The Urge || Baldur's Gate 3 Fanfic||

The General

As we step through the threshold of Moonrise Towers, a sense of awe washes over us, for the weight of history hangs in the air. Halsin's words echo in our minds, revealing the tower's past as a sacred temple dedicated to Selune, the Moon Goddess. Yet, the passage of time has transformed this once-hallowed place into a stronghold for the enigmatic Cult of the Absolute, shrouding it in darkness and mystery.

With each step we take, the presence of the Absolute grows stronger, its dark power intertwining with the very essence of the tower. It is here, in this foreboding place, that we are destined to meet General Throm, a figure described to us as an undead elf, his ethereal appearance accentuated by long, flowing grey hair and a beard that seems to almost float in the air. The mere thought of encountering such an otherworldly being sends a shiver down our spines.

Venturing further south, past the grand foyer, we find ourselves standing in the imposing throne room. The scene before us is one of judgment, as General Throm presides over three trembling goblins, their pleas for mercy filling the air. Our eyes are drawn to the figure seated upon the throne - Ketheric, the Old half elf ,a name that carries weight and significance. His countenance is etched with the marks of time, his face lined with wrinkles that bear witness to the weight of his authority and the passage of countless years. His hair, a cascade of straight, grey strands, falls gracefully over his shoulders, framing his pointed elven ears.

But it is his armor that truly captivates our attention - an exquisite masterpiece that speaks of his status as the Chosen of the Lord of Bones. The armor, both practical and ornate, adorns Ketheric's form, a testament to his power and position. A simple circlet, adorned with the skull of Myrkul, rests upon his brow, a symbol of the deity he serves. And there, at the center of his chest, lies a purple stone, encased within an intricate golden cage, its purpose and significance known only to Ketheric himself.

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In this moment, as we stand in the presence of such formidable beings, we can't help but feel the weight of destiny pressing upon us. The air is thick with anticipation, each breath laced with the scent of an impending storm of magic and might. The fate of our mission, the survival of our companions, and the very balance of power in this realm all hang in the balance, a delicate dance on the edge of a knife.

The general's cold stare initially sweeps over me and my companions indifferently. But then, something shifts; a flicker of recognition sparks in his eyes as they rest upon me. He soon stood up, his gaze intensifying. "Edith...?" I hear him mumble, shock lacing his voice. "I thought you were dead..." he whispered, his words trailing off into the charged silence.

A jolt of adrenaline surges through me. For the first time in weeks, a lead on my past identity emerges from the fog that shrouded it. If the general knows who I am, then the pieces of my history might be darker and more tangled than I fear. "Do you know me, general?" I ask, my voice a mix of hope and trepidation, worried yet desperate to know the answer.

"Hm... it's worse than I thought," he sighs, the disappointment in his voice sending a shiver down my spine. "Z'rell, take care of these fools. Better yet, have this True soul handle it," he commands with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Before anyone can react, one of the Goblins, fueled by rage and defiance, screams, "Don't turn your back on me!!" Her voice is a raw, primal challenge as she grabs an axe twice her size, hurling it with deadly precision into the general's back.

The room falls deathly silent, every eye turning to Throm to gauge his reaction. The tension is palpable, a living entity in the room that could indeed be sliced with the proverbial knife.

Throm, unfazed, slowly turns to face the goblin, his glare as sharp as the weapon lodged in him. With a grimace of annoyance rather than pain, he grabs the handle of the axe, pulling it out with an ease that belies the violence of the action. The wound closes before our eyes, his body knitting itself back together in a display of regenerative power that leaves.

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As Throm stood towering above the trembling goblin, his annoyance was palpable, a thunderous aura that seemed to stifle the very air around us. The goblin, her eyes wide with a primal fear, clutched the axe with quivering hands, her second attempt at defiance as desperate as it was futile. With the weapon lodged firmly in Throm's neck, a hush fell over the onlookers, Karlach's whisper barely breaking the silence, her words tinged with a mix of hope and disbelief.

Yet, Throm, unfazed by the mortal wound that would have felled any lesser being, grasped the axe's handle with a grimace that wasn't quite pain but something darker, more ferocious. The metal slid from his flesh with a sickening sound, a testament to his unnerving resilience, as the wound closed with a sinister hiss, his flesh knitting together in a display of raw, unholy power.

The goblin, now a pitiful creature caught in the snare of her own making, shrieked for mercy, her voice cracking under the weight of her impending doom. Throm, his eyes now pools of wrath, clenched his fists, the air around them crackling with the promise of violence. With a swift, crushing blow, he brought an end to the goblin's pleas, her body crumpling to the ground like a discarded puppet.

Exhaling a growl of irritation, Throm turned his gaze upon his disciple, the command he issued was as cold and unyielding as iron. "Handle this," he barked, the words cutting through the aftermath of the skirmish. Without another glance, he retreated to his chambers, his heavy steps a stark reminder of the power and mystery that shrouded the general.

In the wake of his departure, a palpable tension lingered, a mixture of fear and awe knitting itself into the fabric of the moment. The air seemed to whisper of dark magics and darker secrets, the echoes of Throm's might resonating in the very stones of the chamber. And there I stood, amidst the chaos, a witness to the unfathomable strength of a man—or perhaps, a being—bound to the threads of destiny in ways that none could fully comprehend.