might have spoken too loudly. He then returned to his usual authoritative self and gestured towards the door.
A sudden terror reached down my throat and stopped my heart. For a moment it seemed like my feet were stuck to the stone tiles. I was standing on the edge of the storm, waiting for the lightening to break the sky in half.
The movement of the dogs as they leaped to their master’s command broke the spell, and I ran after them as they charged through the archway that led from the courtyard and into the fading daylight.
The exit led to the back road, almost overgrown with vines and tall grass. Darkness was falling quickly and I wondered if should risk a Daylight spell, just for a while, until I knew where I was going.
I know what made me stop when I got to a vantage point on the hill. I should have kept going, but on the other hand, a part of me wanted to see it.
Domains aren’t exactly chosen; some Clerics have talents that others don’t, while others have certain natural talents or quirks of character that point to the more or less obvious.
I always had an aptitude for lighting and ice. No doubt about it. My baby blanket used to glitter with frost. If you held little me in your arms, your hairs would burn with static electricity and stand on end. But more than that, and I think what’s more important, is how much I like to blow stuff up.
Thunder is such a great power. Thunder is everything the Storm Lord loves the most and a few things more. It silences enemies and shatters eardrums, but it also turns bone and rock to dust. An offering of chaos and pain to honor the Destroyer.
Electrical damage is a close second. The buzzing fire burns foes to a crisp, while giving the target plenty of time to scream for mercy, writhing in agony, as it pleases the Raging One.
Fire is great, but the best fires are the ones that start with a streak of blue lightening or a yellow spark. A part of me wanted to stay behind and help Grandpa light that thing.
So, I looked back at just the right moment to see it happen.
I could hear it first, a long and uneven sputter, a fuse lit and burning fast. Then a split second of silence. I blinked, and the charges started to explode.
No matter what the Domain, any Cleric of Talos would choose the power of chaos when committing mass murder. Or, any kind of murder. It couldn’t be something covert, like poisoned soup or a cloud of poison gas. It had to be big, shocking, horrific, and most importantly – public.
The family’s keep was in a hill overlooking the River Chionthar, a few leagues east of Baldur’s Gate. The fire lit up the night, turned the river a liquid gold, and several repeated blasts made sure everyone was awake to see it. I think it was the third that knocked me down, and I remember feeling debris falling over and near me. Mostly from the wood and tile roof. Some of it was on fire, and most of it was smoking.
My ears were ringing and I was having trouble breathing. The impact had knocked the wind out of me and all I could think about was catching my breath. So, when I heard voices, my first thought was to roll into the bushes next to the road and hide from whoever was there.
“Wow, good thing we weren’t in the Feast Hall for THAT! Seems to have missed the barn, though.”
“Shhh, someone will hear you.”
I managed to sit up, and the bushes caught in my horns. The ringing faded, leaves drifted into my lap, and all I saw were the two dogs.
“Oh, she seems to be alright!” Phobos said. “Good! We have to get her to the Master.”
They were talking.
Talking animals isn’t weird thing in Faerun. There are spells you can cast or potions to take that allow this effect. However, I had done neither of these things.
Phobos was the smart one, a black Labrador. I asked him about it.
“Why can I understand what you’re saying? Did Grandpa cast a spell on me?”
Some Clerics knew how to cast Speak With Animals. I had no idea if Talos had granted this power to the old man.
“Oh! Well, isn’t that neat! Deimos, she can talk to us without a potion or spell.”
“Might have been the blast, tweaked her ears and spellcasting,” Deimos was a chunky pit-bull and looked at me happily. “Hello, Child of the Pack! Feel better and follow us, okay?”
“Good boy, Deimos,” and my shaking hand was steadied by his warm tongue.
“The Chief of your pack has told us to bring you to Master.” Phobos started to walk slowly up the hill as he spoke. “There are other humans coming to the Keep. I can hear them. The City Guard, but also the looters, the rival dogs, those who would rob your Pack Leader in death and slay the lone survivor.”
“We know the way,” Deimos hopped ahead, almost joyfully, but trying to stay covert.
Everyone would know that the Butcher of Baldur’s Gate, and his whole family, had been killed in the blast. I could live safely for a while on the road, and if they ever discovered that I was still alive, I would be lost in the wilderness instead of a threat to them.
It was 1482 DR, I was 15 years old,[6] and the remains of the Keep crackled merrily behind us.
We stayed off the road and headed north across the Fields of the Dead, turning west to Roaringshore, then north along the coast to Lathtarl’s Lantern. We’d take a ferry from here to the western islands, but first we could rest and resupply at a friendly location.
For a Talos worshipper, friendship is not easy to find.
Just north of town was the Grotto of the Queen, a temple dedicated to Umberlee. Also known as the Bitch Queen, she was a consort of Talos in our mythology, and their worshippers were considered family, bound by faith if not by blood.
I was there for three days, long enough for them to give me a sordid nickname; the Butcher’s Child. But that’s a story for another campfire.
From the beginning, I never asked the dogs where we were going or why because I didn’t expect them to know. They were born and bred on the islands but they wouldn’t know the names or places as I did. I knew we were going to Oman’s Isle because that’s where the dogs were from, but they wouldn’t have called it that.
Grandpa used to say that he would send me there too one day, but he never told me what I should expect to find. I knew better than to question his will. My calling as a Cleric was to sow chaos for Talos and beg for his capricious mercy, not to ask the lord of my house stupid questions.
The ferry that took passengers west wasn’t just for people. Cattle, pets, and draft animals also crowded the deck, so there was nothing unusual about my two dogs. Grandpa had even included the fare in my meagre travel budget.
A giant turtle pulled the slow, but steady barge across the water, driven by a gruff old woman with a curved pipe and squinty eye. I saw a twitch in her weathered expression when she saw me. Her one good eye rolled towards the dogs. The smoke from the pipe floated along behind it.
“You going to Oman’s Isle?” She fixed her gaze ahead as she spoke.
There were four stops on this route, and I knew Oman’s Island was not one of them. It was an interior island, a craggy mountain peak sticking out of a deep, foreboding bay surrounded by icy mountains.
“We’ll be getting off at Kingsbay,” I said, answering a different question and putting a sharp edge to my voice. “Why did you you mention Oman’s Isle?”
“He always came for the black dogs,” she said, an electric twinkle in her eye. “The ones the giants would breed.”
She nodded towards Phobos and Deimos. A wisp of smoke came out of her mouth.
“There are a few small towns along the coast,” she wheezed, gently pulling the thick reins. “Codscove has a ferry to the Iron Keep, if you want to know.”
“I do,” I said. “May the Storm Lord have mercy on you.”
The Master had some kind of reputation, connected to the dogs, to my grandfather, all forever bound to Talos.
The driver grunted, nodded, and prodded the turtle through the current. I turned back to the dogs.
The three of us huddled together on the deck. The tales of our passage, and of the days we spent following the river north to Codscove, would make for a whole other story. It was only because of my powers to bless and protect that our hired boat made it across the mines and monsters to safely reach the shore.
It was the perfect location to hide from the incident in Lathtarl’s Lantern. The town lay in ruins during this time, the population long since driven out by the giants and their minions, but a smoking chimney at the northern end of town indicated at least someone was left. The cold wind whipped over the crusty snow, and I tightened my wool cloak around my shoulders and started to trudge towards the ruined city.
The dogs were excited, and wouldn’t shut up about all the familiar smells. Frozen goblin blood, dead fish, old rope rotting in the broken boats by the shore.
“We’re not going to the Keep?” Deimos asked, scampering up to me and rubbing against my thigh.
“The mountain path that wound up the dark side of the mountain would be cold already,” Phobos answered for me, “and maybe the front gate of the Keep isn’t open at night.”
Our little adventuring party neared the source of the smoke. A wisp of think smoke rose from a shabby, bent chimney that leaned on a precarious angle. The walls of the hut below it were of granite and mud, holding together well enough, framing a cracked wooden door. It looked like it had broken in half and been put together with some wooden slabs and metal pegs.
The little house was quiet, but light flickered between the gaps in the broken door. I could smell burning charcoal and baked potato.
“You two be good,” I said, and I drew out my begging bowl and prayer beads, “and I’ll get us a bed for the night.”
“And food?” Deimos said hopefully. The last day of travel we had all seen very little, other than the scraps Grandpa had packed in my bag.
“I’ll try buddy,” I gave him a quick rub on this head and stepped closer to the door. I slipped the prayer beads over my head and took off one of my fuzzy mittens so make playing the bowl easier. There was a heavy pendant at the end of the beads that I used for that. I ran it along the metal edge, and a single, sad note rose above the falling snow. My chant was the usual humble monotone, designed to appeal to the listener as opposed to disturbing them.
Just a poor Cleric,
with dust on their feet,
looking for a bite to eat and a barn in which to sleep…
Show your faith,
to your faith be true,
and may the great lord of storms have mercy on you.
Something shuffled inside, and the door opened with a creak. A strip of warm yellow light poured out into the dark blue shadows of drifting snow. The resident seemed to be a scarred, grizzled old man, bent at the back, and missing an eye.
“Greetings, Cleric,” He smiled, all gums and beard. “May chaos follow in his footsteps. Come, warm yourself by the fire.”
He meant all of us, of course, and the dogs followed me quietly. Their obedience was rewarded almost immediately when the old man reached down to the hot rocks by the fire and picked up two massive stewing bones. They even have a bit of meat left on them. He whistled gently, and the two dogs sit obediently at his feet. I’m impressed with how well he handles them. He gestures towards the stool on the other side of the fire.
“Rest your cold feet,” he didn’t look at me as he spoke, but fed more heavy logs into the fire. “This should go all night, keep you all warm.”
It crossed my mind that he didn’t say, “keep us all warm.” But I was distracted by what he said next.
“Going to the throne, I suppose?” He handed me a steaming potato and a lump of crunchy bread. Then lowered his voice and said, “’ave an audience with the queen, do yer?”
If he eked out some kind of living here, perhaps fishing or mining, then he would have known about the throne and made some kind of peace with the current residents. The giants lived in the Iron Throne during this era, and their leader was the notorious Queen Connomae.[7] This was the one the dogs called Master. Her mind and body had been warped since birth by the Fomorian curse, and her mind was twisted by years of wielding deadly arcane power. I knew this much from my History lessons.
“I wasn’t sure what my grandfather had in mind when he sent me here,” I said, while trying to balance the hot potato between my fingers and face using the bread. “I hadn’t questioned it. Such is not my place.”
The old man stoked the fire. He turned to me and seemed to change. That one eye glowed a lightning blue, and wind filled the cabin.
The fire winked out like a candle. The dogs froze mid-bite, their black coats deep blue with ice. My throat closed, locked with a mouthful of frozen potato.
“You and your grandfather will be rewarded for your obedience. Old Kozen’s blood sacrifice is my nectar. The Queen will also be your master, and school you in the art of Talos and his worship. Focused on the art of death, by the bludgeon or the blast. Wrath of lightning, wrath of thunder.”
I’m a Cleric. I know what the face of my god looks like.
“Wrath of lightning, wrath of thunder, praise Talos,” I wasn’t speaking, but I heard my voice.
His face seemed to grow smaller and somehow younger. Someone I recognized but hadn’t yet encountered. “Do not forget the cold embrace of Umberlee. Swift, savage, and quiet. So quiet.”
Wait, what?
As if a spell had been broken, or perhaps I was dreaming, I blinked and found myself sitting by the fire with the dogs. Phobos and Deimos were merrily chewing, oblivious to the scene I had just witnessed.
“Where did he go?” This was more to alert the dogs to his absence. They were indulging in those big meat bones and hadn’t noticed.
“Holy cat shit,” Deimos jumped up and spun around, ears flat, hackles raised.
The old man was gone.
[1] A reference to the main plotline of Baldur’s Gate 3 (BG3)
[2] This is also one of Talos’ nicknames.
[3] Each Cleric in D&D choses a Domain, or a subclass. There are 7 in BG3 and 14 in D&D. A Cleric can choose any Domain regardless of their deity, but Talos prefers Domains that focus on chaos and destruction. Tempest is his favorite.
[4] In Faerun, Tieflings can be randomly born to a human and vice-versa.
[5] Wizards RPG Team. Dungeons and Dragons Baldur’s Gate: Descent into Avernus (D&D Adventure). National Geographic Books, 2019.
[6] DR is Dale Reckoning, a calendar used in D&D.
