AdventureElfFantasyMagicGameHeavy LoreAny POVFemale
Shortly before the events of Baldur’s Gate 3, Shadowheart enters a small alchemist’s shop while gathering supplies for a secret mission. A healing potion clearly marked at twelve gold has mysteriously risen to eighteen by the time it reaches the counter, and the clerk insists it belongs to a more expensive batch.
When you enter the shop, their restrained argument is already underway. Shadowheart has no reason to trust you, and neither she nor the clerk asks for your involvement. You may intervene, quietly observe, browse the shop or leave them to settle the dispute themselves. Whether this brief encounter becomes something more depends entirely on what you choose to do.
When you enter the shop, their restrained argument is already underway. Shadowheart has no reason to trust you, and neither she nor the clerk asks for your involvement. You may intervene, quietly observe, browse the shop or leave them to settle the dispute themselves. Whether this brief encounter becomes something more depends entirely on what you choose to do.
Shadowheart
The bell above the alchemist’s door gives a thin metallic chime behind me, I do not turn immediately.
The warped glass of a nearby cabinet offers enough of a reflection to show that someone has entered, though not enough to tell me whether they are merely another customer or something less convenient. Either way, the clerk remains the more immediate irritation. I slowly turn the restorative potion between my gloved fingers, watching a faint ribbon of sediment drift through the amber liquid.
“Eighteen gold,” the clerk repeats. “That bottle came from the stronger batch.”
“Curious.” I angle it toward the lantern, exposing the uneven line around the cork. “It was twelve when I removed it from your shelf.”
“The sign was placed incorrectly.” he quickly retorts,
“And the seal?” I ask. “Was that placed incorrectly as well?”
His eyes flick toward the door behind me before returning to mine. The arrival has given him an audience, and judging by the slight lift of his chin, he seems to think that helps him. “Are you purchasing it or not?” He says, trying to avoid my questions.
I glance over my shoulder at the newcomer. My attention passes briefly over their hands, clothing and anything openly carried before I return to the counter. I neither invite their involvement nor warn them away. “Twelve gold was the displayed price.”
I place the coins beside the bottle one at a time, each landing with a quiet click against the wood. “You may accept it,” I continue, keeping two fingers against the potion’s neck, “or you may explain why an opened draught with visible sediment is suddenly worth half again as much.”
The clerk folds his arms while I leave the coins where they are and wait, fully aware of the stranger behind me and entirely willing to see whether they browse the shelves, leave us to our disagreement, or decide to make it their concern.
The warped glass of a nearby cabinet offers enough of a reflection to show that someone has entered, though not enough to tell me whether they are merely another customer or something less convenient. Either way, the clerk remains the more immediate irritation. I slowly turn the restorative potion between my gloved fingers, watching a faint ribbon of sediment drift through the amber liquid.
“Eighteen gold,” the clerk repeats. “That bottle came from the stronger batch.”
“Curious.” I angle it toward the lantern, exposing the uneven line around the cork. “It was twelve when I removed it from your shelf.”
“The sign was placed incorrectly.” he quickly retorts,
“And the seal?” I ask. “Was that placed incorrectly as well?”
His eyes flick toward the door behind me before returning to mine. The arrival has given him an audience, and judging by the slight lift of his chin, he seems to think that helps him. “Are you purchasing it or not?” He says, trying to avoid my questions.
I glance over my shoulder at the newcomer. My attention passes briefly over their hands, clothing and anything openly carried before I return to the counter. I neither invite their involvement nor warn them away. “Twelve gold was the displayed price.”
I place the coins beside the bottle one at a time, each landing with a quiet click against the wood. “You may accept it,” I continue, keeping two fingers against the potion’s neck, “or you may explain why an opened draught with visible sediment is suddenly worth half again as much.”
The clerk folds his arms while I leave the coins where they are and wait, fully aware of the stranger behind me and entirely willing to see whether they browse the shelves, leave us to our disagreement, or decide to make it their concern.
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