The morning sun rose a few degrees above the horizon, illuminating the clearing in dawn’s gentle light. Alex sat up in his bedroll, panicked and soaked in sweat. He was still here, stuck in the wilderness of Baldur’s Gate 3.

  This is impossible. I should be waking up at home, next to Elena. Soon, it will be time to shower and get dressed for work. And then, I will give Elena and Melanie their good morning kisses on my way out the door.

  The thought of his wife and daughter immediately made him heartsick. Am I really here? This no longer seems like a dream. If I really am in Faer?n, then what happened to my body back home? Did it just disappear in the middle of the night? Will Elena and Melanie think that I was kidnapped? Or… that I abandoned them?

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself. No, they know that I would never do that. Elena probably called the police, called all our friends and family members, called anyone who could have spoken with me in the past few weeks, fishing for some kind of clue about what happened to me. She and Melanie are probably inconsolable, but hoping that I can be found…

  The thought of his wife and daughter crying for him, hoping against everything that he was still alive, filled him with sadness, but also with resolve. If I really am on Toril, in Faer?n, then I will find a way home.

  He brushed away the tears that welled in his eyes and reviewed what he knew. Last night, an Elder Evil named Bolothamogg spoke to me in a dream. He… or it… was involved in this, somehow.

  The game is set in 1492 DR, sometime in the spring or summer. Right now, we are somewhere between Elturel and Baldur’s Gate, near the Chionthar River and far from civilization. If I can get to a major city like Baldur’s Gate, then I can figure out my next move. I can try going north to Waterdeep to find Elminster, who apparently has traveled back and forth between Earth and Toril, at least according to what I’ve read. Or, if somehow I can get enough money, I can try to charter a spelljammer to take me home. Or maybe, I could instead head south to Candlekeep and try to find information on a portal back to Earth.

  If there even is a way back. What if I was transported to the video game itself? Or what if I was brought to an alternate universe, where Earth doesn’t even exist?

  He shook his head and re-focused. There had to be a way home. Bolothamogg mentioned that my ‘task’ is to stop the Illithid Grand Design. Does that mean defeating the Absolute? If I do that, will it send me home? Can I even trust it?

  For now, it seems that any potential method of getting home involves first getting to civilization. To do that, I need allies to support me on the road, and maybe even for a fight with the Absolute. So I will continue following the path set by the game, at least up through the end of Act II, which is as far as I know.

  “Are you quite alright? You’re looking rather pale.”

  Alex nearly jumped with surprise. He had been so lost in his thoughts that he failed to notice Gale's approach. He got out of his bedroll and stood up to greet him. “Sorry, I didn’t notice you,” he said, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment. “I’m okay, I just had a… bad dream.”

  “Ah, I completely understand,” said Gale with an understanding smile. “I haven’t slept well in years.” He extended a hand holding a small assortment of berries; Alex recognized a few blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries. “Shadowheart was kind enough to forage for these. Don’t worry, I double-checked that none of them are poisonous. Can’t exactly trust a Sharran to do the right thing, after all.”

  “Sharran?” echoed Alex as he took the proffered berries. Is it really that obvious that she is a cleric of Shar? Or is Gale more perceptive than I thought?

  “Worshipper of Shar, I mean,” clarified Gale, arching an eyebrow. “It’s fairly obvious, she has a symbol of Shar in the middle of her breastplate. Did you not recognize it?”

  “No,” confessed Alex. “I’m… not from around here.”

  “Ah, I did think your accent was a bit odd,” said Gale knowingly, leaning closer to study his face. “Are you perhaps from one of the kingdoms of Kara-Tur? Or maybe even Maztica?”

  “Uh, how about we discuss that some other time?” he deflected. He’s a lot more perceptive than I expected. “Is everyone ready to move out soon? I hope that we'll eventually reach a settlement if we keep following this trail.”

  Gale nodded. “A logical assumption. Shadowheart said she wanted some privacy to pray, and Astarion… is somewhere, I presume, perhaps scouting around.”

  Alex rolled up his bedroll and strapped it to his backpack while Gale turned over the remnants of the campfire. Shadowheart returned to the campsite, looking very worried, and Astarion returned looking very satisfied, practically beaming. Astarion looks like he found some prey. I hope that means he won’t resort to preying on us. And Shadowheart seems unhappy. Maybe Shar did not respond to her prayer?

  After gathering their meager belongings, the group moved out, continuing along the trail. Alex munched on the berries, silencing his growling stomach. “Thanks for finding these,” he said to Shadowheart. “At least we won’t starve to death.”

  “No problem,” she replied with a wry smile. “Right now, you and the others are more useful alive than dead.”

  “You flatter me,” interjected Astarion. “I had no idea you felt that way about me.”

  “...Most of you, anyway,” muttered Shadowheart.

  They continued to walk, following the trail and pressing deeper into the forest. After what felt like a couple hours, they heard an angry voice yelling ahead and above them on the path. Astarion volunteered to scout forward while Alex, Shadowheart, and Gale took cover behind the nearby gnarled trees. He returned a few minutes later, a massive grin spread across his face.

  “You will not believe this,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “There is some sort of angry frog lady stuck in a tree up ahead.”

  Astarion led them up the path, and sure enough, an angry, green-skinned, reptilian-like woman was trapped in a net, held high above the ground. She wore silver plate armor and had a giant greatsword strapped to her back, but was tangled too tightly to make use of it.

  “Tsk’va! Release me from this trap, you cowardly istik! I refuse to suffer this indignity any longer!” she shouted at seemingly no one, the party having concealed themselves just out of her line of site.

  “A githyanki,” observed Gale quietly. “Most interesting. You don’t see too many of them around these parts. Because if you did… well, it would not be a good time, that’s for sure.”

  “She seems familiar,” said Shadowheart. “I think I saw her on the nautiloid. Ran right by my pod without helping, though.”

  That has to be Lae’zel, thought Alex. And unfortunately, she seems even angrier than I remember. But she is another strong companion that we need, especially now that I know this isn’t a dream. “I think we should help her.”

  Astarion whipped his head around. “Are you mad? She seems like she’ll kill us all the moment she gets released. I say we leave her.”

  “As much as it pains me, I agree,” said Shadowheart with a grimace. “She seems like a lot of trouble.”

  If I remember correctly, Shadowheart was actually part of a team that stole the Artifact from the Githyanki. She hasn’t mentioned the Artifact, so does she still have it? I know she and Lae’zel are normally at each other’s throats, so it’s a risk to release Lae’zel, but we need all the allies we can get.

  “Well, personally, I think we should release her,” said Gale, to the surprise of everyone. “She is trapped, just like I was, and most likely has a tadpole, too. I would feel a smidge guilty if we just left her.”

  Alex nearly sighed with relief. “Gale is right. If she is tadpoled, I don’t think we should just leave her. It would mean a mind flayer roaming around in a few days, terrorizing the countryside. And possibly coming after us and your own tadpoled selves.”

  Astarion made an exaggerated show of rolling his eyes and Shadowheart frowned. “Fine,” she huffed. “But don’t be surprised when she immediately tries to disembowel us.”

  Led by Alex, the group moved forward, into the githyanki’s line of sight. As soon as she saw them, she shouted with renewed vigor. “You there! Release me at once, you cowardly istik! Or suffer the consequences!”

  “I don’t think you are in any position to make demands,” said Alex, doing his best to restrain any sarcasm from entering his voice. From what I remember, Lae’zel is quick to anger, but respects strength and a direct approach. “We’ll release you if you promise to be peaceful and bring no harm to us.”

  The githyanki stared at him for a moment, contemplating her limited options. “...Fine,” she finally said. “I will make your silly promise. So let me down, now.”

  Alex examined the net and found a rope that stretched from its top, over a nearby branch, and then down to the forest floor, where it was tied to a stake driven deep into the ground. He put down his backpack, withdrew the paring knife, and knelt down next to the rope. Gale came over to assist while Shadowheart and Astarion stood by and watched with unconcealed exasperation. He sawed through the rope, then helped Gale slowly lower the net and its occupant to the ground. When it came to rest on the forest floor, the net unraveled, allowing the githyanki to pull herself free.

  “Fortunately for you, istik, I have decided to uphold my promise to spare your lives. But should our paths cross again, I may not be so merciful,” she warned, sounding not at all grateful, and turned to leave.

  Alex stepped forward before she could hurry off. “Wait, please.” A direct approach, he repeated to himself. “Would you like to travel with us? We’re trying to find a cure for the mind flayer tadpoles.”

  The githyanki stopped in her tracks and turned around, her hand moving to the hilt of her greatsword. “And why would I be interested in that, istik?”

  “I saw you on the nautiloid,” interjected Shadowheart, moving to stand with Alex and Gale. “It’s pretty easy to put two-and-two together.”

  The githyanki stared at them, pondering her next move. “And why should I travel with you? The only cure for a tadpole is a zaith’isk, which can only be found at a crèche. And I only have a few days at most before I become ghaik.”

  “Well, we’re all lost. We’re just trying to the nearest settlement so we can find a healer and figure out where we are. And maybe, you can find clues about where the nearest crèche might be,” said Alex. He paused, not sure how she would react to his next statement. “And… I might be able to buy you some time before ceremorphosis. I’m not sure how, but I think I can disrupt the tadpoles’ functioning.”

  Lae’zel slowly blinked, processing what he just said. “I have heard of the greatest of my race resisting the psionic influence of the ghaik and their worms, but I have never heard of anyone able to actually disrupt them.” She released her grip on her greatsword. “You are invited to try. I have felt the worm whispering at the edge of my mind in a most annoying voice.”

  Alex held his hands up, careful to show that he was unarmed, and slowly walked towards Lae’zel. She could probably cut me in half with that greatsword if she really wanted to. And she knows it.

  She remained still, but carefully followed his movements, ready to pounce if he became a threat. Slowly and deliberately, he extended his right hand and put it on her shoulder. Her eyes widened and he withdrew his hand.

  “I can no longer hear its wretched whispers,” she said in amazement. “Not even our most skilled ghustil could do that.” She took a moment to re-evaluate Alex in a new light. “I will join you until the tadpole is permanently removed at the nearest crèche. You may call me Lae’zel.”

  The group continued following the trail, taking extra care to avoid any more traps along the way. After about an hour, they saw a plume of smoke in the distance, visible through the tree canopy. Civilization, hopefully. Driven forward by the hope of finally getting their bearings, they accelerated their pace and finally arrived at the source of the smoke.

  It was a funeral pyre. The narrow path ended at a large clearing in the forest that looked like the scene of a recent battle. Used arrows and crossbow bolts dotted the trampled grass, interspersed between discarded swords, spears, and shields. A large, burning funeral pyre stood at the clearing’s center, where flames engulfed the bodies of a dozen short, vaguely humanoid creatures.

  Goblins, Alex realized. Tall, red-skinned, devil-like creatures dragged a few remaining goblin bodies to the funeral pyre and threw them onto the burning pile; others scavenged the discarded weapons and used arrows. Tieflings. I understand why many people are afraid and distrustful of them; they definitely look more intimidating in person.

  A massive wall stood at the opposite side of the clearing, made of a seemingly random assortment of stones that ranged in size from large boulders to tiny pebbles. A wide, sturdy wooden gate, presently raised, served as the only opening. Alex could make out a few tieflings and other humanoids on guard atop the wall, holding bows and crossbows. One of them noticed their group as they emerged from the treeline and signaled down to the tieflings on the ground. The workers immediately stopped what they were doing and reached for their weapons.

  An older-looking tiefling, wearing the worn scale armor of a paladin that had seen better days, reached for the hilt of his longsword and called out to the group. “Halt! State your purpose!”

  Looks like we finally made it to the Emerald Grove. And it seems we just missed the skirmish outside the gate. It’s only been a day, and already so much is different from the game.

  Alex took the lead before any of his companions could open their mouths and mess things up. I hope I can convince the tieflings to let us in. Otherwise, we will probably die of starvation or exposure before we even get to the Shadow-Cursed Lands. He put on his best confused and weak facade, which was pretty easy given the circumstances. “We mean you no harm. We are victims of mind flayers. We were kidnapped by a nautiloid that crashed nearby, and we seek shelter and a healer.”

  “Mind flayers?” echoed the tiefling paladin, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Then you must be tadpoled! We cannot allow-”

  “Excuse me, but did you say mind flayers?” interrupted a voice from the open gate. Into the clearing strode a man wearing red and black padded cloth armor. A gleaming rapier was sheathed at his waist, and he bore a heroic smile and what looked like a false right eye.

  Alex almost groaned out loud. Is that Wyll? He’s really playing up his ‘Blade of Frontiers’ bit. He frantically waved a hand behind his back to silence the rest of the group before they could make a snarky comment.

  “Blade of Frontiers?” said the tiefling. “While I appreciate your help defending us from these goblin raiders, I do not think it is wise to allow a group of tadpoled individuals into our shelter.”

  “Zevlor,” began Wyll, like he was about to start a heroic monologue, “I know that you only want to protect your people, and that times are tough as-is. But did you not swear an oath to protect the weak and defenseless?”

  Zevlor, the tiefling paladin, released a heavy, weary sigh. “Yes, I did. But I also know that I can’t save everyone.”

  Alex shot a quick glance over his shoulder. Everyone looked like they had something to say, and he shot them an expression imploring silence. “We don’t expect a handout,” he piped up to Zevlor. “We’re willing to work and earn our keep.”

  Zevlor paused for a moment to think, then sighed again, rubbing at his wrinkled forehead. “Very well. Even though we are struggling ourselves, it would go against our morals to turn away someone truly desperate. You can stay for a short time. Meet me in my command post later and we’ll discuss how you can pitch in.” He signaled to his warriors to lower their weapons, then turned and walked through the gate.

  Well, that was easier than I thought. With Zevlor gone, Alex turned and found himself confronted with an indignant group.

  “T’rac. Why would you say such a thing?” seethed Lae’zel. “Why put us in their debt? We don’t need help from a bunch of teeth-lings, or whatever these creatures are.”

  “I agree,” said Astarion. “Why should I owe these tieflings anything? We're better off on our own.”

  “While I agree that we need shelter, I’m not sure if promising to help them is a wise decision,” added Shadowheart. “We need a healer, not a debt.”

  Gale, thankfully, remained silent.

  “Look,” said Alex, pushing down his growing frustration, “we are lost in the middle of nowhere. We need food, shelter, and a healer who can remove your tadpoles. This seems like the only place for hours that can provide all of those things.”

  “Chk. As long as I can get directions to the nearest crèche, I suppose I can tolerate this for a short time,” said Lae’zel, arms crossed. “But don’t expect me to reduce myself to a common laborer for these istik.”

  Gale, at least, appeared supportive. “I, for one, support this. Even the barest semblance of a bed would be absolutely heavenly compared to the nautiloid pod or sleeping on grass. Even if we end up having to scrub a few pots.”

  “Pardon me, but may I ask a question?”

  Alex whirled around to find Wyll standing behind him, appearing sheepish at having eavesdropped on their conversation. “Is it true?” asked Wyll. “Were you on that crashed nautiloid? Do you all have tadpoles?”

  “Of course it’s all true, Sir ‘Blade of Frontiers’,” said Astarion with a sarcastic flourish. “Whatever could we have done without you?”

  “Not helping, Astarion,” muttered Alex with a glare before turning back to Wyll. “Mostly true. Everyone but me was on the nautiloid and has a tadpole. I’m just a random guy with the ability to disrupt them.”

  Wyll arched an eyebrow. “Interesting. How about we talk inside?”

  Wyll led the group into the settlement, introductions being made as they walked along a dirt path. Shortly after the gate, the path split into three: the left branch went up a rocky hillside that served as access to the top of the wall, the middle branch led to the mouth of a large cave, and the right branch led to a crude wooden elevator that descended down a rocky ledge to a serene grove of trees. They walked by groups of haggard tieflings, wearing clothes full of dirt and holes, and groups of what seemed to be druids, dressed in anything from simple green and brown tunics to elaborate outfits of animal furs. The two groups kept to themselves, palpable tension in the air between them.

  “This place is called the Emerald Grove,” explained Wyll. “The largest druid grove from here to Eluterel, and the only safe place of shelter.”

  “If this is a druid grove, why are there so many tieflings here?” asked Shadowheart, warily eyeing the bystanders. “And why does everyone seem so… tense?”

  They followed Wyll into the cave, the 'Hollow’. “I don’t entirely understand it myself. Only yesterday, I made my way here after falling from the nautiloid. Thankfully, my reputation as the ever-heroic ‘Blade of Frontiers’ preceded me,” he said wryly, “and the tieflings and druids welcomed me inside. From what I’ve gathered, the tieflings are refugees from Elturel, trying to make their way to Baldur’s Gate. But a goblin horde forced them to seek shelter here, and many of the druids think they are overstaying their welcome.”

  “Elturel?” asked Gale, glancing at each group of tieflings they passed. “I thought that city was pulled into Avernus due to some powerful, devilish magic.”

  “Well, it’s back,” said Wyll, a strangely wistful expression in his eye. “And apparently they were cast out for looking too much like the devils who tormented them. So now they are searching for a new home in Baldur’s Gate.”

  Alex felt a pang of empathy. Sounds kind of like my situation. But at least I have a home to return to… somehow. His heart hardened. That's right. I have a home to return to. I cannot allow myself to be distracted. I am using these tieflings.

  They passed by makeshift tents and lean-tos resting on the floor of dirt and rock, with scared and tired tieflings peering out at them. Holes in the cave’s ceiling let in occasional patches of sunlight and allowed the smoke from weak campfires to escape. They approached a male tiefling wearing a blacksmith's apron, hammering away at a piece of scrap iron.

  “Hello, Dammon,” greeted Wyll with a friendly wave. “I hope we are not interrupting.”

  The hammering stopped and the tiefling glanced up at them. His eyes were tired and surrounded by soot, the product of many long days and nights spent working at his forge. The forge itself was clearly a makeshift setup, consisting of little more than a campfire, a clay kiln, a splintered wooden table, and an angular boulder that served as an anvil.

  Despite his circumstances, Dammon put on a cheerful smile. “Anything for the Blade of Frontiers and his friends. How can I help you?”

  “We have some new guests staying with us, and they could use some supplies to get settled,” said Wyll. “Dammon is the tieflings’ unofficial quartermaster,” he explained to the group.

  “You flatter me,” said Dammon with a hint of embarrassment. “I’m little more than a blacksmith without a proper forge, but I’ll help you however I can.” Introductions went around, and Dammon directed the group to a storage shed for supplies and to a makeshift kitchen for food.

  The group first went to the kitchen, which was little more than a large, dented iron cauldron suspended above a flickering campfire, bubbling with some sort of thick gray liquid. A nearby wooden table held a stained, worn cutting board, an assortment of rusted knives and spoons, and various dried herbs that Alex did not recognize. Wicker baskets and crates resting on the floor held sorry-looking vegetables in various states of decay, some smelling completely rotten.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Everyone grabbed a worn wooden bowl and spoon and received a ladleful of the gray slop from an elderly tiefling woman. They sat down to eat at some nearby wooden tables and perched on rickety wooden stools. A trio of tieflings sat a few tables over.

  “Well, well, I guess Zevlor and his bleeding heart let in a few strays,” declared one of them, a male tiefling in red and blue wizard robes.

  “Rolan, shhhh!” hissed the young female tiefling next to him. “That’s rude!”

  “It’s not rude, Lia,” said Rolan loudly, “when our survival depends on the leadership of an elderly man who doesn’t realize that he needs to look after his own kind before letting in the rats.”

  Rising to the provocation, Lae’zel smacked the table and stood up with a clatter. “Chk. I will not allow myself to be insulted by one of these lowly creatures any longer.”

  Ignoring the commotion, Alex watched silently and spooned some of the gray slop into his mouth. It tasted bland, mushy, and unsatisfying, much like he imagined prison food tasted like. It’s better than nothing, I suppose, he thought morosely as he forced it down his throat.

  “Wait, wait!” pleaded the third tiefling sitting with Rolan and Lia. “He didn’t mean it! Please don’t hurt him!”

  “Quiet, Cal! I can take care of myself!” snapped Rolan. “But fine. I am sorry for the offense,” he directed at Lae’zel, not at all sorry. “I have an apprenticeship in Baldur’s Gate, after all, that I need to be in one piece for.” Alex gently tugged Lae’zel’s arm and she sat down, fuming with anger.

  “Do you perhaps mean a wizard apprenticeship?” asked Gale, curious. “With whom?”

  Rolan puffed up with pride. “Only the great Lorroakan, of course! I’m sure you have heard of him.”

  Gale rubbed his beard in thought, taking a second to think. “I have. He’s a bit of a cad.”

  Rolan’s face flushed with anger, turning him an even deeper red, and he stood up. Before he could do anything, Cal and Lia grabbed his arms and whisked him away, his angry grumbling receding in the distance.

  Astarion gave them a sardonic wave of farewell. “I suppose we aren’t too popular.”

  “No, he’s just an asshole,” said Alex, drawing snickers from the group.

  After finishing their bowls of tasteless mush, Wyll took the party to meet Zevlor. His command post stood in a small cave that branched off the Hollow, illuminated by the gentle glow of a few carefully-placed torches and candles. Zevlor sat behind a large, flat boulder that served as a desk, poring over an old, heavily marked-up map of the Sword Coast. Two circled dots on the map caught Alex’s attention: in the lower middle portion of map, Elturel; several inches to the left, near what appeared to be a coastline, Baldur’s Gate. Two lines in faded ink connected them: the winding River Chionthar and the parallel Risen Road.

  Several more hand-drawn lines connected the two cities, annotated with several notes and markings. All but one of the lines was crossed out: the one that passed through a small dot labeled ‘Reithwin Town’. He suppressed a shudder. I suppose they really are dead-set on reaching Baldur’s Gate. They’ve been in the Grove long enough that they should have heard rumors of the Shadow Curse by now. It’s not my place to try to change their minds, even if I know what will happen to them.

  Then with a start, Alex realized that he could read the words on the map. Even though the alphabet was completely unfamiliar, he read it as naturally as the English alphabet. Is this Common? I know that it is supposedly similar to English in speech, which is how I’ve been able to communicate so far. But how can I read its alphabet?

  He was pulled out of his thoughts by Zevlor, who had been providing an overview of the refugees’ journey from Elturel. “...We were forced off the main Risen Road by a rock slide, and our scouts found several destroyed bridges that prevent us from rejoining it. The path available to us goes through this Mountain Pass,” he said as he traced a finger along the map. “A large goblin force set up a roadblock just before the Pass and their patrols make it difficult to move without being spotted, so we are effectively stuck here. Returning to Elturel is not an option.

  “Unfortunately,” he continued, “the druids think we have overstayed our welcome. Their Archdruid was the one who led us here and welcomed us, and for some reason, he joined a group of adventurers we hired to scout the goblins’ main camp. None of them have returned.”

  “So that’s where we come in,” deduced Alex. Similar to the game, at least.

  “Yes,” said Zevlor with a frustrated exhale. “I’m not pleased that we have to turn to outsiders for help, but we cannot spare any more of our soldiers for scouting missions. We need to know what we are up against if we are to plan our next move.”

  “And what of the druids?” asked Wyll. “Surely you need their assistance to defeat the goblins?”

  Zevlor’s shoulders sagged. “I know. Unfortunately, with their Archdruid Halsin missing, First Druid Kagha is in charge, and she would love to see us gone. You are welcome to try to change her mind, but your primary task is to locate the main Goblin Camp and get an estimate of their numbers. No fighting, just reconnaissance. Gather what supplies you need and be ready to set off tomorrow. Do that, and you will earn your keep. Any questions?”

  Brimming with questions, Alex raised a hand. “Do you at least have a vague idea where the Goblin Camp is?”

  Zevlor pointed down at his map, jabbing a finger at a small dot: Moonhaven. “About two days’ march west of here is an abandoned village with a small goblin outpost, and about two days west of that is the roadblock at the Mountain Pass. The camp must be somewhere between them.”

  Hand still raised, Alex caught Lae’zel’s eye. “This may sound odd, but have you seen any githyanki around here?”

  Zevlor frowned, impatience breaking through his exhaustion. “Aside from the one you brought with you, no, and that is probably for the best. But we did spot a red dragon flying towards the Mountain Pass.”

  With their host’s patience running out, Alex hurriedly asked one final question. “Is there a healer around here? As you assumed earlier, some of us have… uninvited guests in our heads.”

  “The druids have a healer,” answered Zevlor, eyes narrowing. “Don’t go turning into mind flayers on my watch.”

  Their task given and questions answered, Zevlor dismissed the group.

  “A red dragon can only mean a kith’rak. There must be a crèche in that Mountain Pass,” said Lae’zel as the group walked back to Dammon’s forge. “We must go there posthaste.”

  “I don’t particularly like the idea of wandering around the countryside with a horde of goblins on the loose,” said Astarion. “But the idea of helping these tieflings does not exactly make me feel all warm and fuzzy, either.”

  “We can’t just leave these tieflings,” chided Wyll. “They need our help, or they will die on the road.”

  Astarion and Shadowheart rolled their eyes. “If helping them will get us out of this wilderness and closer to Baldur’s Gate, then I suppose we can help,” said Shadowheart. “As long as they don’t slow us down.”

  “Eager to return to city life?” teased Gale with a knowing smile. “I, too, am eager to return to civilization. Baldur’s Gate pales in comparison to the splendor of Waterdeep, but anything that gets us closer to a hot bath and comfy bed is a win in my book. If that means helping these tieflings, then I am all for it.”

  Alex quickly catalogued everyone’s responses and nearly sighed in relief. Sounds like everyone at least agrees we need to get to the Mountain Pass. And most of them, except Lae’zel, somewhat agree that dealing with the goblins is a good idea. I suppose we could try to sneak past the goblin roadblock, but that would leave us trapped in a narrow Mountain Pass between the githyanki and the goblins, and with barely any supplies. Better to deal with the goblins first, somehow.

  “I think we should help the tieflings, at least for now,” he said, walking a fine line to try to please everyone. “It sounds like everyone wants to head towards the Mountain Pass for their own reasons. But I also don’t think trying to sneak past a horde of goblins is a good idea. There’s no harm in seeing what we’re up against, right?”

  “Right,” agreed Wyll. “Besides, I have business of my own to attend to out there.”

  “Chk. I suppose you're right,” huffed Lae’zel. “But what business does the so-called Blade of Frontiers have out in this wilderness?”

  Wyll’s face darkened. “I heard that there is a powerful devil loose somewhere out here. One of Zariel’s most powerful fighters. I must kill her before she harms anyone.”

  Karlach, recognized Alex, eyes flicking down to the rapier sheathed at Wyll’s waist. I hope we can find her, but I also hope I can convince Wyll to spare her. He futilely tried to recall everything he could about her encounter, but drew a blank.

  Soon, the group arrived back at Dammon’s forge, the blacksmith still hammering away at seemingly the same piece of scrap iron. But regardless of his lack of progress, he greeted them with a friendly smile. “I hope Zevlor wasn’t too harsh on you. He can be demanding, but he means well.”

  “Well, all he asked is that we head out tomorrow to find the Goblin Camp,” said Alex dryly.

  Dammon’s eyes turned downcast. “Oh. Did he tell you about the group of adventurers we hired?”

  “That he did,” answered Wyll, putting on his best ‘Blade of Frontiers’ face. “But I have faith we’ll make out a little better than they did.”

  “I hope so.” Dammon pointed to a weapon rack nestled in the shadows behind his forge. “It’s not much, but please take what you need from there. And don't forget to stock up on supplies from the kitchen and storage shed.”

  Alex stared at the weapon rack, seeing splintered spears, rusty swords, chipped daggers, and a handful of worn maces, axes, staves, bows, and crossbows. Discarded armor lay in a heap: dented breastplates, rusted chainmail, worn leather armor, and a few broken shields. None of these are great options, especially considering that I don’t know how to use any of them.

  He called on his knowledge of military history, settling on a spear, dagger, breastplate, and circular wooden shield, picking the least-worn of the options. Just like a hoplite. If it’s good enough to let the Ancient Greeks fight off the Persian Empire, then it’s good enough for me. Plus, a spear is supposed to be one of the easiest weapons to learn, right?

  He pulled on a cloth gambeson and slipped on the breastplate. Wyll saw him struggling with the leather straps and came over. “Need some help?” he asked, as if the answer were not obvious.

  Alex stewed in embarrassment. “Yes, please. I’m a bit of an indoorsy type. I know the history and theory behind weapons and armor, but putting it into practice is new to me.”

  Wyll chuckled. “We all have to start somewhere, I suppose. I admire your bravery, at least.” He secured the straps, and thankfully, the breastplate fit. “And you had the sense to pick a weapon that is pretty easy to learn. Want me to give you a quick lesson?”

  “I would really appreciate it,” said Alex, relieved. I'm glad at least someone around here knows what they’re doing.

  Astarion selected a pair of daggers, a shortsword, a crossbow, and leather armor; Shadowheart picked up a flail and a shortbow; and Gale chose a quarterstaff. Then, with some amusement, they all went to watch Alex's first combat lesson.

  “Chk. Do you really need to be taught how to poke someone with a spear?” mocked Lae’zel, watching from the side of the practice arena.

  Wyll had shown him a few basic stances, which Alex quickly copied. He thrust the spear into the chest of a wooden training dummy with a satisfying thwack. “If it’s so easy, why don’t you teach him how to use it?” countered Wyll.

  Lae’zel snorted in disdain. “As if I would dishonor myself by fighting with a polearm. While useful for training children, a true warrior should fight with a blade.”

  Wyll picked up a wooden training sword and passed Alex a staff. “You have the basics down. Now, try sparring with me. Remember, the spear gives you advantage with distance. Use your shield and footwork to keep me at bay.”

  Alex gripped the shield with his left hand and held the staff in his right, raised high and aimed at Wyll. Just like a hoplite, he recited, remembering all the depictions he'd seen of Ancient Greek warfare. Wyll advanced towards him, training sword held at the ready.

  “Don’t kill him now, Alex,” called Astarion. “Imagine what people would say if the Blade of Frontiers were killed during a sparring session.”

  Alex thrust with the staff at the center of Wyll’s chest. Wyll jumped back and swatted at the staff with the training sword, and Alex quickly pulled it back. “Good, but be careful. A skilled opponent in a one-on-one duel could counter your thrust with a parry, then close in. You must be quick with your strikes.”

  Wyll advanced and Alex thrust again, but this time Wyll dodged to the side and parried with his training sword, pushing the spear away and to the side. “See? Now you are open to an attack. If not for your shield, you would be vulnerable.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I have the shield then,” said Alex, breathing heavily as he and Wyll reset their positions. This time, Wyll ran at him, parrying his spear thrust and closing the distance between them. Alex raised his shield, blocking Wyll’s slash with a thunk. He swatted with the shield and Wyll jumped back to dodge. Alex used the moment to backpedal and increase their separation, leaving them back where they started.

  “Good!” said Wyl encouragingly. “You're starting to get the hang of it. I think we’ve done enough for now.”

  “Glad I’m not completely useless,” replied Alex, putting down his weapons to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

  After a short rest, Wyll led the group through the tunnels to the druids’ Sacred Pool. They emerged from the cave, eyes taking a moment to readjust to the sunlight, and found themselves standing on the edge of a grove of trees, with giant stone statues of eagles, ravens, wolves, and bears interspersed amongst the vegetation. A shallow, circular pool of glistening water occupied the center of the clearing, with a stone pedestal rising from its middle. A half-dozen druids sat cross-legged around the pool, chanting in an ancient language, focusing on a small stone statue perched on the pedestal, carved in the shape of an old, bearded man.

  The idol of Silvanus, recognized Alex. This must be the Rite of Thorns. Magic hummed through the clearing. Although there was no breeze, the leaves and branches of the surrounding trees rustled and shook. Runes written around the circumference of the pool glowed green, as did the eyes of the idol.

  In search of a healer, the group gingerly stepped around the chanting druids and entered another cave, this one leading down below the Sacred Pool. As soon as they entered the cave, they were met with a blast of cool, moist air and the sound of water rushing somewhere in the distance. They descended steep stone steps, illuminated by the gentle golden light cast by a series of magical glowing orbs, and entered a large cavern, filled with several druids seated around a stone table, arguing loudly. The druid at the head of the table, a red-haired elf, stood up and slammed her hands onto the stone.

  “Enough!” she shouted, silencing the arguments. She looked around at each of the seated druids with an intimidating glare. “The Rite of Thorns will be completed tomorrow. At first light, we will expel the tieflings, by force if necessary. They have been a thorn in our side for too long.”

  “But Kagha,” piped up one of the seated druids, “if Halsin finds out-”

  “Halsin is likely dead!” she interrupted, glowering at the druid who spoke up. “Amidst this refugee crisis and these goblin attacks, he abandoned us to chase baseless rumors! I am doing what’s best for this Grove. I dare any of you to challenge that.”

  None spoke up. Kagha swept her gaze across the seated druids before she noticed their group huddled in the corner by the stone stairs. “Outsiders!” she said, spitting venom, and every head turned towards the group. “What do you want here? Did that blasted Zevlor let you in?”

  Alex stepped forward and raised his hands to placate the druid. “We didn’t mean to interrupt. We are just looking for a healer.”

  One of the druids seated at the table, a halfling woman, started to speak up. “I’m a healer-”

  “Our healer is unavailable!” interrupted Kagha, glaring at the halfling. “Our resources are strained enough as-is. You will have to go elsewhere. Now, leave us!” Under her stern glare, the group retreated up the stairs and out of the cave.

  Wyll’s eyebrows furrowed with worry. “She said that the Rite of Thorns will be completed tomorrow. If we don’t do something, the tieflings will be forced out.”

  “Perhaps it is for the best,” said Lae’zel. “They are weak, and now we can focus on reaching the crèche.”

  As they circled the Sacred Pool, stepping carefully to avoid disturbing the chanting druids, Alex’s foot slipped on a loose stone and he tumbled forward, flailing his arms and falling face-first next to the ritual circle.

  “You clumsy fool,” chafed Lae’zel. “I am beginning to wonder why I bothered accompanying you.”

  Gale extended a hand to help him up, sharing a knowing look. “Do be more careful next time. We wouldn’t want to disturb their little ritual.”

  Despite some glares from the chanting druids, no one antagonized them, and the group re-entered the Hollow. “That was one of the fakest-looking falls I’ve ever seen,” grumbled Astarion as soon as they were out of earshot of the druids.

  Alex smirked, wiping his hands on his trousers. “It doesn’t matter as long as it worked, right?”

  When he fell next to the ritual circle, the tips of his fingers had brushed one of the glowing runes. The panicked shouts of druids behind them confirmed that it did, indeed, work.

  In the tieflings’ storage shed, Alex stared at rows of shelves packed with mostly useless junk. Shelves upon shelves full of dusty rags, half-melted candles, and empty bottles made finding any useful adventuring supplies like finding a needle in a haystack. But after much searching, they finally found half-empty crates of camping supplies and preserved food.

  Everyone, minus Alex, grabbed a backpack and bedroll. Since they were going into hostile territory and had to travel light, they forgoed tents and cooking equipment. Instead, they packed enough rations to last for five days: smoked sausages, dried fruit, hardtack biscuits, and a few apples and pears.

  Alex also found a charcoal pencil and an old book whose print had faded to the point of becoming practically invisible. The True and Impossible Adventures of Tenebrux Morrow, it said on the cracked spine. He blew the dust off the cover, readying it for its second life as his new journal.

  After gathering supplies for tomorrow's adventure, they placed their packs under a crude lean-to that Dammon reserved for them. It was little more than a blanket stretched between four wooden posts with another blanket acting as a crude floor, but it was shelter, at least. With the sun beginning to set, they each stripped off their armor and headed to the kitchen for dinner.

  Mercifully, instead of the gray gruel from earlier, some sort of stew bubbled in the cauldron. Alex grabbed a bowl and received a ladleful of stew that contained… a bit of everything. Potato chunks, onion slices, pieces of sausage, various beans, and meats that Alex couldn’t place. He even saw a fish head floating in their midst, staring at him with glassy eyes.

  The sitting area was mostly full, tables and stools occupied by tieflings who shied away when approached. Alex was about to give up on finding a seat when a young tiefling couple waved him over. He sat opposite them and the rest of the group filled in around them.

  “Are you the adventurers that Zevlor is talking about? It is an honor to meet you. Especially you, Blade of Frontiers,” said the male tiefling with a big smile, turning to Wyll.

  “Danis, must you act so eager to meet him?” the woman teased. “Sorry, I’m Bex, and this is my husband Danis. We saw you wandering about looking for a seat, and, well, this is the least we could do.”

  “It is always a pleasure to meet new people,” said Wyll, again putting on his best heroic face. “I’m not sure what Zevelor told you, but we will help however we can.”

  “By the way, you are all adventurers, right? Have any of you been to Baldur’s Gate?” asked Bex excitedly, stars in her eyes. “Do you think Danis and I could really settle down peacefully there?”

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the group. Shadowheart, Astarion, and Wyll all seemed to be fascinated with their bowls of stew.

  Gale coughed to break the awkward silence. “I’ve never been there myself, being a native Waterdhavian after all, but I’ve heard that it is a splendid city, easily in the top three most wonderful cities on the Sword Coast. I am positive that with enough hard work, you can make it there.”

  Bex brought her hands together, relief in her voice and dreams in her eyes. “That is wonderful to hear.”

  “Yes, we’ve been through Hells to get here, literally,” said Danis. “If we can just make it to Baldur’s Gate, I know everything will be alright.”

  “Well, if it suits your fancy, I do have quite a lot more to say about Baldur’s Gate and the broader Sword Coast in general if you do not mind me droning on and on,” said Gale, leaning forward, ignoring his cooling stew, and barely containing the eagerness in his voice.

  Danis and Bex nodded in unison and Gale launched into it. “Well, when I said Baldur’s Gate is in the top three most wonderful cities on the Sword Coast, it quite literally is number three. Though it pales in comparison to the splendor of Waterdeep and the beauty of Neverwinter, I’ve heard that it has the reputation of being a very welcoming city…”

  Alex slurped at his stew and rubbed the sleep from his eyes as Gale droned on and on, the tiefling couple listening with rapt attention. After finishing his stew, he slipped away to get ready for bed.

  “Dammon, this is going to be an embarrassing question, but where should I… poop?” asked Alex, flushed red.

  “You really are an indoorsy type, aren’t you?” chuckled Dammon. He pointed to a distant corner. “The outhouse is that way. You’ll smell it before you see it.”

  “Thanks,” said Alex with a shudder. “And what about bathing?”

  Dammon laughed heartily. “Fortunately, that is one luxury that we haven't had to skip. There’s an underground stream you can access through that cave,” he said with another point. “The water is cold, but it’s better than nothing.”

  Alex thanked Dammon and hustled to the outhouse. As promised, the terrible odor washed over him before he found it in the growing shadows of twilight. A cloud of flies scattered as he approached, the structure little more than a crude wooden closet with a bucket of water and bar of soap hanging on a peg by the door, presumably for hand washing.

  He opened the door and another cloud of flies escaped, buzzing around him. He desperately swatted them away, stepped inside, and shut the creaky door behind him. The smell was absolutely, terribly foul. I’ve experienced terrible bathrooms before. Airports, sports stadiums, cabins in the middle of nowhere… but this is easily the most disgusting toilet I’ve ever seen in my life.

  It was little more than a bench with a hole in it, a hole that led to god knows where. Alex searched around for something that resembled toilet paper and saw a bucket of leaves. God help me.

  After escaping the outhouse, pausing only to wash his hands, Alex practically sprinted to the storage shed, feeling absolutely disgusting. Illuminated only by torchlight, it was difficult to see, but thankfully he remembered where it was: a shelf with a small crate of crude hygiene products. He grabbed a toothbrush, which resembled little more than a splintered popsicle stick with a few bristles on the end, and something that was presumably toothpaste, which looked like a small vial of charcoal powder. On the way out, he picked up a small wash basin and a frayed towel.

  He headed over to the cave that Dammon indicated, taking a short detour to retrieve a change of clothes, the half-bar of soap, and a bottle of water from his backpack. The gurgle of rushing water greeted him upon entering the cave, and he found a surprisingly wide stream flowing by at a moderate pace. A small pebble beach descended from the dirt floor of the cave to the water's edge. A few tieflings stood bathing in the stream, but they paid him no mind. Thank goodness I’m not squeamish when it comes to communal bathing.

  Alex started by trying to brush his teeth. He dipped his crude stick of a toothbrush into the vial of charcoal powder and poured some water on it, making a crude paste. He brushed, feeling his gums burn due to the harsh bristles and his taste buds revolt at the earthy charcoal, and spat into the stream.

  Then, it was time to bathe. He placed his clean clothes and towel on a nearby flat rock, stripped off his dirty clothes, and stepped into the stream with the soap and wash basin.

  It was uncomfortably, uncompromisingly cold. He knew that groundwater was normally cool, of course, but his teeth chattered after only a few seconds. He hurriedly filled the wash basin with water and dumped it over his head, then got to work soaping himself up. After only a minute of washing, he couldn’t take it any longer, so he dumped water on himself to rinse, then ran for his towel.

  Shivering, with chattering teeth and lips turning blue, he hastily dried and dressed himself, then hurried to their shelter. He dropped off his dirty clothes and wash basin and hung up his towel to dry, then ran back to the kitchen area to warm up by the fire.

  “Are you alright?” asked Shadowheart, who had moved away from the still-lecturing Gale to a quiet seat by the fire. “You look like you took an ice bath.”

  Alex plopped down next to her, still shivering. “I may as well have. I took a bath in an underground stream that the tieflings use. I feel a bit cleaner, at least.”

  She leaned in closer to examine his face. “You are turning blue. Next time you want a bath, at least let me use a destroy water spell to dry you off. We can't have the only person keeping our tadpoles under control die of a cold.”

  “I think I’ll be okay,” said Alex through chattering teeth, stretching his hands towards the flames. “As long as I stay by the fire. I don’t want you wasting magical energy on my daily baths.”

  “Daily?” repeated Shadowheart, an eyebrow arched. “You really are a high-maintenance indoorsy type.

  After warming up, Alex said goodnight to Shadowheart and returned once again to their lean-to, where he retrieved the book and charcoal stick from his backpack. Lae’zel sat nearby, quietly polishing her armor, and Wyll was already sound asleep in his bedroll. In the distance, Gale’s voice continued to drone on, echoing through the tunnels. He crept over to a nearby torch and sat down to start writing.

  He flipped open the book, its yellowed pages crinkling with each movement. On the title page, over the faded, nearly invisible ink, he wrote his name. Property of Alexander Bannister.

  With a start, he realized that he automatically wrote it in the same script that he saw on Zevlor’s map: Common. How do I know how to write in Common?

  Disconcerted, he focused and wrote his name below in the English alphabet. If I want privacy, I should write in the English alphabet. I don’t think anyone here can read it.

  But the point of this journal is to act like a message in a bottle. If something happens to me, maybe somehow this journal could make it back to Earth in my place, so Elena will know what happened to me. That means whoever may find it needs to be able to read the contents and realize their importance. In the end, he decided to write in Common, but provided an English-Common alphabet guide after the title page.

  Day 2

  It appears to be sometime in the spring of 1492 DR. Yesterday, I woke up on a beach on the bank of the Chionthar River, somewhere in the wilderness between Elturel and Baldur’s Gate…

  After recording everything that happened, he closed the book and walked back over to their shelter. The Hollow lay still and quiet, the only sounds the sputtering of torches and the occasional footsteps of distant night watchmen. He couldn’t even hear the druids’ chanting from the Sacred Pool. I guess it worked after all, he thought with satisfaction. Somehow, I can disrupt magic. I only wish that I knew how and why.

  He settled into his bedroll and rested his head on his pillow, struck by a pang of loneliness that weighed on his heart. It’s only been two days, but it’s been years since I’ve gone this long without saying goodnight to Elena and Melanie in some form. He turned on his side to hide his watery eyes from the rest of the group and drifted off to sleep…

  …only to wake up floating in the same field of stars and galaxies as last night. As before, he slowly stood up, confronted by the same black void with a white corona. Bolothamogg.

  “So you’ve noticed,” boomed the deep voice. As before, the hairs on the back of Alex’s neck stood up, but he pushed past his fear, fueled by indignation. “That I’ve made some improvements to your body.”

  “I’ve noticed that my vision is much better and that I can read and write Common,” said Alex, foot tapping impatiently on the invisible floor. “What do you want with me?”

  A rumble of laughter that shook the very plane of existence, but he braced himself and stood firm as the wave of force undulated past. “As I said, you are my lanceboard piece in a fun little game of amusement. Your task is to stop the Illithid Grand Design, which the Absolute will initiate if left unchecked.”

  “A ‘game of amusement’?” echoed Alex, his anger growing. “What does that mean?”

  He heard something that sounded almost like a sigh, the exhale of a tired titan. “You mortals could never understand the dreadful boredom that I have endured. I doubt even any gods could. You have no idea how tedious it is, to stand watch at the borders of the multiverse for untold millennia.”

  “Wait, so this is all just a game? A game to alleviate your boredom?” he said, voice rising. “I was taken from my home for a game?”

  “Yes. That is all there is to it,” rumbled Bolothamogg matter-of-factly, surrounded by galaxies orbiting on their inexorable paths. “I was bored, one of my fellows proposed a simple game to break up the monotony of millennia, and I accepted. Sometimes there is indeed nothing deeper to it.”

  Alex wanted to explode, but took a deep breath, clenched his fists, and contained his anger. “Regarding this ‘game’. Am I really on Toril? Is all of this real?”

  A mild rumble of amusement. “Your skepticism is refreshing compared to the usual souls who seek my attention. You are indeed on Toril, and the year is 1492 DR. It is not a dream, illusion, or simulation.”

  He took a long moment to process this information, fighting the urge to pace back and forth with agitation. “And why was I chosen? Why was my life uprooted for this ‘game’?” Before he got an answer, he felt the same pull as last time, Bolothamogg’s form receding in the distance, the stars and galaxies whizzing by.

  “You are not special,” rumbled Bolothamogg across time and space. “You are one of thousands that met my criteria. I just happened to glance in your direction first.”

  Gith Language Translations