Chapter 7: Endgame

We were wanted, now. Fugitives of the Flaming Fist. But our quest, our finality, took us back to Baldur’s Gate, and the heart of the very group hunting us. Sneaking across the great bridge in the pre-dawn, we arrived at the cock’s crow, and were immediately approached by Husam, one of the thieves we’d befriended at the local thieves guild during our initial stay. Drunk as ever, but, as ever, curiously knowledgeable, he bade us visit him outside the Blushing Mermaid Tavern in the city’s northeastern quadrant.

– Xelia Bloodmoon

–

Kivan acted as scout, keeping us abreast of Flaming Fist patrols as we moved. On buildings and lightposts our faces were plastered, great monetary rewards promised for our capture, condition irrelevant. Outside Sorcerous Sundries, we met a strange, Kara-Turian woman, black-clad and shielded. She warned us Duke Eltan, who had fallen ill, among a number of abrupt, disturbing happenings, including Scar’s death – Duke Eltan’s healer was, of his sickness, the prolonger, asked we go to him. She knew of the pull. The urge. That black, seething thing within me. Through her obscurities rang devastating truths, though I felt yet too lost, too much incoming information, to put everything together.

–

Outside the Flaming Fist compound, Tamoko, as she revealed herself named, approached us, stepping from the structure’s looming shadows. I am a child of Bhaal. I am Sarevok’s sibling. Statements striking me like heavy irons dropped from some unfortunate height. I couldn’t process the information, only accept it. With stopping Sarevok was I charged. Stopping him while sparing him, to which I, to Shar-Teel and Kivan’s disapproval, agreed. Tamoko, Sarevok’s lover, is convinced she can help him live ‘as a normal man’. She told us we needed evidence to prove Sarevok’s plans for war with Amn, that we might find these on a consort of his currently residing at the Iron Throne, or with a pair of murderers, Slythe and Krystin, in Sarevok’s employ, denizens of the debauched Undercellar, reachable through the Baldur’s Gate sewers.

–

After reaching the Flaming Fist headquarters’ second floor, snuck in using disguises afforded us by the thieves guild, we were met by a member of the group, Kent, who spoke of odd behaviour on part of Rashad, Eltan’s supposed healer, backing Tamoko’s claim up. In the next room we found him; not twenty seconds elapsed before Rashad revealed himself a doppelganger, swatting and snarling and biting before our blades brought him down and we rushed Eltan, barely 100 pounds, to the safety of the Harbourmaster.

–

Multiple baffled merchants spoke their grievances during our second ascent of the Iron Throne building. Sarevok, wreaking chaos. Frittering gold away. Outraging foreign governments. Rubbing the sticks of war together. Sarevok, promising to correct the exact madness he had caused, populace all too ready to swallow. Atop the structure we found Cythandria, of Sarevok the elven consort. No room for diplomacy, for dialogue. She attacked, summoning a pair of bodyguard ogres, slinging shimmering spells. Something in me was broken when she begged after mercy – a separation I’d not felt before. Apart from myself, at the same time closer than ever. Not myself, utterly myself. On her wrecked corpse we found Sarevok’s journal. Evidence enough for, in this case, a grand duke.

–

Husam, when we encountered him outside the Blushing Mermaid, revealed himself as a Shadow Thief of Amn, revealed his shtick-entire was a sham, that he didn’t even drink; he reiterated our being-framed, told us Scar and Entar Silvershield’s deaths had been pinned on the Shadow Thieves, actions with which they had nothing to do. Told us of two Night Masks, a group with which I wasn’t familiar, responsible for Shadow Thief deaths, that they were located in the Undercellar. Slythe and Krystin. Had to be.

Husam lead us to the district’s ragged temple of Illmater, the priest of which allowed us access to the Undercellar. Within, we found Slythe and Krystin. Or, they found us, rather. A talkative pair, them. Talkative, and armed to the teeth. But only two. Slythe fell fast. Krystin I revealed using my True Sight spell, Kivan riddling her with arrows before she could finish even a single spell. More incriminating evidence against Sarevok on their bodies. More evidence, and invitations to his ducal crowning.

–

Our invitations thankfully accepted, we arrived witness to dispute among city nobles and commander Belt. Sarevok, an enormous, obsidian-armoured figure, stood greatsword-in-hand at the room’s far end. He announced his plan to take command of the Flaming Fist, to march to Amn, take a war southwards, only ceasing enumeration once he noticed us, gathered nobles ripping from themselves flesh and false sinew, doppelgangers again, our group making short work of them, handing Belt the evidence, once calm had been restored, we had collected, enraging Sarevok, who lunged at us, at everyone, massive sword indiscriminate. Flaming Fist soldiers fell like corn under the sickle. Kivan’s best shots did nothing. My blades barely scratched his angry armour. But Xan and Imoen, mages of a pair, managed to drive him back, stagger him before he was whisked away by a white-haired sorcerer who had appeared behind us.

–

Through dimensions we were folded, sent after Sarevok, teleported to Baldur’s Gate’s thieves guild in hot pursuit. He’d stormed through the place and into the unforgiving maze beneath. Dazed owing magical transport, still reeling from the information we’d accrued, we took a moment to rest and resupply with Black Lily, the guild’s quartermaster, before commencing our pursuit.

Imoen, having reached a point in her magical studies where she felt comfortable reassuming partial attention of those thieving skills she’d temporarily abandoned, took point, guiding us through a twist maze of traps, chittering skeletons – animated bones of those fools who’d attempted to traverse the place before us – invisible stalkers, shrieking doom guards, and flame-bladed helmed horrors. What purpose did these warrens serve? What point? Perhaps to keep whatever lay at the other end away.

At last, burning through our last mustard jelly, we arrived at the exit, and of Winski Perorate, the mage who had summoned Sarevok from the ducal palace, the discarded, yet-living body.

Sarevok’s mentor. Rueful. The war with Amn was secondary, incidental; what mattered was pure bloodshed. Blood shed on a scale grand enough to ignite Sarevok’s divine blood, my blood, enflame the taint of Bhaal nestled within. Ascension. The echelon.

A new lord of murder.

We emerged into a city-sized cavern, vaulting ceilings catching vague, grey-blue light, mildew scent. Vomitous lichen spilling over every object within. Old Baldur’s Gate, the city under the city. Buildings and ancient streets ripped and broken, like burnt bones, littered the way. Damp from the still water surrounding the island onto which we’d emerged chilled platemail and blade and flesh. Before long we encountered a group led by a man named Rahvin, mercenaries in the employ of the Iron Throne sent from Sembia for the sake of killing Sarevok. What might have been a mutually-beneficial team-up turned into a bloodbath. Hefty bonuses were to be had for my slaughter. Unfortunately for Rahvin, we were well-prepared. I dashed forward, boots of speed propelling me into near-melee range; his archer fired a detonating arrow which exploded over me and the rest of Rahvin’s group, setting them alight to the man, interrupting spells. Balista’s Passport, the ring protecting against fire, shielded me from the blast. I hacked one of Rahvin’s men down before he could act, then carried on to their mage, my first blow chunking her, hunks of leaky gore splattering across Rahvin’s baffled face. His ogre was driven down, Kivan and Xan felling the beast. The battle, tide swiftly turned, was won – it would be, of our pursuit, the penultimate.

–

Beyond the gates of the rotting temple of Bhaal, Tamoko stopped us, voiced her intent to fight. To regain Sarevok’s trust. I pity her, Tamoko. She is lost. She is caught up, and terribly self-aware of it, in his unearthly charisma. That spark of the divine that pulls others to him, much as, I suspect, I have accumulated those travelling with me. As Winski said, I am born to affect the realms; others must struggle to make their mark.

–

Our fight with Sarevok was a brutal thing, indeed. I could feel his eyes boring into me, penetrating the temple doors before I’d even begun pushing them open. On a rich carpet depicting some sick scene set upon a raised platform he stood, armoured, that horrid, laughing, spiked armour threatening all that came too close. Warding. Warning. In his hand the violent two-handed sword we’d seen with a single swipe separate men from their bodies. Glowing, orange, pupiless eyes.

Stuck in the centre of the building was a grinning, golden skull set in a thick circle of stone. The floor was crimson bricks reeking of blood. Scythe-wielding statues the size of fire giants stood vigilant at the temple’s opposite sides.

We traded words, but there was no way this would be settled beyond blood. It wasn’t in his nature. It wasn’t in mine.

The battle tested us like none before. Sarevok seemed to resist every attack, shrug off every magic. His helpers Angelo and, to Kivan’s dismay, a reappeared Tazok, further tilted the scales against us. But we fought. We struggled. Bled. I faced Sarevok in direct combat, crossing blades with him in the midst of firing spells and blood. My vision went red. When it cleared, the fight was over. Angelo lay bleeding, stuck with the dagger of his own daughter, Shar-Teel. Tazok had been toppled, his still, yawning face contained a fistful of Kivan’s arrows. Sarevok, on his back, dying, bleeding out over the grinning symbol of Bhaal.

– Xelia Bloodmoon

–

There it is, chums. Baldur’s Gate. If I’m being honest, I’ve been handing in first drafts the entire playthrough; I’ve since gone back and tightened things up, smoothed things out, cut some redundant material, phrased a few things in a less archaic way, corrected some minor grammar mistakes across all entries. I basically banged 2000 words a day out for each of these while also doing my own, actual writing I do. Thankfully, Xelia has a fairly neutral voice. Hope you enjoyed. If there’s any interest, I may do another, albeit with a much, much more spread out release schedule.