Ishta: Blood Huntress of Baldur's Gate

Chapter Four: Grumpy Gith & Tired Travelers

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!"

Ishta's exasperated words hung in the air, thick with disbelief and annoyance as she stared at the figure standing at the edge of the camp. Her eyes widened in a mix of alarm and revulsion as she took in the gaunt, skeletal being wearing tattered robes. A chill ran down her spine, settling deep in her bones.

Undeterred, she marched over to the Undead with determined strides, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. When she reached him, she planted her hands on her hips and glared, her jaw set in defiance.

The skeletal figure regarded her calmly, his dry voice like rustling leaves as he greeted her sombrely. "We meet again, as predicted," he said with a slight nod. "Come, there are important matters to discuss."

With a steely resolve, Ishta questioned the strange being, "Not to be rude...but who or what are you exactly?"

"There are many answers to that question. None are important," he replied dismissively, his tone devoid of any warmth.

Her patience dwindling, Ishta couldn't help but feel irritated by his cryptic response. "And if I were to hazard a guess at one of those answers being Jergal: The Scribe of The Dead?" she demanded, frustration evident in her voice.

He stared at her silently for a moment before responding with a slight tilt of his head, "Then I would wonder why thou should waste breath asking a question thou hast already decided the answer to."

Despite herself, Ishta smiled at the subtle jab and shook her head in resignation. Glancing around the quiet camp, she noted that she was the first one awake—though technically she had only needed four hours of rest anyway.

She had used the remaining time to inspect and select weapons and armour taken from the bandits they had defeated the previous day. But just as the morning sun began to filter through the trees, this unexpected guest had shown up.

"Fine. Do you at least have a name to call you by? And will you tell me you want from us?" she asked, trying to keep her tone neutral.

"What I want is of no consequence. I shall be here in thy camp, for whenever thou hast need of my services. And if thou wishes for a name, Withers will serve me as well as any other," he said.

"Withers...appropriate, I guess. Anyway—services. What kind of services are you talking about?" Ishta asked, her curiosity piqued despite her unease.

"A mending of the threads between life and death. Should thou or any of thy compatriots perish, I will cleave soul to body once more for a price," Withers replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

"Hold on...are you talking about resurrection? That's incredibly powerful magic. Why would you be offering it to us? For that matter, why are you offering to help us at all?" she inquired sceptically.

"Be assured it is not by choice. However, it is my calling," Withers stated, his voice carrying a hint of resignation.

"Care to elaborate on that?" Ishta pressed, now fully intrigued.

"No," Withers said curtly, cutting off further inquiry.

"Fair enough. You mentioned a cost earlier...dare I ask what that cost is?" Ishta asked, her tone cautious.

Withers responded, "A matter of coin."

Ishta couldn't help but roll her eyes at the familiar answer. "And how much would this 'matter of coin' be?" she prodded, her mind racing with possibilities.

"Two hundred gold pieces," Withers stated plainly.

Ishta's gaze was fixed on him, her mouth hanging open in disbelief as she tried to process his answer. "So let me get this straight," she began, her voice laced with incredulity. "You are willing to perform the seemingly impossible task of bringing someone back from the dead —an act of immense power—for a mere two hundred gold? How long have you been in that tomb? Because I have to tell you, I think the prices for services like that have gone up in the last few... I don't know... thousand years or so."