The Quest for Dawn

Chapter 22: The Silver Crescent

Baldur's Gate boasted docks that surrounded the entirety of its natural bay of Gray Harbor, with all the districts of the lower city touching the waters of the River Chionthar. The city itself was set forty miles inland from the Sea of Swords, with constant activity of ships sailing up and down the river to the Gate's ports.

The city's air, usually a harmonious blend of salty sea breeze and the river's earthy fragrance, transformed into a potent cocktail of brine and fish as one descended into the city's lower reaches. The fog, as thick as a hearty stew, shrouded the bay, adding to the city's unique olfactory identity.

The docks in the morning were a symphony of discordant activity, a bustling tableau of human endeavor under the hazy cloak of dawn. As the sun reluctantly began its ascent, the shouts and rhythmic movements of the dockworkers echoed across the moored ships, directing the cranes whose ropes groaned in protest under the weight of laden crates and cargo. The fog, a persistent presence, muted these sounds and blurred the figures of the laborers, who moved with an unwavering determination seemingly unaffected by the damp, misty conditions.

Guided by Tavriel's steady hand, Astarion cautiously navigated the uneven planks of the dock, their woolen cloaks offering a shield against the biting morning chill. The fog hung heavy in the air, obscuring the surroundings and transforming Astarion's staff into an unexpected asset. For once, Tavriel felt a sense of reliance on Astarion, her guidance complemented by his ability to navigate the treacherous terrain.

Cart wheels rumbled against the wooden planks, their rhythmic cadence punctuated by the occasional creak of gangplanks lowering to accommodate the flow of goods. One such cart, laden with an assortment of crates and barrels, came barreling towards the elven couple.

The abrupt din of approaching sounds startled Astarion, causing him to flinch and involuntarily tighten his grip on his staff. The sudden movement sent him bumping into Tavriel, who stumbled into a precariously stacked pile of empty crates. The impact sent the crates teetering, threatening to topple over.

Tavriel quickly righted the teetering crates, preventing them from crashing down. Her hand found its way back to Astarion's, offering silent support. She studied his face, reading the emotions there. His expression was a mix of resolve and a hint of anxiety, and she responded with a comforting squeeze of his hand.

The sudden chaos had briefly disrupted Astarion's carefully maintained composure, but Tavriel's reassuring touch restored a sense of calm to his swirling thoughts. The rough wooden planks beneath his boots creaked in protest, a far cry from the smooth, polished marble halls of his ancestral home.

The jarring carriage ride to the docks had been an ordeal, a cacophony of jostling, bouncing, and relentless clanging. Yet, with Tav's hand anchoring him, Astarion found solace in closing his eyes and regaining his equilibrium. This paradoxical surrender to darkness sharpened his focus, creating a sanctuary of tranquility amidst the chaos. When he opened his eyes, the view remained unchanged – he was still blind.

He let out a shaky breath. "Thank you," he murmured to Tav. "Let's get on with it, shall we? What's the ship—" Astarion stopped himself, a rise of frustration filling him. Tav couldn't answer him, and he hated that he would catch himself forgetting. "Silver something." He felt her ball her fist in his hand, making a motion of nodding against his palm. "Right. Well. Lead on, my love."

Astarion immersed himself in the soundscape around him – the cries of seagulls, the distant bell of a ship preparing for departure, the hushed conversations of dockworkers, and the rhythmic lapping of water against the hulls of passing ships. The mists of the fog tingled his skin, and muffled some of the clank of the bells. It was difficult to get a mental picture of his surroundings in this environment, but the staff tapped ahead and Tav guided him faithfully forward.