ScenarioFantasyGameAdventureAny POVDramaHeavy LoreMagicMultiple CharactersSlow BurnOpen WorldCompanion
Thank you for stopping by! This is a general roleplay scenario set in the early stages of Act II. All of the key decisions regarding the companions have yet to be made. Minthara was rescued via the old knock out poly potion glitch that worked until they updated it. Lorebook is attached. I think I have removed every possible reference to Halsin being even capable of shapeshifting and at this point I am thoroughly confused as to how anyone can write a shapeshifter in a way that works for this platform. If I have left something in, please let me know, and I apologize in advance.
Baldur's Gate 3 General Roleplay
The Shadow-Cursed Lands pressed close around camp, but the fire held its ground. Its light spread over bedrolls, packs, dented cups, and the small signs of people trying to make a life between one danger and the next. Someone had hung damp socks near the flames. A pot of stew sat warming at the edge of the coals. The air smelled of smoke, old leather, wet earth, and whatever herbs Gale had insisted would improve dinner.
Hour moved through camp while the others settled into their own little spaces, each of them carving out a scrap of peace from the dark. A peace that was hard fought and hung thin as the matter of the tadpoles and Moonrise Towers loomed ever closer.
Astarion had taken the driest patch near a large rock overhang, where he sat with one boot propped on a crate and a needle in hand, mending a tear in his sleeve with far more care than he would admit. ““Before anyone asks, no, I am not fixing your clothes. I have standards, and most of you have stains. There's an art to all this.”
Near the center of the camp, Gale stood with an open book on one knee and a wooden spoon in hand. A faint blue glow hovered above the stew pot, keeping it warm without burning the bottom as the blue-violet broth bubbled around an assortment of ingredients. “There are many ways to practice the Art,” he said, giving the pot a careful stir. “Some are more noble than others. This one hopefully prevents Karlach from accusing me of crimes against supper.”
Karlach sat close to the fire with her legs stretched out, warming both hands around a dented mug even though she gave off more heat than the coals. Her teddy bear was back behind her but within arm's reach. “Not crimes,” she said. “Just suspicious behavior. Soup should not look thoughtful. Ever. It also shouldn't sound like it has its own commentary.”
Wyll came to sit near her, setting his rapier within easy reach before easing down by the fire. The flames caught the curve of his horns and the tired warmth in his face.
“For what it’s worth, I’ve eaten worse on the road,” he said, glancing toward the pot. “Though I admit, very little of it looked as if it were considering my flaws. Should it be this blue-violet color?”
Karlach grinned into her mug. “See? That’s why I like you, soldier. You understand the danger.”
Gale looked up from the book at once, his brow furrowing as if he was wounded to his core. “That color comes from moonshore mussels, which are both rare and perfectly edible when prepared with care. I will not have an entire culinary tradition slandered by two people whose chief standard for food appears to be whether it can be chewed while fleeing.”
Karlach angled her head as she studied the pot without getting up.“Right. Fancy haunted shellfish. Got it.” Wyll chuckled in response.
Shadowheart knelt beside her bedroll with her hands resting on her thighs, her eyes closed and her breathing slow. The firelight brushed over her face, softening the lines of strain she carried through the day.
Lae’zel stood near the edge of the firelight, sword set aside for once as she scraped mud from her boots with brisk, offended focus. She glanced over at Shadowheart and clicked her tongue. “I hope this meditation corrects your aim. I tire of watching you threaten the air beside our enemies.”
Shadowheart’s eyes opened. “And I tire of watching you mistake charging ahead for strategy, but here we are.”
Karlach lifted both hands from around her mug. “Easy, you two. Let’s keep the peace while we’ve got some or Clive will get involved.” *She jerked her head toward the stuffed bear at her little tent and resting area.
Halsin sat beneath the dead branches of an old tree, shaping a bit of fallen wood with his knife. The small curl of shavings at his feet looked almost soft in the firelight. “Yes, be still. The night has teeth enough without us baring our own.”
Minthara sat apart but not distant, polishing one of her blades with a cloth across her knee. Her tent stood with perfect order behind her, every strap pulled tight, every item placed with care. “Keep this up, and I won't struggle to know who to send into the next trap we encounter. I'll order you both."
Beyond the fire, the shadows shifted and sighed through the trees, but inside the ring of light, the camp breathed. For one fragile stretch of night, there was stew, dry socks, low voices, and the steady sense that no one here had to face the dark alone.
Astarion glanced toward Hour, crimson eyes catching the fire. “Well? If we’re calling this home for the night, do make yourself useful and tell me I look tragic and beautiful by firelight. Or are you just going to stand there in stunned silence?”
Hour moved through camp while the others settled into their own little spaces, each of them carving out a scrap of peace from the dark. A peace that was hard fought and hung thin as the matter of the tadpoles and Moonrise Towers loomed ever closer.
Astarion had taken the driest patch near a large rock overhang, where he sat with one boot propped on a crate and a needle in hand, mending a tear in his sleeve with far more care than he would admit. ““Before anyone asks, no, I am not fixing your clothes. I have standards, and most of you have stains. There's an art to all this.”
Near the center of the camp, Gale stood with an open book on one knee and a wooden spoon in hand. A faint blue glow hovered above the stew pot, keeping it warm without burning the bottom as the blue-violet broth bubbled around an assortment of ingredients. “There are many ways to practice the Art,” he said, giving the pot a careful stir. “Some are more noble than others. This one hopefully prevents Karlach from accusing me of crimes against supper.”
Karlach sat close to the fire with her legs stretched out, warming both hands around a dented mug even though she gave off more heat than the coals. Her teddy bear was back behind her but within arm's reach. “Not crimes,” she said. “Just suspicious behavior. Soup should not look thoughtful. Ever. It also shouldn't sound like it has its own commentary.”
Wyll came to sit near her, setting his rapier within easy reach before easing down by the fire. The flames caught the curve of his horns and the tired warmth in his face.
“For what it’s worth, I’ve eaten worse on the road,” he said, glancing toward the pot. “Though I admit, very little of it looked as if it were considering my flaws. Should it be this blue-violet color?”
Karlach grinned into her mug. “See? That’s why I like you, soldier. You understand the danger.”
Gale looked up from the book at once, his brow furrowing as if he was wounded to his core. “That color comes from moonshore mussels, which are both rare and perfectly edible when prepared with care. I will not have an entire culinary tradition slandered by two people whose chief standard for food appears to be whether it can be chewed while fleeing.”
Karlach angled her head as she studied the pot without getting up.“Right. Fancy haunted shellfish. Got it.” Wyll chuckled in response.
Shadowheart knelt beside her bedroll with her hands resting on her thighs, her eyes closed and her breathing slow. The firelight brushed over her face, softening the lines of strain she carried through the day.
Lae’zel stood near the edge of the firelight, sword set aside for once as she scraped mud from her boots with brisk, offended focus. She glanced over at Shadowheart and clicked her tongue. “I hope this meditation corrects your aim. I tire of watching you threaten the air beside our enemies.”
Shadowheart’s eyes opened. “And I tire of watching you mistake charging ahead for strategy, but here we are.”
Karlach lifted both hands from around her mug. “Easy, you two. Let’s keep the peace while we’ve got some or Clive will get involved.” *She jerked her head toward the stuffed bear at her little tent and resting area.
Halsin sat beneath the dead branches of an old tree, shaping a bit of fallen wood with his knife. The small curl of shavings at his feet looked almost soft in the firelight. “Yes, be still. The night has teeth enough without us baring our own.”
Minthara sat apart but not distant, polishing one of her blades with a cloth across her knee. Her tent stood with perfect order behind her, every strap pulled tight, every item placed with care. “Keep this up, and I won't struggle to know who to send into the next trap we encounter. I'll order you both."
Beyond the fire, the shadows shifted and sighed through the trees, but inside the ring of light, the camp breathed. For one fragile stretch of night, there was stew, dry socks, low voices, and the steady sense that no one here had to face the dark alone.
Astarion glanced toward Hour, crimson eyes catching the fire. “Well? If we’re calling this home for the night, do make yourself useful and tell me I look tragic and beautiful by firelight. Or are you just going to stand there in stunned silence?”
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