Anyone up for some fanfiction?
Since I just started a new playthrough of Baldur’s Gate 3, I thought it would be fun to revive my old game diaries. You can find all my old ones—covering some of my favorite RPGs like Dragon Age: Origins—right here.
But rather than write like me, why not write as my character? I already love writing fiction. I’ve even published a few books! So why not make this game diary read like a real fantasy story, told from the perspective of my bard?
For me, as an RPG fan, half the fun is becoming my character and immersing myself in the world. And this game diary feels like the perfect way to do that.
So, without further ado, here is episode one of my cozy adventures in Baldur’s Gate 3!
Episode 1
They call me a charlatan.
Which is ironic, because that is the precise word my father used to describe my mother after she left us.
Not that he ever called her that to my face. No, he’s far too principled for that. If you can call a high elf who squats in borrowed mansions, beds half of Faerûn, and has never once produced a deed to anything he owns “principled.”
Still, he said it. I heard him, late one night, through a door that wasn’t quite closed. Charlatan. Like a man who’d never charmed a lord out of his wine cellar in his life.
I was nine. We’d just sold the dining chairs.
I can’t say I blame him entirely. My mother could have at least said goodbye. Instead she left her flute under my pillow and a letter written in Illuskan—so I’d have to learn the language before I could read her final words to me, naturally.
It took me two years. When I finally could, I burned the letter in the fireplace instead. Kept the flute, though.
My father continued my education from there. By the time I was twelve, I could play three instruments and curtsy in four languages. I was the reason we got invited to those parties in the first place: the gifted daughter, the delightful surprise, batting her lashes at everyone from elven politicians to drow potion-dealers while her father conducted his scouting missions among the canapes. That was me. We survived because of me.
My talent. My dedication. My sacrifice.
At least the noble houses had good feasts. And the wine! I’ve had a taste for it since I was four, which tells you something about my upbringing. I can distinguish a Berduskan Dark from a Blood Wine by smell alone. While my father worked the room—or, more precisely, worked his way into whatever bed belonged to the loneliest person in it—I was downstairs playing flute for the rest of the party.
I was very good at that. I still am. A mansion, a party, a crowd—that’s my scene.
What is definitively not my scene? A flying ship that stinks of rot as though someone forgot to cook the meat. But that is where I found myself, quite out of my element with little memory of how I ended up there.
And the ship had tentacles, no less. Disgusting.
I was trying to make sense of it all when a githyanki dropped from the ceiling and startled me half to death. She assumed I was a thrall and seemed quite shocked to learn I wasn’t. Rude.
She proceeded to drone on about a Mind Flayer and insisted we commandeer the ship. I made the mistake of following her. Father always told me I’d be safer with a sword, and since I don’t make a habit of carrying one around, I figured her shiny sword would have to do for the both of us.
Father failed to mention that swords attract danger. Some lessons, one must learn oneself.
Yes, within ten heartbeats we were facing off against a band of sniveling, hungry little beasts. I tried enchanting them with my flute—a battle song, no less!—but they were unimpressed. I tried my longbow next. I can’t say I do much with my arrows other than toss them about during performances, but it felt surprisingly good to hold that bow in my hands. The wood was soft, supple—simply exquisite. Even Lae’zel—that’s the githyanki warrior who thinks she’s in charge—admitted she was dazzled by my battle-skill. She probably assumed I’d just committed my first murder.
It wasn’t my first, but let’s not talk about that. I’d rather forget how I got this jagged scar across my eye.
We made our way around the ship after that, trying to find the controls. The place was teeming with dead thralls. And brains. (Best not to ask.)
Luckily, I’ve recently taken up dancing to add something special to my performances. As it turns out, leaping across a stage and fleeing through the bowels of a nautiloid require a surprisingly similar set of muscles.
I can’t say I put much trust in Lae’zel’s concerns at first. She seemed in need of a good meal and a massage.
Then we found the person locked inside a pod. One press of a button, and they transformed into some sort of monster.
That’s when I saw the truth in her fears. Not only that, I felt it. A presence in my head. It gave me chills.
If we are infected, it’s only a matter of time before we, too, transform.
We freed another captive, a dark-haired warrior who goes by the name Shadowheart. It’s a brilliant name for a bard. Or a spy. I liked her immediately—especially when she started questioning who put Lae’zel in charge, for I had the same question.
We made it to the helm’s alien transponder, though not before all manner of unhappy foes tried to throw fireballs at me. They nearly burned my outfit! (They wouldn’t have, if they had known how much it cost.) As for the transponder? More tentacles. I was also rudely interrupted by a dragon.
Somehow I survived a crash landing on a beach. My head was throbbing, and I hadn’t the faintest idea where I was. Somewhere on the coast was all I knew.
For some reason, that was the moment my mother’s last words to me flashed through my mind. Not from the unread letter lost to flame, but the last thing she ever said to me, the afternoon before she fled.
We were eating fruit from a wooden bowl, admiring a bouquet of fresh lilies from a benefactor. Being a precocious five-year-old, I fancied her new beau had brought the flowers for me. But my mother quickly rid me of that idea.
“It takes more than a pretty face to get flowers like this, little Sabe. But it is a start.” She reached out and rubbed a thumb across my cheek, looking into my eyes in a way she rarely bothered to do. I shivered. It felt as though she actually saw me, and her attention shocked me like an ice-bath. “Someday, you’ll have flowers too. But not the way I do. Not if I can help it.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant then. I think I do now. My father has hinted as much in the years since.
She was jealous of me. Her own daughter.
Perhaps motherhood made her feel as though the light of her youth was fading to dusk, and she wasn’t ready for that. She wasn’t ready for my day to dawn.
Well. Look at me now, shining.
Of course, if I’m ever going to play this flute again—or accept a bouquet from a benefactor—I need to find my way home. And before that, I need to find a cure.
Because now I’m a charlatan with a tadpole in my brain.
I hope you enjoyed the opening to this new adventure! Let me know what you think of this format. This episode had a lot of character backstory, so I could get a feel for Sabe’s personality. But future episodes will be more coverage of what I actually do in-game.
Also, I should also warn you that I’m not at all familiar with the D&D world, so I might make some mistakes referencing things. Feel free to let me know anytime, and I’ll try to fix them! This is all just for fun, after all. :)
Thanks for being part of the journey. Until next time!
Ashley
ROBOHEARTBEAT 
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